Alchemy of Loss has Moved!

Well, its done! Please find me at my new home(s)

www.abigailcarter.com

or

www.alchemyofloss.com

Please update incoming links accordingly.

Very excited. Please let me know what you think.

The Art of Getting Things Done

Well, all that procrastination led to some kind of power boost, because I got my taxes done, the website is ready (I will be launching on Monday, so stay tuned), I read and critiqued 8 pieces of student work for my lit fiction class, finished Barbara Kingsolver's book at long last, and paid all the bills. I even got a couple of work-outs in.

Spring organization fever has struck. Beware, it may be contagious! Not responsible for inadvertent trips to the container store. Just bought a tree thingy to hang all my necklaces on. Yup, I got it bad!

The Art of Procrastination

Funny. I was just avoiding the hell that is known as my taxes, trying not to look at the fat white envelope from my accountant sitting over there with the unpaid bills. And then serendipitously I found this post by my latest Facebook friend Little Big Wolf. Hey LBW, I'll join your support group! Procrastinators Unite!

On the eve of International Women's Day (that was yesterday in case you didn't know), I went to a reading of women writers. Funny stuff. And now I have been inspired to write prose. I'm not even sure I quite know what prose is, but it sounds cool.

So prose or taxes? Hmmm. Perhaps I should write prose about taxes. Or complete my taxes in prose. K, this is going nowhere.

I have been busy on another front however. Well, to be fair, I have been busy paying someone else to be busy for me in that I am having her redesign my website and blog so that they can get married and be one with a new, clean design.

So very soon (end of the week perhaps), this blogspot blog will be packing up the U-haul, and hauling the boxes to this semi-detached:

abigailcarter.com or alchemyofloss.com

Yup, I'm jumping on the Wordpress bandwagon, fully taking the reins of my little bronco here.

I guess I'm not a complete slacker... but really, does anyone want to come and organize my taxes?

Canada Rocks

Saturday in Vancouver the sun was out and the trees seemed to be throwing their arms into the air, like firmly landed gymnasts, as if to say "see me!" and my body's reaction was to scratch my own eyeballs out. Sneezing is wearing me out. I don't want to blame the cherry blossoms, they are so beautiful, but they are the culprits, among all those other spring beauties.

Despite all the sneezing, I didn't miss all the residual Olympic excitement that continues to linger in that city. I loved driving by "Canada Rocks" painted on bedsheets, hanging from fence posts. It was also humbling seeing all the Canada flags suction cupped to the roofs of cars, reminding me of the US versions,  8 and a half years ago. I can't remember ever seeing Canada so proud. And it made me miss it all the more.

I met some of the newly minted members of my family and sang along to 24 rousing verses of the birthday song written for my 95-year old great aunt (I figure genes-wise I am still in my 20s), followed up by all the verses of "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," "You Are My Sunshine," and finally "Old Lang Syne," before toasting her with champagne and cucumber sandwiches and cake.

At the hotel later, it was Carter's turn to attempt to rip out his eyeballs and the bell hop went running across the street as we ate dinner to buy allergy medicine. The restaurant's host judged the kids' colouring, awarding my nephew (and all the others) the "Gold Medal" -- a prize of ice cream and butterscotch sauce (not caramel). I know we were at a hotel where people are paid to bend over backwards to help you, but I know this is also a Canadian trait, one I try to emulate, a trait, I am now reminded, that is one of the many wonderful reasons that "Canada Rocks."

A Burning Barn

I woke up this morning to this fiery scene reminding me of last week's lessons. Lessons in words and sentences, gerund verbs and participles. I visited a Calder exhibit with a group of 10-year olds, struck by the simplicity of the red, yellow, blue, white, black shapes spinning, equally fascinated by the shadows they cast on the stark white walls. Sculptures at once simple and detailed. For me, an objectification of words, sentences paragraphs. The simplicity of the end result.

