Blessed is the Life

A life is a story comprised by so many mundane moments, strung together over time, and punctuated by a spattering of majestic milestones.  Many of the most beloved memories are not the most dramatic--a soft smile after the children are all asleep, the squeeze of a hand, a shared sunset.  Those closest to us remember the life...others simply recall a story or two.

Sometimes, History claims a claims a life.  Sometimes a story.  People do the same.  Sometimes a story affects us so profoundly, that the essence of it stays with us forever...if not the specifics. 

As you bend down to tie you son's perpetually untied shoe, you think Remember that man who would have died in the Twin Towers but for the fact that his shoelace broke and he stopped to buy a new pair?  His name is long lost to most of us, but that moment is ingrained forever in your mind.

When you hear the name John Wilkes Booth, you are likely to think "The Man Who Shot Lincoln."  Unless you are a historian, you are not likely to recall much else about his life, or character, or family.

We listen to these stories on the news, enthralled, unable to look away.  We hear bits, little snippets, sound clips designed to grab our attention and pull our heart strings.  We superimpose the face of our child on each victim.  We weep and pray and curse.

This moment, their last terrifying moment, sears itself on our soul.  Years from now we will remember the anguished face that flashed on the television scream, the line of children--hands linked--marching away from the unspeakable.  Each angelic face, their innocent eyes, will haunt us.  And our eyes will still swell with tears of gratitude at the memory of the brave teachers who pulled children to safety--at those who ran towards the gunfire...not away.

Others, however, will remember more than that.  They will remember shared conversations, and laughter, and first steps and first birthdays.  They will recall a myriad of hopes and dreams, and fears, shared in quiet whispers.  They will smile over the petty bickering, the practical jokes, the odd quirks and preferences that used to annoy but are now unspeakably precious.

We will remember the story.

They will remember the life.

...now and at the hour of our death.

I thought I was having a bad week.  There were sick kids, and a sick me.  Day after day of sharing our lone bathroom as the stomach flu ravaged our family.  At one point, late at night, my middle child and I sat next to one another, perched in front of the toilet, taking turns being ill and hoping this delicate give and take was not unbalanced. 

There was laundry piling up, the normal variety as well as the extra caused by the germs that ran rampant.  The house smelled of sick, and bleach, and Lysol.  Extra blankets were pulled out to counter the chills that seemed to have taken root deep inside, never allowing any of us to feel quite warm enough--despite the fact that fevers raged and brows dripped with sweat.

The ill tempers of three tired children and an exhausted mother made us poor companions as the germs and fevers began to subside.  We were all cranky, and weak, and ready to get back to normal.  So off to school and work we all ventured, still a bit shaky, but desperate for the company of someone who had not thrown up next to us, or stole the remote control, or drank the last of the ginger ale.

A midday call from my husband broke the news of the shooting.  The rest of the day was filled with the bits and snippets that filtered through the news, some true and some not.  The details began to fill in, and the full horror of the Newtown massacre began to emerge. 

There is a desire, in times of crisis, to try to find out more details, more images, more information.  We consume the stories, gorge on them, gnawing on every morsel that the media presents.  Each grainy moment frozen in time, every sound bite.... 

No one wanted to be at work.  Even though there was over a thousand miles between my hometown and Newtown, my mind remained there for the rest of the day.  No one wanted to be anywhere but home, with their family, holding their children, and thanking God that it wasn't their daughter, their son.

I thought I was having a bad week.

Thank God for the piles of laundry, the bickering voices bellowing from another room.  Bless their messy rooms and their hair that needs brushing.  I am so blessed to tuck my sassy, loud, unruly children into bed and to kiss their heads before I stumble over a stray Lego on my way out. 

Tonight, we will have a special dinner, all of us, and I will try not to cry as their voices--always intentionally out of cadence--bless the food.  As they complain, and goad, and talk over one another, I will sit back and bask in the beauty of my wonderfully imperfect family. 

Tomorrow, they can clean their room.  Soon, I will shush them, and sigh, and roll my eyes again...but for tonight, I will remember my blessings.

I Want, I Want, I WANT!

