For My Grandad on his 97th Birthday

Power Snakes

It was the kind of August day where you could smell winter coming, something indefinable, the smell of snow at the tail end of the summer breeze, hitching a ride. Up until that point, it had been hot, the kiddie pool set up the lawn, which baked in the sun, our relief an escape into the woods, down the path, footsteps sinking slightly in the moss of the ancient forest floor, the brook’s eager journey over pebbles, tickling our thirst. Arron tossed a naked Carter into the lake, Carter’s face full of fear and shock and delight all at once.

The cooler day prompted the workers into action. Mom, Olivia, Carter and I watched through the giant kitchen window, the dance of two who could not sit still – a pas des deux between shed and Jolly House and then down the path, arms full of tools and lumber mirrored by tiny hands making balls of dough into cookies. There was very little chit chat between them – a language of silent signals, a word, a nod.

Later, full of cookies, and soup and bored with blocks and Lego, a small one demanded to find daddy, and so with a screetch and a slam we followed the forget-me-nots to the path we knew so well. But today, there was a visitor, a brown snake twisting and turning before turning white and then orange and looking menacing as its impossibly long body meandered in our direction, to the lake. We heard footsteps approaching, a shirtless Arron in shorts and flip flops.

“Jesus Bird! Be careful! Don’t let Carter near all these extension cords!”
“Isn’t this dangerous? All these cords linked like this?”
“You know your Grandad…” Arron shrugged, accepting the makeshift power supply, accepting the authority of the elder. “Just be really careful, OK?”

I smiled, as I put a little hand in my other hand, away from the danger, knowing the bite of this particular snake could be fatal. The snake disappeared into the cashmere grasses and for a moment we thought we were safe, until it reappeared, crossing the tiny footbridge, its one plank missing. By now we could hear the high pitch scream of a saw, a giant insect prompting little hands to cover ears. As the lake appeared before us, a nest of activity had taken over where before only a grassy knoll had lain sleeping its eternal sleep. The sharp smell of newly cut cedar blended with the old forest and the knoll now had an amour, a platform wide and square. “Solid” as all things built by Arron aspired to be. Grandad stood on the platform, peering out at the lake, surveying his land from this new vantage point, awestruck anew.

Arron returned holding two open beers and handed one to his comrade in arms, engineer of platforms, purveyor of power-laden snakes. Together they stood, quietly proud of their shared accomplishment, content with mutual respect.

Depth vs. Image in the world of Online Dating: Dating a guy on a respirator?

Something about January has me back on Match these days. I have spent the better part of a year trying to meet new people the old fashioned way, in person. I joined a gym, started participating in a writing meetup (I highly recommend meetup.com for getting yourself out there and meeting others with common interests), even started Salsa dancing on Friday nights. I now have some awesome new friends, but I haven't dated.

So, I dug up my old profile and turned it back on. I even coughed up some money for an auto-renewing 1 month subscription. The emails, winks and interests started rolling in. Back when I was getting a little Match-weary, I updated my profile to be a real heart-on-your sleeve affair. I mentioned that I was widowed, how it had become a part of who I was, how I had written a book and how it was all about the "journey." OK, perhaps not the most uplifting of profiles, but truly honest. It was this profile that resurfaced again last week. The result is that almost all the interest I received has been from men who are at least 10 years older. Some commented on my honesty. Not one held any interest for me.

Now at the risk of sounding like the completely shallow, mean person who will no doubt burn in hell, the clincher came when I received this email"

Would you consider going out with someone in a wheelchair?

Really? Welcome to my dating nirvana! And I wonder why I went off Match?

When I clicked through to his profile I learned that this wasn't just a man in a wheelchair, but a man on a respirator, in one of those wheelchairs that he drives using his mouth, someone who has a degenerative disease.

I don't think its knowing that he is on a nasty path of degeneration that causes me to hesitate. The death part I can handle (I think). Its the care giving part. As my kids get older, my caregiver role has gotten easier (though I write this between trips upstairs with trays of food for Carter who has sprained his ankle). I can't do it.

I keep trying to picture the date, waiting for his his respirator to breathe for him so he can answer a question (like Chistopher Reeve), wondering how he's going to feed himself, worrying about inadvertently raising the topic of sex or horseback riding. Awkward. And then there is the question good night kiss. As much as I want to say I am the kind of person who would go on a date with this man who I'm sure is very lovely, I hate realizing I'm not.

Which is how I came to realize that my profile wasn't working for me. I wasn't attracting the type of man I was hoping to date, you know the kind who has the use of at least one of his legs and can breathe on his own. I sat down and re-wrote my profile, something funny, irreverent, something that really says very little about me. I put up my tarty Halloween pic.

So, the experiment is on. If two days of match.com emails are any indication of the result, then the median age of my respondents has dropped by 10 years, and a few even seem interesting. Have I sacrificed potential depth and understanding for image and a shallow irreverence. Is that OK?

Its not too late to go out with Mr. Respirator...

A Hallmark Moment Exposed

I noticed Carter's shoulders seemed a little broader and he hauled 15 bags of junk up from the basement so that we could take it to Goodwill. I spent the day feeling like a death camp warden, forcing stuffies into garbage bags, something that will haunt me for a long time, those big, cute plastic eyes peering up at me so that I had to place them into the bag face down (apparently I have an issue: I don't do well with pinatas that have eyes either).

Even as his shoulders get broader and he becomes useful, its still there, in a drawing that he hands me as I return from an evening out with friends. Maybe I was annoyed because he and his sister 'forgot' to clean up the kitchen and I may have slammed around throwing away dried up chicken bits while he dipped around me putting away glasses from the dishwasher in apology. I put the drawing down without looking at it, only finding it the next morning, sad that I hadn't hugged him when he handed it to me. Its never neat and tidy like in the movies, its never a Hallmark moment.

Sampling the Local Flora

I have been working on a bare bones synopsis for what I hope will someday be a award winning novel of some note and I had one of those moments where Arron was surely taking part in the process. The moon will be featuring in the book and so I have been looking up moon legends and came across the legend of Selene, the Titan moon Goddess. I am sure it is no coincidence that Arron's mother's name is Selena. Selene (Goddess, not MIL, though MIL would not make the distinction ;)) falls for an entirely handsome hunter named Endymion. She asks Zeus to make him immortal which he does by granting Endymion eternal sleep (his name means Sunset). Selene then visits him every night. I had to laugh when this ultimately led me to The First Men on the Moon by H. G. Wells. Shades of Arron appear everywhere in that book it seems, including the moment where the main characters sample some local flora on the moon and enter a state of euphoria. Arron, ever the scientist, was known to keep a year's worth of sandwiches in his high school locker in order to study the mold. He had a minor in Botany from the University of Toronto and was occassionally fond of sampling local flora...

Divine intervention is awesome.

Alphabet Soup Brain

Do you ever have have those weeks where so much is going on inside your brain, you feel like your head is full of alphabet soup?

I figure if I write out the list of things crammed in my brain, perhaps it will help me prioritize them. Here goes:

Read Madame Bovary (part of my NY resolution to read some classics)
Meet with Carter's potential middle school and not forget the appointment (did it!)
Meet with writing group (Got some great feedback!)
Sign book for USS New York and get it into mail (check!)
Sign forms to update my financial asset allocations
Review forms just sent from timeshare
Set up AppleCare for my new iPhone
Read a friend's manuscript
Send links for books on memoir to a friend (see below)
Pay fee for The San Miguel Writer's Conference where I plan on doing a reading
Finish reading The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver before Conference
Find a new GP
Send a reply to a lovely woman who wrote me a hand written letter in August (so embarrassed by this one)
Try not to be distracted by FB
Read "Reading Like a Writer" for my literary class
Finish bare bones outline of what I hope will be a new book
Take Salsa dancing (class is tonight with a guy we met called el Diablo. No, really)

OK, I don't feel so bad. There really was a whole ton of junk in there.

Here is a list of great books on writing memoir for anyone intersted:

Your Life As Story, Tristine Rainer
Shimmering Images: A Handy Little Guide to Writing Memoir, Lisa Dale Norton
Writing the Memoir, Judith Barrington

And on writing in general...

Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg
A Writer's Book of Days, Judy Reeves

Beauty, Dysmorphism, Love and NOT "Settling for Good Enough"

I have finally found some time to read a variety of posts from fellow bloggers, and through three different posts, something strikes me. First, was at Little Big Wolf's Daily Plate of Crazy who writes about a new book by Lori Gottlieb, Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough. She is irked by the title, by the idea that women are being told to "Settle" for something that is not excellent, or perfect, but "good enough." Along a similar vein, a friend, Shafeen, in his blog ~synthesis~ discusses the idea of barriers in schools, whereby we, as a society are setting the bar too low in schools, thus ensuring the failure of our kids. In an opposing view, Dad's House praises the book, saying the book will help women consider more carefully their real requirements in a partner. Over at Better Now, Kristin writes about being criticized for trying to be healthy, for being tall and skinny, for having (and writing about) her hot boyfriend. She is accused of being dysmorphic and self conscious for simply learning to be at one with herself, for raising the bar for herself. And finally my friend Lindsay at Dispatches on Writing, Art, Music discusses the meaning of beauty with relation to teaching a Rilke poem. When she asks one of her students what they think the meaning of beauty is, one whispers "that I'm ugly." She writes, "Beauty reminds us of our inadequacies, of our mortality, of our limits. Beauty tells us of our short-comings, but also of what is possible."

Lately I have been aware of my own indifference to beauty. At risk of being accused of being dysmorphic like Kristin, here is the truth: when people tell me I am beautiful and I don't see it. When I look in the mirror I see eyes, nose, mouth, hair, but I fail to see whatever it was that lead them to that conclusion.  I suppose when I see beauty in someone, it is not about the components, its about the overall effect. A gesture, a twinkle in someone's eye, the way a certain light plays in someone's hair. I might find beauty in a hand (as I did Arron's), but it has more to do with what the hand can do, its touch against mine. These are things one rarely sees in a mirror.

Lindsay writes in her post: "Love, like Beauty, is supposed to take you somewhere. It has the possibility (the promise?) of taking you closer to yourself, closer to God, closer to life, to Spirit, to Mystery. No matter what you are loving... The lover, takes you, “in the gathering out-leap” beyond who you were, so that you can be at one with yourself, with the world."

Tall order.

I don't know what is in the book, though clearly the author believes that women are setting the bar too high, thus not achieving their unrealistic goals. We expect love to take us beyond who we are. But isn't that always the challenge? I don't think I am willing to "settle" in any aspect of my life. I guess I will have to read the book to be convinced otherwise.

Where I'm From

"Mama, I forgot to give you this on Christmas," he said. Apparently, I am not the only writer in the family...

Where I'm From

I am from snowboarding, from play dough and Lucky Charms
I am from the basement, warm, safe and my favorite place to be
I am from the aloe and the delicious goo inside
I am from the giant bottle of beer and the lol's, from Olivia and Abby and Arron
I am from the alcohol and obsessive shower time
From "Go to your room" and "clean the dishes"
I am from no church even though we tried it once. It was too corny.
I'm from New Jersey, England and not yet Seattle. New Jersey root beer float and hot dogs
From the famous attack of 9/11 that took my dad and created my author mom
I am from mom's glass doored cased filled with all precious things. A gold ring wrapped in a purple bag that my mom finally showed me, and a marriage ring.

-- Carter, age 10

And Olivia made this in her ceramics class. Could be in a gallery somewhere.
A proud mama and her talented kids... ahhh.

A Pirate's Blue Moon

The choice of drinks was beer and "Margarita's" but the kind made with something that looked like neon green Kool Aid (or Freshie as we called it in Canada), bile colour and sickly sweet. We all switched to beer after the first sip. The kids were lined up for a dance contest and each one did a solo to that insidious "Gasolina" song. Carter performed the robot, the worm and the stanky leg and blew the tiny competition out of the water. Soon he was chasing little Marco from Chiuaua around the boat, neither noticing the language barrier. The rest of us shivered. I was chosen as one of the women to humiliate. They had four of us sit on stools and then lean back onto eachother's laps while they took the stools away. My big head apparently caused my head's lap to collapse. Big laughter.

The sun slid below the horizon, but no one but me seemed to notice. The moon appeared on the opposite shore, a gigantic fiery ball, rolling along the tops of some tiny seaside hotels, whose windows blazed with the sunset. Photos don't do it justice, but I snap many anyway, though my hair flaps in the sea wind.

A second humiliation as I was forced to dance with a scary dude in a mask known as the ghost pirate. Seemed appropriate somehow, an ode to Arron. I won a shot of tequila for my efforts, but didn't claim my prize. Perhaps it would have warmed me up.

A plate of appetizers appeared, for which we paid an extra five dollars. The flimsy foam plate contained four unpeeled shrimp, a dollop of ketchup, three toothpicks skewered with ham and cheese and topped with a green olive, a blob of tuna salad and a package of saltines. Only later would we be grateful.

Finally, it seemed the ship was heading for port, our treasure chest full. As we neared shore, there was a slight shudder, a glide. I heard the engine kick back. I looked up at the pirate captain, but he appeared calm and smiling. He saw me looking at him and winked. I looked over the side and could see the indigo water below churning, foggy with sand. The shore did not float past. The neon sign of a restaurant on shore remained stationary. We were grounded. No one else had noticed our dilemma, so I turned to my sister, whose three year old was asleep on her chest. Her eyes widened with the news. Soon, the rest of the pirates and victims passengers were aware of our plight. My brother-in-law seemed jubilant, excited almost, chatting amongst the men, making new friends, sharing a common peril. The pirates looked resigned, all now talking on their cell phones, updating their New Year's plans.

We sat, cold, tired, hungry stuck on a sand bar laughing how it seemed a suitable end to a strange year. 2009 had caused us all to grind to a halt in one way or another. The kids kept warm playing tag and ungluing the shimmering baubles off the fake treasure chest. The pirate captain leaned over the rail and smoked another cigarette. Some of the younger men climbed to the top of the boat and set off fireworks, apparently part of the regular pirate festivities.

We admired another cruise boat, one that had an indoors, longing to be inside its warmth, watching its large screen TV. For a while, it seemed to be coming to our rescue, until it became clear that it too was grounded on the sandbar, rocking sideways awkwardly like an ailing goldfish in its bowl.

We waited an hour for the monstrous blue moon (two full moons in one month equal blue, an incredibly rare occurrence) to work its magic on the tide. And then, gently a series of waves bounced us, the pirate captain started the engine and it took us all a minute or two to realize we were once again moving, the neon sign disappearing to our right, the narrow channel's shore only feet from the boat.

As a final encore, the harassed looking waitress emerged from behind a door clad in a bright pink hula skirt with a fake coconut bikini top and performed a strange dance, part hula, part salsa, looking cold and bored.

It was a New Year's eve that none of us will forget -- a strange epilogue to a strange year. But that sunset, the fiery moon and its rescuing tide, the children dancing and the hula/salsa dancer combined in the most surreal, or perhaps just Mexican of ways, to provide us all with a kind of optimism for the year to come.

Happy Birthday Arron

Its funny as time passes, it seems less and less necessary to celebrate the big events, such as Arron's birthday. Or maybe I should say, it seems less necessary to celebrate outwardly, the big events. Arron had the misfortune of having a birthday 3 days before Christmas. He always complained, as most Christmas babies do, that the birthday was always a non-event, swallowed up in the belly of Santa.

The truth was, that neither of us were ever that great at celebrations. Too much pressure. A simple dinner out, a cuddle, a single rose, a coupon for a back rub. Maybe that's what makes the day so awkward. I can't very well give him a back rub.

For the kids, its even harder. The date, no matter how much warning I give them, still doesn't mean much. And they are at a greater loss than I with how to celebrate. When I mention it, the usual reply is "are we gonna have cake?" which is funny, because none of really like cake all that much.

I have some bulbs I got at one of Carter's school's fundraisers. If it stops dumping with rain, perhaps we will plant them, so that Arron can bloom again in the spring, all shades of fushia and lavender. He would have appreciated the Latin names: Ixiolirion Tartaricum and Allium Aflatunense.

I know its weird, but sometimes I still read his horoscope. Here is what it said for today:

Making discoveries

This is an excellent day for engaging in new activities and for making discoveries about yourself and the world around you. Your life now has an exciting quality that is not always present. Take advantage of this excitement to learn about yourself in ways that are not usually possible. Your heightened perception of your world will help you make changes with a complete understanding of how the various parts of your life are interrelated. This is a good influence for studying any discipline that can reveal new and stimulating aspects of the universe. It favors the study of science, technical disciplines, astrology or other branches of the occult. You want to broaden your understanding, and the more exciting your study, the more actively you will pursue it.

Excitement, heightened perception, stimulating. Really, you couldn't ask for more on a birthday.

Identity 911

It occurred to me the other day that I no longer discuss my 9/11 status or mention it to school teachers, dentists, doctors, furnace repair men, little old ladies in the park the way I used to. Sometimes I even forget that I am a widow. These days I am a mom, writer, daughter, sister, friend, soon-to-be teacher (if enough students sign up for the class), but amazingly, widow no longer factors.

But every now and then, the 9/11 monster comes back to bite us.

This week, Olivia was bitten. Her class has been reading the Kite Runner, which ends with the main character being unable to react emotionally when the Twin Towers fall. Perhaps I should have remembered that part of the book, braced her, warned the teacher. But I had forgotten, and I think even if I had remembered, I would have let the chips fall as they would. Olivia is strong enough to handle these things on her own.

The teacher started a discussion about people's personal experiences with 9/11. She had no idea about Olivia's history. Olivia let the discussion continue around her, reluctant to raise her hand, until she finally felt she must. She raised her hand, was ignored, so put it down again, relieved.  But the teacher remembered. Liv told her story. Jaws dropped. In Seattle, the event was not real to people, being so removed by distance. Afterward, one girl told Olivia's friend that she thought Olivia was lying to get attention. Other kids treated her differently the next day, becoming silent when she walked into the room.Which is why she tells no one besides her closest friends, why she was able to spend three years at a small girls school with very few people knowing. By now, I expect her entire high school knows. High schools are like that. But she knows these effects are temporary.

I knew this day would come, when a discussion in class would impact her this way. And of course you can't predict those. Olivia handled it bravely and gracefully. As it turned out, I had made an appointment to meet with this teacher, before this discussion took place, to talk about Olivia, her progress in the class. And so I became the 9/11 widow once more. But it didn't last. Soon we were both smiling, admiring Olivia's ability to weather her past, to rise above her 911 identity, to be who she is without apology. And I was back to being the proud mom.

Scroogenomics

I am such a Scrooge. I know I am not alone, all you other Scroogies out there. A childhood of two households meant several corresponding Christmas celebrations every year. Christmas lost its magic pretty darn quick. I love Thanksgiving. I love Valentine's Day, but Christmas?. Not so much. It seems that a lot of my issues with Christmas stem from the whole gift thing.

I wrack my brain for fun gift ideas, but usually miss on several counts every year. Its a battle keeping the number of gifts for each kid fair. This year I have the dilemma that one kid got very expensive snow board equipment which has already been used, where the other is getting a series of things that can be opened on the day. Am I gonna have at least one grumpy kid who forever thinks that he had a lousy childhood, that I loved his sister better than him? Yep.

I was on the phone with my sister the other day and suggested we just do presents for the kids this year. You know, with the economy and all. "Yea, that sounds good, but I already got your present," she said. Doh! K, so mental note: make the suggestion earlier next year.

And so, I scramble around, trying to keep the NPR piece I heard recently about a book called "Scroogenomics" out of my head. The book that suggests that buying people gifts is a very inefficient way to buy goods. People spend money more efficiently on themselves than they do on other people, with the exception of those that are closest to us. It amounts to tons of waste. More stuff to lug to Goodwill.

I've done my best to mitigate this waste in the lives of the people I love. A wine club for my father and stepmother, homemade cookies, jams, and other consumables, and for the rest, I try for practical gifts. I ask people specifically what they want. And like so many of us, leave it all till way too late. I dash to the mall, and after only an hour I have a headache. I go online, hunting out sites that deliver to Canada.

People ask me what I want, and I am always at a loss. I want for nothing. A Paperback is usually my answer. They don't believe me, but really this is the one present that never fails to make me happy.

And so, the things I do love about Christmas? They never seem to involve the presents. Its the tradition of smoked salmon and cream cheese for breakfast, the Tourtiere (a traditonal French Canadian meat pie) for Christmas Eve dinner (see recipe below) and that lazy time after all the presents have been opened when the kids are engrossed in playing with whatever they received and I am in slippers and a new sweater, flipping through my latest paperback with a giant cup of tea.

Baaaa Humbug.

Tourtiere:
There are a zillion versions of this, but this recipe works for me every year. Its almost better in left-over form.

Filling:

* 1 lb ground pork
* 1/2 pound lean ground beef
* 2 medium potatoes, peeled and grated
* 1 small onion, chopped
* 1 garlic clove, minced
* 1 tsp. (5 ml) salt
* 1/2 tsp. (2 ml) savory
* 1/4 (1 ml) ground cloves
* 1/2 teaspoon dried thyme, crushed
* 1/2 cup (125 ml) water
* Pastry Dough, top and bottom

Method:

1. Place all the ingredients in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring to break meat into small pieces. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes.
2. Remove from heat and cool.
3. Roll out chilled dough, and cut two pieces for one 8-inch pie or 8 individual pie plates.
4. Line pie plate with one of pieces of pastry.
5. Fill generously with meat mixture.
6. Top with the other pastry and pinch edges together.
8. Bake at 400 degrees F until golden brown, serve hot.

Its great with Mango Chutney and a green salad.

Blogging Backlash

Its hard sometimes to know how much to share on this blog. Its a fine line between writing about issues that are relevant to people who are grieving and giving away too much about my private life and that of my family. But I wrote a book. In it, I felt it necessary to be as completely honest about difficult things, things we don't like to talk about, in order for that book to be authentic, to help others going through what I went through. I know from emails that I have received from grieving people that my honesty has been the most important aspect of my book. My honesty is what has helped others through their own difficult times.

On this blog, I try to write about issues that I encounter as someone grieving, as someone human, issues that others might encounter, issues that affect us all. But there is a price. I give up my anonymity and that of my family and friends. Perhaps I don't have that right. And I may be jeopardizing my prospects of matrimony, of career, and those of my kids as well.

A fine line indeed.

