U.K. here I come!

Okay, I am not really going to England, but found out this week that my book is.  I have a copyright, and ISBN number and 2011 publication release date for both the U.S. and Europe from Routledge Press.  That was something I had not expected, but is a big, big, big cherry on top of getting the book done and into production.  Wowie zowie. Everyone needs one really nice thing to be grateful for now and then, and I am grateful and pleased. It feels like the reward for believing in my ability to finish and make it "my" book over so many years. Exhale. . . again.

Good Vibrations!

I felt so good today!. . . I do not understand why and I am not going to ask; just going to embrace the blessing:) But I do kinda wonder if it's because I got my new bioidentical hormone butt implant recently.  Ha! Cheers. . 

Nostalgia

I missed my 34th class reunion last weekend and it sent me into a bit of a tailspin of homesickness, some regret for not going and some relief  that I did not.  Thinking about high school is a mixed bag for me.  I would have loved to see many of the people whose faces I have seen in pictures posted, and there is but one person I would not have liked to see at all.  The story is very, very old and has little relevance for my life today, but there is something about seeing the big smile on a face of someone I just plain don't like for reasons that are as old as the story that made me a little angry all over again. Don't get me wrong--I am not derailed, and in fact have so enjoyed seeing photographs of a true community of people that have genuine affection for one another. 

I think my tailspin has to do with having most of my family and several friends far away on the west coast while I am holding my breath and gathering the strength to make it through another Chicago winter.  I do not think I had realized quite how much this cycle of seasons affects my overall sense of well-being and what it is possible to do on a day to day basis.  It is fall now, and we had a beautiful summer and these days are special as the trees begin to show different colored leaves, the mornings become cooler and evenings grow dark earlier now. I like this time of year because for me it has always been a time of new beginnings and the excitement of another calendar year, set by the inception of a new school year.  I have lived on this clock since I was a little girl because my family's life during my growing years did too.  My father was in education, so September was always the beginning of the year.

I began this new year in late August and have been sprinting through the weeks with meetings, a new crop of students and new projects I have been tasked to do.  Every year I say, "I love my new students" and every year it has been no less true than the last.  They keep me young, spirited and feeling like I have something to share and give to the world.  My work as a mother is not over, but I am at odds without the daily comings and goings of daughters in my home.  My circle of friends in Chicago has shrunk--partly because of this stage of my life, partly because the people I like most are part of my work life, so a certain professional distance is appropriate and necessary.  I also realize that I have changed--I have little to say to some of the girlfriends who reach out to me and a lot of affection for others I would love to reconnect with.  There are more of the latter than former.

I have less time outside of work, too.  I am having a lot of difficulty still adjusting to a year-round position that leaves me 48 hours on a weekend to do my household upkeep, do a bit of self-care and relaxation and let go of the week's responsibilities.  I am able to let go of work responsibilities, but have been ridiculously inept at the upkeep and self-care. This does not feel good, but I am having an impossible time figuring out how to make it better. There  are  only so many hours in the day and I am very, very tired by the time the weekend comes around. I am trying not to lose Saturdays to rumination and sleep, but they pass like that. Then I find myself getting to bed early so that on Sunday I can make  up for all I didn't do Saturday, and the week's quick cycle begins again, leaving a bread trail of things undone, letters not written, little packages not sent, shopping not done, a refrigerator unfilled, mail not read, friends not seen and phone calls made sporadically returned.  I am lonely for one good conversation with somebody I care about. 

I am glad that it is football season again because I love to watch Bears games and share them through the miles with my father.  I ball up on the couch, turn the game on and lose myself in their successes and missed opportunities, talked about at half-time with dad, and then again at the end of the game.  This is my one great weekend pleasures, but I think if I said this to anyone they would wonder at the uneventfulness of my life.  But my life has been eventful. . . too eventful at times, and I have never taken so much pleasure in adopting an attitude of "I just don't want to" and then following through with it  to the extreme.  I have a friend who is taking trapeze classes, another who teaches beading, a daughter who is bestowing mad love into the life of her family and another who is adopting a kitten, moving, buying a new car, working full time, nurturing a new marriage and looking for new workout programs. I have a 78 year old father who golfs three times a week, finishes a short stack of books in the same time frame, pops by to see his grandchildren periodically and rises at 5:00 a.m. to go walk four miles at the gym.  It is this knowledge that gives me the feeling that I am still not doing enough.  I'm not if we're talking about playing.  To some  extent my work is play because I like it so much, but I need new and different kinds of play.  Oh heck, maybe I'll sign up for trapeze classes too.  To be continued. . .

Got a Cold

Yes, that's it. I miss this blog. I want to write, but I feel like if I open the box again, I'll never stop. . . . so, another day, another weekend. I have had quite some life, now that I think about it. Till soon.

I'm Baaaaaack:)

Well, this will be a short post because I have once again stayed up way too late.  I have finished my last book edits and the manuscript is going into production.  I heard from my editor, and she or her assistant will be contacting me about "editorial choices" and "promotion".  So that's what they do. . . hmmm. I have never written a whole book before, so I am naiive about the process, though I have published several shorter essays. But those are nuts and bolts details.

When I finished, I had a stream of memories that came rushing up consisting of the life's events that led to stops and starts in getting this done.  I must admit that there were many more stops than starts over the past ten to twelve years.  I thought I would be dancing in the halls, but I stood quietly in my office crying softly.  My boss came in and I asked him if he would mind sharing a moment of reflection with me.  He saw me cry for the first time and said, "awwww, c'm here. . . let me give you a hug."  You have no idea how much that small expression from someone I respect and laugh with daily meant to me.  He GOT it. He knew that I had spent the last nineteen days straight in writing purgatory and three weeks before that doing the same thing, minus weekends. He also knew that the ten years prior to that I had remained committed to finishing while allowing myself to get sidelined at fairly regular intervals. The intensity and focus required makes everything else seem easy.   Don't remind me I said that when I have a hard day, please.

I am now moving into a period of tasks and back to back obligations related to the start of school.  On Monday, the halls will once again be filled with cute young things in their "trying not to look like they're trying too hard outfits", sporting suntans and eager eyes considering new social lives.  I will literally throw the class together that I am teaching because the section was added to the schedule just three days ago.  I have until Tuesday to put that together between our all day faculty retreat tomorrow, our new faculty orientation Thursday night and our First Year Student Convocation on Friday afternoon, regalia and all. 

These are concerns I am facing now and I want to breathe, exhale, take a walk, ride my bicycle, sit on my favorite rock to hear the lapping water in Lake Michigan, watch the sailboats and to see the beautiful skyline.  I am unhappy with myself right now because I took two days off this week to do just that. . . and I have paid bills, grocery-shopped, cleaned the place up and shopped for some flat shoes (because with the current state of my knee, I am still not able to wear the ridiculous number of heels nested in a hanging canvas shoe storage on my closet door).  I got a facial, but mainly because my face acne is out of control. That quiet little cry of relief in my office was not enough.  I am like a top wrapped tightly holding myself together to get through the next thing. And I know that all it would take to get out of my paralysis would be to take the first step on the sidewalk, pull my Schwinn cruiser out of storage and push the pedals into one full circular motion, even drive out to the Northwestern parking lot that would situate me about fifty yards from "my" flat rock in the sun.

I have a weekend coming.  I have a class that is not ready.  This is the pull . . . but I will burn out by middle of September if I continue to choose work over balance, sleep over walking and fresh air, holding it all in instead of pushing myself into some kind of relaxation.  I need a voice to give me permission to do something good for myself. . . playful, relaxing, happy and mine.  I miss summers.  I missed summer this year. I want a little bit of summer, still.

And this

This says it all. . . .

Stupid but so funny it got to me:)

Imagine an urban black guy's voice. . .

"I call her Beavis cuz we always Butthead".

Last Day. . .

I spent the whole weekend in my office finishing up the writing parts. It's good enough, I think. . . . tomorrow, I have to do references and write a note to my editor about the changes I've made. Very "doable". I am so sick of "hearing" (reading and re-reading) what I have to say that I am very tired of myself. I am never going to write another word. . . never:) Ha!!!!

It will be good to come back, blogland. . . after a little while.

Afraid to say whoooooo hoooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Chapter six mess is cleaned up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thres last things to do:
1) Write the "main matter of my introduction" Pretty basic and know where I'm going.
2) Write a current and interesting "front matter" introduction to my introduction. Kinda have an idea where I'm going but will probably take as long as the "main matter"
3) Update a few resources. . . . and do last bits of cleanup.

This is doable and will be worth missing most of these beautiful summer days I hope:))))))). . . .


SEND MANUSCRIPT TO ROUTLEDGE PUBLISHING SO THAT IT CAN GO INTO PRODUCTION!

The Short Story. . .

I guess I'm writing this so that I have a record of this process when I'm done. So please forgive me for the boring details I am about to share.