Later that afternoon, I pulled open a door to a new world, stepping into a room full of animated people, walls painted mustard, and rich hues of burnt orange. I was greeted with smiles and questioning looks. I did not fit in, though I couldn't say how. The people sitting at tables drinking coffee or milling around had a quality to them, a worn, hardened look around the eyes, clothes not tattered exactly but bearing the Goodwill label, slightly ill fitting. Recovery Cafe is a community center for recovering addicts and homeless.

After signing my name in bright purple ink on several sign-in sheets I was escorted to the classroom, greeted with smiles and a welcome, but finding a chair on the outskirts of the table, attempting to assimilate into the class. I had been invited by my fiction teacher as a guest to talk about my book, my so-called ability to rise above adversity.

But my trauma paled. This I knew immediately, by the haunted, wide eyed gaze of those around the table. I was blessed with resources; these people had few. A woman began reading her work, describing her experience of being labeled "The neighbor lady" in a Facebook photograph, marginalized. She wrote beautifully, her story both uplifting and sad.

I partook in a three-part writing exercise based on the photograph of a burning barn:

1. What would you try to save if your home were burning?

Assuring the kids were safe, foremost might be to rescue memories -- those moments locked in time reminding us of what was, what might have been -- snatching them deftly from between licking flames. Fading smiles caught between slices of clear plastic, and the purple velvet Crown Royal bag that Arron used to collect his precious things -- silver dollars, now tarnished; a clunky gold watch, one of the first digitals ever made, Arron claimed, with its red square numbers; and his wedding ring, the ring he had replaced with an imposter, perhaps sensing its potential for being lost. I would find the cardboard box topped with my old point shoes, the ones I only wore once or twice before a knee ended my prima ballerina fantasies. The box holds yellow manilla envelopes full of love letters, New Zealand flowers pressed inside a Valentine's card, with my hand drawn heart, Arron's crooked, loopy writing concrete evidence of his existence, of his love.

2. What would you be better off without?

TVs, game cubes, remotes, a detritus of plastic, bills stacked forlornly in a wire mesh bin, apologetic. Broken down IKEA shelving, worn shoes, clothes in a pile waiting to be taken to Goodwill. Computers maybe, that hog all our hours, hours that we can't replace. Objects really, taking space. These I would watch burn, feeling the burden of them vanishing in the dark, billowing clouds.

3. What would you do differently if you had to start over?

The Phoenix always rises from the ashes -- the ability to begin anew, cleansed, the ground fertile. Perhaps the spaces would be smaller, filled with light, feeling huge in their emptiness. Time might revert to a simpler age, one before computers and TVs, where everyone knew their neighbours, children played in the street, walked to school by themselves, where needs were few. That time would be blissful, though short, knowing that eventually, the spaces would bloom with undergrowth, the saplings of what was to come.


Another woman read her passages, describing her barn burning, her fear for the swallows nests in the corners, her words resonating in the room long after she finished reading.

I spoke, telling my story, hoping it might be universal enough to the people in this room, my toughest audience, to relate, to inspire. At the end, I gave one of my books to a woman who I knew could barely read, whose body's deformations had clearly defined her fate. I signed the book, offering "best wishes," wondering what those words might mean to her.

That night, at a poetry reading, Mark Doty's words inspired. More words about burning, fires and what you would rescue.  What could this particular serendipity be telling me?

I feel warned. Those saplings have taken root. What, I wonder might they become?

A 10-Year Old's Lesson in Texting Etiquitte

A hard lesson was learned the other day in the danger of texting. A friend made Carter mad, so in retaliation he texted mean things to him. To be fair, the friend says mean things, it seems, on a regular basis. But he says them, he doesn't text them. Normally Carter just turns the other cheek, but this time something finally snapped.