Freedom

The December issue of Chatelaine Magazine has published some essays written by a variety of women from Frontier College. An editor at Chatelaine had this interesting idea to pair an author with a novice writing student to coach them through the writing of an essay. Such an innovative idea.

I was lucky enough to be paired with a lovely woman named Julia from Russia who trained as a doctor before moving to Vancouver to become a nanny. She has been working to improve her English and is now applying to various med schools in Canada.

I was so impressed how quickly she learned and improved her writing over the course of just a few emails and phone conversations. Her essay, Pineapple Dreams dwells on the meaning of freedom, and opportunity and celebration. Its been fun to feel the pride of Julia's success. And it gives me a renewed excitement for my class in January.

My last post seems to have gotten a lot of people thinking, talking, assessing, observing, aware. Its been an interesting dialogue, one that gets swept under the carpet much too often.

How much is too much?

It was a jovial Thanksgiving. I made a twenty pound turkey, stuffing, pumpkin and pecan pies. People started arriving around four. We drank wine and champagne. We gave thanks. Some of us stayed up till 2am and played my obsession Mexican Train, a domino game. Judging by the bottles I put into the recycling the next day, we went through a large amount of wine.

But in talking with a therapist yesterday, it seems that perhaps this level of drinking might be a problem. More than three drinks in a night is a problem. Over time, you build up a tolerance and this can lead to full blown alcoholism. I was shocked. Three drinks?

I am not a big drinker. In fact I never drink except in a social situation. But I will admit that when in a social situation I have on occasion had more than three glasses of wine. I have woken up with a headache in the morning. Amongst my friends and family, I am not unusual. And yet.

It has never occurred to me before how much we as a society drink. It seems normal to split a bottle of wine with a friend over dinner. To drink two or three cocktails at a party. A few beers over a game. A relaxer after work.

I took this test and scored more than 8, which is high enough to warrant a call to a doctor according to the test. Really?

And so my eyes are opened, consciousness raised. And that can't be a bad thing.

Center of the Universe

My friend, memoir teacher and fellow memoirist, Theo sent out a Facebook Challenge to write a memoir in 26 minutes. I thought I would post what came:

Center of the Universe

“You’re not the center of the Universe you know.” I was eight. It was Christmas and a hard lesson. My sister had gotten more toys because it’s easier to buy presents for a three your old than and eight year old. It was on the stairs of my gram’s house. I had been moody, uncommunicative, shut down. My son now does a perfect imitation and although it infuriates me, I sometimes smile, knowing what its like to be in that state. “What’s wrong?” they ask, but you cannot honestly say. The mood has simply taken over and consumed you. The Flintstones can sometimes take it away, but Fred always gets in trouble with Wilma, always doing the wrong thing, so sometimes it makes things worse. At Gram’s it was always Bugs Bunny Roadrunner Hour, right after Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Sometimes we only got to watch Wild Kingdom before being called for dinner. Gram would always make me laugh, with her dislike of garlic and wormy applesauce and knew how to coax me out of the mood.

We lived for a while at Gram’s house and we drank powdered milk and I took the bus to school and was given a dime for real milk that we bought from a tiny cooler at the back of the cafeteria. But Senior Kindergarteners had to eat lunch in the classroom.

It was a bad snow winter and so the school was shut for a week and we were snowed in. I built long tunnels, sucking the water from my soaked woolen mittens, and then hid inside, the caverns strangely warm. When the weather got nice again I would swing on the swings of East Garafraxia Township Public School and let a shoe quietly slip off my foot whenever one of the older boys was near. I knew he would pick it up and hand it to me and I would smile at him.

In the summer, I begged my mom to make a dress for me that matched the one my Raggedy Anne doll wore. It took a long, long time. My Gram could make a dress in half an hour, but she was teaching my mom to sew. I had to be patient, but I wasn’t. I wanted to wear it. She finally finished it on a Saturday night. I put it on, along with the white tights. I was so happy. The next day I walked by myself a quarter mile to the church on the corner of the road at the end of my grandparents’ apple orchard. I took Raggedy Anne for comfort. They told me where the Sunday School was in the basement and I sat with the other children in my new dress and white stockings. The teacher talked about God, which scared me a bit. Still does. Later we got cookies and juice and then I walked home by myself.

Gram taught me to quilt when I was ten and would take me to that same Church down the road. All the old ladies would sit in hard wooden chairs around a square of quilt that had been rolled onto two-by-fours on all four sides and clamped in the corners. The frame sat on saw horses. Everyone sat around the frame, two or three to a side to chat and sew, one arm above the quilt, one arm below. I learned to gather ten stitches on the needle before sending it all the way through. When you stitched as far as your arms would go, the quilt would get turned once more on the two-by-four and we would start again. The women drank burnt coffee from the urn and talked about a boy who was shot dead in a hunting accident. My first exposure to the perils of life, nothing I could ever imagine being applied to my own.

My Gram died one December of the flu, too frail to cough. “Let me go,” she begged my aunts. I got the call at work from my dad. Everyone was at my Gram’s house, milling around, aimless. I helped my aunt make sandwiches on hand cut white bread with thick slices of ham and mustard.

At the funeral, I cried and then laughed when the bagpipe started up in the back room of the church behind the alter, like a slowly dying cat, its scream reaching a crescendo until the bagpiper finally appeared and walked down the aisle playing Amazing Grace. He exited the church so the cat could die its slow squealing death.

Amazing Grace played again many years later for my husband and for the thousands that died along with him in the World Trade Center.

Those early years at Gram’s prepared me for what lay ahead. I was not the center of the universe. I could distract my bad moods. I could do what scared me. I could handle death, make ham sandwiches, listen to Amazing Grace again. I learned what it meant to let go.

Short Shrift

My poor blog is getting the short shrift (which I just looked up and discovered was a short confession before a person was hanged. You know, in case you were wondering and needed something uplifting to think about. I guess a short confession meant you couldn't get rid of ALL your sins. Just one or two. So presumably you were still going to hell, which perhaps was a given already since you were about to be hanged. What then, I wonder was the point exactly of the Short Shrift??)

Don't worry, I have no intention of hanging my own blog, though I would love to find a way to combine it better with my website. Does anyone know if that is possible to do with something like TypePad? Do I have to be a genius programmer to do something like that?

Not that I have time to do something like that anyway. I have to hand in a complete chapter of something fictional on Thursday, do two functional plans for non-profit websites and I just learned that I got a job teaching memoir one night a week at the University of Washington Extension programme starting in January.

Oh Lordy. Only time for one sin.

See? Who has time for dating?

I am excited about the teaching gig, but also very nervous. It will be a steep learning curve. But they always say, do the thing that scares you the most...

Carter surprised me last night. Turns out the kid likes writing. He sat down for about half an hour and wrote a two page piece about 9/11 and what happened that morning. It was a bit of a rehash of what he has read from my book, and I have encouraged him to write things that he remembers, rather than what I do. But he read it this morning to two of his teachers while I was there and took their breath away.

Seems Carter might be teaching that memoir class before long...

The "Why Bother" Syndrome

I received an email recently from a guy with a blog who wanted to share links with me (what's that called in the blogging world anyway? co-linking? heyheyhey... No really, we are talking BLOGs here people!) I was expecting a blog about widowhood or loss or single-parenting. I did not expect a blog about dating. I had to giggle a little thinking the guy must have done a Google search on "Frustrated" and "Dating" to find my site. Of course I had to browse Evan's site, as there seems to be quite a bit of interesting info and advice there. That's when the "Why Bother Syndrome" jumped out at me. Apparently, I am afflicted with something that actually warrants the title of "Syndrome." Great. But I do have to wonder, have I really given up? Evan says he dated 300 women over ten years before he met his wife. So at 30 dates a year, that's about 1.5 dates a week? Whew!

It begs the question, how did people ever possibly meet before the Internet? Was the advice then still about the numbers -- success comes from dating many frogs? I can't imagine people dated 300 times over ten years when they had to deal with newspaper ads and P.O. boxes.

I know I am justifying my single status, perhaps pretending I am cool with being single, relieved even. I am sure many of you know how much mental energy it takes to do online dating. At every turn, it seems I am either disappointed or I am disappointing someone. And can you really get to know someone in one date? In the 40+ dating pool, you hear tons of "we're old enough now to *know* right away when someone is right." I know because I used to say it myself. But now, I'm not so sure.

Arron and I took years before we actually fell in love. We liked each other and enjoyed hanging out, but it wasn't all rockets and fireworks after the first date, though I was intrigued. I can't help thinking that if I were to meet him now through online dating, I probably wouldn't give him a second glance.

But I won't lie and pretend I don't lie in bed at night imagining some cute sumthin, sumthin lying in my arms. Or waking up in the morning all languid... OK, better not go there! I do. Every night. There is still a gaping hole that Arron left behind, sort of like a phantom limb. But my reality is limbless, and I think that after 8 years I am finally coming to terms with it.

Of course, it won't stop me from checking out Evan's site from time to time. Who knows, maybe with a little dose of Evan's rah-rah dating optimism, a little sumthin, sumthin will come our way.

The Advantages of Deprivation

I have been undergoing a little experiment with regards to dating, which is to not date. To not actively seek, to be content in my single-dom. I am so tired of the online thing. And I have given up trying to make eye contact with any guy in this city. Possibly, I am purposefully creating a little hedonic adaptation in my life, something I just read about over at The Happiness Project, a sort of law of diminishing returns, where you adapt to new circumstances until they become normal. You get a certain amount of time before something new becomes something old. Dating, for me has definitely fallen into that category. It has, after all, been y.e.a.r.s.

I have this theory that after a loss (divorce or death), you kind of go through a wild, animalistic stage. I think it has to do with trying to replace intimacy with sex. Eventually you realize it doesn't really work, though I have to say it sure is fun for a while. It is possible of course, that I simply got through my thirties.

What I am finding now though, is this kind of "settling in" stage. I am content with almost all aspects of my life. I am over my wild stage. It got old. And now, as Gretchen talks about, the best cure for hedonic adaptation is deprivation. I figure if I deprive myself of dating, then perhaps when something really great comes along, I will appreciate it all the more.

The odd thing is, I am finally feeling OK with being single. Before, I would moon on and on about wanting someone in my life, someone to share experiences with, someone to give me The Look. But these days I am beginning to understand why many women, once widowed, remain that way.


I get to avoid:

1. juggling of kid schedules
2. suspicious kids who don't trust anything that happens after they go to bed
3. ricocheting emotions
4. swooning over love horoscopes


Plus, I get

1. super buff by virtue of the crush on the trainer at the gym
2. to watch Grays Anatomy (or whatever girly show I want) without interruption
3. the sonicare all to myself
4. the two-person closet all to myself
5. to avoid ever having to watch a football game


Of course, if someone were to come along who could deal with my kid/widow/9-11 circumstances, liked Grays Anatomy, had his own toothbrush, and didn't like football, then perhaps I would consider giving him a drawer in my closet. Just one.

Don't Drip Tea in Your Belly Button

Last week, we got into a nice little routine. Olivia discovered Get Some ZZZ tea (Republic of Tea) and convinced me to buy it. I have been having trouble staying asleep as my brain seems to think its perfectly reasonable to awaken at 4:25am and worry about any number of things. Things like missing that blog radio interview in September, making sure I remember to get on top of middle school applications, remembering to vote, writing another chapter about my dead narrator in my head, the chapter I will forget by the time I get up, bugging myself to get moving on removing the thousands of tiny yellow tomato plants that took over my garden this summer, even though its too late to prevent all those unpicked tomatoes from falling off the vine and planting themselves for next year. Apparently this is all important stuff.


Olivia kind of begged for the tea in the grocery store, and I relented, almost as anxious as she was to try it. We made the tea at 9pm and I dripped some honey into each cup and then loaded them onto the psychedelic pea green tray and carried them to my bed. We all crowded in there and sipped our tea. I found myself saying: "Carter, stop dripping tea into your belly button," which I am pretty sure is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I bet his belly button slept well.

At 9:30, the kids went to bed, and I crawled into my covers and was asleep by 10. and I didn't wake up until 6am! A miracle. We did it every night. The kids almost got along.

Halloween happened (see Ice Queen above). Carter, as a banana trick or treated with a friend and had a sleepover. Olivia (a ring leader) went to a party at some big sports dude's mansion (it had its own theater WITH a box-office! She could totally be on "Teen Cribs" if she wanted...), but then bailed on the sleepover, something she had been doing with regularity of late. I danced my poor high heeled feet off, ate about 5 lbs of smoked sausage, worked hard not to find too many excuses to visit the cute Ozzie bartender, was accosted by some weirdo who kept wanting to "kiss" and finally went to bed (alone) at 3:30am, surprised to find Olivia already there. I was very glad the clocks fell back. I think they must have been at the same party.


Last night, Carter and I went and saw our friend in the last night of "Cannibal, the Musical," which was highly entertaining. When we walked in the house, I looked at the kettle and decided we didn't need the tea, since we were already so tired from our various late nights, sleepovers, mansion parties, trick or treating, etc. I guess I should have. Olivia was already in the bed, watching some kind of schlock like "The Hills," so Carter had a massive temper tantrum, suddenly freaking out that Olivia was part of his "cuddle bunny" time. Olivia stormed off, effectively giving Carter exactly what he wanted. I woke up at 5am again, I guess because I still haven't voted, or gotten rid of those damned tomatoes, or applied for any of those middle schools.


But I have learned my lesson. Tonight, the ZZZ tea is definitely making a return visit to the bedroom and hopefully peace will reign once again.

My Serendipitous Road to Getting Published

In my last post, I had a comment from Cathy with regards to writing. I hope you don't mind, Cathy if I post my answer this way, as it occurs to me that other people might be interested in my journey to published book as well.

After Arron died and I started coming out of that dreary numbness stage, I started thinking I should start writing down some of the stuff I had experienced, if for no other reason than to record the events for the kids in the years to come. By this time I had met the Prime Minister of Canada, Carter had slapped Joe Clark across the face, I had collected my Ground Zero dust in a weird little urn, received tons a letters and had been visiting the various "Family Centers" on a regular basis. Life was so beyond normal.

So for a year or so, this idea just kept bouncing around in my head. I wondered if perhaps I could write something that might help other widows, or other widowed parents, or if I should write something specifically for kids. This hung me up for a while. I thought I had to have it all figured out before I started writing. Of course, that was silly.

Just before the second Anniversary, Selena and I traveled to London in July and had a tour of Prince Charles' garden at Highgrove, meeting the Prince himself in the process. We went back to London in September with the kids, had tea at the Canadian Consulate, and attended a beautiful ceremony in Grosvenor Square, which is where Carter almost knocked over Princess Ann chasing pigeons, a skill that Arron had taught him.

It was at that point, after so many amazing experiences, that I realized that I had better just hunker down and write. So, shortly after I got home from London, I sat down at my computer and wrote "September 11, 2001" across the top of the page and just started writing. I didn't care very much about how it sounded or grammar or all that nonsense. I just was trying to get down all I could remember. Remembering the first year was the hardest. Mostly it was a series of crystal clear events punctuated by long periods of fog. But it didn't matter. I wrote on and off for around 9 months, until the kids got out of school for summer. At this same time, I was building the birdbath, so I was busy!

That summer, we went to Seattle for the month and decided we were going to move there. When we got back, I had the birdbath party and wrote an essay about it. Through a writing class I took sponsored by Tuesday's Children I become friends with the teacher, Maria Housden who wrote Hanna's Gift, a beautiful book about losing her 4 year old daughter to cancer. Maria had had quite a lot of success with her book, and she loved my essay, so passed it on to people she knew at SELF and at O Magazine (who I never did hear from). SELF loved it and actually wanted to pay me for it! In June, they arrived to take a picture for the magazine, loaded with clothing and makeup artists, the whole shabang! It was crazy.

It was the first time I thought, "Hey maybe I AM a good writer." Before I was published, I really just thought I was just getting the story down. I had spent all my years as a student thinking I was a crappy writer. I blame my 9th grade English teacher who tried to teach me the art of essay writing as though it was a lesson in geometry -- all triangles and rectangles, and it made absolutely no sense to me. I got terrible marks and from then on, decided I was a bad writer.

After we moved to Seattle, I took a memoir writing class through the University of Washington Extension program with Theo Nestor and learned a ton. The class forced me to practice, and increased the amount of material I had, not to mention my confidence. The summer after the class, The National, a CBC TV News program in Canada, came to Seattle to film me, the kids, my sister and my mother for a piece they were doing about me for the 5th Anniversary. It played on September 6th, 2006 and was almost 20 mins long!

About a week after the program aired, I got a call from my mom, telling me that an old colleague of hers was trying to reach me. Denise had seen me and my mom on the show, (where I had read a little of something I wrote), and as luck would have it, she was now a literary agent who wanted to see more of what I had written. She and my mother had worked many years before for a publishing company in Toronto, McClelland and Stewart, where my mom was a book designer and Denise was an editor.

Two weeks later I had written a full proposal (with her help) and attached a couple of sample chapters (stuff I had written way back in the beginning) and she began shopping it around with some of the Canadian Publishers. By some divine stroke of serendipity, it was picked up within two weeks, by, you guessed it (given my love of serendipity), McClelland and Stewart. That was October 2006. They gave me until June 2007 to finish the manuscript. I worked hard to make the deadline, but I did it, practically ignoring the kids in the final stretch. I handed in double the amount of words that I was supposed to.

I had the summer off and then spent the fall doing (a ton of) edits as suggested by my editor, which were finished by December. The book came out in Canada in March 2008. Alas, selling it in the US where "9/11 widow" seems to be a dirty word, we went through 30 publishers who all turned it down. HCI finally picked it up, but like many publishers in the US has done almost nothing to promote it. They are not even going to produce it in paperback. Sigh.

So, Cathy, my advice? Get writing. Buy Ann Lamott's Bird by Bird, one of the best books on writing out there (and it will make you laugh) and just begin. Pour it all out. Don't worry about what it's going to be, there will be lots of time for that.

You all know how I love the idea of living with "No Expectations." Writing definitely fits in that category. Its very freeing to have that mantra in the back of your head as you write. And you just never know where a little serendipity might get you.

A Quickie

To let you know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I've enrolled in another writing class - literary fiction. I'm trying to write fiction, another first. I am one of those rare, and exceptionally lucky authors who starts writing and gets her first work published. I don't think it will be that easy with fiction. But its fun. Its fun to make stuff up and mush it together with things that really happened. But its consuming. I have a piece due today for the class to critque, but I have read it over so many times, I can no longer tell if it makes sense. I got so consumed with it, that I lost track of time and missed having coffee with a friend. Why do I keep doing that?

Carter has been home all week with the flu. 38 kids in his school have it. I am told its not Swine, which I am happy about, but that makes it an ongoing threat, as it was on Monday when I thought he might cough up a lung. Being sick, some of his old anxiety seemed to return, and he has confessed that he is frightened of Halloween, and wants to come with me to my party, not let me out of his sight. I hope it will pass with the flu. How can I be a Victoria Secret Angel with a giant 10 year old Banana clinging to me all night?

He said last night, "I wish daddy was alive so he could stay with me while you went to the party." I broke it to him that daddy probably would have gone to the party too. I think it was one of the first times he realized that daddy wouldn't solve all of his problems.

Ok, back to fiction.

What the Hell is Entropy Anyway?

Arron used to have this thing about Entropy. In the film that his friend Rob made from Arron's stag, the one that was played at his memorial service, he tells his friends, "Entropy is all there is." I honestly don't know what the hell Entropy is other than a measure of randomness. If you want to learn more, here is the Entropy page on Wikipedia. Yea, I didn't get it either. But I still wonder what his fascination with it was. Knowing him, he just liked saying the word. Entropy. It's a good word. And it makes you sound smart. He was smart and did probably actually know what it meant.

I got into a discussion with one of Arron's cousins who knows I go in for all that "psychic/ghost hooey." He's read my book and knows I believe that Arron is around somehow, hanging about in some other-worldly place, drinking martinis and looking after Olivia while she goes under the knife. Davey thinks I am full of crap. He is one of the many who claims to be of the scientific ilk and he needs scientific proof that an afterlife exists. In the meantime, he is happy with the "lights out" theory of afterlife. He doesn't care that its grim, lacks any kind of imagination, would do away with any good ghost/horror movies and kind of puts a damper on life. Or maybe, as he claims it doesn't. Living life to the fullest takes on new meaning. I get it, sort of.

Part of his argument, is that the human brain is capable of so much more than we will probably ever understand (and I just LOVE that kind of irony!) and that it is capable, if not instinctually pre-wired to believe in an afterlife. Our brain is our very own self-soother, rationalizing any old pesky fear we can come up with. SO... with that in mind, our brain does all these kooky things like believe in psychics and signs from our lost loved ones in the form of lights turning on and the smell of smoke and make us think, of COURSE there is an afterlife. But what if its just our brains making us believe there is, because, well its a whole lot more interesting than that silly "lights out" idea, right Davey?

I guess the huge brain theory is just as viable as the afterlife one. Who am I to say? If there is one thing I know in this random world, its that anything is possible. Still not sure how the entropy thing fits into all of this, but boy, it sure sounds good, doesn't it?

Reconstruction

I've been nursing my little patient this week and thus have gotten nothing else done. All has gone by the wayside as I make healthful meals, and banana bread and allow Olivia to eat as many popsicles as she wants. When the ice maker part of our fridge stopped making ice (why do these thing happen just when you need buckets full of the stuff?), I went online and discovered that "Vacuum Compressor" actually means that you are supposed to vacuum the compressor. I have lived here for four years now and never knew that I was supposed to vacuum the compressor of my danged frige every 3-6 months!

ACL reconstruction is nasty business. A muscle graft taken from her hamstring is used to build a new ACL and is crudely hammered into her leg bones and secured with a metal bolt. And the surgeon does like 8 of these a WEEK! Common in girl soccer players aged 14-17. I guess I should be comforted my the fact that he does so many.

The surgery went well, though its disconcerting to see your child be wheeled off towards an O.R. I spent a sleepless night before worrying about all the things that could go wrong. Funny how we do that. I tried not to get all morbid, but voluntarily putting your child in danger (or what feels like danger) goes against all instincts. I found myself asking Arron to look after her, like he was some sort of God. I felt silly doing it, but there you are. You do funny things when you are a mother.

I have gotten a first-hand look at the effects of Oxycodone. Frankly, I have no idea how any of those Hollywood types would be able to take one and function normally. Olivia can barely keep her eyes open after taking one. I have to say though, she is an extremely cheerful patient overall. I have been getting a crash course in shows like "The City," "The Hills," and "Real Housewives of.." The world viewed from these vantage points is slightly frightening. Are people truly that mean to each other?