I have finished ten pages of a methods section, so my appendix is done. I have gone through over a hundred pages to make line edits, most of which I have corrected. I found a hot mess in chapter six that must be corrected whether anyone who reviewed it said so or not. I. . . yes, I, who wrote it cannot even understand my key points. I have begun that process. I have written my acknowledgements. What's left?
1) Write my introduction, starting with an overview of the chapters--then go back and write the front matter. Probably a day and a half.
2) Find reviewer 2's list of updated resources and find places to use them as references. Probably an 8 hour day.
3) Go back to the half-fixed hot mess in Chapter six and finish fixing it; it needs to sit while I do other things. Probably a five hour job.
4) Find out how to cut and paste three footnotes and make them endnotes, like the rest of the book. Easy peasy with the right help.
5) Include one more name I forgot in the acknowledgements. Easy peasy.
6) Write an explanation to my editor about what I have done since receiving the reviews.

If all goes well. . . I may be looking at this coming Friday???? I had hoped I could finish by the end of tomorrow, but some things just cannot be rushed (she says after ten years:) Waaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!!

Clearing a Path for Balance

I have not had the experience of writing while at the same time balancing my life--with chores, working in my office during regular hours, keeping up on nutritional needs, sleep or exercise and handling things like basic hygiene, beauty maintenance and any kind of socializing.

This is the old picture; I am sitting in my office at 2:30 in the morning not having eaten since noon, taking cigarette breaks at each "finished" juncture, wearing comfortable sweats, a man's oversized shirt (probably without a bra), no shoes on, but that can be easily slipped on in case I need to go out to smoke. I am in this mode of hibernation days in a row, sometimes having never gone to sleep and others, leaving for home when my eyes are crossed and I can no longer think. I am hyped up on a chain of diet coke cans I emptied, hoping that there is one at home when I get there. I will need the "refreshment" and a couple of cigarretes before I get to sleep. I do not answer my phone, I do not talk to my friends and maybe even my children. This is how it used to be. And strangely---oh so strangely, I am getting down on myself for not being in that mode of operation.

When I started thinking about this reasonably I was amused because that picture is so unhealthy and I had sustained it during writing "jags" throughout my working years. It has been two working weeks and I have been drawing circles around a methhods section that will be an appendix in the book. I had a breakthrough two days ago and at least at this time know what I need to say and in which order--that is 90% of the challenge. Yet I flagellate myself for what feels like complacency instead of desperate, driven and work-at-all-hours-mania.

So I've decided to list the things I've done while continuing to work through the writing:

1) I have maintained a (mostly) healthy diet, eaten "on time" for my diabetic body and kept track of my blood sugar numbers while adjusting my two kinds of insulin injections I do four times a day. I have taken the oral medications that go along with that regimen. My numbers are getting better, I am not as sleepy as I was for the past three months or so, and I am surviving the crazy energy shifts that go up and down as my sugars rise and fall with the new management regimen.

2) I got my hair cut and colored because both were about three monts overdue. This week I dispensed with the big barettes that I was using to pull my overgrown hair up, which made the gray hairs framing my face even more obvious.

3) I got my car serviced and new brake pads put in. According to the mechanic, I am good for a couple more years.

4) I sent a donation I had promised to a kids' league in Danville Illinois because it means a lot to me to support a former student of mine in giving back to his community after earning his degree and playing professional basketball around the world over the past few years.

5) I cleaned out my pantry (and my legs were sore the next day), my bathroom cabinets and packed away clothes that had been sitting in piles in my room needing to be stored.

6) I took a small pile of clothes to the dry cleaners that had been sitting around for a few months.

7) I found Eloina again, and she and Oscar came--Eloina to clean and Oscar to dispense with a large "giveaway" pile that was cluttering my kitchen.

8) I bought a de-bugging fogger that I will unleash on the little critters tomorrow before I leave my house because they are boldly biting me whether I am awake or asleep.

9) I picked up prescription medications three times because they never come up for refilling at the same time.

10) I went to a dermatologist for the first time in several years because I am having out of control breakouts and I do not want to live with them any longer.

11) I have stuck to my minimal cigarettes rule during workdays. If at all, I may smoke a half during a go-outside break when I need to hunt up some lunch.

12) I mailed a little care package to each of my daughters.

13) I have been wearing office attire and working during regular hours, leaving it there until the next day. I slipped a bit yesterday on the "looking nice" front--more casual than usual, but am hoping my boss will understand that I have already made a radical transition (but how can he? He does not know my old routine.)

14) I found some fall "transitional" clothes that I have been watching for . . . I needed a black skirt that fits well; I found it after waiting a year and a half to get the right one!! I found a pair of summer-weight pants that will go well into fall because they are grey; they are office appropriate and will supplement the 3 pair I wear regularly now--black, navy, beige. I searched for closed toe flat shoes that are office and administration retreat appropriate because my "flats" supply is limited and I cannot yet wear high heels because of my knee. I bought nothing because nothing was right. I like it when I do that. I finally found two cheap t-shirty tops to wear with the leggings I have but have never worn because I had no shirts long enough to wear with them.

15) I took two large bags of ice to an administrative assistant's home because she had knee surgery.

16) I put away the laundry Eloina did and the dry cleaning I picked up.

17) I found some new (and inexpensive) kitchen curtains because the ones I made myself eight years ago had seen better days. I had passed on others because they didn't seem right. The ones I finally found are. I hung them this week with no expense in window treatment hardware; I decided to let my own little ones stand to save energy and a few dollars.

18) I paid Eloina for her services and for the last time she cleaned for me. She had disappeared for awhile because of no telephone. I am delighted to have her back because she does an excellent job all the way around.

19) I called my sister to find out how my nephew's appointment at Cedar Sinai went on the day it happened.

20) I have maintained a reasonable level of basic hand, face and hair washing, bathing and putting on crisp office wear each morning.

21) I communicated with a new research subject and got necessary contact information while getting a preview of whether or not this person can make a good contribution to my next project. It turns out he can, and I am pleased about that.

So there are twenty one things I have done while working on a writing project. I have only slept about 4-5 hours per night because I stay up late to think or not think. I could use some improvement here. I have slightly increased my cigarette consumption during non-work hours, but understand that it is because of my old writing habits. I will give it up when I finish this last step. I have forgotten my insulin or test strips to take to work, but successfully compensated and got it right the next day. I have maintained my farmville farm and cafe world on facebook because it is a relaxing experience, but I have adjusted my level of involvement. I have spoken with my parents and thought about my kids daily, who were at a family reunion and both have big things going on this week--one is moving to a beautiful new home, the other working toward fitness goals and supporting her husband through job interviews. I will catch up with them soon.

I am going to the (Loyola U.) President's retreat on Monday and Tuesday of next week. Today while my car was being serviced, I started reading a book that is one of several reading materials that have been disbursed in installments throughout the week. I expect to get through them all this weekend.

Tomorrow, I hope to have a successful writing session in my office, wearing office-wear, only smoking half a cigarette at break time and maintaining my "feeding" schedule, which I resent, but the resentment won't help me at all, so I choose to surrender to the current state of things. I am excited that I have the necessary tools to make some headway on my skin breakouts; I have been drinking more iced tea and less diet coke. It's a start. . .

So, I guess this picture is a little different and I am in the process of becoming different, but this thing called "me" seems like a heckuva lot of work sometimes. Thanks for listening, blogland:)

Love this quote

If you bring forth what is within you what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you what you do not bring forth will destroy you.” Jesus Gnostic Gosepel of Thomas

Been Away from Here

Dear Bloggy readers,
I have been away. . . doing research, seeing family, trying to fill my soul up with summertime sunshine and yes, still managing some health issues that are a ready made prerequisite to doing all else.

It is now time to go into my writing "cave" to finish the last edits of a ten year long writing project that will be actually "finished" when I come out of the cave. I am procrastinating, waiting for inspiration, nervous because I changed the version of Word just prior to needing to do this, and I'm not so familiar with that system. . . arrrgghhhh. This, too is a little hurdle that I will jump.

I spent this weekend preparing to organize my household so that I could feel free when I got to the office tomorrow, and have managed to procrastinate on that, too. I have set two small and "doable" "to-do's" that I hope to accomplish by this evening's end. I expect to be away from this site for another few weeks so that I don't get in my own way (as if I'm already not doing that. . . ha!) Wish me luck, straight thinking and a finished product that I can send off before the month ends.

Here goes. . . .

Drip Drip. . .

It is Friday evening of the weekend of Memorial Day. I think I have more to say, but the words are not streaming out like a dam just broke and I can't keep up with the water. They are more like little seepages, coming from all different directions. I threw my hat in the ring for an opportunity I'm not sure I want. My researching heart is in Weedpatch, California, full of photographs, music and stories of Oakie migrants. I am full of anticipation, sure I will find a way to tell another story that has not yet been told, but anxious to visit and have conversations on tape as I take new photographs, collect old ones and learn something new about an historical restoration taking place. And with this new project in mind, I am finding it is taking everything I have in me to turn my focus back to getting the final edits done so that my ten year long struggle to finish a book can finally go into production.

My grandmother and mother's heart are with my daughters, one who is in Greece right now, enjoying the final days of her long awaited honeymoon, the other in Oregon, as I await a Crystal Thursday post that may have new grandbaby pictures or Amanda's latest creative project too. I will see them soon, and I need to fill my breath with their presence, re-collect my little family and learn who my priceless little grandaughter is becoming.