He knew that what he had done wasn't right. The kid's mother found the texts and sent one back, a warning that she would call me, something she never did, which I found a little odd. Guilt, perhaps prompted him to show me that message and so I had a look at all the messages and was shocked at the words I found. I had to explain the permanence of a text, evidence that can be used in a case of bullying and that it was never O.K. to say things like the things he wrote in those texts, to anyone in any form, under any circumstances.

He sent a text of apology and begged for forgiveness, but spent a long night and morning of anguish worrying that his act would be get him expelled from school. The friend forgave, though I suspect the friendship will never quite be the same again. Or maybe it will. They are 10-year olds after all. But I was glad for the anguish, because I know that a lesson has been learned the hard way, making it one that will never be forgotten.

My Interview and Thoughts on Barbara Kingsolver

I did an interview recently with my good friend Diane over at Mind, Body, Spirit. I hope you check it out.

And now, my dispatches from San Miguel...

On Barbara Kingsolver

There is a mystery surrounding the bells that sound at all hours in San Miguel, in that counting the tolls is like solving an algebraic equation, one that only the truly gifted could possibly solve. Barbara Kingsolver may just be one of those with the key. Those bells toll with a complexity that at once seems both out of reach, and entirely attainable.

I was too tired really for her keynote speech yesterday. A long day of negotiating people, telling my story, reading excerpts of my book to a smattering of lunching conference-goers, and enduring a chaotic auction were the preamble. But when Barbara finally took the (too small) podium, all grace, salt and pepper hair, and sparkling pink scarf, the experience of being transported into her world of wonder were unmistakable. Upon being asked her inspiration for The Lacuna, something we learned takes over an hour to explain, most find her explanation too long for a sound-bite feverish world. But this was a unique audience.

It began with a file folder, "Notes to a Historian," the start of what she knew not. Trips to Mexico, a Mexican police chief's photo-laden desk, years of individual experiences, each becoming an "acorn" that might grow into something tall and grand, or might just as easily be washed down a river or be engulfed in weeds. Regardless, each thought, each experience was placed into the folder, a folder of abstract ideas. No notion of a story, let alone novel, simply a repository for thoughts, things a historian may one day find and wonder about, looking for clues to uncover this very private of writers.

And some of those acorns grew. And then the world changed in a day we all know too well. A date we now prefix with the word "since" and Barbara responded with what she knew best, her words. Her questions. In the hate mail that followed, she learned a hard lesson. Questions were unpatriotic, un-American. And her acorns grew some more. It took another 7 years for them to finally leaf into The Lacuna.

Lacuna means "a gap," one which might be found in a silent pause in music or in a missing section of text or some missing piece in a point in history, lost, erased, and which changes how we might view the world in future, a theme of the book. The bells toll too many times for the hour, but its OK. I am beginning to understand.

About writing her advice is clear. Simple. She begins with theme. A revelation for me to begin there, thinking always that theme just came, unbided, slithered in uninvited, but welcome.

Then plot, then characters. She assigns meaning to things that would normally have none, and writes about them, erring on the side of obscurity, trusting the acumen of the reader. And another revelation: The first lines of the book need to make a promise to the reader, a promise of what's to come, a promise in the form of a metaphor.

She begins by writing about the book and what its about. She adds structure, mapping out scenes. The themes come, the characters come. She practices voices. Experiments. Researches and then bleeds through a first draft. Like giving birth, painful.

And then the joy of revision, where the art begins.

The characters become real, she cares about them, but doesn't give them away too early. Feeding small details, dropping clues, weaving a tapestry.

And so I absorb, learn, am inspired and keep listening to those bells hoping someday to unravel their mystery. I will be glad to look back some day and see that Barbara Kingsolver herself was one of my own acorns, taking root, becoming something strong, something that will endure.

Inspiration

I've become a lax blogger. I'm still here, just not here, but attending a writing conference, about to hear Barbara Kingsolver and hopefully be inspired. San Miguel de Allende, Mexico in itself is inspiring. A magical sort of place. And today I will read from my book and perhaps add some inspiration of my own.

Hasta Luego...

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.