Glad its over now. Its nice to be on the recovering end of it all. Now she has the hard work of physical therapy ahead, and although she is frustrated, she is already off the crutches and able to put weight on it with the brace holding everything in place. Keeping her down so she doesn't re-injure herself while she is healing will be the more difficult problem, but one I am happy to handle.

The Boys Are Back

As I reflect on what would have been my 19th wedding anniversary, I continue to wonder, What if? Of course it's impossible to imagine and yet, I still can in a way. Tonight we might have sat in a quiet restaurant somewhere nibbling sushi, or maybe we would now share in our kid's new foodie delights. Whatever, it would have been a quiet affair.

I had a taste last night of what Arron's life might have been like if the tables had been turned, had been me in the Trade Center that day. I was invited to a special viewing of the movie The Boys Are Back with (yum) Clive Owen. Its about a father who loses his wife to cancer and is left to raise their 6-year old son and eventually his 15 (or so)-year old son from a previous marriage. Cinematically (quite possibly a new word made up for my debut as a movie reviewer) it was beautiful. Set in the rolling wine country of Australia with painterly views of ocean slashed with undulating grasslands and meticulous rows of vines, the views created a mood in keeping with the subject matter. Nature charging forth in its never-ending cycles.

The various universalities of widow-dom (where are all these new words coming from?) were well represented: the anger, the drinking, the lack of housework, the comatose/angry kids, the wild abandon of routine, the doubting mother-in-law, the almost-love interest, the stressful job. My only gripe was that all this was displayed during a few short weeks of the father's grief process. But that's movies for you.

I was astounded at the young boy's (Artie) ability to show the range of emotion required for the role. He managed to capture the 6 year old's desire to pretend nothing was wrong, and then show great insight, extreme, irrational anger, finally falling apart completely by lying in a catatonic state on the floor.

Oddly, the storyline that touched me more, was that of the older son, Harry who had essentially been abandoned by his father (at the same age as Artie). It was touching to watch him deal with the loss of his parent, as though his loss was fresh. He harboured the same anger as Artie, and they seemed to bond by virtue of having lost a parent at a young age.

Of course the movie ends on a relatively happy note, presumably within the same year of the wife's death, which any bereaved parent knows is a little far-fetched, but I was happy to see a film that dealt with loss head on, and handled it with the delicacy and intricacy that loss seems to warrant.

I had stuffed my purse with tissues for this one, but surprisingly didn't use them. The film was infused with humour, mostly at the hands of young Artie, but also in the sheer abandon that Clive Owen's character learns to offset the difficult moments. It may be that I am hardened to watching others undertake their own losses, or because the main character was a man and thus was slightly removed from my own experience, but I was glad that somehow the movie was more poignant and humourous than outright sad.

I never thought I would find pleasure at a movie about loss, but strangely its good to be reminded once in a while that we are not alone. And maybe not even crazy.

The Toilet Bowl Theory of Raising Kids without Fathers

This weekend I "forced" my kids to go to our house on Vashon. I knew it would be one of the last nice weekends and given Olivia's impending ACL surgery next Tuesday, I figured it would be a good way for her to enjoy some freedom before her confinement.

The reality was an insane drive across town, complete with a very long detour around an "AIDS" walk in order to pick her up from a sleepover. As I was swearing as a couple of red-t-shirt clad walkers in my path (nope, no road rage there), she called on my cell phone. "Mama, some of my friends are going downtown, I was just wondering, do I have to go to Vashon?"

I think I managed not to swear at her, but it was clear I was none too happy. "You are coming to Vashon, and we are going to be a family!" I think was my final two-year old temper tantrum remark. Of course she sulked the entire weekend. And fought with her brother. And of course I questioned my sanity. Should I have let her be with her friends? Should I have risked a bunch of 14 year old girls hanging out at our house unsupervised? "Will I ever be allowed to stay alone overnight?" she asked me at one point. "No!" was my immediate response. Certainly that must be illegal, right? I actually have no idea what the legal age is for leaving a kid alone overnight. Hopefully its 32.

On Sunday I spent almost all day digging out a 25' garden (Only with the help of Tylenol am I now able to write this). Since the house once belonged to a famous author, I felt like I was digging out famous weeds. The were certainly OLD weeds. And tough! As I broke my back with a shovel in the lovely late fall sunshine, both my kids were sequestered inside watching movies on their individual computers, probably for about the 60th time.

If Arron were here, I thought, I wouldn't have such lazy kids. He would have them clearing paths, or hauling rocks or going to Home Depot. He wouldn't allow computers at the cabin at all. There would be no arguments if we were headed to the cabin for the weekend (ok, there probably would, but the disputes would not last all weekend). And then that thought that I sometimes have popped into my head again. I wonder what the kids would be like if their father hadn't died. I know its a useless thought, but it helps me to remember his values in raising our kids. He was a man who couldn't stand still, had very high standards, and laughed a lot. All things that I sometimes worry are missing in my kids lives. But I only have so much energy to be the bad guy. Was it worth Olivia's sulkiness to be a family? Not sure. But I do know that when we went to the hardware store to buy a rake so I could flatten the now lumpy garden, she asked if she could by rubber gloves, a sponge and toilet cleaner. When I asked why she wanted them, she said, "So I can clean the toilet and we can leave sooner."

Maybe there is a tiny piece of Arron in them despite me...

Amuse Bouche

Man, one little birthday can sure throw off a whole week. But its been fun. We celebrated my rapidly advancing age (where does the time go?) at a fancy restaurant where we indulged our new "foodie" cravings. My kids, thanks to the help of The Food Network are becoming quite the connoisseurs. They were introduced to the idea of an "amuse bouche" ("happy mouth" we decided) with a spoonful of yummy goodness: bacon infused creme fraiche, topped with salmon roe and a few other little niblets that I can't remember because I was so busy swooning. All spoons at our table were licked clean.

Carter had a caramelized onion risotto with seared scallops and Olivia had a grilled chicken dubbed by the waiter as "the Kobe beef of chicken" with handmade potato gnocchi. Enjoying-the-Moment Man joined us which was super-sweet, and I hope it didn't cause too much strife with his girlfriend. Its nice that we have become friends after our ill-fated romance. He too is a serious foodie and we once again shared the most amazing foie gras, something we have shared on several occasions before. I know, I know, its entirely politically incorrect, but I am sort of addicted. Its so darned GOOD!

Dessert is not something I ever order, as I am not a big sweets person, but they figured out that it was my birthday and brought out this amazing dish layered with meringue and a peach compote that was light and not too sweet. Heaven.

I don't know why it always astounds me how much pleasure I get out of the smallest of moments, in this case incredible food, and fun company.

A Year of Magical Thinking

I was a huge fan of Joan Didion's book, A Year of Magical Thinking, a book that inspired me a great deal as I was writing my own. When some people in my group at The Healing Center decided to go (after much discussion over how difficult it may or may not be), I joined along.

The book is a quirky array of facts around heart attacks and hospitals, consummate with Ms. Didion's journalistic style. It is littered with her often alarmingly snobby views. But she manages to capture that odd numbness that happens post-loss, the automatic motions, the "making arrangements" kind of behaviour that makes people marvel at how "strong" one is. Her narrator voice is almost monotone, something she is criticized for. One of my favorite lines in her book is when a social worker at the hospital where her husband has arrive DOA, describes her to his colleague as being a "cool customer." I loved how that line so perfectly captured the outsider's view of someone in shock after the sudden loss of a loved one. But some of that monotone is simply her style.

It was interesting hearing the continuation of the story where the book left off, learning the circumstances of her daughter Quintana's death, (she died after the book was published). It was a hint that "magical thinking" can last a hell of a lot longer than a year. And the play certainly captured all the important points, and even managed to explore some of the subtle, nuanced connections she makes throughout the book, such as the idea of "The vortex" that she tries to escape as she drives around LA, trying to make detours in order to avoid all the places that her family had lived and been happy, trying to avoid memories.

I have to admit though that I was a little disappointed. Perhaps it was the actress, who peppered her lines with "uh" just a little too frequently, making it clear that perhaps she didn't know her lines as well as she ought to have. (Granted, I can't imagine having to memorize 90 minutes worth of lines). She also seemed to infuse much more meaning into the lines through inflections in her voice than the "cool cucumber" monotone I had imagined.

Somehow the power of loss didn't come through as well in the play as it had in the book. And perhaps I had forgotten this about the book, but Didion seems to find no real magic in her experience, just pain. Just loss. And to me, that's a shame.

Crunches for the Cause

An article on Sunday in the New York Times profiled an empty-nester who got divorced after her kids went away to college, tried dating, but discovered the sad state of affairs out there in the dating world for the older woman.

“I don’t bump into eligible men my age,” she said. “They’re nowhere. Not in church, not in restaurants, not walking the dog. We’re not in college anymore with an unlimited supply of men our age.”
The article goes on to state that 41% of women over 50 are remarried, where almost 60% of men are.
And if that wasn't enough:
"And if she’s tall on top of that,” Dr. Adler-Baeder said, “the pool’s even smaller.”
Great. I'm 5'10."

I know I shouldn't be looking at statistics. But in a weird way its like vindication that maybe, just maybe I am not crazy, wondering if there is something wrong with me due to my apparent inability to connect with men. I have lost my impetus to date for the moment, the online thing just doesn't do it for me these days. And so I am once again left with the question of how to meet men. And not just any men, but ones that I might actually be interested in meeting or who might actually be interested in meeting me. There is something to the "Seattle Freeze," a sort of apathy in people that seems to get in the way of people in Seattle connecting in a meaningful way.

With all these marks against me, how do I beat the odds?

Today, I went to an athletic club called ZUM. I am going to try it out and I might just join. I love my pilates classes, but I take classes at 9:30am, when all the other stay-at-home mom's take them. I will try a couple of ZUM's noon classes and see how it goes. Even at 2pm, there were a couple of non-gay looking hotties skipping rope (in a very masculine way) who actually smiled at me.

I am also going to take another writing class. I know, I know, why would a published author take a writing class? Well, as a novice writer I still have a ton to learn. Plus, I want to try writing fiction and feel pretty clueless. I need to get back into the writing groove and the motivation of a class, where each week an assignment is due, works for me. The added bonus? There might be an honest-to-goodness man in the class.

I do still need to check out those rowing classes again.

I may never have another romance, but hopefully I'll do some kick-ass writing and be fit as hell.

10 Things I Love About September 11th

I know how weird that must sound, to love anything about September 11th, but here goes:

On this day:
1. I am comforted in knowing that I will hear from friends and family from far and wide and know they are thinking about me, Arron and the kids.
2. I am reminded of Arron in all his Fabbo-ness*. It keeps the good memories alive.
3. I am grateful for all that I/we have.
4. I can feel Arron's pride in his children.
5. Everyone remembers that sense of community that we all felt in the days following that sad day with smiles and small kindnesses.
6. I reflect on new ways to "pay it forward"
7. Its usually sunny with a bright blue sky, a hint of fall in the air.
8. TV viewing is banned in our house
9. I often do an interview or two where I can talk about making "lemonade" from grief and loss
10. I notice the little things

*A small reminder of Arron's Fabbo-ness:

Distracted

I'm feeling very lame today. I missed my own interview. Leaving Vashon last night and enduring tons of ferry traffic seemed silly. But I realized this morning that I didn't have a number to call in to the show and had only my cell phone, so couldn't check email. I hope Honoree and Morgan forgive me and will agree to reschedule.

I suppose having 8 adults, 4 teens, 3 kids and 2 toddlers for dinner both Sat night and Sun night might have been a little overwhelming. Perhaps I wore myself out a little. But it was nice to have lots of people around to distract me. Somehow Labour Day and the 11th are very close this year. I needed distracting. But I think I have distracted myself away from the rest of my life.

I have remembered that school starts tomorrow. Of course the kids wouldn't let me forget that. Carter is all packed up with his lunch made and in the fridge, his bus number written artistically in sharpie on his hand. Olivia has a new backpack, pens, binder. She has memorized the map of the school so she won't get lost. I kind of wish I could go to school too. Have a routine, friends, homework. OK, maybe not homework.

So I can't think of what to do on the 11th. As usual, I just want it to be a normal day. But it will never be that. It would be cool to volunteer somewhere in the spirit of the new designation as a "National Day of Service and Remembrance." That name makes me think of poppies (Veterans Day in Canada is called Remembrance Day and plastic red poppies are given out to be pinned to coats). It seems odd to need to find a place to volunteer. There should be a directory or something. I do volunteer quite a bit of time to The Healing Center, though nothing is scheduled specifically for the 11th. Its a lot of pressure to find a volunteer job on such short notice.

The good news is that an 8th anniversary does not appear to be of interest to the media. Its been very quiet on that front. Nevertheless, TV won't be high on my list for that day. I have been invited out for dinner though. It will be a good distraction.

Single Mom Revolution

I had never heard of blog radio until I was asked to be interviewed for a blog radio show called Single Mom Revolution. My interview will be aired live on Sept 8th at 10am (PST) is you want to tune in, but will be available after than anytime.

Here is the link

A busy Labour Day weekend is in store, with various visitors and hopefully a few rays of sunshine. I hope everyone has an enjoyable one.

Till Death Do Us Part

I attended the commitment ceremony of my Pilates instructor and his partner last night. There was beautiful music: cello, four handed piano pieces, and two male opera singers. The symbolism wasn't lost on me. Each partner then had friends and family stand up and say a few words, a sister running back and forth across the stage handing the mike from one partner's group to the other's. She made us laugh when she reveled in her "Vanna White moment". Then, in a lovely act of simplicity and ceremony, they mixed water and soil from each of their respective homelands.

Two rows below me one of the partner's parents sat and I could see his father with his head in his hands, as though trying to not see. His mother stared stoically ahead, like a stone statue. But they were there. Despite their apparent disapproval they were there. I lamented the newlywed's lack of freedom to marry, but was awed by their bravery to do it anyway.

All in all, it was a very moving ceremony. The woman beside me was weeping freely. Another woman on stage kept wiping her eyes. Weddings do that to people. Witnessing true love does that to people.

I found myself flinching at the "till death do us part" moments. My Pilates teacher said as part of his vows "your name will be the last words out of my mouth." Something deep down inside me knotted up at these words, and made me swallow to keep it down. I didn't want to think it. I didn't want to leap ahead in my mind to what this new couple might have in store for them. I wanted to believe that it doesn't have to be "till death" because those words give it a finite end, and I know now that it just isn't that simple.

I wish I didn't fear for every happy couple I attend the wedding of, but weddings I realize now, are often a difficult reminder of the happy bride I once was, of the certainty I had that I would grow old with my husband, that when "death did us part", we would somehow be ready.

But no one is ever ready.

Finding Your People

Boy, one little two week vacation and I become the blogging slacker. Though to be fair, I was having a hard time getting connected in the various places I stayed. Plus, life was going a little too quickly.

Its odd going back to the place you grew up. For the first time, since I left in 1991, I have been homesick for Toronto. I think what it really is though, is a homesickness for my people. Being home, hanging with the parents, I remember that there are a whole raft of people who know me, or know one of my parents. There are friends who knew Arron, or knew me when I was younger and goofier. They actually remember when I wore rainbow suspenders and a Babar pin made of fimo. And they still talked to me.

In the past, the ghosts and memories in Toronto kept haunting me. I would remember hanging out at the REX listening to the Whirlitzer and drinking the kind of beer that you regretted the next day. Or the Black Bull where Arron and I sat on the patio and watched all the heroin addicts scratch the imaginary bugs off their already bleeding skin. Ah, such lovely memories. But there are traces of other things too. The old house that Arron and I lived in, occupying the top two floors. I swear that some of the plants I put in the garden as an enthusiastic newlywed are still there among the weeds. The steps where I fell and got the scar on my chin when I was 8. The wall in the schoolyard where we used to put rubber balls into a stocking and then standing against the wall, fling the elastic-y balls on either side of us, chanting skipping rhymes to the rhythm. The beaches pool, way up high on its pedestal with the view of the lake where I spent the occasional sunny July afternoon when I was 7.

In Port Hope I went to a multitude of parties where (due to various themes) people were dressed in the best finery. Hats and striped jackets and ascots. We ate cucumber sandwiches and drank mint juleps and Pims. And I met the legions of people who know not only my father and stepmother, but also Arron's mother.

It hit me then I suppose, that all these people were a network that I just don't have anywhere else. Yes, I have people scattered about the world, but the largeness of the Toronto network can't be replicated.

Of course, wherever the kids and I go, we think about what it would be like to move there. We did it in London and Paris. Olivia was gung ho for a particular Toronto neighborhood, where a house doesn't generally sell for anything below about 5 mil. Typical. But it got me wondering. Could I live in Toronto again? Oh sure, its easy to see its merits on a hot and steamy August day, but those January days where you can't help but curse the cold the moment you step outside? Not so much.

It got me wondering about my recent feelings of being disconnected, being without a posse. Does my widowhood play into that? Would I feel it, no matter where I went? Would people forget to invite me to things because I was an awkward single? I don't know if that happens now, but I do know that when you are a pair, it doubles the number of people you come into contact with.

I am a wanderer, there is no doubt. So I wonder if I will ever be able to stay in a place long enough to create a network for myself, or if it makes sense to revisit the one that I left behind in Toronto all those years ago.

Here are Carter and Olivia at Arron's Memorial Tree in Ramsden Park in Toronto

Happy Double Digits!

This birthday seems particularly poignant given that you are now 10! You have grown up so much this year, its been amazing to watch. Your stint at camp, while hard, I know has helped you be proud of yourself. You learned a lot and so did I. Its been wonderful watching you grow up. You are funny, super smart, handsome, and talented at many things. I think one of your most endearing qualities is how empathetic you are. I loved your story about helping the kid at camp who was feeling homesick. That was such a sweet thing for you to do. But I shouldn't be surprised. That is who you are. I look forward to seeing you shine this year, at a new school, with new friends, new challenges. You are a wonderful son. I couldn't be luckier.

Oregon Fun

It was an amazing weekend in Portland with Olivia. We seriously put a dent in my credit card, using the lack of sales tax as an excuse. It was such a rare treat spending a whole week alone with Olivia. We also did a couple of "cultural" things like going to both the Chinese and the Japanese Gardens. At the Chinese Garden we encountered a squirrel that really wasn't quite right:

The Japanese garden in particular blew me away and now I am all inspired to bonzai my Vashon trees and create entire hillsides of nothing but moss. And of course a tiny trickling creek with little waterfalls and perfect little seating nooks and pagotas are a must! OK, gotta stop thinking about the garden.

We also had some pretty terrific food. Olivia is now at an age where she appreciates good food. Our most memorable dinner was in the Nob Hill area at a restaurant called 23 Hoyt. The surroundings were lively on a Saturday night and the prawn spaghetti was amazing. So much so, we actually took the leftovers back to the hotel and ate them the next night for a snack.

The next night we ate at the restaurant next to the Ace Hotel, a funky place called Clyde Common. And true to its name, it had huge tables where you were sat together with others. Olivia seemed rather horrified when we were seated, squished between a family with a baby and two girls talking dirty. I managed to get us moved to larger table and she relaxed. The food was good, but the portions quite tiny (which is why we were happy for the previous night's leftovers).

Our final night was at Serrato also in Nob Hill (our favorite area, so we got quite adept at taking the streetcar there and back). It was good (I had a duck confit risotto), but paled next to Hoyt 23. Plus we were sort of terrorized by an alarmingly large bug in the window beside us. We had brunch with fellow widow blogger Candace and her daughter Anna and got to know her a little better. Although we had met in San Diego, it perhaps wasn't the most conducive to getting to know someone, what with all the Margaritas and all.

Next stop was Timberline Lodge where we were staying the night before picking Carter up from camp. We took a meandering drive along the Columbia Gorge where Olivia kept rolling her eyes at me every time I made her get out of the car to see yet another waterfall. But god, it was so beautiful. Very Lord of the Rings. I actually wished I hiked! And then the car began climbing higher and higher and although we could see our destination in the distance, it didn't seem possible that we would wind up being so close. Mt. Hood was beautiful in a stark, moon-like way. Being up so high above the treeline, the gravel was a purple-gray and sprinkled here and there with gorgeous purple wild flowers. The lodge itself was all gigantic timbers worn smooth by all the hands. Each banister was carved into a different animal, eagle, owl, otter, etc. Our room was cozy (read tiny, but very sweet and wood panelled). We headed for the pool, which at first was kind of chilly with the wind coming off the mountain. But eventually we donned our suits and found refuge in the heated pool.

As I was bobbing in there with Olivia, a big barreled-chested guy with a mustache introduced himself as Jeff. I had seen him checking us out, but only later did I learn that he was actually checking me out. We chatted in the hot tub before getting too hot and jumping back into the pool. He was loud in that American sort of way. I learned he was from MA, owned a ranch, did rodeos, and was along with a group of his daughter's as a sometimes downhill race coach. He invited me to have a beer with him, and he confessed his attraction. It's been a long time since that has happened!

When I got back to the pool after the beer, there was another dad there, and he was making some serious eye contact in the hot tub. I couldn't believe it. In a matter of an hour, I had two guys flirting with me! After four years in Seattle, where I may as well be invisible. What is that about? This dad was seriously cute and I was secretly hoping he was single, despite being from Rhode Island.

Later that night, after Olivia and I had dinner, Jeff found me again and offered to buy me a drink. Although he wasn't really my type, plus the fact that he was married, I couldn't help but be flattered. In Seattle, a guy barely gives you a sideways glance, much less talks to you or admires. The cute dad was also at the bar, and he and Jeff talked about ski racing and I found out that cute dad was also married. Jeff and I chatted some more. I didn't ask why a man married for 30 odd years was buying me wine. Well, actually I did ask about his marriage which he said was fine. But he was flirting. Big time. And for once I didn't feel invisible. I miss east coast men.

And then it was time to pick up Carter from Camp. He looked happy and relaxed, nothing like the sobbing wreck that had called me 17 times a day, just a few short days before. He had made it, and perhaps it was just relief, but I think it was possible that he might have even had a good time.

He wasn't the only one.