My heart as a daughter and sister are loaded with memories and hopes of creating happy new ones when I see the parents who raised me and the extensions of that family, whomever is around. Lately I have been having recollections of playing outside. These days, when one thinks of someone as "outdoorsy", you might think of hiking, parachuting or getting some kind of workout. That is not the content of these memories. I spent most of my childhood outside, and that is probably why I have so much difficulty with the long Chicago winters that keep me more housebound than I would like to be.

I am thinking of jumpropes mastered, footballs thrown, pogo-sticks hopping, metal roller skates scraping, a unicycle ridden, hula hoops swirling, bicycles ridden and a front lawn, driveway, sidewalk, backyard patio, a fruit tree for each family member, Hector the dog, Gomer the duck and a dull end of a broomstick used in the dirt to "plant" watermelon seeds as I played "Johnny Appleseed". I also recall a roll of toilet paper we put in a large appliance box playhouse in case we needed it.

The childhood memories I have of being indoors are of worry for my brother, who got poison oak and mumps in an order I can't remember, but he was in misery and had to miss a lot of school. I remember the smell of calomine lotion used to soothe his swollen itches and trips to Cooley's pharmacy with Mom to pick up a different kind of salve that could help him get better. They are of my mother, who was laying down one day when I came home from school. She never laid down, so I knew her mother, who had been ill with cancer had passed away. Mom didn't have to say a thing but I hugged her that day and remember the den where she was, the blanket she had covering her, the hurt in her face and my own helplessness. I remember Grandma's sweet, round face that grew more skeletal as her disease overtook her.

Grandma had the prettiest smile and a gentleness about her that even in her sickness, was expressed with her face and soft, loving hands. I remember her beautiful gold hairbrush with the soft bristles, a hand mirror and comb that sat on a vanity in her home. I have always wanted a vanity because of that. It was made of a kind of wood that showed the twists and roots of an old, wise tree. The vanity had a mirror and little seat and a round "box" of powder that had a puff in it. I would sit on the seat, brush my long, thick hair and gently pull open the powder lid to find a soft, round puff and imagine that I was Grandma sitting there, putting powder on my face.

I had a little wooden soldier in primary colors Grandma had given me. It had a red string with a yellow ball on the end that when pulled, little wooden arms and legs went flying up. When I visited Grandma in the hospital with Mom, I felt important because she wanted me with her to "keep her company" when she went to Redlands to see her mother. I remember Polly, the only doll I ever liked except my troll dolls and cave houses because she was passed on to me from my mother's childhood. She lay in a little shoebox, with blue eyes that opened and closed, depending on her angle, and wore a red cotton dress and white bloomers.

Time in my room was reserved for after the street lights went on or I was restricted because I had gotten into some kind of trouble. I remember my room with a pink chiffon bedspread and white furniture that was eventually traded for a bright yellow one to go with the mod sixties style yellow, orange and green daisy wallpaper that covered a room divider built when a family room and extra bedroom were added to our home by a guy named Reg Wood. In that room, I played a few 45's--Englebert Humperdinck, Tom Jones, The Jackson Five, Bobby Sherman, the Osmond Brothers and the one real album I owned, The Supremes' Greatest Hits. In my room, I listened to music, wrote in my diary and played with my troll dolls, crafting clothing for them out of felt. I made vests in every color. I'm not sure if they ever had any pants. In that place I had papered my closet doors with shiny fold-out photographs of idols from Tiger Beat magazine and began for the first time in my life to begin to think like a girl, wondering why all of the sudden, my brother's friends were acting strangely toward me when they had been my companions and playmates all my life.

Everything was changing. The boys began to pull pranks, I spent more time with Vivian, my best friend and smoked my first cigarettes. My mother found half-butts in my top dresser drawer. I started wrangling with Mom over what I could and couldn't wear to school. The social and political climate had changed enough that girls were newly allowed to wear pants to school. My mother liked me to be a lady, so I was only allowed to wear them on Fridays. So I dropped them out my window in the morning and picked them up on the way to school until Joyce from across the street told my mother over coffee what I was doing. I also had an agreement with Mom to wear the shoes with the platform heels I had begged her to buy every day if I got them. I learned soon that they were not so comfortable and didn't go with everything, so I would use that handy window to drop more comfortable ones to pick up on my way to school. That was when I learned that I should not disobey my mother or be dishonest because I was bound to get caught.

It is probably also why to this day I try not to do anything wrong because somewhere along the way I will be accountable. The lessons continued as Mike F. snapped my newly acquired bra strap in the front yard. Mom was watching. I had a long dialogue in a series of notes with Rick M. about meeting in the lemon orchard to "M.O." That was fairly transparent code for "making out". We talked a big game, but never even kissed or held hands, eventually breaking up during a passing period between classes. Rusty had given me a yellow St. Christopher necklace, which at the time was a symbol of "going steady". That "relationship" was about as eventful as my written note dialogue with Rick M. That was a time of big talk, rumors of pubescent development or lack thereof and fantasies that Michael Jackson, who was my age, really would "be there to comfort you", or that Donny Osmond was singing directly to me when he sang, "hey there lonely girl, let me make your broken heart like new". I knew they were singing about something important, but had not yet lived enough to actually know the depth of those lyrics in the totality of my life.

Drip, drip come the memories in patches and images, visions, recollections, imaginings and feelings that started me on a road to womanhood that looks back at those times with amusement at my genuine innocence, sadness for my mother's dramatic loss so early in her life, and happiness for my parents' watchful eyes that taught me a goodness I cherish.

I'm Not Sorry Unless I Am

I have spent too much of my life apologizing and an equal amount of time thinking that those two little words, "I'm sorry" would go a long way to acknowledge that some situation, little or big left a mark on my heart. I do not wait for the words because I am not one to hold out for expectations that are likely to disappoint me. But I do pay attention to others' actions because they speak much louder than words, and I am bound to accept them as an equivalent if they do not repeat, and therefore salt the wounds of a familiar situation.

Yet I believe that being able to say I'm sorry is an important life skill. It doesn't cost much and requires only a little bit of empathy. It is not an "admission of wrongdoing", but an acknowledgement of another's shared humanity. For example, "I'm sorry we had a misunderstanding that left you feeling like that" is very different from "I am wrong, and therefore feel sorry". It is also not the same as pity, which is "I feel sorry for you". That is an insult added to an injury already there. It surprises me that in some cases, a person resists those words at all costs because it feels like it is giving away some part of a person's soul. I have never felt like I am giving away a part of myself if I have apologized in all sincerity. Who wants to continue the effects of a hurt that is unnecessary?

In my more neurotic states of mind (where I feel like everything is my fault either because I am a little delusional about my own importance or because I was well trained to believe that I had probably done something wrong, even if I didn't know what it was), I have apologized too much. In this little bloggy journey I am taking, I am also making a commitment to be a little more discerning about when I say I'm sorry. It will be a good test for me because if I do apologize, I want it to come from a place of sincerity, and as well, because I think that my actions or words may have caused harm to another, whether intentionally or not.

Intentions have little to do with whether or not an apology is warranted. Being an optimist, I think that most folks have fairly good intentions toward others, but sometimes human priorities come into conflict with others. Yet because of that, there may be a need for an apology out of inattention, neglect, trivialization of another's feelings and/or an ignorance (in the sense of "not knowing") of the importance of something to another.

The cost to another of an inability to say I'm sorry is a distortion of the other person's perceptions--e.g. pretending what happened really did not, walking away from a situation leaving the other person standing thinking, "am I crazy?" or was that really cruel, insensitive, thoughtless? Or, it makes the other person alone responsible for how a relationship goes, despite the reality that it takes two people to create a difficult situation and both of their attention to resolve it. This is especially true in cases where one is not actively aggressive, but passively neglectful--"what? I didn't do anything". The issue really doesn't go away. It may shrink in importance in the larger scheme of things over time, but a lack of resolution or "closure" for both parties having worked through a conflict leaves a mark on hearts that could otherwise use the salve of two simple words to do a world of healing.

I don't believe it's ever too late to apologize, and it's only too early if the apology is not sincere. Some of the most important people in my life have never said they're sorry to me. I have come to accept it as "their way," but being the marshmallow hearted being I am, it is something that confuses me. It does not make me love them any less, but it does make me wonder if they know how much it would mean to me if they could.

Got to Be There, And She's on My Mind . . .

I got a call from my youngest daughter tonight. She is a newlywed, hard worker and radically grounded person. She also holds every little stress inside until she bursts forth with all the things that are getting to her. She has never had a life without challenges to handle; she has just been hyper-responsible about trying to take them on all by herself. This is not good for her, but it is her way. I have learned over the years that when things are hard for her, she turns inside of herself and goes quiet until she is ready to talk. Then a world of the sources of her challenges or hurt come out in real, frank, candid ways as she expresses herself in very clear terms. I feel so fortunate to know who she is, to wait patiently for those moments because she lets me know when they are, and I never want to ignore them. This is the thing about connecting with others--it is not taking advantage of others' good will, but at the same time being able to fully trust that they will not let you down when it really matters.

At this time in her life, she is in a radical transition from a person in a committed relationship to a wife. She is learning how to negotiate that role because she has always been independent and self-sufficient (maybe even to a fault). She nurtures others till she has little left to give. She remembers everyone on birthdays and other holidays and checks in regularly with family members, taking comfort in their support and love for her.