In this season of giving, I thought I might casually mention a few items  bunch of stuff that a certain red-headed writer might like for Christmas.  This is also a good list to work off of if you happen to have any geeky writer-types on your Christmas list.

So, in no particular order, I want:

1.  Canned Unicorm Meat.  Count on the fabulous minds over at ThinkGeek to come up with something as horrifically fun as canned unicorn meat.  (NOTE:  take a moment and read their product descriptions.  Seriously...go there now.)  I really want to put this in the break room at work and install a hidden camera to watch all the fun reactions.  Because I am just sick like that.  Oh, come on, I can't be the only one!  Admit it.  You want some, too!

2.  Sonic Screwdriver TV Remote.  This is also from ThinkGeek.  It is a Doctor Who TV remote that you can use to control your television (duh).  Read the description in order to fully understand how amazingly awesome this remote is, and how unbearably cool I would be waving it at the television.  Especially so that it would be mine, ALL MINE!

3.  Lord of the Rings Trilogy.  I also need the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, because somehow (unspeakably!) this is not in my library.  I have no idea how this deplorable oversight happened, but I hope to rectify it immediately. 

4.  Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty.  I need this shirt.  Because my kids really do sing it to me when we are at the sad part of any movie and I start getting teary.  And it really does help to soothe me.  Sing it with me:  Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur.....

5.  Gift Baskets.  Also, I love gift baskets--especially the food type.  There is just something about all those tiny boxes tucked inside of a pretty basket.  All those foods and treats that you would never think to normally buy...too expensive, too "frilly" and impractical.  But when given as a gift, well, it would rude not to indulge. 

Check back in for more Geek Gift Ideas, and feel free to leave suggestions for your favorite geeky or writerly gift.  I will keep adding more ideas as the holidays creep closer!

Give Me My Silence

I cannot write with music playing.  On a good day, I can block out the sound of the television--but definitely not the television and the dishwasher and kids playing.  My brain can only block out so much, and then it all comes crashing in, overwhelming me, suffocating me.  Apparently, it is a form of Auditory Processing Disorder. 

I have always known that I was not an auditory learner.  I need to see things, to touch things in order to properly commit them to memory.  Things that I merely hear quickly evaporate into the ether--not because I am not listening, or because I do not care, but because that is how my brain works. 

But things I read or write...well, they are ingrained in my mind for all time.

I never noticed a problem with this while in school.  I never received low grades or strained to learn.  No, I always took meticulous notes and read and re-read them.  I never sat still during lectures; instead, I spent the hours scribbling away the key bits so I could commit them to memory later.  Apparently, even at an early age, I found a work-around--without ever even realizing it.  Perhaps I simply knew my strengths. 

I grew up in a very quiet house.  A product of the 70s, I was a "latch key kid" and spent a lot of time alone.  Alone was quiet.  So, I only realized I had a problem later in life, when my three kids became old enough to create a constant low-roar in our home.  This--combined with the rattle of the dishes washing, the churn of the laundry swishing around the washing machine, the clatter of cats chasing one another through the house, and the hum of the television that no one seemed to be watching--it all seemed...too much!  It was overwhelming. 

Strange that so many noises, which if taken on their own might be considered soothing, or lulling, when combined seem to rankle, to jar, to agitate.  Yet, they do...for me at least.

When people talk about listening to music when they write, I shudder as I imagine one more noise that I must try to block out in order to hear my own thoughts.

By all means, crank up the music if that helps you.  But for me...give me my silence.  The quiet of a cold winter's night, the gentle whispers of my characters, and the tapping of my keys to keep me company while.  Somewhere, in another room, the rhythmic breathing of sleeping children can be heard faintly. 

This gentle, near-silence surrounds me with peace.

What about you?  Do you listen to music when you write?

Holiday Binge Eating...and Other Accomplishments

I finally finished an article I have been avoiding working on for several months, so I feel a certain sense of accomplishment.  These type of feats deserve a reward.  My reward-of-choice for today is rum cake!  So, at about 9:00 this morning, I helped myself to a large slab of alcohol imbibed goodness, ignoring the fact that I still have plenty more articles I need to work on, as well as my novel, and another (shorter) manuscript. 