Sobs and Doggie Psychics

I got another sobbing phone call this morning from camp (blasted cell phones). Seems he hates snowboarding. Not sure why that would be. I guess he is one of the younger kids at the camp, and perhaps is feeling that the others are more expert than he is, but I'm not sure. There have been moments though, when he does seem to be having fun. I'm holding tough, and not giving in (though I have considered dropping everything and dashing up to get him). I am certain that my dreams of a few summer weeks without kids will not come to fruition until he's 40!

On another note, I met a pet psychic yesterday who insisted that Harley had not yet figured out she had died and remained "with" us. Apparently, Harley was rather skeptical towards the psychic trying to talk to her. When the psychic told her she had died, her response was "well that explains a whole lot". No, seriously. The psychic coaxed her toward the light, so we are now rest assured that she is happily ensconced in doggie-heaven. Stop giggling. It's true! She also "talked" with Gloria Olivia's beleoved guinea pig (now deceased) who is apparently coming back as a white dog who will belong to a boy in Philadelphia, but will then come back again in 10 years or so as a black toy Aussie that Olivia will get when she is in her twenties. She has already checked them out and can't wait.

No, really.

Camp Woes

Carter arrived at camp yesterday, having been driven there by his friend's dad and at around 3pm the sobbing phone calls began. Last night after dinner he threw up (though he may have been dehydrated). I have talked him down a little, but this morning he called me again, still sobbing, begging me to pick him up. He hates it. They are getting ready to go snowboarding now, but my sense is he is too distraught to actually participate and find it fun. Do I ruin my first week alone with Olivia to go and pick him up (a 4+ hour drive)?

My Latest Psychic Adventure

Since the psychic came last week, I haven't been able to post, as I have been on a road trip to Squamish to pick O up from art camp. Her and Rose had a great time, and DD and I had fun picking them up and hanging with my sis. Between watching a bunch of really talented kids at the camp and then another performance that my niece was in later that night, I was amazed at how many truly talented kids there are. They reminded me what it felt like to be so happy and free, the way kids know how to be.

But I digress. The psychic was pretty amazing. It occurred to me halfway through our reading that she wasn't giving me symbols like many other psychics do, but spoke in sentences, much the way Arron might have. She picked up on some pretty amazing stuff. Some highlights:

- He described himself as doing "shitty things" sometimes. And that he had a short temper when he was sick. This was interesting to me, as another psychic early on described him as being a "real bastard" sometimes. He did have this side to him. He did not suffer fools.

- He tells me I need to "kick C's ass." C is very emotional and can use it as an excuse not to do things. I need to challenge him. This rang very true to me and was a good reminder not to let C pull the wool over my eyes which he can be smart enough to do at times, if I am not paying attention.

- O is most like him. "Wicked smart," verbal, a do-er. (he's such a bragger)

- Arron's death was very fast. She didn't figure out how he died, just that it had been a blow to the head. I was a little suspect of this, as I believe he died of smoke inhalation before the building fell. He said he was sorry for being there, for dying. But he said he's OK now, and in one piece (see, even the dead have black humour).

- He works as a "transporter," which seemed to involve helping others transition from life to death. Many (particularly with 9/11) were confused and didn't understand what happened. He knew he had died right away.

- She asked me about a ring. I told her the story of Arron's pinky ring, which he got married with, but that he switched out shortly before his death for a regular ring after being hit on by gay men. He was had a fear of being gay, as his father had been.

We talked for quite a while, and it was nice feeling as though Arron was part of the conversation. I asked him when he was going to find the new love that he keeps telling me I should find, but he indicated that it was up to me. He hinted at someone shorter and younger, that I needed to broaden my perspective. I like younger, but shorter? Not so much.

Not sure where I stand with all of this, but it had me thinking about him, which was nice. And its given me some fodder for my book idea. I have just realized in writing this post that the timing is interesting, as it seems to coincide with the lead up to the anniversary, when odd things often happen.

OK, its about 100 degrees in Seattle today, so Olivia and I are off to see the new Harry Potter.

Get A Job!

The widowhood conference last weekend has given me a new-found appreciation for having a community. To suddenly be thrust into immediate friendships via this virtual world of bloghood was amazing to me. But when I got home I realized that I have been sequestering myself, hiding away behind my computer, lost in my blogness. My sense is it that is a common widow/widower thing to do. To hide.

But the conference made me realize that I need to meet more real people. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to laugh and revel in black humour with others who got it. Got me.

The other thing I did this week was hide my Match profile. Again. I am just too tired of being the one-date-wonder. All very nice men that I meet, but no click, no chemistry. Its demoralizing. Plus with all the emails flying around I couldn't keep each profile straight. Was Mark the one who read philosophy or was that Ed? And I don't know, but it seemed I had to exchange a LOT of emails before a guy would finally suggest coffee. It was tiring.

And so its dawning on me that I need to find some local community. And to meet some men the old fashioned way.

Hence a couple of ideas:

1. Join a church. my mom nearly spewed her sip of wine when I told her this over the phone. "Church? you?" she said. "What? I need to meet PEOPLE mom!" OK. She's right. dumb idea. Unless it was a church where we could drink margaritas and laugh at all things Jesus.

2. Take a belly dancing class. Maybe not orthodox and I will only meet women. But fun. And maybe I can lose a bit of the middle age tire that seems to have taken hold of my waist.

3. Learn to row (as in scull. You know in those boats where you paddle backwards with eight other people and a tiny person at the back who shouts at you and tells you where to go?) Probably will have that women-only problem again. Not to mention the nasty 5am wake up. OK, maybe its a bad idea.

4. Take another writing class. The memoir class was great, but the problem with memoir is, you guessed it -- only women. Writing about their grandmas. So fiction this time. Maybe I will actually meet someone with a Y chromosome. Probably writing science fiction. Oh no!

5. Get a job. Ooo. A radical idea. I have to say I like my life of so-called leisure. And I seem to always be overwhelmingly busy. I would have to find someone to take care of the kids after school. Am I talking myself out of this one? Let's review:

Pros:

- A routine
- Meeting other people, not just women
- Getting paid (maybe)
- Health insurance (maybe)
- Doing something fun (maybe)

Cons:

- A routine
- Office politics
- Doing something boring (maybe)
- Hiring childcare which might not be cost efficient, depending on the job
- Writing would take a back seat

I want to write another book, but right now all I have are false starts. I can't quite get into the swing. Maybe its because its the summer and I have kids breathing down my neck, bored out of their minds. And yet, I am meeting another psychic today (in person), to possibly discuss my book idea (if I like her and she seems the kind of person who I could work with). Stay tuned.

At any rate, I can't look for a job until September due to some trips I have planned this summer. But I have been looking. And who knows, it might even be fun.

Imagining the Unimaginable at Soaring Spirits

If you ever took the time to imagine a widow's conference (ok, something you may not do all that often), you might picture a bunch of gray-haired ladies clutching tissues and smelling salts, weeping incessantly. You probably would not picture a whole bunch of crazy ladies at a pops-in-the-park concert getting shushed and then ignoring the shushes by jumping up in seats, screaming, dancing and waving their arms wildly to the music, while the gray-haireds sat demurely, turning once in a while to cluck their disgust. Michele, the organizer got a nasty email deriding the behaviour of her widows. She was so proud! She inspired us first thing with her impassioned speech imploring us to "imagine the unimaginable," teaching us that unimaginable is not the same as impossible. A good lesson to remember, as it is something we have all lived -- the unimaginable.

Unimaginable was the strength, bravery, heroism and everything in between that pervaded the spirit of the day. Such an aliveness you never did see. And the characters: A wonderful author, Gail Graham whose book, Sea Changes I can't wait to read. She wore a pair of gigantic black eye glasses and was accompanied by a sweet white terrier. Not something you see every day. Sitting side by side at the book signing table, I met Jennifer Silvera another widow with young children, and also an author. We bought and signed each other's books. (The only one I signed alas). I look forward to reading her perspective. I got a kick out of Joy, the founder of The Centering Corporation, the only traveling bookstore that specializes in Grief books (a great resource) and her therapy dog, Bernard, a huge Newfoundlander. Another great resource is the brain-child of Anne-Marie, a lovely woman who founded the website Widow-speak, a resource for widows worldwide. There was a Christian songstress, a contingent of women from Singapore, and a widow from Iraq who waited a month for a visa in order to come, among many others.

And then there are all my new friends. Its an amazing experience to have virtual friends become real. Through their blogs its possible to know people like dear friends, so meeting them in the flesh involves immediate hugs, many shared margaritas and a lot of laughter. Candace was the glue who put us all together in the first place. I look forward to visits with her, as we live only 3 hours apart. Matt, our accidentally famous blogger and lone male attendee had us all cracking up swearing like a sailor about reverse mullets, Jessica Simpson, and in shared texts and winks during dinner. Nor would he let us buy one drink, the scoundrel. Mel and I kept each other sane during a somewhat strange session on dating and a post-session mad dash to Starbucks to make up for a lack of breakfast. I felt a special kinship with Jackie, a fellow Canadian from Nanaimo, who knows my first cousin and has a daughter named Olivia. Strange small world. We now know way too much about one another, in such a good way. And as much as I wanted to be green with envy, I adored Marian, a fellow 9/11 compatriot and author who had us all cracking up at dinner with her ill-fated dating exploits. We shared many secret smiles during her authors panel when the 9/11 questions came up. It felt like we had known each other for years.

Sadly, Kath from the Seattle Healing Center sprained her ankle and was unable to come, but the Healing Center was well represented by three of us. I wished Kath could have met Rachel, director of the Heartlight Foundation, a similar organization (and potential sister organization??) in Denver. Hopefully we can keep in touch and trade ideas.

Carter and I managed to find some fun in San Diego at Sea World (highlight was winning a huge stuffed Cartman of South Park. I know, I know, its time to figure out the V-chip) and while I was conferencing, he and sitter Katie boogie boarded, went to In-and-Out Burger (another highlight), ate frozen yogurt and crab (albeit not at the same time). I didn't think it was possible for him to be with a sitter for 14 hours without checking in with me once. Leaps and bounds Little Mr. Big Man, leaps and bounds.

Its slightly lonely coming home to such a quiet house, because I already miss my much-expanded circle of friends, something unimagined 3 short days ago.

Can't wait till next year!

Boy Talk

I guess what they say about 10 year old boys is true. Two nights ago Carter was begging me for condoms. Who me? When I asked him why, he told me it was fun to blow them up and play around with them. He ransacked my drawers convinced I had them hidden somewhere. And maybe I do, but he won't be finding them.

And then last night I got the question "mama, what's an orgasm?"

Oy! I stuttered through a man orgasm, mumbling about it being the moment the man squirts all his sperm out. Like into a girl. OK, not exactly poetic I admit, but one understood by a 10 year old. His response: "ALL his sperm?"

"Uh, well maybe not ALL of it. Just the amount that he made that day." God I thought I knew this stuff!

Next question: "Do girls have orgasms?"

Yes. Um. OK. well. I realized there was no squirting equivalent. "Its when her you-know-what gets very swollen.. and...um... it sort of bursts, kinda like a sneeze." Really! I said that! No wonder kids have such a warped view of sex. I was raised on such hippy classics as "Where Babies Come From" and even found my mother's Joy of Sex under the bed once. I KNOW this stuff. But trying to explain it to an almost 10 year old is a whole other ballgame.

Finally, he asked: "Have you ever had an orgasm?" OK, that one I could answer with a simple yes.

"Does it hurt?"

"Nope, it feels amazing. That's one of the main reasons people have s.e.x. Which doesn't mean you should do it before you are ready and in love with someone. The other reason they have it is to make babies. So you better be prepared if its something you are going to do. In. Many. Years. From. Now. That's why you shouldn't be blowing up condoms. (cause you never know when mama might need one) OK?

I can only imagine his now-warped view of s.e.x. People and condoms blowing up all over the place.

I do make a pretty good curry...

I had a dream last night. I was in India where a tall building was ablaze at the very top. I could see the flames and knew what it all meant. People were running towards me, away from the building, but I ran towards the building trying to warn officials in the lobby to get out, in case it collapsed. When I got there I found a huge curry making operation going on, with gigantic rollers crushing the spices. They were oblivious to what was going on above them. I kept trying to tell them, but they just laughed at me and continued the rolling until everyone's eyes were tearing, and we were overcome by the fumes.

And then I woke up. I was surrounded by an intense smoke smell, and Arron felt near. Very near. I tried to figure out what he was trying to tell me. Was he warning me of an attack in India? Or that I needed to make some really good curry? I heard what sounded like my cell phone ring and it felt like he was giving me images as if to say, "remember I called you? I kept trying to call you." Or maybe it was a message to call someone, to warn them.

Or maybe its just the usual shenanigans that lead up to the anniversary.

Not Ready

Apparently, I am so darned busy being peaceful that I can't quite muster the energy to post. Actually, its been really crazy since the 4th. This past weekend we drove up to Vancouver and spent time with friends and my sister. I spent an evening with an old high school friend that I found on Facebook. It was nice to see where she lived and to get to know her kids a little. The next day, I met with the sweetest girl from Russia who I am helping to write a personal essay for Chatelaine Magazine, a Canadian fashion magazine. She truly was lovely. And young. And I realized the amount of time covered in her essay was much less than I supposed.

I arrived at my sister's house and helped her prepare for a party of Realtors that night. Turns out Realtors like to drink. A lot. And laugh. A lot. Toward the end of the evening, when it looked like things might get a little sloppy I pulled a big sister and started cleaning up. Its like turning the lights up in a bar. Soon, everyone was stumbling away (in the company of a DD, have no fear).

The next day, Carter, my niece and I wandered the steamy streets of Whistler which I discovered stay quite warm, protected from cool mountain breezes by 4 floors of condos. As temps reached 90 degrees (30+ in Canadian), it got darned hot. So it was strange to be buying ski gloves, goggles and snow pants for Carter's sojourn in a couple of weeks to snowboarding camp on Mount Hood in Oregon. Yup SLEEPOVER camp. He has managed two sleepovers now, without being driven home at midnight. Could he really be growing up? We watched the BMX bikes come leaping down the scariest looking downhill course on the mountain. Then they loaded their bikes onto the chairlift and went up for more. Fascinating, until a whole family came and stood in front of us, as if we didn't exist. So rude.

Another night of frivolity was spent with friends whose daughter is going to the same camp with Olivia. This will be their third year. In past years the camp has been just outside Victoria, a lovely, but oddly difficult excursion from Seattle. This year the camp found a new location just around the corner from my sister's house. An amazing new University in the town of Squamish, BC that is like staying in a swank ski chalet in Aspen. Big huge glass and timber buildings, surrounded by green with snow-topped mountains on all sides. Olivia looked like she had died and gone to heaven when she discovered her room had a microwave. And a fridge! She was to share a room with 4 other girls, 2 girls to a bedroom that each shared a bathroom. And a balcony. When can I go to art camp?

It was a strange feeling leaving her there, as though she was actually about to spend her first day at University. Suddenly it doesn't seem so impossible or more to the point, that far away. I have to admit that I was just a little bit glad when she hugged me tighter when I suggested I should go. "I'm not ready yet!"

No, and neither am I.

Peaceful

Its funny. Sometimes by simply putting a problem out there, rather than listening to it in your head over and over, it kind of seems to shrivel up a little, as though exposure to daylight causes it pain. I am told the meds will take 4-6 weeks to begin working, but for whatever reason, they seem to be doing the trick already. Could be psychosomatic, or as I said, the fact that I have finally acknowledged that things aren't quite right, but my mood has been way more upbeat. Could also be summer. Had a large gang of people at the cabin on Vashon, my little magical haven. The 4th was spectacular. My sister insisted on crab and although we both had visions of paddling out on the kayak with a crab trap (something I have no idea how to do, being from Great Lakes land, but something that would be fun to learn), the reality was $7.99 a pound at the Thriftway. They even cut them open for us, so they would be easier to get into. We are such crab wimps. I can only hope they were at least locally caught. A huge group descended via shuttle trips and gobbled everything in sight before heading off to watch the big fireworks in town. The rest of us opted to head down to the beach where Carter was blissed out as the resident pyromaniac, lighting all the fireworks that we had bought at the stand (a first for me). I prayed that he wouldn't lose an eye, but stayed cool and only said "be careful!" a half a dozen times. I guess there is something about being on an island that makes fireworks legal, whereas in the city they are not. Up and down the beach, groups were creating amazing displays, all going off in harmonious succession. Across the water, looking towards West Seattle, it was hard to know where to look, there were so many different bursts of light and colour. And to think they weren't even legal over there! The kids (5 in all) gobbled 'smores and I was content. Dare I say happy even? None of the cloud looming, just nothing in my head really. Hard to imagine feeling peaceful amidst all the noise and chaos, but there it was.

Calming the Mind Gremlins

Well, I've done it. I took my first Wellbutrin today. I know its going to take weeks before I know if its helping, but it does feel like a step forward. I seem to have gotten my head around the idea of taking something because I sure was quick to pop that little purple pill. I look forward to having a little more energy, being a little more upbeat. I have also been advised to seriously increase my levels of vitamin B, D and to take a liquid fish oil supplement, all of which have been shown to improve mood. I came home with an arsenal. I'm lousy at remembering to take meds at regular intervals, so that is going to be my challenge in all of this. Oddly (or probably not so oddly), in the process of meeting with the therapist and taking the steps toward making this move, I have been feeling a little more positive. Just the very act of admitting there was a problem seems to have had an effect on my mood. Your comments to my last blog entry about this have also helped in making me realize that I am not alone and that many people have been down this road. All very reassuring, so thank you. Besides meds, the therapist recommended Feeling Good, a book on cognitive therapy. I'm still plowing my way through it, but essentially its about recognizing those nasty mind gremlins who undermine everything you think, understanding how they relate to your moods and then how to eliminate them with more positive thought processes. Its going to be an interesting learning experience, if nothing else. I am sure there will be several tie ins with The Happiness Project, something I am fascinated with. The last thing that has added to my upbeat mood has been my conversation with Simone, the intuitive I mentioned in my last post. I know a lot of people are pretty skeptical about the whole psychic/intuitive/medium thing, but I am always amazed by how peaceful I feel after a reading. Simone saw Arron bathed in a powerful pale blue light who showed his concern for Carter with an image of his hand on Carter's shoulder. The message seemed to be that he wished he could help, be a part of Carter's life. He wished he could be there for me. I know, all stuff anyone would want to hear. But so what? How can a sense of someone being nearby, but on the other side, helping, guiding you somehow be a bad thing? So here are a few of her predictions. I will post them here, so later perhaps we can look back and see if any of them come true (which would be ever-so-peachy): - I am going to have a much more balanced year, beginning after my birthday in September. Hallelujah for that! - I have a lot of books still to write. She described "shelves and shelves" of stuff behind me as well as a lot of throat images which I guess indicate having much to say (well, she picked up on my blabbermouth quality anyway). She mentioned the possibility of writing something from Arron's perspective, about his passage into the afterlife. I have to admit its an intriguing idea. - In November/Dec, at some kind of social event, I will meet a man that will apparently become my husband. At the very end of the reading, she got the name "Jim" from Arron. Not sure if this was meant to be this dude's name, or if there is some other reason for his mentioning the name Jim to me, so who knows. Apparently "Jim" will be tall (6'2" - how can it be THAT specific about his height yet not give me something useful like a profession. Ah the afterlife works in mysterious ways), dark, handsome and have salt and pepper hair, be highly empathetic toward Arron and the whole dead husband thing. I say bring it! There was a bit more, but those were the highlights. Who knows, perhaps she is simply picking up on my desires. And there they all are plain as day.

Fairy Dust

I have been lamenting the lack of magic in my life lately, something that is somewhat hard to define. I think for me, it can be any of the following: 1. Reading a book, that perfectly describes how you're feeling or gives you an answer to a question you have been asking yourself 2. Meeting someone through complete happenstance that is meaningful in some way, again because of what you learn from them, or who they in turn connect you to. 3. Getting some sort of sign (butterfly sighting, music on radio, smell) that reminds you of something you had long forgotten. 4. Meditating and coming out of it with a clear idea, or thought or answer. 5. Waking up early in the morning knowing what you are going to write or create or do that day. On Saturday night, #2 happened for me. I got an email through Match.com from a gentleman from California who was visiting Seattle for the weekend. He asked if I wanted to join him for dinner. I had no plans, and so on a whim I did. It didn't feel like a romantic meeting as much as he seemed to just be a guy hoping to meet someone interesting to talk to. That was about my speed as well. We met, and at first I was dismayed. He seemed a little slick, an aging surfer type, with a dark tan and very white teeth. But as we chatted I relaxed. I even told him how Arron had died, something that is the death-knell of a first date. We talked about psychics and he told me about a friend of his who I should connect with. Someone he described as an "intuitive." We even talked about the fact that perhaps that was the purpose of our meeting, so he could "introduce" me to her. She turns out to be incredibly interesting, and I am looking forward to trading books with her, at the very least. The surfer and I had a gorgeous dinner at a wonderful restaurant and I drove him back to his hotel. I don't know yet what will become of my now scheduled phone call with her, but I am ever so grateful for the tiny amount of fairy dust.

A Father's Legacy

Father's Day has always been another of those loaded days for us. I remember the first one after Arron died hanging out on a NJ beach with a dozen other 9/11 widows watching our children build sandcastles, dying for a G&T even though it was only 10:30. Somehow we have muddled through the rest unmemorably. This year was the first year where it occurred to me that I was OK that Father's Day was around the corner. I've made no special plans. I am not bracing for anything. Carter has been invited to his friend's house. A friend with two dads. The irony is not lost on me or them I am sure. Yesterday we were at Barnes and Noble and Carter found one of those singing cards and bought it for the dads. In it he wrote: "Happy Father's Day Guys. Even though I am not your son you kind of feel like my dads. Oh and thanks for everything. From Carter." I remembered that Arron, whose own father died when he was 17, also adopted dads on a regular basis. He made many great friends this way, and in turn was a great friend and great father as I am certain his son will be.

Land of the Lost

In an attempt to escape our seemingly never-ending story of woe, Carter and I decided to go to a movie this afternoon. Will Farrell in Land of the Lost seemed like it would fit the bill. Funny, mindless, but as it also turned out, kinda lame. Lots of little boy humour: monkey holding girl's boob, hands down pants kind of thing. I guess I will never really understand boy humour. But Carter thought it was funny, so that's all that matters. The best part was the raspberry frozen custard at the new Frozen custard shop in Seattle. Yum!