But my life as her mother has taught me that not only does she need someone who knows her well to listen and accept her, but also, when she is ready to talk, I've got to be there. She reaches these tempests at inconvenient times sometimes, but I don't care. We have managed successfully to speak to each other as adults as she has grown into her young professional and personal life. She has always been grounded, self-motivated and generally expected too much of herself, standing aside at times to a point of invisibility in order to allow other priorities to be addressed by others around her. In her marriage, she cannot make herself invisible to a husband who loves her like crazy. She is also interdependent, and that gives her a feeling of vulnerability because she cannot always lead and as well, knows it is not fair to wrap herself into that tight cocoon of inaccessibility.

Those are strategies she has always used to help her function and take the next step forward. She also has superwomanish expectations of herself. But I know that she needs soft places to fall and relief from her hyper-responsible shouldering of all that matters to her. It is hard to be so far away, but when we see each other, we make the most of the time together and have a lot of fun--she cracks me up. She's generally not chatty, but when she is, I know for a fact that she needs someone to care and listen. Other family members have helped me so much in that regard and stood in as surrogates through the miles, and I am grateful for it.

Here's how it also goes. After she has worked up every possible "mother concern" I can imagine, she "figures things out" and will call later sounding strong and sure. But that's just part of being her mother, and I am grateful to be held in that kind of esteem and trust by her. Ever since she was a little girl, she liked to be certain, to know what was coming the next day, whether it was for a school lunch or a new situation. When she was about eight, I had given her 12 hour Contact for a cold in the morning. We were driving in the car that evening and she asked me what time it was. I told her, and she said, "well that means in about 17 minutes my nose will start running." That is her through and through. Uncertainty and "newness" is hard for her until she works at something long enough to feel steady-footed.

She used to dread every birthday because she liked being nine and didn't know what it would be like to be ten. She used to dislike and mistrust her new elementary school teachers for the first two months of the new school year, and then in the last month, not want to go on to the next grade because she liked her teacher. She was always the "quiet", "on task" kid in the class and teachers would always seat her next to the rowdiest and hard to control child. After awhile this got to be a little old, and I finally discussed it with her teacher. She has a calming effect on everyone around her because she is so grounded; but she does this at her own expense because it appears as if she has no needs--for approval, love, concern, care, help with tasks, conversation and worries. Yet those who are closest to her can tell when she is beginning to unravel from that tight cocoon she has woven to protect herself from disappointment or challenges that lie ahead.

This is my youngest daughter, my beloved child, who when she hurts, I hurt, when she worries, I worry because I know that despite her strong habits and practicality, she is as human as any of the rest of us and has needs to be recognized, cared about, accepted and listened to. (Of course I feel the same way about my other daughter). Yet she and her husband have planned and budgeted and waited for the honeymoon of their dreams. She is facing circumstances that will not make the trip as carefree as it might otherwise have been when the planning began because she is facing some uncertainties. I hope she is able to relax and enjoy the relief from daily pressures she and her husband deserve, and that others will also recognize that she, too needs support.

Commencement 2010

Commencement means a beginning rather than how it is commonly thought of as an "ending" of jumping through a lot of hoops to get a piece of paper. Tomorrow evening at 7:30 I will get to read the names of about 200 graduates and hope that I will not butcher them. So I practice. This is our second year as an independent school at the institution where I work. We have the responsibility of educating about 800 students in communication arts and technologies. It is our "second" independent commencement, so the initial "honeymoon" year is nine months beyond us.

It was a difficult semester because I literally "limped" through it, setting aside household management and other things to continue along the trail of quitting smoking and healing a bad knee. Today I spoke with an unhappy father whose student had not told him the whole truth about why he is not graduating. It happens much more frequently than one might think. Last year, a whole family came from Ghana to see their loved one cross the stage, ignorant of the six credit hours she has to complete in order to receive her diploma.

I answered e-mails from three of my students who were unhappy with the grades they received, spelling out the things they earned credit for and areas where assignments were not completed or were done inadequately. I really like these students, and it is not a happy occasion for me to deliver unfortunate news, but I am not doing them any favors if I am not honest about their performance according to the criteria that were laid out for them in the beginning. I understand they get distracted, do things hastily, have other commitments (some of them work as many as 30 other hours a week), and have assignments for other classes.

But it would be a form of patronization and ethical betrayal to not let them know where they stand. This is the hard part of teaching. I have another situation where I am pretty sure the student bought or "lifted" a paper from some online site. The jury is still out on that, and I do not enjoy playing detective. But if I close my eyes, again I am not being fair to other students in the class who turned in work they had actually done themselves. Another situation that came my way in the last week was a student who turned in the same paper for credit for two different classes. This is not okay. So I am responsible for confronting the situation on behalf of the dean's office and doing so in a firm, but supportive way. I always ask two other people to read what I have written or discuss the thing I think is appropriate to do to make the situation go away fast (rather than to blow it up into a big storm).

I have learned a lot by being the "point person" to handle these things and frankly, enjoy the challenge. While I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, I think I am better at delivering it than others might be. Sometimes I have to clean up a grade mess that would not have become one if the instructor had just been responsive to the student. Students usually get the maddest if they are ignored or harshly criticized in an undiplomatic manner. In those cases, it's never really about the grade.

Teachers have to develop a tough skin because whether students like you or not, they will tell you what they think about you, your class and what they learned (or did not) at the end of every 14 week semester. I have developed a ritual for reading those evaluations. I look at them once, see if there are any common negative responses and make a note of it for "next time". If they write comments as if I am the Messiah, I take those with a grain of salt too. I am most interested in thoughtful feedback about the course materials, organization and structure. As well, I am concerned about whether or not students thought they were treated fairly and respectfully.

What's so strange is that this is where parenting comes in. I want to treat my students in a manner that I would want any other teacher to treat my daughters. I don't want them "judged", given "hopeless" messages or singled out because of a personality conflict. Teachers work hard and students can be brats sometimes, but teachers also do stupid things (that also find their way to my office--e.g. swearing at a student unless it's some kind of demonstration of a concept, not starting or ending class on time, changing the goal post after having given students one set of criteria, droning on to a point where the students have no possible chance of learning anything because they will all be asleep, or giving a whole class with a power point presentation entirely in the dark for nearly two hours, rushing through a lecture to "get through all the material" instead of genuinely answering student questions, or treating questions like a bother).

I have spent much of my time this year putting out these kinds of little fires, hoping that they don't become forest-sized. I get the teacher's point of view and generally know who our best teachers are. There are also teachers whose work would be enhanced by making a few minor tactical changes. I get the students' right to have clear answers to questions, adequate time to complete assignments, realistic expectations, given the information and direction they've been given in class, and basic human respect whether they're the brightest bulb in the group or someone who really needs a little extra help. And frankly, I try to forget about a student's performance on one thing before they turn in the next. These days that is pretty easy because I can only hold so many things in one brain. Yet in the end, I do hope that something I've said or taught sticks with even one young person because over the course of 23 years of teaching, it might make a difference to the world when that "one" begins to become a more conscious citizen, more informed opinion maker, or just a better person. I never expect the "matter" of my class to be memorized, but the ability to write, read and speak to be enhanced in a way that is more thoughtful than when they walked in. In return, my students give me the feeling that I have something to say, experience to share, and knowledge that may be of importance someday.

Today, Verse I

I'll be a dandy
And I'll be a rover
You'll know who I am
By the songs that I sing
I'll feast at your table,
I'll sleep in your clover,
Who cares what tomorrow shall bring?

I just remembered the verse to this song in addition to the chorus. . . amazing how old memories come back and words find you when you're not thinking too hard.

I like this verse:)

Today

Not too long ago, Amanda reminded me of a song that I used to sing to my girls when they were young. I used to read a couple books to them and sing four or five standards right before I tucked them in for the night. On this Mothers' Day, Sunday, May 9th, 2010, my heart is full of memories of those nightime rituals and the other songs I used to sing. Silent Night, Away in a Manger, It Only Takes a Spark, You Are My Sunshine and Today.

They are the only two people in the world I can imagine would have liked my singing because they had not yet learned the meaning of "tone deaf". That was their gift to me as their mother--to love that time and be soothed by it. They grew up as a "pair" and the three of us made up our household's family--small but mighty.

They have now each added a son in law and their extended families to that fold and I am grateful to have two young gentlemen in my life who are likely to go to the ends of the earth to keep my daughters fulfilled. One of them has blessed me with a beautiful grandaughter.

I heard from both girls today, my sister, mother and the Amorosos, who invited me to dinner. Though I could not be with any of them, the the colors in my heart were pink, yellow, orange, lavender and white like the flowers that symbolize a day that cynics would say is a commercial enterprise designed to sell merchandise and cards. I have a different opinion because I know too many mothers that are the seat of strength of their families and who frankly, make every other holiday that comes through the year happen.

Nothing means more to this mother than hearing from a child she nurtured into adulthood with a better than decent outcome. It's a day of pride, remembrance, hope and wishes for many blessings to come to the adult children whose lives are well ahead of them, while living in the present moment. And it's a day of celebration for big steps for a little girl who successfully pee-peed in the potty chair today. Those "firsts" are the stuff of a mother's memories and grandmother's dreams that all will be well.