I have decided that, in order to survive this holiday season (and as a good rule of thumb, in general), I need to focus on what I have accomplished rather the pile of things still waiting to be done.  I am much happier (and easier to live with) when I change my perspective this way.  And, face it, the holidays can be a handful...a handful of relatives visiting, a handful of to-do lists, a handful of things still left to bake, or buy, or make. 

We put the tree up on Thanksgiving night.  (Another feat that resulted in a hearty slab of rum cake.)  I baked plenty of goodies...all of which have already been devoured.  We all snuggled, and watched movies, and spends days on end in sweatpants.

All in all, there is a lot to be thankful for. 

I am Not Dead Yet

I am not dead (knocking on wood).  I am a bit frazzled and overworked...but happy.  I have my novel, which I am still working on, and a new project that is not-yet-to-be-spoken-of, but perhaps soon...or never.  We shall see.

I am obsessing over Thanksgiving preparations, which can become a bit crazy when trying to accommodate no: gluten, milk, eggs, beef, pork, chicken, pecans, walnuts, garlic, pineapple, and too many other things to list.  I decided to take Wednesday off in order to start cooking early.  I didn't do that last year, and I regretted it horribly!

I made up a batch of Christmas Chutney last week, and my ginger headed son realized that he LOVES chutney.  (I am oddly pleased to find out that one of my children adore it as much as I do.  For some reason, it makes me stupid-happy whenever I find out that my kids and I have something in common, and I proudly tell them, "You get that from me.")

In the meantime, I plan to be puttering away in the kitchen and running errands like mad so that I can hibernate until next Monday.  I do not like getting out and about on Black Friday...the reality of that day is as ominous as it sounds: people pushing and cursing and ignoring traffic laws!

By the time you read this, I will be adding yet another item to my shopping list and contemplating whether I should use whiskey or sherry or cognac or rum in my fruitcake...or make one of each.  And no, I do NOT use candied fruit...real, identifiable dried fruit, thank you very much!

Oh, and I need to make my rum cake.  Rum cake is vital if I plan on making it through the initial holiday rush.  Perhaps I should make two....

Sigh...but then, I suppose all of this fretting is just part of my holiday tradition.

What are your favorite holiday traditions? 

My Kingdom for a Pen

This is how it always happens...they come to me when I am driving, or in the shower, or in the middle of a meeting.  Sometimes they whisper gently, other times they shriek out their truths.  My characters come unbidden.  Yet, when I beg or implore, they sullenly refuse to grace me with their presence. 

Today, however, as I drove the long trek from home, then to pick up our lovely carpooling friend, then to the eldest child's school, then to the bus stop for the middle and youngest child, then off to work...they came to me. 

Inspiration striking!
(...or perhaps the aurora borealis)

They were eager and anxious--a flurry of information and activity and drama.  They swirled like quicksilver; they struck like lightening.  It was electric.

And, of course...I had no pen.  No pen or paper to memorialize their dire warnings and their realizations.  Surely, somewhere under my wallet...and Epi-pen...and cell phone...and unpaid bills...and the single child's sock...somewhere there had to be a pen and a scrap of paper.  And yet my eager fingers that rummaged through my purse found nothing but loose receipts and change and half a mint.

So I did the only thing I could; I chanted the precious bits of new information like a mantra all the way to work.  I repeated it while stuck in traffic.  I muttered it while I maneuvered through the construction zone.  I whispered it while yielding for pedestrians. 

Then I drove up the six stories of the parking garage, found my self-appointed parking spot next to my dearest friend's car, and scurried in to work so that I could engage in a much-needed "information dump" at her desk before dashing to my own overflowing work space to scrounge for a pen and paper.

My characters tell me things in their own time...much like my eldest daughter, teetering on the brink of tweendom.  And, as with my daughter, when my characters finally relinquish some thought, or insight, or precious bit of their heart...I listen.  I relish it.  I store it away.  They are my children, too.  Their births were also long and  painful and memorable.

Like my children, my characters seem to want to talk when I am in the shower, or making dinner, or trying to do something else that requires my attention. 

But you make time, because they are worth it. 

You stop the world, if you have to.