Harley: Feb 8, 1994 - June 16, 2009

Her last act was sniffing the vet's pocket and then happily gobbling 3 cookies before the sedative took hold and her head slowly nodded down until she laid her chin on the floor between her front legs, which is how she remained until the end, which was very peaceful when it came. This morning it was strange coming downstairs and not picking her up off the floor so I could give her pills disguised as treats. It was odd picking up the paper off the stoop and not having her simultaneously step over it. And its strange to be sitting here at my desk without her sprawled across her blanket breathing noisily beside me. And that's about all I am able to say about that. Here is Olivia's tribute to Harley: She will be sorely missed. Rest in Peace old girl.

The Loss of a Furry Best Friend

I remember riding home on the tube over 15 years ago, Harley, a tiny bundle of cuteness tucked first in Arron's lap and then mine as we argued like two year olds over who got to hold her. "How about Dolby?" Arron asked me, trying on a name as he looked down at her. "Dolby! Dolby!" Harley seemed oblivious. "Maybe" I said, trying to sound encouraging. But when we got home, and Harley began her nippy barking at the low rumble of a motorcycle, I finally made my suggestion for her name. "What about Harley?" I had an ulterior motive. Arron hadn't remembered telling me that he would love to name our first child Harley. I figured if we named the dog Harley, our first born would be spared. Of course the plan nearly backfired and we almost had a both a dog AND a child named Harley. During one of my first walks with Harley (after her 4 month shots) in our London neighborhood's Normand Park, near Fulham Broadway, Harley the size of a large bunny tugged on the leash ahead of me. At the park, a black dog began running towards us fast, not leaving me enough time to pick her up before the dog, a pit bull, pounced on her. After what seemed like 10 minutes of shaking, despite the dog's owner beating it with a tennis racket, Harley was dropped, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, her chest ripped to ribbons. I was in shock. A man came up to me and told me he could drive me to our vet. I didn't hesitate long enough to get the pit bull owner's info, and was suddenly in the car of a stranger. When my vet was closed, he drove me downtown to the emergency vet and waited for an hour while Harley was seen. When he could no longer wait, he handed me ten pounds for a cab ride home. I was stunned at his kindness, and at my stupidity for being so trusting. The pit bull's owner was never charged and we were left with a thousand pound vet bill. She took weeks to recover, but she did and became the happy, always smiling, quick-to-flop-onto-her-back-in-order-to-present-you-with-her-belly-for-a-pat dog who won hearts with her kind and patient temperament. She would let babies grab her ears, barely flinching, knowing that they would soon be the source of dropped cookies. When my kids were high-chair age she got porky, and I rarely had to mop. Carter used her for a pillow while he drank his bottles. Olivia began calling her "Bear." Arron was her master, while I was her keeper and slave. We all knew it. For every major event in Harley's life, it was me that was there. When she was hit by a car, it was me who drove her to the vet thinking she was dead in the back of the car and begging her to live. When Arron died and she mourned him by refusing to walk into the park, it was me who pulled her leash, or carried her. And now that she can't get up, it is me who picks her up when she barks, who cleans her when she has had another accident, and it will be me with her tomorrow, when the vet will come to our house. It took my mother-in-law coming to tell me objectively that it was time. It is time. She is miserable and I can't prolong it no longer. And while the relief will be palpable, the loss will be acute.

What Happens if YOU die?

I had an essay published yesterday in More.com, something anyone can do, so its kinda cool. It raises the issue that I am sure many single parents go through, particularly ones where one parent is not in the picture in any way, either through death or abandonment, where the kids become anxious that something is going to happen to their sole parent. Its an issue that I am often dealing with, so much so that I have had to get my son professional help for anxiety. It played into the issue I has having recently with regards to sleepovers. But maybe, its just something all kids go through. Its my perpetual question: Is this normal kid behavior, or is it grief-related?

The Question of Meds

I am finally beginning to admit to myself that this funk I am in is more than just a funk. I have known it, but assumed it would pass, as my funks usually do. I ride the trough for a while and let the wave lift me back up into the light. But for whatever reason I am still in the trough. I was about to end a phone call with my mom the other day, when she said "are you sure you're OK?" She knows my bottling habit and can quickly uncork it as she did with that one little innocent question. I knew that once the book was written and the hubub died down, I would likely have a period of feeling lost. So much of my soul went into writing it, it could only be expected. But its been a year and I am still in a post book partum depression. I can no longer deny it. My therapist began asking me questions when I raised it again with her yesterday: Is your sleep being interrupted? Yup. Usually between 2:30 and 4:30am. But I have always blamed the dog. Are you having trouble concentrating? Gosh, yes, ever since Arron died. Is that a symptom of depression? I thought it was just the grief. Appetite issues? Nope. That's been a pretty steady constant my whole life. Lack of excitement about stuff? Yup. I call it apathy. Despite lists of things I need to do, I find I don't do them. "I'm not in the mood right now for that" I think. Even when my book came out, I kept thinking "I should be way more excited about this than I am." I was in this odd state of inevitability over it. It was meant to happen, meant to get published. It just was. It was almost like it wasn't my accomplishment, but someone else's. My therapist asked, "When was the last time you took off just by yourself, without the kids? "Hmmm. Well? Does a bereavement conference in Ontario count?" "No, I mean, where you go and just take time for yourself." "Ah, right. Well I went to a writing conference in Santa Fe for 4 days. That was about 3 years ago." "Well, its time to do it again. A week this time. You need to take some time for yourself." Tears teetered on the edge of my lids as she said "I think its a pretty clear case of clinical depression. And after all you have been through, that would be perfectly natural." Of course. It would. To other people. But me? Clinically depressed? So meds. Meds! I have railed against them. I was given some kind of somethin-somethin right after Arron died, and doled them out to myself like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory eating one tiny piece of chocolate each night, so as to savor it. I held onto to those little pills and only allowed myself to take them on the really hard days. They lasted months and when they disappeared I didn't refill them. I don't know why Meds is like a dirty word to me. Is it that I fear what all the ads say? dry mouth, decrease in libido, addiction, headaches, heartburn, I don't know what else. Cancer? Complete slide into something I can't control anymore? Insanity? I now have an appointment in a couple of weeks with a kind of doctor who can actually prescribe a med. Can recommend. I have seen the incredible change they have made in my son, another mom-vow I broke. They changed his life, and in turn my life and Olivia's life. Its not perfect, but we notice when he hasn't had them. Will he take them for the rest of his life? Will they cause some other affliction? Am I copping out by using meds? But I am tired of wallowing away in this trough. My kids deserve to have a happy mom, something I don't think I have been for a very long time. Not really. Its time.

Bappy Earthday Mousie!

Well my darling girl. You are 14 today. I watch you in awe, amazed at your grace, beauty good humor (and sometimes bad humor), and intelligence. It is an incredible experience to watch you grow into a woman (I know you are cringing at my saying that), but its true. Every day, I thank my lucky stars that it is you who is my daughter, you have taught me so much, we have been through so much together. You are strong beyond reason sometimes, but I know you will always be that little girl who comes and curls herself into a little ball in my lap; who puts my hand on her back for a back rub, who hates the taste of medicine; who is the goofiest person I know. I am proud to be your mama.

The Magic of Vashon

Its funny how just when I was looking for some magic to come into my life, I get an email from the nephew of the famous author who once owned and wrote from, my house on Vashon Island. He'd seen the house on the rental site, and so made contact. He visited on Sunday morning and I took him on a tour, we exchanged pieces of writing, shared stories about the house and the endless serendipity that seems to be present there. He teaches classes on "The Artists Way" and when he left, I felt inspired. I think he might have as well. Vashon is a magical place in that way. Funny little signs that continue to show me the way. Photo courtesy of Daniel Mount.

10 Tips for dating a widowed mom/dad

Not that I ever wanted to become an expert in the world of dating widows, but I feel like I have now had enough dating experience to be able to impart a certain wisdom to those lucky enough to discover the joys of dating a widow/widower. We have been to hell and back and have great gifts to share if you are willing to venture down the road with us. I suspect many more dating tips will come to light in the comments of this post, as there is a great deal of wisdom to be found amongst my readers. 1. Don’t ask how our spouse died. You might not be ready for the answer. If we want to tell you, we will when the time is right. 2. Be interested in our kids. Bonus points if you ask to see pictures 3. Keep the sad puppy face short when you find out we’re widowed. Just say something like “I’m sorry” and then let us set the tone for what follows. 4. If you don’t think you will be able to handle the widowed/kid thing, then end it early. 5. If you do end it, don’t use our dead spouse as your excuse (ie. “I think you are still in love with your husband/wife”) 6. Allow us to talk about our husband/wife, and don’t feel threatened. He/she is dead after all. It’s no different than you talking about your ex. 7. Don’t get all sympathetic about our widowhood and use it as an excuse to hold hands on the first date. (caveat: A widower may like this) 8. Make us laugh. We will love you for it. We are tired of crying. 9. Be yourself and let us be ourselves. 10. Most of us know what a great marriage looks and feels like. If you are willing that is what we have to offer you.

The Widow Bomb

I had another date last week, where the moment he found out how I was widowed, he ran, never to be heard from again. I knew from all his phone calls before we had even met, that he had built a fantasy of me. How can one live up to that? But then, after the date, he told me he was going to Google me, since I didn't want to tell him how Arron had died on our first date, and suddenly the phone calls stopped. Could he not have just Googled me before we went on the date? It would have saved a lot of time. I like getting to the "real" email stage, where we are actually getting each other's real names. I did with this guy, assuming that he would do the inevitable search on my identity. I WANT a guy to Google me, so I don't have to ever drop the bomb on him. Not great first date conversation. I have experimented dropping the bomb (early on, before I figured out this rule), and I hate it. That look on their face. The slow dawning on them of how BIG the thing is, and its implications on him. Sometimes, if the guy is quick on his feet, we have a good conversation about it, and I leave impressed, but know that I won't ever hear from him again. But all in all, AWKWARD. I got very honest on my Match profile. I reveal the widow thing, the kids, etc. I don't drop the "how he died" bomb though. I want to meet someone who can at least get past the "easy" stuff. If he can't cut that, then there's no point. But right now, I seem to be going through an apathetic dating stage again. Had a nice weekend with my kids, a content-without-a-man weekend. Another single mom and I hauled a huge grill out of the car and down to the house, and drank wine grilling our own burgers. I let my son build a bonfire (and light it!) while I threw piles of brush to him to put on top. I got drunk with some girl-friends. I visited the older beach widows (my adopted grandmas), happy to sit with them reveling in their contentment. I have much to learn from them. Alas my latest Match.com emails languish. Just not in the mood for bombs.

Glympse

I was asked several months ago by an old high school friend, and ex-Microsoftie to join his new start-up, donning the hat I once donned for Audible.com. Sort of Web usability specialist/project manager type. Well, though I played a very small role, this start-up has launched to great fanfare. Glympse allows you to use your GPS-enabled phone to send a map of your whereabouts to anyone with an Internet connected phone or computer. The recipients see your real-time progress on a map, your speed, and even your destination. The really excellent thing about this is that you are in control of who gets to see you and for how long. Something that none of Glympse's competitors do, leaving their users vulnerable to potentially creepy situations. With Glympse, the map with your whereabouts expires and your location stops being transmitted once the time limit you set ends. Anyway, its been really crazy and fun and exciting working for these guys the last few weeks when everything ramped up really quickly. Its an amazingly talented team. Fast Company just published a great article. And I am now "famous" with this Wired article. If you have a Google G1 phone, give Glympse a try. More phones will be available soon.

Limbo

I was inspired/reminded today in a post by A Quest for T of what it feels like to be content to be single. I was also reminded in a post by Canadian Bald Guy what the angst of being in/almost in a romance feels like. And it occurs to me that both states have their pros and cons. Singledom has its calmness, its time to just be yourself, its contentment. But it also has its loneliness, its judgments, its worry. Romance gives you no time to yourself, sets you up for risk of pain, but offers the addiction of excitement, sleepless nights, physical satisfaction. I have been in limbo between these two states lately. Weaning myself off a crush, yet oddly content in my singledom. In my life, its way easier being single. I don't have to dash out on my kids to go on a date, or pretend I am talking to a "colleague" on the phone. I get a good night's sleep. All good stuff. On the recommendation of Dad's House I am reading Anatomy of the Spirit: The Seven Stages of Power and Healing by Carline Myss which has a lot to do with maintaining your "power," meaning the essence of who you are. Its an idea that is making sense to me right now, as I struggle with the big "what next" question, both in terms of relationships and career. Essentially the book talks about using spirituality to heal the body, something that I have written about before, and that prompted Dad's House to recommend the book. It reiterates again something I have known for a long time, the idea that you can't look to another person to make you happy. I get this. I am content with who I am and all that, but damn if loneliness doesn't keep smacking me in the ass. I would like to make peace with the loneliness issue. Some tips I am well versed with: 1. Get out there. Date, find ways to meet new people, etc. 2. Live in the moment. Take the time to enjoy what you have. 3. Think positively 4. Send your desires/needs/wants out into the universe and they will all come true But I still can't figure out what to do with those moments where I am sitting on the deck of my beautiful house looking out at the water and though I am appreciating the moment, content, happy but thinking how much fun it would be to share the moment with a partner. Could there be a way to have it all?

Life with a set of Vietnamese Instructions

I dragged my kids to the house on Vashon yesterday to take advantage of the nice weather and to put together some Adirondack chairs. I knew it would be a challenge, so I was ready. A friend wisely told me to bring a power drill and THANK GOD I did because as it turned out, Carter and I put the first chair together once, realized we had put it together backwards, and so had to take the whole thing apart and do it again. Those non-verbal Vietnamese instructions turned out to be woefully inadequate. Toward the end of that process I became aware that some of the holes allowed for the screws to be recessed and so another round of undoing ensued as we flipped various pieces around so that the screw heads wouldn't stick out and scrape our legs as we sat down in shorts. Then we got to the very last step where you screw the back to the frame and the whole thing was out by half an inch! As a result, the back of the chair is not attached to the base. And so we built the second one, thinking it was just a flaw with the first. it went a little faster this time, but we had the same result. I am sure I have done something wrong, but I went over and over the instructions and studied the chair closely and cannot for the life of me figure out what it could be. The only thing I can think of to do now is either somehow load two assembled chairs into my little Prius and bring them back to the store -or- figure out a way of making little shims to make up the gap. Doesn't it seem that life is often like this? There was one really cool thing that came out of the whole exercise which is that I learned that Carter is pretty killer with a power drill and very patient with an increasingly grouchy mama. I guess that's the life of a kid of a single mom...

A Mom's Guide to Dating and Sex

I had lunch today with a widower friend and we were talking about relationships and the pitfall of entering into a physical relationship before really getting to know someone well. There seems to be a common experience of getting into an intimate relationship too quickly and suddenly "waking up" and realizing the person we were with wasn't who or what we thought they were. Widows/widowers, I think are prone to jumping into deep intimacy, searching for the thing that they lost when their spouses died. I have certainly been guilty of doing this since Arron died, the latest experience being no exception. He was likely doing it too, having just come out of a divorce. We are all seeking a deep connection to someone, and I am learning how easily we are able to fool ourselves into thinking we have found what we are looking for. I picked up a book at the library called "The Ten Commandments of Dating" which kinda makes me laugh, because of course, me being me, it didn't occur to me that it was written from a Christian perspective. So, skimming over all the parts telling me that Christians should only marry Christians, I have been intrigued with two of the "commandments": You shall "take things slow" and "Save sex for later". Of course my mom has been telling me to not give away too much too soon for years, but she's, well my mom! Do we ever listen to our moms? My therapist implores me to just "be myself" and that if you play games, you will wind up in a relationship based not on something real, but on rules and games. The old "hard-to-get" adage is the game. She insists that by playing the game, you wind up in something that is inherently deceitful. Better to be who you are than to pretend to be someone you are not. I guess there must be some sort of happy medium. Like not jumping into bed with someone on the second date for instance. OK, so is the 4th date OK? Or is it better to wait 6 months which my friend is (jokingly?) determined to do. I guess in the end, you can only be who you are.

Full Glass of Milk Woman

I was spoiled yesterday. My daughter wrote a letter and called me "the full glass of milk woman." She hadn't even read my latest post. She thanked me for getting pregnant with her. My son made a picture, adding a photo of what he thought was a Canada Goose (highlighting my Canadian bird-ness), but got the picture wrong, so instead its an Ostridge, with huge yellow eyes and long narrow beak. Between them, I was laughing so hard I was crying. Doesn't get more perfect than that. And check out the breakfast-in-bed I got!

The Unbearable Burden of Optimism

Ok, I admit I was watching Gray's Anatomy last night. Yes, I am strangely addicted. Dates back to my early days of watching Emergency! Oh Gage! But I digress... Afterwards, Michael J. Fox: Adventures of an Incurable Optimist came on and so I watched. Those networks are so manipulative! It was a little hokey, but he reminded me of some important things. Things like optimism is contagious, and accelerated through community, and is most evident when people are doing what they love. Apparently optimism is inherited too. This I found sort of interesting because of course I started wondering if I had the optimism gene. I know for a fact that Arron did not. He was a "worst case scenario" sort of person, which in retrospect seemed a wise thing to be. Worst case type is something I know I am not. And I think I wrote an optimistic book, at least one that had a touch of hope in it. It seems optimism and hope are bedmates. I guess when I look at it that way, I am an optimist. Hopeful about things, sometimes even when I know better. But I can't help wondering if being an optimist makes you a happier person? Or just foolhardy? After almost 8 years of widowhood, I am beginning to think the latter. See that? The pessimist in me just made an appearance. I am not convinced that optimism or pessimism is quantifiable. I think we all have elements of both. I wish Michael had talked more about the other side of the coin, that dichotomy. I wish he had come off as being a tich more human, and less wiggly happy-shiny dude. I wanted to know more about how he got through those days when he must just curse his body for jiggling him right out of a chair, when he just wants to yell "STOP IT!" at his legs or hands, when he goes to bed so exhausted from all that extra movement. Is he still optimistic? Looking forward to a new day filled with more of the same? And more importantly, how do you phase back into optimism after having one of those moments, or years? But I do have to say, it was nice to have an optimistic message at 10pm on a Thursday night. Something inspirational. WAY better than Brothers and Sisters. Talk about a bunch of whiny pessimists! OK, I'm off to drink from that half-full glass. I'm kinda thirsty...

Snake Charming

I am fascinated by the effect emotions can have on one's body. My latest living-in-the-moment exploits, not unexpectedly left me with an ache in my left shoulder, neck, jaw and ear. That it is my left side, is no accident, as that is where my heart is. I am very familiar with this ache, as it was so profound after Arron died that I couldn't raise my arm high enough to open a door. A Craniosacral therapist named Maureen gave me a diagnoses to this syndrome: broken heart. Since then I have endured this ache on all sorts of occasions, mostly involving emotional upheaval of some kind, strife with my family or my kids being the usual culprit. Every time it catches me by surprise, that emotion is not just in the mind. Happily, today I had my monthly appointment with Kay, my Seattle Craniosacral therapist, who wrangled my snake (which is how I think of the long rope of offending muscle) almost into submission. She zeroed in on it with a surgeon's precision, and I could feel waves of what I can only describe as energy giving me shivers as she worked. I reveled in the power of touch to heal. I got up slightly dizzy, but infinitely lighter, snake subdued.

The call

I got "the call" yesterday from the Enjoying the Moment man. The I've-fallen-for-someone-else-but-I-really-like-you-and-still-want-to-be-friends call. I'm not surprised. The writing was on the wall from the get go. I was genuinely happy for him. I will root for romance, it seems, even if it spells my own heartache. The trouble was, that I fell. Just a bit, but there it was. I tried digging in my heels as I slid down that muddy slope, scraping my bum along the way, getting dirt in my fingernails. There was something in the way he looked at me, and kissed, and a familiarity I hadn't felt in a long time. As odd as it sounds I felt safe in his arms for the first time since Arron died. Perhaps I was fooling myself about the connection that I had with him, but it seemed real, and that is rare stuff indeed. I am relieved in a way, to be spared the wondering, the uncertainty. Perhaps I will be able to stop popping the Pepcid. I guess the good news is that I am awake. Alive in a bonked in the head kind of way. I just wonder how much self-inflicted scarring this poor little heart of mine can take.

Sleepover Phobic

What do I do with a 9-year old who won't go on a sleepover? Last weekend he was all excited to sleepover with his friend, but when we got there, he threw up. We thought it was a one shot deal, but it wasn't and he wound up being driven home with the stomach flu. My plans to go to a friend's birthday celebration were thwarted and I spent 24 hours with a bowl catching barf. The same family has invited him over this weekend, and yeah, I have to admit I was excited because O is away for the weekend too. I have never once had a night when both kids were at a sleepover. But now he doesn't want to go. He can't tell me why and insists that it is not because he is embarrassed about last weekend. Just doesn't feel like it. I know I can't force it, but this was supposed to be practice for a week-long camp he is going to in July. Getting used to being away from me, in a safe, easy, fun way. Do I force him to do this, knowing it will help him in the long run? Or do I let it slide, thus enabling the phobia? I suspect its a no-win no matter what. And that night off? It was wishful thinking.

Post Traumatic Growth

The Bereaved Families of Ontario conference in Waterloo was amazing, inspiring, validating, and I am so glad I made the trip. Its a difficult line to walk, as someone who is overcoming learning to incorporate grief into her life. Grief was not something I wanted to ever become an expert on, and yet here I am. I guess that's what happens when you write a book on grief! After I spoke the first time on Tuesday night, so many people came to me to have their books signed and from each one, I got a story of loss. A mother losing a child, a grandparent losing a grandchild, a mother losing her husband. Many had already read my book, and told me the parts that had them nodding, so happy to have someone validating their feelings. I found myself saying over and over again, "you are why I wrote the book." And they were. The next day, I was the first of several speakers, all talking about the toll grief takes on families. Children, grandparents, parents. But overall, the theme that kept coming up, either on purpose or unwittingly, had to do with the positives that come from grief. Marny Williams who put the conference together did a phenomenal job in linking the speakers in such a way that as a group, we all came together as a cohesive whole. My aha moment came at the end of the day when one of the speakers, Susan Cadell a professor of Social work at Wilfred Laurier, spoke about "Post Traumatic Growth." Its not a new notion, but it was the first time I have heard the term and it seemed to make so much sense. She talked about the 5 areas associated with it: Personal Strength Relationship to Others New Possibilities Spiritual Change Appreciation of Life And oddly, or really, not so oddly, all of the talks given throughout the day touched in some way on all of these areas. I had talked of my struggles with kids, my family, the physical debilitation of grief and subsequent spiritual awakening, and ended on how I found the silver lining in my renewed "appreciation of life." Carol Poduch, a mother who lost her 9 year old daughter in a tragic accident, and who has also written a book, Shared Moments, beautifully illustrated each of the areas of Post Traumatic Growth with stories of her daughter and the strength she found in her marriage, in handling her grief, and in her renewed vigor as a result of her loss. I think I am learning to embrace the plurality of my role. Widow, mother, griever, sympathizer, single mom, daughter, friend and seeing how really lucky I have been to be given such a massive wake up call, and I mean that in the best spiritual sense. In that room, I certainly didn't feel in any way special, just privileged to be with such an inspiring group of people who are all exceptional in the way they have embraced the gift of loss.