So I leave this blog with the words to one of my favorite lullabies, hoping it will soothe and bring the lyrics to precious lives.

Today
While the blossoms
Still cling
To the vine
I'll taste your strawberries
I'll drink your sweet wine
A million tomorrows
Shall all pass away,
E're I forget
All the joy
That is mine
Today.

"Signs" of Memory

My Auntie Amy gave my mother a black wrought iron sign with a sunshine at the top. It said:

A kiss of the sun for pardon
A song of the birds for mirth,
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth

Auntie Amy had one of the most beautiful gardens in the back of her cottage-like home in San Bernardino I had ever seen. I couldn't tell you the names of the flowers, but do recall that every time I visited, whatever she had in that white clapboard garden shed of hers produced magic all around it. Everything was alive, perfectly groomed and so, so colorful. There were pinks and yellows, lavenders and deep purple, peachy tones, whites and barely pinks.

For years, that garden blessing was held into the ground of our backyard on Plumbago street. Having spent many years in that yard, I've held on to the words for a long time. I have always been impressed by anyone who can grow beautiful things. My father has a green thumb, and when he is in his yard, watching him is like watching a young, nimble boy lovingly pulling this weed, trimming that hedge, watering those plants. I remember I wasn't so happy with him when he planted large ferns in the cedar chest that I had always thought would be my "hope chest", even if I had old fashioned ideas. I loved the smell of that chest, which I imagined would lose its woody scent having been potted and planted.

In retrospect, I have watched my Dad tend those ferns for about 25 years and they are still alive, still thriving and beautiful every time I visit home. All of this "life" of memories comes back to me with the idea of gardens, growing things, beautiful flowers and people I love.

That cedar chest reminded me of my grandfather's house. I am actually not sure if it was because his address was on "Cedar Avenue" or because his house had wooden trinkets in it made of cedar. This is how memories are. . .they draw on multiple senses, places, faces and experiences that come together into a big ball of imagery that calls up other images, sights, sounds and smells that fill a heart and feed a soul.

The sign that Auntie Amy gave my Mom is still around, but it now blesses the vegetable garden in Carpinteria where my father grows bell peppers, zucchini, green beans and tomatoes. I love to see it and everything it reminds me of when I go home--natural surroundings, a little yellow house, the smell of salt air, the distant rush of ocean waves, seagulls squawking, morning fog, afternoon sunshine, sandy towels, a good book, the smell of barbecue, badminton birdies and racquets and loved ones around me cooking, sleeping, playing, reading, walking the dog and just being together in times and places that feel like home.

With Mother's Day approaching, my thoughts turn to home and what it means. All of it is home. All of them are home, and my mother, who brought me into this world through her labor and love, gifted me with life and the meaningful things that surrounded me and sustain memories that feed my soul.

Big Questions

There is something to be said for loving oneself, but what that means is a different question. I know a lot of people who "love" themselves, but I am unsure if it is limited to self-acceptance or self-admiration. I beg the indulgence of anyone who chooses to read this stuff because I am once again getting philosophical, but hey. . . it's my blog:) And these are genuine questions rather than clear answers.

Acquaintances and colleagues I know and could identify as probably accepting or "loving" themselves may be the least likely people in the world to have enough self-awareness to notice if they have done some kind of harm to another. Put more bluntly, they walk around the world "dropping bombs" all around them, never even hearing the explosion or glancing back to see if there is any fallout in their wake.

On the other hand, people that I consider to be true friends and family members have at least a modicum of humility in their character--enough to able to say, "I'm sorry," "Oh, wow, I didn't know it affected you that way," or joke more about their own misanthropic escapades than those of others.

The other day I was at Amy's house and her brother was telling a story about her having had too much wine as they were in a hotel lobby checking in to attend a family member's funeral. Apparently, Amy was "HIC" "HIC" "HICCUPING" about every three seconds with everyone in the lobby highly aware of her obvious condition. We all laughed hard, but not AT Amy, but with her because she among all of us was most intensely aware of the humor in the situation. Humor and humility have similar roots ("hum"). I do not know if this is an accident, but it would be interesting to know. That story led to me talking about my Mother in Mexico when she had had one too many margaritas and fell asleep in the hotel lobby. My father, unable to move her checked back about every ten minutes for the next few hours while my mother (who snores) slept peacefully in the clay and beautiful mosaic tiled lobby of some resort in Puerto Vallarta or Cancun.

I mention these stories not to embarrass anybody, but to suggest two intuitions I have about self-love that have nothing to do with alcohol consumption. The first is that these stories are enjoyable and funny because the people who love these ladies take pleasure in their company, enjoy the memories created by them and know, "there but by the grace of God go I". In other words, there is no one in the group who cannot imagine themselves humbled and entertained (later) by the experience.

Additionally, neither of them have such fragile egos or are so tender-skinned that they cannot embrace or understand the genuine and loving intentions of their storytellers. They share a history, a life, memories, years in each others' company and trust each others' motivations enough to surrender once in awhile to laughing at oneself and be humbled by it.

I think that trust matters a lot here. If I don't trust myself enough to draw a line when someone crosses it, then I can be others' "victim" indefinitely. But if I do trust myself, have self-love, integrity, humility and surround myself with people I love and trust, then I have very little to worry about. No person is an island, and we all live in a world of other people. So I don't think self-love can be fully understood if not in the context of other human beings.

These are questions that philosophers and theologians have debated for centuries, so I don't expect to solve these questions in a puny blog post. But as I continue this introspective journey, I do think they are important questions to ask.

Love, Work, Faith and Music

The only antidotes for the fallout that comes from disappointment, feelings of betrayal or downright emotional devastation are love, work, faith and music. It is the collective effect of each of these things that make a person resilient. A bit of resourcefulness doesn't hurt, either. Of all those experiences, love is the greatest. It does not need to be romantic love, but genuine support and affection of those who mean the most to you. A cute phone call from a niece, a baby's smile, a best friend cracking you up or a parent's genuine acceptance, a surprise flower delivery from a sister--that is the stuff of love, and it shores up a person long enough to stand up after crawling out of hole or falling face-flat.

Work is an important way to immerse oneself into something other than the self-deprecation, shame and embarrassment of feeling like a fool for not having done better. Maya Angelou said wisely that "when you know better, you do better". But work is the thing that gets a person out of self-rumination and taking over the downward spiral engendered by the person or things that caused a hardship in the first place; sometimes it IS somebody else's neglect, cruelty or messed up motives that create a bad situation. However, once recognized, it takes work, disconnection and then "real" work that can distract the focus on self or other enough to create the necessary distance and relief found in everyday routines and good work.

At a very low point in my life, I volunteered at a community center that tutored teenage mothers to pass their GED so that they would be more employable. The site had a day care, but often the learners couldn't get to a tutoring session because they didn't have train fare or transportation to make an appointment. Doing this kind of work was fulfilling and put my own difficulties into much greater perspective. Strangely enough, I did it more for myself than for the few learners I helped, and I didn't walk away with any great success stories except that I felt better. Satisfying work, whether cleaning a closet or delivering a grand presentation are equally valuable in healing a wounded spirit.

Faith encompasses love and work. Faith is trusting that you are a beloved child of an almighty power who will set the universe right in time and in a way that is unexpected. Human wisdom is no match for the wisdom and strength of God. When I can't get myself to do anything productive and feel alone and unloved, my faith that there is a loving, forgiving, strong and caring God sustains me. When I go to bed at night, that is when I feel the powerful presence of my faith calling out for peace, joy and comfort. Sometimes it takes every ounce of strength to believe I will not be forsaken and that I am not "in this" alone.

I pray that my daughters will not not forget that we are a family and that we share a history, for all its bumps and joys--and that someday the joys will outshine the bumps in their memories of the three of us. It is my most fervent prayer because it means more to me than any possession, job, or achievment. My mother instinctively knew that love and work went together, and my father showed me that trust is something that is earned through loyalty, acceptance and faith in your children with open, welcoming arms at every turn. They were not preachy or the Bible quoting kind, but they LIVED with love, work and faith in all they did to help us become thriving adults. Sometimes I am afraid that I have failed them because I have not found love in the tradition of their 54 year marriage.

It may seem strange to find music in this antidote to sadness, but musical lyrics are about the only place where I find honesty in words. Singer-songwriters lay their hearts out not for "one" other, but for a world of people to hear what is in their soul. If I think of only a few song titles from U-2, who are known for meaningful lyrics (in addition to excellent stage shows), they say a lot about understanding what it means to be human--"Stuck in a Moment You Can't Get Out Of" (Been there, done that), "Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own," (never wanting to ask for help is a big mistake if you need it), "Numb" (speaks for itself), and "Dreaming with Tears in My Eyes" (spent more time than I'd like to admit in this state of affairs).