Flaky

Gosh, its hard writing a speech. Especially one about grief and loss. The subject is HUGE! But I am giving my speech in Waterloo, Ontario next Tuesday and I have to get it done. I have finally manged to arrange it into themes. Kids, Anger, Memorials, a 9/11 loss, etc. But I feel like I am barely scraping the surface. I do like my finale though, because I love talking about the silver lining of grief. The opportunity to grow and become someone you couldn't have possibly imagined before grief. My friend asked me yesterday how I had changed. I had to think a lot about that. I think its that I wake up every morning with no expectations about how the day will go. The old me would have had the day planned down to the last minute, and if it didn't go according to plan, I would get angry and frustrated. Now, my problem is being unable to prioritize, and being something I always vowed I wouldn't be -- flaky. Yes, I am flaky! I forget to answer emails, I miss orthodontist and doctors appointments, things I would never have done before. I think I have let go, and now the things that used to be important just aren't anymore. Now the important things are figuring out how to impart to others the silver lining of grief.

Magical Moments

I had dinner alone with my daughter last night. She has decided she needs to try new things, so she asked to go to a Thai restaurant. She ordered a yellow curry and I got a Pad Thai and we both enjoyed it all. What's not to love? We chatted about going to Thailand and widened our eyes at the massive ear rings, the size of golf balls in the ears of a man behind us. Afterwards we roamed Urban Outfitters and she showed me all the things she wants to buy (or more to the point, wants me to buy her). Rare are the moments I spend alone with her. Later, I took Harley outside, trying to get her to poop, so she wouldn't do it on the floor in the middle of the night, and met a jazz singer and teacher named Maggie, who fell in love with my dilapidated ball of yellow fur. Somehow, we got talking and we each revealed our losses. Hers was her fiance and brother all in one year. We talked about how lovely it was to be in "the zone" when working creatively, how hard it was sometimes to get there. For a moment, I felt a tinge of the serendipitous magic that I have been craving lately, just talking with her. I think she felt it too. This morning at 6:30, I lifted the dog off the floor, only to discover she was covered in poop, as I now was. I have already cleaned the white shag carpet and sprayed her down and I haven't even had my tea yet. Ah, the magic of life...

Dating with Kids

I seem to be struggling with the dating-with-kids thing. I am lucky that my almost 14 year old is willing to babysit my 9 year old while I am out for dinner. But last night she got freaked out and started texting me, and I had to come home. Yesterday, I was driving with my kids in the car and I saw him on the street. I yelled and he saw me, waving like a lunatic, so I pulled the car over before even really thinking about it. And then, there I was awkwardly having to introduce him to my kids, something I vowed I wouldn't do until it was clear that I wasn't competing with others, and there was something more serious between us, which might never come. So is it possible to be dating where all it amounts to is dinner once a week? The whole thing seems doomed. What do you do, when you want to date, invest time to see where something might lead, but don't have the luxury of an ex to pass your kids off on occasionally?

Be The Best You Can Be!

Here was a disturbing conversation I had with my 9 year old son last night: "Mama, when I get older, I think I'm going to join the Army." "Wha? Why on earth would you want to do that?" "Because it looks exciting. You get to give teddy bears to babies and rescue them and stuff." "They only show you that on TV so that you'll join up. The rest of the time you are either really bored or doing really dangerous things." "So?" "Soldiers die a lot" (trying not to sound worried) "So?" "They get blown up" "So? Daddy died." "Yea, but he didn't get blown up." "Well he sort of did." "OK, but he didn't choose to. (changing tacks here) When you are a soldier, you have to do really hard things in training, and you have to live in bunks with tons of other soldiers." "So? That sounds like fun." "You are not joining the army." (really putting my foot down here) "Why not?" "Because I said so. And because you need to go to college and get a good job" "Could I go to Military School?" "That's a sleepover school. I thought you didn't want to leave home?" "Well, when I'm older it will be OK." "I don't want you to join the army." "Great Grampa was in the army." "Yea, but that was different" "Why?" "It just was. (stalling for a reason here, one I can't find) Everyone joined the army then. It was the second World War." "So? If he did, why can't I?" "Because I said so. I don't want you to die." (finally being honest) "Why?" "Because it would make me really sad. We are so moving back to Canada!" "Why can't I join?" "Fine, if you want to join that much, then go for it. I don't care!" (reverse psychology anyone?) "Are you kidding? You are! You're kidding right?" "No. If you want to join, its your choice. But I don't think it would be a good choice. Its not one I agree with anyway." The reality of being a soldier and how a soldier's family must feel when a child declares this as his/her life choice has just hit me square between the eyes. It scares me to death.

Divorcing a Ghost

I had a dream last night that my wedding ring, which is a thick gold band that I wear on my left hand had been grotesquely mangled, as though someone had taken huge steel cutters to it. The gold was mangled and sharp. I don't have many dreams about Arron. At the beginning I used to dream about him, but I could never see his face. It was always hidden by a hat, or I was riding behind him on the back of a motorcycle. Lately when I do have dreams about Arron, I am angry at him because he has just told me that he is leaving me, and wants a divorce. I can't help be struck by the thought that my mind is helping me divorce my ghost husband. Deep down, it feels like something I need to do in order to truly get beyond to whatever might be next. Perhaps its what his ghost needs to get in order to untether himself from my worldly grip. It feels odd to wake up with that anguished, angry, heartsick feeling, something I imagine people go through when their spouse leaves them. But it also feels like good pain, that last scratch that removes the scab revealing the tender pink skin underneath. The scar is tender and fragile, but in no danger of bursting open. It tells me that I am ready to jump back into the fray and risk new scars.

Enjoying the Moment

I have been contemplating this notion of Living/Enjoying the Moment, as it seems to be pretty much a unified mantra we live by these days. But I'm starting to find some holes in this kind of bliss. The good news is that I have actually made it to a third date with someone whom I am very attracted to, possibly even with a tinge of smitten. I am wary saying this, knowing my penchant towards instant-smitten-ness. But, yum. I know, in these early days, I must “live in the moment” and enjoy it, right? But what about the other moments, when I am left wondering, hanging, wanting more? Do those moments count, or even counteract the amazing squishy, want-never-to-end moments? I know, I should be content with making a connection, feel the thrill, that jumpy feeling when we meet. But is it possible for him to feel those same things if he is seeing others, something he has been ever-so-honest about? Or is our intimacy feigned? Am I selling myself short? Am I selfish for wanting him all to myself? I ponder the idea of living in the moment vs. compromising what you really want out of a relationship. Somehow it feels easy to give up needs and desires in order to enjoy something in the short term. I wonder if this is what I am doing, or if by enjoying the moment, I am simply letting my needs and wants get fulfilled as they may. It seems in the past, living in the moment works for a while until a point where I wake up from the dream and realize that I want (and deserve) more. Is “living in the moment” a man’s excuse for getting his cake and eating it too? But I wonder, what are the consequences of living in the moment? Lately, there seem to be way too many people going off their rocker and shooting everyone in sight, even their own children. Were they just "living in the moment"? Is this bliss-gone-bad? Thankfully the consequences for my enjoying the moment are not so dire. Future heartache seems the most likely. But maybe, just maybe, by living in the moment, I am letting life take its natural course. Yes, I am likely to get hurt, but that risk has never stopped me. Nothing will hurt the way losing Arron did. Its also possible that the natural course may lead to something I haven't even imagined yet, something wonderful. Here's to enjoying the moment!

Tuesday's Children, Women of Strength

Back from New York, still trying to catch up. Funny how a few days away can muddle everything up. Doesn't help that I have Carter home for the week on Spring Break, using his sniffle to demand breakfast in bed. It was odd being back in Montclair, with its memories and Arron's ghost seeming to duck around corners wherever I looked. Carter and I went to look at our old house and bumped into the new owner and her two young children, so she invited us in. I was glad everything looked different, though amused that despite a great deal of work they have done on the house, the kitchen sink faucet still turns the wrong way, as it has ever since a left-handed Arron installed it that way. Carter was thrilled to see the tree house that his father built, and his old room. Afterwards we went to Carter's school and saw some of his old teachers who all remembered him. Later that afternoon he had a complete meltdown wondering why we ever left Montclair since all his friends were there. I had already been through a similar meltdown with Olivia in January when she returned from Montclair after a friend's Bat Mitzva. For a while I questioned my wisdom at moving. Perhaps I should have stayed, where the kids belonged, had friends, etc. Talking myself down, I knew that the kids loved coming back for visits where their old friends treat them like rock stars, where everything is new and never boring. For me though, it's nice being almost anonymous in Seattle, where 9/11 just doesn't seem to have the same meaning, where I am not forever known as a widow, where the kids are not known with a 9/11 prefix. Its the friends we miss, those people who know us so well because they have been through the war zone with us. I know the move was right, but to a lonely 9 year old in a house full of friends to skateboard and play video games with, Seattle must seem kind of gray and boring. On Friday night, I was once again catapulted into the limelight for the Tuesday's Children "Women of Strength" event, at the very swanky Yale Club in Manhattan. It was wonderful seeing my Tuesday's Children "family," though I missed having the time to properly catch up. My "C" name, ensured that I was the first person awarded. I was astonished to be handed a surprisingly heavy statue in chrome and glass, depicting a woman's form thrusting a large glass globe of the world above her. I almost had to laugh at the metaphor, it was so apt: a woman perpetually holding a beautiful crystal globe above her head. She seemed to represent the struggles of my own crazy life of raising two kids alone. I was also handed a very official looking "Citation" complete with gold seals and ribbons and signed by Robert T. King, Member of Congress. I was so taken aback. This organization which started me on the road to writing has given me so much. My hope is that through my words, their clear message of hope and strength gets passed on to others in need. Debra Morrison, my financial advisor (and videographer) captured me (and the table's centerpeice :)) in this video of my acceptance speech.

Woman of Strength?

I heard back from the New York Times, and they turned down my essay about that relationship of mine a few years back. Hiho. Can't say I'm surprised. Now the question is, do I rewrite or submit somewhere else? I really am not very good at this part. I have no idea where to try and resubmit it. Its almost more time consuming trying to find places to submit your writing than it is doing the actual writing itself. Went to Vashon on Thursday with a friend Derek Johnson who did some photographs of the place on Vashon. They turned out great and now I can post the house onto vacation rental sites. Its gonna be a lot of work, so we'll see how the summer goes. My book seems to be very well positioned in Australia. I am getting lots of emails from people who have read it. I was particularly moved by one that I got from a young woman who had read the book. She and her sister were orphaned by the bush fires. I have been so startled by some of what she has had to endure and the similarities to what I went through. The DNA testing, the not knowing when to have the funeral for her parents, the publicity. I can't tell you what it feels like to now be in a position to help someone else through something like that. I do still struggle with the identity piece, being the big expert on grief. I keep wondering if its holding me back in some way from moving on, whatever that means. Perhaps in helping someone else, I am moving on. I don't know. I just know that it is what I need to do. I hope even through cyberspace I can help a woman through the sudden loss of both her parents. I am headed to New York next week to receive a "Woman of Strength" award from Tuesday's Children, the 9/11 charity that I write about in the book. They helped me so much, and now to be honored, wow. At the end of April, I am headed to Waterloo, Ontario to be the keynote speaker (me! a keynote speaker! do miracles never cease?) for a bereavement conference. Crazy. I see that through all of this it is becoming more and more important to distill my message, in order to be really helpful. Something I didn't imagine would be so hard. Grief is so darned big! I hope I have the strength.

Porkpie Hat

Just when I had given up hope of ever finding myself attracted to anyone ever again, I found myself at a fundraiser last night. A super, uber cool one with a twenties theme, where almost all of the volunteers actually wore flapper dresses and aerialists spun from hoops in the ceiling and champagne was mixed with elderberry and lavender liquer. It was raising money for Vitamin Angels, a charity that provides vitamins to children in impoverished placed. And suddenly a handsome man with bushy sideburns and a pork-pie hat was standing beside me. We easily conversed, my posse of my sister and friend and me. They stood back and let us flirt and laugh. My wingwomen pulled chairs up to our table so he could sit with us, in hopes... We even danced and then, he was gone. No numbers exchanged, no lingering looks. Later, as we were leaving I caught up with him again. He had a girlfriend, he explained and hoped he hadn't misled. He hadn't. For me, the thrill was in being seen, and the relief that there still could be someone I wanted to be with. I wasn't broken. That door of possibility which lately has been so tightly secured, is showing just a glint of light through the keyhole...

Just Money

Like pretty much everyone, I have taken some hard knocks in my financial life and on Friday I had to make the dire decision to liquidate all of my equities (about half my portfolio). Of course the whole portfolio is down by about 50% since last September, so in monetary terms, this is a substantial hit, given that is the money my children and I live on. Having made this decision however, a weird calm came over me. Of course I was relieved that it at least felt as though I had staunched the bleeding, but it was more than that. I have always had an odd relationship with this money, the money I received as a result of Arron's death. I had to sign away my right to sue airlines, and building management companies and whomever else could be blamed for the grand mal seizure that was 9/11. When I signed that final document, I felt as though I had sold my soul to the devil. When the checks arrived by Fedex several months later, they made me cry, because I felt as though the money was some kind of hideous replacement for Arron. Those checks felt like something evil. I deposited the checks quickly and soon had invested the money which we have lived off ever since. I expected to be way more freaked out about losing so much of it. But like I said, I felt calm. The money carried an abstract quality, nothing more than a bunch of numbers on a page that grew or shrank with each monthly statement. Now it feels like I kind have the same amount as I used to have when compared to what everyone else has. We have all lost money, so the way I figure it, the value of the money has remained the same in relative terms. $100 dollars in September is worth $50 now. But I am probably just naive. There was also this feeling of contentment that came over me when I thought of selling the house, and perhaps even renting a cute little apartment, divested of stuff that I had to sell off on Craig's list. I imagined this simple life, where I had to make a lot of potatoes and lentil soup and where the kids and I would sit around and play Mexican Train on a weeknight. The thought actually made me happy. Ah, the idealism! But that's when I kind of stopped being scared and relaxed about the whole money deal. It is, after all, just money.

Facebook Ads

OK, I know that there isn't a huge market for grief books, though my book has been way better received in Canada than it has in the US. (A national bestseller even). I guess I shouldn't be surprised by the fact that everyone is sick to death of 9/11. God knows I am. But my book is more than that. Canadians got that. Americans couldn't seem to see past 9/11. Or maybe Canadians are more at ease with loss and grief and don't see it as quite as much a disease as Americans do. I don't know. I just know that my book needs a little boost, so I have been trying to figure out how to do that with almost no publisher support. I was pleased to discover Facebook Ads, and so thought I would try a little experiment. I figured I could cap the expense at $10.00 a day and see how it went. I created my ad, added the book cover linked it to my website, created a target market (30-65 female, in the US with interests in books, reading, dating, singles, parenting). I added my credit card number and voila, I was off, or so I thought. I got an email that my ad was approved. I went to the website, and already had 9 click throughs and over 12,000 impressions! (OK, not a great clickthrough rate, but 9 clicks is huge in my book). And then I got another email that my ad was disapproved. Wha? They claimed that my ad did not reflect my product, despite the book's image, the word book in the copy and the fact that it linked to my website. So, I figured I would change the copy a little, but alas, there is no way to do that on Facebook. So the ad is there in virtual limbo and short of deleting it and starting over again, it will remain that way. What a bad user experience! Boo Facebook. So both my ad and my book languish. Time to go check my Australian stats!

Barrel O Laughs

A few updates: 1. I have not killed the dog. She lumbers along and I follow picking up either her or her poop. 2. Still trying to figure out the new washer/dryer. I keep putting the duvet into the dryer, but can't seem to make it go for more than 54 minutes, so the thing won't get dry. Perhaps I should read the instructions 3. We seem to be lice free. I still do nit checks, but haven't found any for a while. Bedding is almost all clean (it has been almost two weeks!). See #2. 4. I am still slogging away with my grandfather's book. I am really struggling to figure out what the story is about, but I am determined to make it through. If anyone is up on their WWII RAF terms, drop me a line... 5. My friend Daniel wrote about my Cabin in his blog. Its a really beautiful post because he is a really beautiful writer (we took a memoir class together). I have just gotten a book to read up about renting it, cause I seem to be hemorrhaging cash at the moment, so if you are interested, let me know. 6. Still no word on my audiobook being up on Audible.com, but I will keep you posted. 7. Got told today by my financial advisor to sell everything. Trying not to panic and remain cool. All in all, still doing the single mother juggling-with-fire routine. On a tight rope. Blind. Barrel 'o Laughs.

The Happy Project

I've been completely enthralled with The Happiness Project, after hearing Gretchen Rubin on NPR. I suppose I too have been trying to figure out what makes us happy in an attempt to figure out why I have been feeling down lately. What jumped out at me were two things that research has shown make for happier lives: Challenges and Novelty. We like new things to happen in our lives, and we are happiest when we challenge ourselves. I related somehow. I seem to be a glutton for seeking new ideas, new ways of thinking about things (which is why I am so smitten by this site). Ideas are my chocolate. In a neat two-for-one deal, they both are novel and challenge me. We have all been almost brainwashed with the whole "secret" idea, where what we think is what we bring into our lives. And sure enough, the crap floating around in my brain seems to just fester more. I have plotted many ways of getting myself out of the vicious cycle: 1. Eating chocolate. Works for a minute or two. 2. Self induced orgasms. see #1. 3. Finding new ways to meet people. Have recently discovered meetup.com and actually sat in a coffee shop with real, live people and written (its a writing group). We even went out for lunch after. I was thrilled. 4. Buying a new washer/dryer (filled with frustration, though the chimes at the end of each cycle still make me smile) 5. Put dance music on the stereo (Sissor Sisters is the current fav) 6. Actually tried to break my face out of its perpetual frown and nearly cracked it with an early morning smile. OK, maybe it was too early. #3,5 and 6 were the only ones that really made a difference. And this makes sense when reading Gretchen's blog. Here she gives tips on what to do in a Happiness Emergency. Connection with others seems pretty important, as does acting happy. Apparently, I also need to clean out a few nagging closets. Come to think of it, I can think of several areas of my house that could use some drastic Virgo intervention. The problem is, I have a meetup.com meeting, where I will hopefully be writing about something, well, happy. Gotta run, the damn dryer is chirping again, and I know that duvet still isn't dry... OK, maybe I still have a long way to go on the happiness scale... Happy thoughts...happy thoughts...

The Laundry Song

A bout of lice in our house finally had me reassessing the apartment-sized stacked washer and dryer that fit about three pairs of jeans at a time. It choked on the duvet, coming to a stuttering halt several times, so that I would have to dunk my hands into the cold sudsy water to rearrange the load. So off to Home Depot I went where I met Harry, who so sweetly helped me when the regular appliance dude was off on lunch. When it became clear I might actually be buying something, Home Depot jumped and Harry was my savior. He steered me swiftly into the expensive LG (to be fair, this was already the one I was after, given all the great online reviews). It was on sale. We got on the computer where we were prompted to order the extra plug and dryer connection set, removal of the old set ($15 to move it downstairs so I could sell it on Craigslist sounded like the bargain of the century. I wanted to ask if they could move a few other things while they were at it), the pricey extended warranties which Harry gave me the warning eye about, not to bother. I wanted to hug him at that moment. He joked with Carter and dubbed him "King." He actually hugged me when I was done. If Harry hadn't mentioned a wife, I might have asked him out. Gotta love Home Depot! Two days later, the delivery arrived, but apparently, I hadn't ordered a stacking kit. Inexplicably, it wasn't an option on the handy "check-box" screen at Home Depot. I had to refuse the order, call Home Depot, re-do the order (to be fair, they didn't charge me the $30 for the stacking kit) and have it redelivered 2 days later (I might add that at this point, all lice-infested laundry has now been through the mini stackable over the course of about 100 loads, and the lice had been nit-picked into oblivion by this pernicious Virgo). Finally, the big day arrived. The installers grunted the old reliable down the stairs and hauled the two high efficiency front loaders up. And then the fun began. Turns out I only have one outlet (since old reliable was just one unit, and not two). I dashed downstairs to find an extension cord. Once the machines were in, I realized that I now had only about 2 square feet of space in which to maneuver and open the doors and put the now giant loads in. For some reason, the front loaders needs a ton more room in the back. But the kicker (and what they don't tell you about stacking these puppies) is that once the dryer is on top of the washer, the controls for it are about 6 feet in the air. I am lucky to be 5'10", so its not terrible for me, though opening the drawer to put water in for the steam dry option is done blind. If I want my kids to ever do their own laundry, I will have to be installing a step ladder. Given that this unit was designed by Koreans, I have to wonder what they do? Perhaps stacking it isn't an option in Korea. That said, right at this moment I have not only a duvet, but also a duvet cover and two pillow cases stuffed into the washer where my son sits and watches it spin. When its done, it tinkles this lovely little chimey song, which is, I suppose a Korean version of "your laundry is all done now, and we were happy to do it for you!" That laundry song makes it all worthwhile.