I guess the point here is to write what creates a life of resilience, getting back on the horse, picking yourself up when you fall down, looking back and saying "what did that person or experience teach me about who I am and/or want to be?" I may be wrong, but I don't want to be one of those middle aged people who has strong frown lines cemented into their bitter, aging face. I don't want to feel hopeless, though at times it is important to surrender to the condition of things. I don't want to be so self-absorped that I cannot consider the things I do and say affect others. I don't want to be the "Debbie Downer" at the party. And I think it's a waste of a life to walk through it in bitterness, carelessness, droopiness or without contributing SOMETHING to the world in which I live. Of all the things I believe I have contributed, the most important gestures have been time and dedication to people I have loved. Of all the things I am proud of, Amanda and Stephanie are not "mine" per-se, but some product of my values and trials that make them good people that others want to know and love. There is no greater joy than that knowledge.

Tripping Along, Tripping Up, Round Two

I have never been one to hunt for a man. The lessons I got from Mom as a young girl taught me to do anything but that. From the time of my adolescent years forward, I was always pretty busy, relatively contented and focused on some kind of activity that was satisfying. I held a philosophy that the boys come and go, but your girlfriends will always be there.

I'd be walking along, contented, true to myself and a person of the opposite sex would somehow "trip me"--not literally, but persevere in their attentions so that at some point I would look up and say, hey, you may be interesting. I think for the majority of my life I have operated that way for better and worse. I'm not certain about this, but think part of what attracts others to me is my independence. I reciprocate with a lack of "neediness", confident that I will not be smothered into my world of claustrophobia. Paradoxically, if I choose to respond to another's attentions, that person is either "in" or "out". This phrase has been used on Project Runway with regard to a fickle fashion world, but for me there is no "in-between". I am "there" or not. I am "in a relationship" or not. I am loyal and bestow the same attitude onto another until I have been shown that my trust and human gifts have been misplaced.

The German found me in Philadelphia at a conference where I observed his strong intelligence, my shared academic interests and his certain initial charm. He was witty, gentlemanly and forthcoming. He dressed nicely and had an interesting face that looked like the guy on CSI Miami with red hair and a moustache in the style of Mark Twain. He dressed with European panache, had a big smile and an appealing accent. All of this was topped off by a unique walk where with each step, he ended up on the balls of his feet before taking the next.

We toured Philadelphia together at his invitation, went out to listen to music, visited the Liberty Bell, which I touched for the first time and accompanied each other to a conference party. By the end of the conference, others assumed we had come together, and neither of us corrected anybody. We learned that we lived two hours away from each other in Illinois and that he had previously lived in Evanston. We were both Assistant Professors striving to earn tenure. Having recently left grad school, I was in a community vaccuum with regard to my discipline and appreciated his timely intellectual companionship and challenge. We had vigorous debates over philosophy and the relationship of language to human behavior. We both enjoyed Indie films, art, live music, a good beer now and then and travel.

I was finishing my dissertation that summer, and the kids were in California for an extended period of time so that I could do it. He was finishing a book that he eventually dedicated to me in a surprise birthday "reveal". That's how it started--intense periods of separately working and coming together to relax and enjoy the completion of a chapter or edits.

Having children was an appealing part of my life to him and he made a genuine effort to integrate into the tight threesome we had cultivated over the years. He had an interest in precious rocks, taught my daughters about art, stepped in to shop for summer camp supplies for Steffie one year when I was unable to do it, and carried on long philosophical conversations with Amanda about the ways of the world. He attended parent-teacher conferences and other events of the kids' when he could.

He liked their intelligence and was highly entertained by the parade of nine and ten year olds that came through our place. Over a period of five years, we cultivated "couples" relationships with parents of their friends, enjoyed invitations to parties together and shared parts of our professional lives with each other when possible--going to the same conferences, attending presentations we each did, and enjoying a Thanksgiving dinner with well known intellectuals that were colleagues of his. Our worlds criss-crossed in important ways.

Yet I never quite allowed his full immersion into our family because of some commitments I could not wrangle out of him and a certain hesitance over sides of his character that can only be described as a little Jeckyl and Hyde-ish. I disagreed with some of his parenting philosophies; he was inexperienced, but extremely confident in his knowledge and logic. Some things that happen with kids are illogical, take flying by the seat of your pants understanding and are the product of emotional intelligence and sensitivity rather than high-end idealism. As these doubts crept into my consciousness, he brought me flowers, called every night, made considerable efforts to see us with reliability and regularity, and offered up professional commonalities that connected our worlds.

There are many intellectuals that are competitive, driven, self-absorbed and self-righteous. There are also cultural tendencies among Germans to feel right-minded in taking what they see as "wrongs" and confronting others at any given moment. These qualities leaked and spewed into our relationship, and more importantly my family in ways that had a serious destabilizing effect in hindsight. What kept me there is that I could disagree vehemently (and often did), feel and express anger (and often did)--sometimes in acceptable and dispassionate ways and other times with great heat and passion. I did this without enough consideration for the effect that the dynamic had on my daughters.

It was a relationship where I had taken a risk to share every part of my self and life. I had aspired to actually share the experience of raising my children with somebody who was present for me and them. In substantial ways he was. In others, he was like a chemical for me that brought destructive elements to my sense of values, parenting intuitions and general common sense. My longing and imagination connected to my dreams overpowered the daily realities of our lives.

I had never had the experience of being able to express my anger in a relationship and have the person take it in, consider it and sometimes admit that I had a point. If we had a disagreement, he always came back. I needed to learn how to work through a problem with another instead of pretending it didn't happen, which was what I had been conditioned to accept in my first long-term relationship. My daughters felt the fallout--of sharing their mother with someone else, of watching their mother make bad decisions and take non-sensical risks with their tender pre-puberty and adolecent years, and of having a mother around that was unpredictable, at times deeply unhappy and confused, but trying to make something work without becoming unrecognizable to myself or my daughters.

One of my daughters connected with him and the other did not; she seemed to adopt and attitude of tolerance and a strategy of distancing herself. I made a decision after a significant crisis to leave; however, it took me another year and a half to actually do it because I could not bear to deprive my eldest of a stepfatherly relationship that was important to her. When we parted, I was relieved, exhausted, embarrassed, and feeling stupid because of the destabilizing effects this relationship had on my family.

We had met each others families, traveled to Finland, Germany, St. Louis, and Jamaica together. During each of those trips, I suffered his character limitations and my tolerance for them (at the risk of sounding self-righteous here, I am an easygoing traveler and equally optimistic person); as well, I learned things I never would have otherwise. I was just tenacious enough to refuse to admit I had made a bad choice. After all, relationships have their ups and downs, don't they? It was the first man I had allowed into my family's life and I did not want to be wrong about it. So I tried and cried and endured because I felt responsible for making the initial decision to let him "in" in the first place.

When the relationship ended, it was with a whimper. When I lose respect for another, it is not possible for me to love them either. His actions had whittled away at any threads of connection I would tolerate. As well, my own self-respect and integrity as a woman of quality were at risk. When that happens, it's time to go. I cannot get those years back for my daughters, and that is a great regret. I feel ashamed having allowed five years of a bit of wreckage to happen--I am strong and can endure the complications of adult failings. It's one thing if a woman alone experiences betrayal or heartbreak, but to impose that onto one's children is nearly unforgivable. The only "reparation" I could conceive of was to promise that the next five years I would have kids at home, I would do everything possible to re-establish a genuine sense of the three of us. It may have been too late because whether is was teen angst that would have happened anyway, or a certain emotional rawness that had weakened me, we were all considerably damaged.

The whole of the experience was more dream-breaking than life-giving. So the next step was to conjure new dreams and set aside any hope I had ever imagined that I would share the beauty of raising my daughters with another that was fully present for me and them. That was big, because my most fervent dream of all else that I have done in my life was to share the joy of parenting, talk about and make decisions together, sit side by side at LaCrosse meets and plays, celebrate milestones with the kids and have a common understanding of what it was like when a "first" happened for one of the girls. The German guy did much of that, but just enough to tempt me into believing in commitments that turned out to be more words than deed.

I have paid my penance, but I do not know if either of my children have forgiven me for the German guy.

That's Amore!

When we arrived in Chicago at our third story walk-up, the first person I met was Andy. He had an English accent, a bit of (probably well-earned) confidence about his ability to charm others and a phone available for me to call Wally, the building engineer I needed to meet to let us in the building. This happened in the days before everyone had their own cellies, and well before I had given in to getting one for myself. Not long afterwards, I met Amy, whose assertive opinions, pet boa constrictors and bold honesty gave me a bit of pause and a similar dose of curiosity.

I had heard from Andy that Amy ran an Indonesian import business and was on a buying venture. Andy was a pilot and they had met in Indonesia. They eventually married. When she returned, it was a hot August rainy day in 1992 and I knocked on their door once again to use their phone (mine had not yet been installed). Amy was sitting on her sofa at noon drinking a gin and tonic, watching her son Tyler and wondering what to give him for lunch. She offered me a drink that I could not refuse, only partly because of her Italian ways of persuading others, but because that would be my first choice of mixed drink.

My daughters were upstairs, and soon afterwards, Amy and I ordered pizza delivery. Tyler and Steffie, who were the same age spent hours together reading encyclopedias, playing games and entertaining each other the way that third graders do. Amanda and Amy became fast friends because Amy is a beader, jewelry maker, free-spirited hippie and artisan who genuinely enjoyed Amanda's company and like-minded curiosities. Almost eighteen years have passed and the Amorosos became the family we needed eight states away from our own.