Death with Dignity

It might be ironic that today begins the new Death with Dignity act in the State of Washington, just now, when I am up to my eyeballs in dogginess. We have an old Golden named Harley. She is 15 now and I am usually awakened two or three times a night because she needs to be picked up off the floor. I spend the entire day doing the same thing. Often she can't control her poop and so I clean that up too. Arron and I got Harley in London, after rejecting a Jack Russell Terrier for being way too small (at 8 weeks it was smaller than a tiny kitten), and a Scottie dog, known for having crabby personalities. We took one look at Harley and we were lost. We got her and on one of the first days that we were able to walk her in the park after she finished all of her shots, she was brutally attacked by a pit bull (and I barely escaped). They never found the owner and we were left with a £1000 vet bill. She was a mess, but eventually recovered. We were the typical young couple with a puppy and six months later we were pregnant. Harley stood guard over both our kids as they rolled about on the floor grabbing clumps of fur in their tiny fists. She didn't flinch. Carter used to use her as a pillow while he drank from his bottle. When Arron died, she mourned her beloved Master, refusing to go for walks in the park without him. Since then she and I have lived in guarded harmony. I don't think she has ever fully trusted me. She likes men. Can't say I blame her. I have been a pretty crabby Mistress. And now she can't get up off the floor and poops on the rugs. And I am tired. I don't know how to tell when it will be "that time." She still eats her food, still goes for very slow walks around the block with me. But is she happy? or miserable? Is it better to prolong her life so I can avoid what is sure to be hell-blown grief all over again? And what of the kid's grief? Twice now she has bared her teeth at me when I have gone to pick her up. It scared me. She has never done anything like that before (unless devouring a bone). I worry she might do it to the kids. Is it time?

Red Pop

Well, I am slogging through An Ill Wind, with its convoluted WWII references that I can no longer ask my grandfather about. There are some interesting bits, mostly about a British RAF post in the middle of nowhere, North Africa. There are many words I will need to research: Hurricanes (which I gather is a type of plane), pinnace, topis, trots (some type of body of water), Mammy palaver, Nissen, kites to name a few. Some of the flashbacks take place somewhere in England, but it is not clear where. I have also come to realize that it is not a memoir, but rather a fictional work, apparently about a young British Commanding Officer named Amos Pritchard, who is not quite of the right class, but has managed to become a Commanding Officer despite this. Its an interesting look into the working mind of my grandfather who was very much a recluse, the type of man who would retire to his library whenever the grandchildren came for a visit. My memories of him were usually around the dining room table during lunch while he engaged the family in what I thought were thoroughly boring political conversations. Us kids usually escaped to the TV room, or the sewing room, my grandmother's sanctuaries, full of treasures and crafts. But I do remember that whenever we came, my grandfather always made sure the house was stocked with my favorite "red pop" (cream soda), which I think was his excuse to indulge as well. Until now, red pop was our common link. I met today with the head of the MFA, Creative Writing program at the University of Washington. The thought of obtaining my Masters is finally taking shape, though I can't help wondering if I am doing this thing backwards. I already have published a book after all. But I feel I have a lot still to learn in the realm of writing, and I long for the community that a two-year, on-site program would give me. Writing is lonely business and its difficult sometimes to keep myself challenged. I long for more people in my life, new friends, a community, something that in these gray winter days I feel myself missing. I find when you are alone, and writing in a vacuum, it is easy to lose perspective, and those little gremlin voices come out in those quiet moments to offer their doubts. There are little seeds of ideas rattling around inside my brain, hopefully germinating and growing, but I still find it is too soon to fully express them. That said, I did finally finish the essay, and it was reviewed by my friend Lindsay Ahl (a fellow author), who advised that I send it out. So I did. It is now in the hands of Daniel Jones of the Modern Love column in the New York Times. Its a long shot, but a good starting point. I wonder if, despite my grandfather reclusivness, he was lonely too. I marvel at the extent of his book, all based on experiences that happened 40 years before he actually sat down to write (which I am guessing to be sometime in the mid 80s). I wonder how long he ruminated with his own seedlings of ideas. If he had others reading his work. There is so much now I wish I could ask him. I wonder if he were alive today, whether he might have extended me an invitation to the inner sanctum of his library. As it turns out, we shared more in common than just a love of red pop.

An Ill Wind

I spoke to my father on Valentine's Day and he broached the idea with me, of pulling out a manuscript written by my paternal grandfather about his experiences in the war. It seems I come by memoir honestly. Although I have had a copy for years, I have never actually managed to get through it. Perhaps it has to do with my minimal interest in WWII, but suddenly, now that I am a writer, my dad's idea seems obvious. I was dragging my heels a bit, still not picking it up, but then came upon the post of AnnieGirl1138 with a video from The Ghost and Mrs. Muir in which Mrs. Muir writes the book as told by a ghost. So barring any more obvious bonks to the head of what needs to be done here, I am off to read An Ill Wind, by Edwin Albert Carter. I'll keep you posted.

Happy Cupid Day

I have spent the day today with my son, starting with him making fried eggs on toast for me in bed, and later on a 5 mile bike ride around a park. Its actually a sunny day in Seattle today. A perfect day. This idea of intuition (as I mused upon in my last post) seems to be in other realms of the blogisphere. Perhaps its cupid's influence. This morning, one of the blogs I follow Our Best Version posted about it. How do you know when you are really in love? Of course the answer is just that you know. Intuition. I have a very good male friend whom I adore very much, but with whom I am not in love. When we initially met four years ago, it felt like love. We were both so taken off guard by our connection, but gradually it turned to friendship as these things sometimes do. But every year or so, the friendship becomes something more, at least for him. We get closer, he comes into our lives more and I can't deny that it is nice. I have someone to talk to, the kids adore him, we laugh together and have deep talks. As a single mother, life is 1000x easier when there is another person in the equation. For a while we prance along in this friendship mode, until I begin to realize that for him its something much more. But I am not in love with him. I had to tell him recently that I am not “the one” for him. He deserves to be with someone who loves him. Of course he is sad and insists that I am dwelling in my loss, that I won't ever allow anyone to meet the impossible standard of my dead husband. Sometimes I wonder if that is true. Arron has very large shoes to fill, and frankly, I am not willing to compromise. Arron and I had a good fit, something I don't quite have with my friend. He reads it as not being as good as Arron, but it is really about the fit. I deserve to be loved and to love as I once did. I know it won't be exactly the same, but I think being in love is a pretty basic foundation. But perhaps my friend is right and as a result of my unwillingness to compromise on this, I cannot possibly find the love that I seek. To be sure, dating lately has been abysmal. But I can't help resenting people who tell me that I am not over Arron or that I am stuck in my loss. I am convinced that if the right person walked into my life, I would be fully present. Arron would find a tidy place in our mutual lives. The difficulty for me in a new relationship, would be to take things slow enough, really get to know the person long enough to get past infatuation and lust, and to let intuition to properly kick in so that I could recognize real love. I also talked with my sister who told me about a divorced friend of hers who insists that she cannot possibly date with children. This made more sense that the stuck-in-my-grief theory. Time is so limited. My son had a massive blowout the other night trying to convince me that Arron wasn't really dead, just lost. He is desperate to have his daddy back. And he was only 2 when Arron died and has no memory of him. He is horrified by the idea of my dating, I suspect because if I date, then the possibly of daddy coming back will be extinguished. So yea, dating with grieving kids is hairy. My essay about another man I dated a few years ago, continues to languish, because I haven't figured out the point of the essay. Holding out for real love, stuck in grief, dating with kids, and ignoring intuition are all possible conclusions. With this other guy I convinced myself that he was something he was not. I ignored my intuition in lieu of my loneliness, and the whole thing ended badly. Two years later I am still recovering, but determined not to ignore my intuition again. It has lost me a friend (for now anyway), but it is not something I will compromise again. My intuition tells me that for now, breakfast in bed and a bike ride around the park are what comprise the perfect Cupid Day.

The Pretend World of Married-ness

I am struggling with an essay I am writing about someone I dated about two years ago. Something about this relationship broke me, and I have been apathetic ever since about finding anyone new. It doesn't stop me from browsing Match, or even going on the odd date, but I seem to lack the enthusiasm I once had, and as a result one date has yet to turn into two. I am struggling, in this essay to discover the reason for my shut down. Was it that I still missed my husband, and this guy didn't measure up? That doesn't seem to quite ring true. At the time, I felt sure that I was ready. Now, I feel I would be if the right person came along. Then I worried that loneliness had skewed my intuition about people. I seem to be in this pattern of jumping into relationships, thinking I know the person and falling for them, even going so far as to repeat gestures and feelings that I had once had with my husband. I seemed to be trying to recreate something that wasn't there. In each relationship I have had since my husband died, I have woken up to the real person I was dating and realized I hadn't actually fallen in love with them, but had just tried to recapture the feelings that I once knew with Arron. And now I don't trust myself at all to make a good decision about anybody. Even if I were to somehow meet someone, I worry that I would slip into this pretend world of married-ness, without doing any of the work required to get to there. I wish I could find a conclusion to my essay that didn't sound trite or insincere. I wish I could trust my intuition again, maybe even get excited about someone, at least enough to make it to that second date.

Quitting the dream

I am trying to patient with the fact that my son wants to quit swimming. Never mind that he seemed to like it, actually made some friends in the neighborhood, that the zen of it seemed to calm him, that he wanted to emulate Michael Phelps. Swimming is hard. Too hard. Michael Phelps he is not. But I wonder, at what point do you let a kid quit? Do you put up with tears before every practice? Force them to do something they clearly do not want to do? I wonder what Michael's mom did? Surely Michael wanted to quit once in a while. Was she patient, letting him make up his own mind, or did she force him, enduring the tears. I don't think I have the heart to endure tears. I guess I'm gonna let him quit. But it makes me sad. Kind of feels like the death of a dream, something that seems too soon for a 9 year old.

The Obama Connection

I had just read an article in Oprah magazine about how to improve your luck through the simple act of connecting with people you meet on a daily basis -- striking up conversations in grocery store lines, saying hello in the dry cleaners and that sort of thing. There I was, sitting at the dentist (reading People magazine and making no effort to meet anyone - I have no sense of Oprah-spirit!), waiting for my kids to have their ($600!) cleanings when a woman who kept going in and coming out of the dental offices, sat opposite me. At the same time another woman walked in and sat between us. The first woman, who I later learned was named Caroline commented on the beautiful sunny day and the conversation quickly turned to Obama as his inauguration was to be the following day (yesterday). There was electricity in the air. Perhaps the article about connections was right. The inauguration has unleashed magic on us all it seems, and the article about connections seemed so apt at that moment. Improving our chances in life through simply being open to opportunities. At one point I said, "I keep wondering if this was how it felt when Kennedy was elected. I am too young to remember," and Caroline said, "I think there was one big difference. The economy was good then." I must have looked at her askance because she continued. "When economies are bad, it has this amazing effect of bringing people together more. People bond over the bad news, eat at home more often, band together to help each other out and community becomes much more important. When Kennedy was elected, things were good, so there was less of this sense of community." Damn, there it was again. Community. Working together. Making connections. Given that I had just spent the last week sequestered inside a closet recording my book (now done, yea!), perhaps this was resonating with me. I am very much aware of my own isolation. I like to think I am not isolating myself on purpose, but I do wonder if it might just be a manifestation of old grief or part of a mild depression. I try to get out, I really do. But back to Obama. We talked a little more, and the other woman, wiped away tears talking about how wonderful having Obama finally in place was going to be. I had to swallow back my own. Caroline, who I should probably mention was African American was smiling, but tearless. She had seen it all. It did make me wonder though. Why were the white chicks wiping away the tears? Happy that Bush was gone? Happy that America actually had it in them to elect an African American president? A decent guy? A smart guy? Guilty that we had to call him an African American president? Hopeful that huge change was upon us? At one point, I found myself slipping, by alluding to the fact that now that Obama was president, maybe racism in America could take a back seat for a while. Anything seems possible with Obama. Caroline was quick to correct me. "Racism still exists of course." Of course. Right. In my mind it doesn't. But I am idealistic, and blind. Deep down I fear being racist, something that seems to have so many shades of gray these days. So maybe that is why we were crying: feeling like we had taken such a huge step towards the elimination of racism, cracking open our community, quadrupling our chances at making that one magical, lucky connection, that will change our life forever. Or else it was because we know that although one man can go a long way towards changing entire outlooks (MLK has to appear in here somewhere), we still have a long road. But then I remembered that Caroline didn't tear up. She just kept shaking her head and saying "I never imagined I would live to see this day. I had hoped that my 14 grandchildren might get to, but never me." That's when the tear I was holding back slipped, and landed on my lap. Connection made.

Hands up, baby

I have been recording the audio version of my book this week, for Audible.com, the company I used to work for. I never would have imagined how grueling it is to record an entire audio book. I am sequestered each day for 5 hours in a tiny, airless closet, sipping mint tea with honey in an attempt to keep the frog in my throat at bay. I have to read and try not to let it sound like I am reading. I have to get the tone and intonation right, project, stop when my stomach gurgles or when a truck passes outside or a plane flies overhead. I have to remember to stop before the last sentence on each page, so I can turn the page between sentences. I have even found myself singing in the book. Twice. And let me be very clear: I don't sing. Today I sang the Club Med theme song and Silent Night. The amazing thing is that it will take about 30 hours to record a book that will wind up being 10 hours long. It will then require another 30 hours of editing. An amazing process for something I really hadn't thought much about before. Hopefully it won't put anyone to sleep, and no one will laugh at my singing. Hands up, baby, hands up...

The Zen of Dick Clark

There were two parties I was invited to on New Year's, but I spent it sick in bed, head so jammed that I couldn't even think. I turned off Dick Clark at 11:55 because it seemed too depressing to be ringing in the year with his scary, slurred (stroke-induced?) "Happy New Year!" And yet, he was real. He didn't care what millions of people watching were going to think. His frailty wasn't going to keep him from what he loved. Perhaps that should be this year's theme. 2009, the year that adds up to the magic eleven. Eleven follows me everywhere. According to the Penguin Dictionary of Symbols (my favorite reference book) eleven represents the conflict between good and evil, Heaven and Earth. Eleven is the sign of excess, be it in whatever category you like. Promiscuity, violence, biased judgment. According to the book, the excess "may either mark the beginnings of a renewal or the collapse and breakdown of the number 10 (which symbolizes a complete cycle), a fault in the universe." This seems to be a theme that keeps cropping up in the broken ankles that abound. It seems our excesses of past are about to result in a new cycle. I guess Dick Clark represents this perfectly: He has in one broadcast, ushered out the old slickness, the perfect hair, the perfect voice and shown us his humanity, and bravery in the face of what I can only guess must have been the most difficult of lessons for 'ol Dick: humility. I have to give him credit - he didn't care what people thought, his passion outweighed his fear of failure or ridicule. If we could all be so brave. I wished I had stayed up those extra five minutes to hear him out.

Happy Birthday Arron

You would have been 47 today. I saw a little bird outside my window this morning flitting around in the deep snow that is blanketing Seattle today and thought of you. I know you would have been dragging Carter and Olivia out of bed this morning to go and play in it with you, building snowmen, sled ramps, sliding down the steep streets hooting your head off. You would smack them both in the bum with snowballs and laugh when they nailed you back. Jill told me about the monarch butterfly that Caelin found out of nowhere and put on the Christmas tree. That was a nice touch. I love how you find these little ways of reminding us of you. I probably should be doing something more to mark the day, but you know as well as I do that you are not forgotten. You were always content to downplay the birthdays anyway (probably so you didn't have to buy presents!) A Carvel ice cream cake doesn't make you any more alive, even to the kids whose memory of you is mini mouse pancakes and farts. Instead I keep you alive for them in the little stories I tell of you. How I stepped on your foot two seconds after you told me not to when you were showing me that cool spider even though you had 10 stitches in your foot from stepping on glass at the bottom of the lake, or how you always took a picture of yourself with your favorite haircut to Supercuts so they would get it right. Both Carter and Olivia now follow suit. I thought of you yesterday as I was earning some serious mommy points with Olivia by taking her downtown through the deep snow (did you laugh at the chains on my Prius?) so the fancy salon could fix the bad haircut she had received the day before. You had one of those once and wore a hat for a month. Olivia cried and so I drove through the blizzard and they fixed her hair and I bought her a crepe and there you were. Crepes with lemon, driving like a maniac through the snow, laughing all the way. Happy Birthday Arron. You remind us of you every day in your little ways. Love, Lemonbird

The Entropy of Memory

Funny isn't it, that when you put some idea, some question into the universe, as long as you're listening, you always get an answer. The answer to my question about what to do for Arron's birthday just arrived in the form of an email from a fellow widow who serves on the Program Committee of the Seattle Healing Center with me. She was telling us about how she regretted that she hadn't attended the ceremony where her husband's ashes were spread on San Fransisco Bay twenty years before. We all understood that kind of regret and encouraged her to create her own ceremony, that the time elapsed didn't matter, that the ashes themselves didn't matter. She took us to heart and did just that. She has just sent a piece that she wrote about the ceremony. She sat around a beach with tiki candles burning, telling stories about her husband with his sisters. The ashes were not important, remembering her husband was. I don't need a Carvel cake to remember Arron. Or a body, or ashes. I just need a story or two. Perhaps I will elicit stories of Arron from his friends this year for his birthday. For his kids. I will put them together and we can all remember him. His commercial dancing, the nickname for his hammer (Basil), the Mini Mouse pancakes, his favorite word, entropy. en·tro·py n 1. a measure of the disorder that exists in a system 2. a measure of the energy in a system or process that is unavailable to do work. 3. a measure of the random errors (noise) occurring in the transmission of signals, and from this a measure of the efficiency of transmission systems I am sure there is some level of entropy that is inherent in memory. The stories will not be perfectly accurate. I think he would appreciate that.

Broken for you

Is anyone else spinning like a top right now, or is it just me? December always seems to creep up on me, and suddenly I am so overwhelmed with the gift buying, the parties, the teacher's gifts that I become quite, apathetic about all of it. I thought I had made it easier on myself this year by suggesting a "Goodwill" Christmas, where we buy each other silly sweaters from Goodwill. But already my dad has called and asked what the kids want. And the Goodwill sweaters don't seem as funny as I thought they would be. Arron's birthday is on the 22nd, and once again I am confronted with the annual question -- how to celebrate? How to mark the day in a simple, elegant, meaningful way? I still haven't found it even after 7 years. I used to get a Carvel Ice Cream cake, but they don't even have Carvel in WA. It just used to get thrown away anyways. The birdbath is in dire need of repair. Tiles are falling off and need to be re-glued. On top of everything else. It will be a big job, but its starting to make me sad, so I should probably address it. Maybe in an odd way, it will make me feel better, allow me to reconnect to Arron again. I recently read a great book called Broken for You by Stephanie Kallos about a woman who learns to mosaic tile using the fragments of porcelain that has been stolen from Nazi Jews. There is so much more to this book than that, and I really couldn't put it down, but the idea that you could make something new and beautiful from something broken really struck me. Oddly, I never explored that idea in my own article about mosaics. It made so much sense. I am looking forward to attending Stephanie's reading this week for her new book Sing them Home. Can't wait! Despite all my moaning, I am never too busy for a book reading. Christmas shopping will have to wait...

Spinning with Kudos

Its been a while since I have posted. Somehow life keeps going too fast. Beginning today with my very first blog review at Crash Course Widow, there will be a series of reviews of my book. You can see the list at TLC Book Tours. They will be running through the end of December. I am looking forward to these reviews as they will be written by people who are either widows, single mothers or by people who simply enjoy reading which in my mind will make them a little more real than the journalistic type of reviews that I have received so far. My first review has proved to be just that -- honest and straightforward, not gushing, but appreciative. For me, the reward of writing the book is in how it resonates with others, and in how it may help them through a tiny piece of their grief, no matter how small. This is what makes the "blog tour" so meaningful for me. I have also received a couple of other kudos in the past couple of weeks. Alchemy of Loss has been "longlisted" for the BC National Award for Canadian Non-Fiction, the biggest non-fiction literary prize in Canada. The shortlist will be announced this month. It feels a little like the Oscars and I can't resist the temptation to utter the cliché "I am just thrilled to be nominated," although that is truly my sentiment. As if that wasn't enough, yesterday Alchemy was listed in the Globe and Mail under the Best 100 of 2008. My head is spinning.

Canaries on crutches

My sprained ankle, although more or less healed now has taken on new importance. A couple of weeks after I did my ankle, my friend Michael sprained his. Then, on election day, I flew to New Jersey and attended an Obama party with some old neighbours. That night, I heard from my kids that my mother had fallen and broken her ankle. I thought that was a strange coincidence until the next day, when I heard from Janet, with whom I had set up an appointment, that she had fallen on Election night and had (you guessed it), broken her ankle. I was on my way to a lunch with Tuesday's Children when I got the call from Janet, so at lunch I recounted the story of the ankles. Julia, my Creative Insights teacher told me with amazement she had just dropped off her daughter in the city, because she had a broken ankle! Now it was just getting weird. And then Julia said something that makes so much sense, it just has to be true. She said that a psychic had told her that a sprained or broken ankle represented a break in old karma and the beginning of new karma. The fact that so many ankles have been sprained or broken during this election seems telling. A break with the old, in with the new. A break is painful, no doubt, but it reminds you of your vulnerability, how to take care of yourself, how to ask for help, reminds you to appreciate your mobility, and to empathize with others' immobility (spiritual or otherwise). These all seem like good lessons. My mother is having to conquer her fear of crutches, and become stronger in order to use them properly. As she scuttles around on the floor in the meantime, she is getting a whole new perspective on the world. When I told her the relationship of ankles and karma, she laughed. "I was feeling so sorry for myself," she said. "But now I feel like a canary in a coal mine. As though its the sensitive souls who can detect such karmic change (and who have thus sprained or broken their ankles). Our world is in upheaval, and we must learn to see things with a new perspective. Finances, politics, war, health. But with change always comes growth, and that is something I always welcome with open arms.

Bubble Parenting

I'm not sure what happened at Olivia's "learning team meeting" last week, but after her wonderfully written, funny narrative and with both me and her adviser praising her efforts, something took a nosedive. Olivia was talking about how she needs to crumple paper in order to stay focused and the adviser remarked that perhaps Olivia was hiding some of her true feelings, trying to protect herself with her humour and other distractions and the next thing I knew, both Olivia and I were crying. In front of the adviser. Its been hard to give each of the kids individual attention, and given that Carter is who he is, and that Olivia is at the age when she is off with her friends a lot, she is the one feeling the most deprived. I simply spend more time with Carter, which works in a vicious cycle, with Olivia thinking I don't want to spend time with her, so she spends more time with friends to escape. She also lashes out at Carter which adds to his feelings of insecurity and I am left in no-win hell. I suppose its a common thing, even amongst complete families, but when you are on your own, you have no one to talk you down. Parenting in a bubble. A few bouts of what I hope were cleansing tears and some discussion have gotten us past the learning team disaster, for now. I like to think its gotten a little better. Both kids are the best of friends tonight, playing like old times. But I know better. These issues are still out there. Looming.