Amy has a way of collecting people and making sure they know she cares. She is staunchly loyal, her house is always full of somebody she has "adopted," and her continuous oral communication includes advice, jokes, critiques, playful banter, insistent commands, all peppered with a the color of a sailor's vocabulary and simultaneous laughter that make her quintessentially Amy. She seems to dance through life, reaching heights of hysteria, happiness and frustration in equal measure. She has little regard for whether you are an adult or a child in her home; I mean this in a positive way. All are held to the same standards and "wrath" she brings upon them while loving and hugging them without judgement. She is obsessive compulsive in her kitchen whether cooking or cleaning.

Her petite frame, exotic beauty, long wavy hair and light-footed steps make her seem twenty years younger than her forty-three years, yet she has probably lived the experience of someone twice her age. Amy doesn't cruise through life; she MAKES life lively, exciting, warm, homegrown, opinionated, non-traditional and rooted in her Italian upbringing in a manner that I think emulates the father of hers, Lou, that I never had the good fortune to meet. She has traveled more places in her lifetime than most foreign correspondents, often with her children in tow, having worked miraculous "deals" for flights and lodging in ways that only such a seasoned traveler would be able to pull off.

Amy is well-read, worldly, spontaneous and rigid at the same time. I have never met anyone like her and doubt I ever will again. And I have never felt so openly, heartily, lovingly welcomed into the family fold of anyone's except the one in which I grew up. It is difficult to say all that Amy and the extensions of her persistence have meant to me and my daughters. There is Andy, who has been a surrogate uncle to my girls, a best buddy and joking partner to me and a presence in all things Amoroso. He and Amy celebrated my successful dissertation defense in 1993 with me in their rented clapboard two-flat with the multi-colored rooms. Andy and I sat in a large bamboo chair with a round, black duckcloth pillow and I laughed harder that night than I think I have ever laughed. Amy danced and swirled around the room while I processed what I had just completed.

Before that, we had joined families for spaghetti dinners and "Manwiches," which Amanda thought were hilarious. There was a night when my good friend Jen came out to Chicago from Salt Lake to help me unload boxes into our new place. She got caught after a shower in only a towel by Amy and her sister Lisa, who also lived downstairs when they came in for something. Neither blinked, but Jen was shy and mortified until she had plied herself with enough liquor to keep us all in stitches with stories of her trials at dating Mormon men. Since then, she has come out happily as lesbian.

Amy and I went on a shopping trip up Clark Street to the hispanic part of town where resale shops have now been replaced by convenience or cheap furniture stores. I don't remember if I found anything, but Amy bought a retro green hanging lamp and a black wrought iron gothic cabinet to display her treasures with. Andy was unhappy with the weight of the item and refused to haul it upstairs, but ever resourceful, Amy found a couple guys on the street willing to do it for a few dollars. I think she remembers that day, however, solely by the Judds music cassette I had not yet managed to replace. Having listened to it through several states, the girls and I knew all the lyrics and Amy jumped in to sing along with us, laughing hysterically about it.

Then there are Lisa and Phil, whom I cannot quite think of separately, though Lisa may dislike reading that. Lisa is Amy's faithful sister, companion and near opposite. She, too has been a loyal and welcoming member of the Amoroso bunch. She lived with Amy, Andy and Tyler downstairs on Forest Avenue, and I met her in the same orbit of time. Lisa is practical, a planner, loving, sensible, solid and relatively uncomplicated. She is beautiful, petite, playful, clever, almost organized, well-informed and has a great sense of humor. She shares her sister's ability to empathize when I've needed a friend, and has different tastes in entertainment than Amy, but if Amy "collects" people to her center, Lisa "centers" everybody around her.

I have had great times with Lisa in her own terms. She makes me laugh, gives me sound advice, but usually only if I ask for it. We have similar professional lives, and I have shared the experiences of taking line-dancing classes with her (where we were the only two pupils until eighty year-old Barbara joined us about three weeks late, slightly annoying Lisa as she flailed around the room, missing nearly all of cowboy Bernie's instructions). I have gone with Lisa and Phil to dinner, plays, barbecues and met them unexpectedly at Amy's house or looked for them at Amy's blast of an annual Christmas party. I could not miss Lisa the first time she wore her black glitter, eight inch platform boots or the second time, when she wore them with her wedding dress (that still fits). I also could not miss her generosity when she loaned her home to me for a barbeque to welcome my daughters home the first time they had both been in town at the same time for years.

Phil is Lisa's husband now, but was her boyfriend with the long ponytail in 1992. About fifteen years ago, he traded that look in for the slightly graying cut of a responsible father of two children. Phil likes music, Monty Python, Harry Potter and music, aspiring someday when he retires to be in a barbershop quartet. He has cooked me dinner, brownies, barbecued and initiated "pestopalooza" in collaboration with Amy when the year's pesto crops are cheap and everybody chips in with labor and/or a few dollars for the best pesto this side of the Atlantic Ocean. I had a tank-shirt that said "Amore" I would wear to that occasion to show my respect for the dedication and love with which friends and family would gather to have an old fashioned harvest season celebration.

Laney is Amy and Lisa's mother, my party companion, who used to bring Grandma Alice to many occasions until she grew too weak to come. I loved Grandma Alice because I would sit across from her while others were busy serving food or clearing plates. She wouldn't say much, but I waited for her bits of wit that she spoke like darts, always with the wisdom of a woman in her eighties. We had nice conversations and I always enjoyed her commentary on the family dynamics going on around her. I miss her presence at the Amoroso gatherings, but will never forget her.

Laney and I became friends over the years through her daughters' gatherings and our mutual presence. She cooks up an excellent Thanksgiving dinner, great crab dip, Italian meatballs and lobster bisque. She can tell a story with every possible detail and is well loved by all her grandchildren. She has the chubbiest cat I have ever seen and a lovely home where she used to cater to Grandma Alice's late in life needs. The funniest thing about Laney and me is that I have not attended one of Amy's Christmas parties in the last several years where someone has not mistaken me for Laney. I take it as a compliment because she is a beautiful woman. However, I hesitate to fully embrace the compliment because I am ten years her junior. I have been asked on more occasions than I can count if I am Amy and Lisa's mother. It makes me laugh and I have said more than once to Laney that it's a good thing; I can do whatever I want at a party and everyone will think it's her:)

I could say so much more about this family, but if I write about each individual event or how much it meant to me, I will end up with a short novel. So I am resigned to writing a list of things the Amoroso's have done with and for me and my daughters, all of which are acts of kindness that have inspired me to love them all. Eighteen years is a long time.

Amy and Lisa keep my secrets but probably share them with each other and possibly their husbands.

Amy and Lisa have both listened to me when I have been down or worried about something.

This family has included my family in multiple holiday celebrations when I or my daughters and I would have been alone, unable to get to California.

Andy took me to emergency when I sprained an ankle.

Andy set me up with Greek Yanni.

Lisa met me in emergency when a doctor thought I might need a spinal tap.

Amy took me to the doctor the day I was diagnosed with diabetes.

Amy sat with me through an outpatient surgery and had the good sense to keep me at her house by drying my yoga pants for hours, that is only after supplying my surgeon with her good "pre-surgical" medical advice for him. She kept me busy practicing my Spanis language skills before surgery so I wouldn't get too anxious.

Laney invited me to Great Wolf Lodge to spend a weekend with her, Carmen, Claire, Sarah, Nate and Lisa.

Phil showed up for an oboe concert on my behalf so that Steffie would have someone in her audience.

Phil and Lisa went through college application decisions with Steffie when she was trying to decide.

Amy took Amanda in for two weeks when she was a teenager to give us both a break from strain.

Amy and Andy went to see Amanda in a play at Chicago Academy for the Arts.

Amy went to Amanda's high school graduation and dinner afterwards.

Amy, Lisa and Laney came to Steffie's high school graduation party.

Lisa and Phil took me to a beautiful dinner with Walt and Lois.

Amy, Andy, Claire, Sarah and Laney flew to California for Stephanie and Ryan's wedding.

Amy and I went to the Wild Hare to get our reggae dance on.

They ALL ask me how my lovelife is when I see them.

They are ALL honest with me when they think something is wrong with/for me.

They have given me the beautiful gift of knowing and loving their children as I would my own nieces and nephew. Beautiful and smart Claire, bubbly, talented and flirty little Sarah, bossy, beautiful and sharp little Carmen (Frito to me), and chess-playing, fast moving, bosom loving Nate. I could say a bunch more about these kids, too.

I have probably missed some things here, but I hope you get the point. I am lucky, grateful, amused, happy, blessed and in awe of this family's generosity toward me and my daughters.

Spring Funk: an Act of Complete Self Indulgence

I have been in a springtime funk. . .and then I get funky about feeling funky. I found out two days ago that it's normal for somebody quitting smoking; apparently your brain chemistry changes and when you don't get the consistent "pleasure" of cigarettes, the brain says, "hey. . . I need something good". . . sweets, writing like a banchee, talking to my family. . . ANYTHING that's satisfying. That's why I have no cravings for nicotine at work. It's simple; I like it. If you don't do the good stuff, then your brain says, "crawl into a little cave and stay there; sleep, then get mad at yourself for sleeping and being unproductive".