Worms in your Applesauce

I just finished Sandra Tsing Loh's Mother on Fire, and was entirely amused. She has a rapid-fire way of writing that makes you feel as though you are absorbing every synapse of her mind. There were many moments that made me laugh out loud, and I am not much of a laugh out louder. It's apropos for my life at the moment, as I am looking at schools for both of my kids next year. Olivia will be entering high school. It seems so impossible. As her private middle school concludes in 8th grade, we can select from what is reputed to be a great local public high school or continue with a new private school. Loh, in her book goes through all the twists and turns in making the public vs private decision, albeit, hers was for kindergarten. There are various considerations: school size, location, diversity, testing, college prep, athletics. I realize that this decision, will be one of the first school decisions that I will not be making alone. Olivia herself, now blossoming with confidence, will have a big say. And I am fine with that. I think my job will be to monitor the decision, to make sure it continues, over time to be the right one. I am all for kids having a say in their own lives. I love that Sandra Tsing Loh, has given me permission to feel OK about public school, not that I ever felt bad about it. Arron was determined that his kids would go to public school, so I have kind of run against him since moving to Seattle. 3 years ago, private seemed the only way to go, what with the only really good public schools in Seattle seemingly impossible to gain acceptance to, even if you lived in the area. The Seattle public schools are a patchwork of great and terrible. Loh ultimately came to the conclusion that public school was "good enough." I wonder when we lost that "good enough" attitude. A friend, the other night blamed the "yuppies" in the 80s. But who knows. Life is different now, and I think we have all woken up in the past few months to realize what a sham "having a great job and making lots of money" has turned out to be. We spend so much time trying to get our kids to be uber kids, that something has gotten lost. Kids should be learning independence, knowing disappointment, competition, all those things that in my experience thus far, private schools seem determined to shield my kids from. It is such a loss, and not conducive to living real life. My kids already know real life, and so I think they see through the fakery. I am the type of parent that believes that germs are a good thing, that (as my grandmother would point out every time she placed her homemade applesauce in front of us), a little worm in your applesauce is a good thing. My gut keeps telling me that public school is fine, not the pit of guns and drugs and sex, as the media would have us believe, or a place where Olivia will become lost in the miasma of academia, where she might struggle to keep up, or be allowed to slack off. If she goes on the public school tour, and likes it, and isn't placed on the waiting list, then I am all for it. Arron's values will remain upheld. That what-was-good-enough-for-him-will-be-good-enough-for-his-kids... His was the hard knock school of life that suited him well. Those hard knocks are what make us who we are.

After Happily Ever After

I would like to write another book, but I am having a problem finding a topic. At my bravest, I would write about finding love after loss and all its perils. It would mean baring more than just my soul (and I am not sure how naked on the page I really want to be), and I worry that much about love and dating has already been told by others. I guess I question my unique experience. I question the universality of my experience. Finding love again has been fraught with confusion, missteps, poor decisions and no real happy endings. Perhaps that is the story.Having written already about the bright side of loss and grief, I wonder if I am prepared to delve into the netherworld of dating. And how to protect the privacy of those who have dared to love me? My second idea is to write a sequel to my first book. The move to Seattle, writing the book, etc. In trying to figure out this sequel for myself I keep staggering into the mental block of whether or not this story is compelling enough to sell. Perhaps only my tragedy was. Now that I have been plopped back into a routine daily life, I wonder what it is I have to offer to the world. It seems possible that the highs and lows of tragedy are in themselves addicting. No one wants to hear the story after “happily ever after”... Hiho.

Grief wisdom, from a 7 year perspective

I received an email the other day from a widow who is in a support group of other widows, all fairly recent. She asked me what words of wisdom I could give her and her group, as someone who is 7 years out, and thus not "freshly" grieving. I thought my reply might help others as well [note: my response has been altered a little to make sense here]: Probably, the toughest lesson is that grief is still very present, even 7 years on. Its not the cry-everyday-in-the car kind of grief, but something with a subtle sheen. The highs of life aren't quite as high and the lows are still there. I think the trick, and something I am constantly battling, is trying to enjoy those little moments of accomplishment. Really taking the time to pat yourself on the back when things go right and not beat yourself up too badly when they don't. I think its also important to ride the lows. Realize when you are in them, observe how you feel, be curious about the low and really try hard to figure out where its coming from and what its about. I think I used to fear the lows, but now I just ride them, knowing they won't last. Nothing ever seems to stay the same for long. I am learning to enjoy the small pleasures in life. My joys now are in getting emails from people who my book has helped, knowing it has comforted someone, or being inspired by someone I meet randomly, like on a plane. I love seeing my daughter kick a ball or my son laugh. There is a subtly to life now. I don't get quite as excited about things the way I used to, but I also notice many things that I never noticed before. I know how hard all those decisions are that you now have to make on your own. I found I did best with those when I followed my gut (some would say heart). It made no sense that I should move to Seattle, (rather than Toronto where my family still lives), but it felt right. It all fell into place easily. Its hard telling people what "feeling your gut" actually feels like, but it has to do with feeling happy about a decision vs. feeling anxious about it. Go with the happy feeling every time and you will be amazed that all those decisions will turn out to be good ones. I also am a huge proponent of taking care of your body. Eating right, getting enough sleep and exercise and for me, getting body work once a month. There is something about the power of touch in the healing process that is unprecedented. Vitally important. A community of support is also a huge asset. Just being able to continue to talk about your grief and loss, with people who don't care how far along you are or think that you should be over it, is very beneficial. Overall, I have to say, I am far more self aware now than I ever was before Arron died. I wonder now, if I was even awake then. I truly like the person I am now, but also accept that with that realization comes a certain amount of survivor guilt. (eg, Arron had to die for me to be this person). I know that guilt is a useless emotion and that Arron would be proud of me now, but that little thought nags me. The good news is that with each new gut decision, that somehow turned out to be the right thing to do, the guilt diminishes and is replaced with pride. In the end, grief just becomes a part of who you are. It gives a person depth, understanding, compassion, empathy, vision, and a whole lot more. All qualities I wouldn't give up for the world.

Sprained Ankles and Silver Linings

I was in the garden this morning picking the last of the tomatoes and misjudged a step and twisted my ankle. Its a strange thing to be sitting on the step, covered in mashed tomatoes thanking my lucky stars that it was nothing more serious. When you are a single mother, suddenly, a sprained ankle takes on a whole new meaning. I can sit here for a little while with ice on it, take lots of ibuprofin and hope it feels better. But I still have to take my son to the orthodontist this afternoon. Of course as a single mother, you can't help thinking, what if it had been more serious? What if I had been knocked unconscious. Would anyone even know? I thought of that on Monday when I was in Vancouver talking to a group of caregivers. They each had a loved one, a husband, a wife, a son, a daughter with ALS or Lou Gehrig's disease. Many of the victims were surprisingly young. 39, 40, 42. Younger than me. I spoke to one mother whose daughter was afflicted leaving her to deal with her 3 young grandchildren, all under the age of 8. At the same time, I am reading an odd book called "The Last of the Duchess," about the final years of Wallis Simpson, the woman who caused the Prince of Wales to abdicate from the throne. In the book, she is being cared for by a attention-seeking lawyer, who keeps Ms. Simpson in a reclusive state unable to see her friends, completely incapacitated and unable to ask for what she wants. The lawyer revels in the attention that she gets as Mrs. Simpson's only voice. It is so sad to think of this once-glamorous woman in the clutches of this unsavory character. ALS is a hideous disease. Your mind is clear while your body shuts down. Eventually, victims are left in the care of a loved one or a professional caregiver, unable to feed themselves, unable to move, unable to talk. one loses even the ability of determining the order in which to eat food. It left me with the question, what would I do? Who would be my voice? My talk to the caregivers was well received. I was nervous talking about grief to a group that had not yet had their loved one die. Until I remembered that the Kubler-Ross stages of grief were developed for people who have received a terminal diagnosis. It was only later that Ms. Kubler-Ross applied them to the grief experienced after the death of a loved one. I think they already knew that they were grieving on so many levels. I hope that my confirming it helped them, just a little. I talked about the anger, and how it was normal. But most of all, I talked about the silver lining - the opportunity that grief gives you of seeing what you are really made of, of realizing how precious and short life is, of enjoying what you have. One of the most memorable moments of the day for me, was when one woman, who was obviously very overwhelmed in the care of her husband, who didn't know whether to nap or do chores when the professional caregiver came to give her a couple of hours break, said, "the problem is, I never want to leave him. I want to enjoy every moment I have left with him. We have become closer now, because of this than at any time during our 20 years of marriage. I just want to spend all my time snuggled in his arms." Silver lining indeed.

The quick rip

I seem to be making it through the craziness that is September. The 11th was a strange day that left me practically unable to walk for two days. I am always caught off guard by the physical effects of emotion. I did 3 radio interviews and then headed down to KOMO TV station in Seattle and did an interview for TV Ontario's show, The Agenda with Steve Paikin. It was an interesting show, having to do with the idea of "moving on." I am not sure we came to any great conclusions, but it was an interesting discussion. Olivia's presentation was extremely well received. Her teacher told her it was one of the most powerful presentations the eighth grade had ever seen. Other teachers told me how poised and clear and confident she was. A lot of the kids cried. I think she was really proud of herself. She has discovered that she can have a quiet power on this tough day, a lesson that will serve her well in years to come. I have also gotten through another birthday. And coming up on the 29th, what would have been our 18th wedding anniversary. The anniversary always makes me wonder where we might have been now, if Arron were still alive. Would we still be together? Still living in NJ? Would we both still be working the same jobs? The anniversary seems to bring out the "could have's" more than any other event for some reason. I will be spending that day in Vancouver speaking about grief to a group of ALS caregivers. I have no doubt that it will be a humbling experience. In thinking about my audience, I can't help wondering, what is worse? The quick "no goodbye" death, or the slow decline of one's body? Is it like Band Aids? The quick rip, preferable to the slow pull? Is being able to say goodbye to your loved ones and making proper arrangements for your own demise better than not being able to say goodbye? Finally, despite having a blog myself, I have been flung into the world of blogs. I had no idea that so many existed out there. My book will be the subject of a "blog tour" in December, where several (12 actually) blog people will read my book and post reviews on their sites. I will be available to answer questions, which they will post as well. I have discovered some pretty amazing blogs, just in reviewing the ones that are interested in my book. See my page at TLC Book Tours and scroll down the page and click on the "tour stops" links. Seems like there is an entire support network for widowed, single moms that I never knew existed. I am comforted by that.

7 Degrees

Seven years is such a long time. I lay in bed this morning and caught the first glimpse of the sun peeking out above the mountains in the distance, trying to decide if 7 years was a long time ago or not. Time seems rushed and stalled at once, like the eddies and pools of a river. Olivia is doing a presentation today at school about her dad. It is a big step for her. She is someone who keeps the event and her dad's whereabouts a closely held secret. I see it as a positive step for her. Initially her advisor asked me to come and speak, but Olivia, being 13 was mortified at the idea of her mom coming to school to speak to her friends, so she wanted to do it on her own. She is going to show the photo montage that we showed at Arron's memorial service and play the interview I did here in Seattle on KUOW. She is going to talk about what she remembers from that day, something I don't even know. I think she is beginning to realize that despite herself, she is going to be thrust into a public role every year on this day. I have no doubt that she will handle it with her usual grace and dignity. The sun blazes in the a sky that is eerily similar to that one 7 years ago, but here in Seattle, the light is just a tiny bit different, as though the sun is tilted on an axis perhaps 1 degree off of the sun in New York. I am thankful for that 1 degree of difference. Perhaps I will measure the time lapse in degrees as well. I am 7 degrees separated from that event now, like the sun in Seattle that makes the leaves seem to be a slightly different colour. I will be appearing on The Agenda with Steve Paikin tonight at 8pm in Toronto. Or view it tomorrow, online here.

Myopic happiness and the magic of 7

A whole summer has flown past. I honestly don't know where time goes. 7 years seems infinite and yet I think still of Arron in a strange past/present sort of way, where I remember how his ear felt, or the rough feeling of his beard, but can't quite conjure anymore, his voice or even what he might say in a given situation. The summer has been an exercise in finding joy in everyday events. An update on past posts: Carter tried the meditation tapes exactly twice. He listened diligently, told me they were sort of corny and then squirreled them away in the abyss of his desk drawers. His anxiety and depression continued and so I found myself doing what I always said I wouldn't: I put my kid on happy pills. "You mean there is a pill I can take that will help me?" he asked accusingly. He began taking them and we have not looked back. I never could have imagined the change. Almost immediately he cut his long, face-hiding hair into an Ashton Kutchner-inspired do. The sk8rboy wardrobe was replaced with pink, preppy polos. (do pink polos equate to a happy child I wonder?) He smiled. And I will never again sneer at the use of pharmaceuticals in children. Our lives have changed for the better. Carter is Carter in a way I knew he could be, but didn't believe anyone would ever really get to see. We went to Europe and now the kids want me to take a sabbatical for a year, though whether its London or Paris changes on a whim. Carter has a new dream of attending Cordon Bleu. The kids followed me around Paris (bribed with crepes) as I showed them Monet and Renoir. They ate escargot. They sat with me at Gare du Nord as we waited for a train to Giverney, Olivia placid and uncomplaining despite not feeling well. We walked through Monet's house and garden replicating scenes from Olivia's favorite childhood book Linnea. In London, they drank tea at Fortnum and Mason, and zoomed maniacally around Hamley's with their cousin Cleo. In Wakefield, they got to know their Dack cousins and saw where their Dad was born. In Utrecht, Olivia actually got onto her knees to bow down before a giant gold stature of Miffy, the creation of Dick Bruna, whose museum we were visiting with my Dutch publisher. Michael unexpectedly joined us in Amsterdam where we found all the best places to eat and where all of us were wholly moved at the Anne Frank House. I managed to do several interviews with Dutch magazines to promote the Dutch version of my book. I already look back on the trip with nostalgia, knowing I will remember it for always. Back home, we spent time being bored ferrying back and forth to Vashon Island, so much so that the kids were happy to finally be going back to school this week. And thus, I find myself once again at the doorstep of yet another anniversary, wondering where time went and what it means to be happy. Is happy the wonderful moments traipsing around Europe, or is it the boring days in the garden on Vashon? What about the moments of the kids fighting? It seems that happiness is a lens by which one views the world. Lately I have worried that my lens is permanently scratched. Like my eyesight which continues to deteriorate with age (at an alarming rate), the view has become slightly myopic. I can't help wondering at what point I get to feel real, actual, wind-in-my-hair exuberance for something. I came close in Paris. I have come close watching Carter heal, and admiring Olivia on a soccer field. But I am not there yet. Perhaps 7 will be the magic number.

Summer Nostalgia

Something about summer is making me nostalgic for another time period, like the 40s or the 50s. School has ended and so the schedule seems easier. No mad morning dashes to school, or after-school trips all over the city for sport practices and games. Perhaps its because I own an old house on Vashon Island, a place that, although only a short ferry ride from Seattle, seems lost in time. Our house has remained virtually the same since the 40s when it was owned by a famous Northwest author Betty MacDonald. In her book Onions in the Stew, she describes living in the house at a time when people played games, baked cookies and walked to the ferry. I am sure the reality of her life was no less harried than mine, but I feel certain that the lack of TV and computers and iPods and cell phones must have guaranteed the tranquility that I crave now. I drag my kids kicking and screaming to Vashon, where my suggestions of reading a book or playing a game are met with rolled eyes and a "That's so boring!" I long to spend whole days there, painting trim, trimming roses, mopping the expansive floors, but instead I am implored to go into town for a "shopping spree" at Grannie's Attic or one of the higher priced antique emporiums. Spending money and gathering "new" items seems to be the only acceptable pastime. I find myself in strange yelling matches with my kids, telling them they need to chill out and suck up the boredom. And then, once I have had my temper tantrum, something amazing happens. I hear these normally fighting children down on the beach, laughing as they take the kayak out, or busily building a fort. Suddenly, that atrophied imagination has reared up and taken up the slack that TVs and computers have created. I revel for a while, patting myself on the back with the pride a parent feels, knowing they have made a good decision for their children, feeling as though I had won back something that was lost, when one of the kids is suddenly in front of me again. "When can we go home? We're bored!"

Birthdays

Olivia turns 13 today. A soccer tournament got her home last night at 11:45pm and so she stayed up until midnight to ring in her birthday. We hugged for a long time, and I tried to hide my tears as I remembered this day 13 years ago. I thought of Arron's face when he first held her tightly swaddled body: "the bullet" we called her. He looked tired, as we had been up for two nights in a row, but completely absorbed in her tiny face. As I do on every one of the kids birthdays, I can't help wondering what he would make of his kids now, how proud he would be of them. Thirteen seems like such a rite of passage, especially given the number of Bat Mitzvas Olivia has attended in the past few months. I wonder what she misses by not having her father to guide the way. I try not to make this a sad day, and yet I get hit with waves of sadness despite myself. I just try to comfort myself with the idea that perhaps Arron can see what a beautiful, wonderful, charismatic woman his daughter is growing up to be.

The Father's Day Dilemma

I received a lovely email today from someone who had heard my interview on CBC, thanking me for writing the book. I am so gratified. Her cousin had recently lost her husband and her two young boys are facing their first Father's Day without him. I was asked how I handled Father's Day with my kids. Its a difficult question. Like all "EVENT" days, there is a certain amount of "grin and bear it" that must happen to get through it. In the past, I have often spent Father's Day with another widow with kids. We try to do something fun like a trip to the beach or a museum and as fellow widows, we each know how the other feels, although we don't really talk about it. If the kids are young, and they will be making a craft in school, I usually ask the teacher or suggest to my kids that they select who they are going to give the gift to. In the past, it has gone to their grandfather, uncle or a male friend. Of course there is no great solution, other than to muddle through the day as best as possible and to be prepared for the fallout (anger, crying, lethargy) from both you and your kids. Its often harder AFTER the event than during it. I know some widows have a tradition on Father's Day (releasing a balloon with a message, always going camping or to an amusement park for instance), but I never seem to be that organized, and find myself pretending the day doesn't exist until it is suddenly thrust upon me, and I am forced to figure out something to do. If you can find something to do with the kids that your husband loved doing, it might be a great way to honor him. I have been wondering lately if it would be wrong to get the kids to bring ME pancakes in bed, since I am in effect their dad as well as their mom. Hmmmm. Could be a new tradition :) Still, no matter what you do, even almost 7 years after the fact, it is still a tough day to get through. Good luck to you all! Feel free to post your ideas what to do on Father's Day for other's to read.

Yellow birds

Today I have been humbled by emails and letters that I have received from people who heard my May 9th interview on Shelagh Roger's CBC Radio show, Sounds Like Canada. Hear Part 1 and Part 2. I received a beautiful hand-made card from Bill in Saskatchewan, who writes, "Your ability to express your trauma and emotions was heartfelt... I appreciated sharing and learning from your experiences." As I read an email from Nancy in Alberta, who challenged me to continue writing about grief by recording the stories of others, two tiny yellow birds swooped into the garden outside my office window, (surely a sign from Arron). Nancy's idea is worthy of contemplation. With each email and letter I receive, often a heartfelt expression of someone's own loss, I am comforted by the knowledge that the person behind each email has written as a form of catharsis, emotions expressed one more time in the story that has become a part of who they are. I know with each of those emails, that a tiny bit of healing occurred in its writing and I feel blessed to have elicited and then been the recipient of a person's healing. In my post-book state of limbo, I am trying to be conscious of signs directing me to the next project, whatever that might be. My reader's continued positive emails and two yellow birds seem to be pointing the way.

The power of fear

I am thinking of teaching Carter about meditation. He has slid back into being the terrified 3 year old of our post 9/11 days. He doesn't want to let me out of his sight. He has a baseball game tonight, one that I can't attend because I am helping to facilitate a bereavement group. He doesn't want to go to the game if I can't be there. He is quite simply terrified that when I leave his sight, I will die. How can I comfort him? I can't promise him that I won't die, because he will say "but daddy wasn't supposed to die and he went out one day and didn't come home." He's right. I have no guarantees. And so as I read Eckhart Tolle and meditate online with Jon Kabat-Zinn, I realize that I need to teach my son that his thoughts are separate from his mind, his self, his soul. How, I wonder, do you put that into words that an 8 year old will grasp? Fear is a powerful force. They have taken over Carter's life and therefore the lives of Olivia and I. I know that in acknowledging them, we give these fears their power, and yet they invade our lives daily. "Tell them to go away," I practically beg him. "I can't! I just want to die!" is Carter's typical response. And so I find myself looking for meditation CDs for kids, in hopes that perhaps I can teach Carter how to regain control of his own mind, and see that his thoughts are separate from who he is. Its a concept that even I struggle to grasp, but I can see the benefits of quieting the mind during those times when my brain is teeming with intrusive thoughts. Teaching Carter to meditate will be an experiment, one which I hope will quiet his mind, and mine.

What is your passion?

I have been asked recently to state my passion in life and to me it seems an odd question. The question rankles because we seem to be equating passion these days with a form of happiness. “Follow your bliss” is the new Joseph-Campbell-induced mantra. But I can’t help wondering why we always feel the need to be happy all the time? Passion seems to involve one’s capacity to express emotion. Its the ability to have a strong emotion towards something. That emotion can be love or anger or even sadness. It is just as possible then, to be passionately angry towards something as it to passionately love something. If this is the case, then I could say I was passionate about the fact that my husband died. It is certainly something I have strong emotions around. I am fiercely passionate about my kids, as most mothers are. I am passionate about my writing in as much as it is an emotional outlet for me, allowing my to spill my emotions, loves, hates, and yes, passions onto a page. I know that I have a huge capacity to love. If I find something or someone worthy of my affections, I can lose myself in the emotion of that passion. But contrary to that, something about the loss of my husband has clouded my emotions, made the highs seems less intense and the lows seem moreso. I fear for my ability to feel passion, that it has been dulled. Does it mean that I am less happy? Or less able to feel emotion? Or do the new lows that I can now hit, mean that at some point, the highs will stand out brighter in opposition?

My first post

I have begun to receive some lovely, heart-wrenching emails from people who have endured hard losses in their pasts. I am humbled that my story is touching people enough for them to send me their thoughts. I could not have hoped for more.