That has been the course of my more recent weekends probably helped along a little by genuine fatigue. That's what I call a "funk". Being a cancerian, that is my tendency according to the stars and moon anyway. There is enormous relief in knowing that I am not "overly" menopausal, having a "weak-willed" craving for chocolate chip cookies and ice cream drumsticks or just a middle-aged lady whose life is going downhill unless I find a puppy soon. I travel too much to get a pet anyway because it would not be fair to the doggy.

I also complicate funky days because I am genuinely optimistic and generally happy. They scrape against my natural tendencies like sandpaper on raw skin. I will escape this shell with the reassurance that I am not lazy, crazy or doomed to being a shut-in. I also found out that my knee is not broken, the ligaments and cartilege are in good shape, but I have a "bone bruise" that appears to have been caused by severe trauma. Yes, I alone whacked my knee on February 1st on my desk and would not recommend that swift and unconscious act to anyone:) I do not think that helps any because it is stressful to be in pain. And I do not want to forget what it feels like to be without it. Forgive me, but I guess this post is my self-indulgent "pleasure" for the night. Crab, crab, crab:)

Eastward Ho to A Hard Knocks Town

The girls and I had loaded our household belongings into cardboard boxes that would be dollied and heaved into a Bekins moving truck. I implored the drivers to please stop by my small office in the now disassembled building that stood as the former Department of Communication at University of Utah. In the chaos of moving, I had completely forgotten about my books. A beloved mentor, Mary Strine made a mad dash to help me in her sensible shoes, skirt and jacket. I had acquired a library over the past four years and would need all of it. Somehow as the Bekins guys finished hefting full cartons, Mary and I sealed the last box almost simultaneously.

I watched the long haulers drive away with nearly everything the girls and I owned, trusting we would find each other again at our final destination, 824 Forest Avenue, Evanston Illinois. It was a red brick third floor walk-up with a beautiful sunroom, bay windows, two and a half bedrooms and two baths. The girls had made the trip to Chicago with me to help pick out the apartment and see a bit of the city so that the transition would not lead them to an entirely unfamiliar place. We were less than a block away from Lincoln Elementary School, where the neighbor kids their ages would also attend.

The last evening in Salt Lake, I had been invited by my friends to participate in my one and only public go at Kareoke. Four years earlier my fellow grad students had invited me to a first night out. I surprised myself and everyone else who had just met me by hula hooping my way to a prize of unlimited, flowing champagne for my group. On the night of departure, I sang Supremes songs, complete with gestures, accompanied by my girlfriends. Unlike my entry into wild Salt Lake City night life, I didn't need much egging on because I had memorized that whole album full of lyrics at the age of thirteen. I had lived and died by "Can't Buy Me Love," "I Hear a Symphony," "Can't Hurry Love" and other great Motown records. I don't remember if it was because I had no other albums or it was the only one I liked.

We slept in our apartment that night, empty of all but ourselves, a few blankets and pillows and Sophie the bunny. I was confident about our drive because my Honda was in good shape, the girls were happy travelers, and Sophie the bunny would be contained by his cage and toys. We made our way eastward as far as Wyoming and stopped for the night, resting, eating and buying cheap audiotapes because we were sick of our music. We had heard Billy Idol's "White Wedding" one two many times, no matter how much I still love that song because it belongs to Steffie. Our choices were limited because of where we were, so we ended up with the Judds, InXS and John Cougar Mellencamp. In the next fourteen hours' drive, we would wear through those songs too, till they had no soles left.

The weather had cooperated with us through Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa and most of Illinois until we were about five minutes' drive from our new address. The sky opened up with the greatest torrential downpour I had ever experienced. Fatigued, at the back end of a 14 hour drive, nearly blind from the sheets of water pummelling our windshield, and a little lost anyway, I hit a fork in the road that required a choice to go right or straight. I went right, but the police officer behind me believed I should have gone straight.

I learned that day that Chicago can be a hard-knocks town. The officer used his lights to pull me over and then kept me, my daughters and the bunny waiting in the pouring rain for approximately 45 minutes. When he approached the car, he asked me to turn over my driver's license, explaining that I would get it back when I appeared in court. I protested because I needed my identification to get the keys to my apartment, open a bank account, register the kids for school and to secure my employment contract. He then explained that I could pay him 70.00 to keep the license.

Completely naive to the special "ways" of Chicago traffic law, I did not agree to turn over my license and thought I was being bribed when he asked for money. As it turns out, a "ticketed" driver does actually turn over their license and "drives on a ticket" if identification is needed. As well, the only way to avoid driving on a ticket is to admit guilt then and there, pay the alotted fine and go on with your day. HOW WOULD I HAVE KNOWN THAT? I had Utah license plates, a bunny and two blond elementary age girls in the car, and have never been told I look like a hardened criminal. I may have looked a little haggard, but it could not have been that bad. Because I questioned his authority, I was invited to the local police precinct to work the matter out with a higher authority. I was able to keep my license and agreed to show up for a court date. When it came, the arrogant, bully officer actually showed up to argue the case. Once the judge heard what I had to say, she said, "no ticket, no fine, case dismissed". The police officer never got to say a word.

That was the day I learned that Chicago is a city that dishes out hard knocks, but also has a heart. The same person who is tailgaiting and honking their horn at you will once passing, notice you are lost and stop to help you find your way. The people on the street walk quickly, do not look you in the eye and seem detached. Actually they are being polite by staying out of your business unless you feel like engaging them. In a city with so many people, it is important to avoid causing minor annoyances and to give others space.

There is nothing that could have prepared me for living in Chicago except having grown up here. The weather is as extreme as it is changeable. The public transportation is excellent and you can get anywhere you want to go for a few dollars. Museums are free on Tuesdays. We have an aquarium, broadcast, sports, historical, science and black history museums. There is an architecture tour, a beautiful river, a lake that looks like the ocean. Every kind of public figure passes through here and many come from Chicago. President Obama, Rahm Emanuel, Ann Margaret, "Ross" from "Friends", Roger Ebert, Hilary Clinton, Vince Vaughan, John and Joan Cusack, Jeremy Piven, Gary Sinise (of CSI NY). Most Saturday Night Live comedians got their start with Chicago's Second City. Music emerges out of various "scenes" and genres here--Death Cab for Cutie, Smashing Pumpkins and nearly every great Blues artist. If you want it, you can find it; go to the Green Mill for jazz, Blue Chicago for Blues, places in uptown for local or hard rock, and to Ravinia in the summertime for the wine and cheese crowd.

We have award winning athletic teams in any sport you could imagine--Da Bears, Da Bulls, Da Cubs (Da S. .)--not a fan--da Hawks, da Fire, da Sky and the historic Wrigley and Soldier Fields. We are home to ESPN, NBC, Fox, WBBM, WTTW and Harpo Studios. We have a thriving theatre district that runs every good play that passes through Broadway and then some. There is an Art Institute that has famous paintings from Monet, Manet, Picasso, Renoir, and visiting exhibits of global importance. There is more to say, but the point is that with opportunity and cosmopolitanism comes difficulty, hard-edged rules, and a lot to remember.

Between November 1st and April 1st, I have to park on the east or west side of the street on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 8 pm and 7 after a two inch snow. During spring, summer and early fall, I have to park on the west side of the street on Tuesdays and the east side on Thursdays for street cleaning--that is, between the hours of 9 am and 4 pm. I need to buy my "city sticker" in addition to my car license registration in January. If I forget any of these things and/or do not see a sign, I will be ticketed, booted or towed--and I have had all of those things happen to me. I pay for parking to work at my job; I am able to get the "pay" in pre-tax dollars, so that is my reward.

If a person does not start out "ahead" in Chicago, it is difficult to "get ahead". It is possible to live a quality life, to experience wonderful things, to enjoy summer festivals that are free to the public and happen around town every day. However, it is also necessary to bundle up, pay attention to the weather and parking situation every day, to abide by changes in rules and become flexible in driving routes. It is common here for major construction projects to close down well driven roads, city blocks, or expressway off-ramps without warning. In the mornings, to avoid traffic jams, westbound lanes of the expressway are turned into eastbound lanes with only a few bright orange pilons. If you don't know this, you will wonder why others are going the wrong way in your "westbound" lane. But it's Chicago. . .

This is a land where they dye the river green on St. Patrick's Day, at any given moment in a grocery store line, you can ask another how the Bears or Cubs played and they'll know. It is a place of energy, vibrance, colleges, univerisites, tech schools, arts academies, formally educated people, corporate executives and good hearted working people who can all come together for a Cubs game at Wrigleyville, and it is difficult to tell who's who. That's Chicago, too.

Letting Go

There are at least two kinds of letting go. One ends with a bit of a whimper, a few fond memories, maybe embarrassment, mild indifference, genuine affection and no real hard feelings. A second requires time out, a shut and locked door or tightly closed box to hold in all that has been experienced. Real love gone by the wayside belongs in that place of containment for self protection and an ability to move along.

This is how I have learned to care for meaningful memories and the sacred parts of my life with others who are important to me when a time to say goodbye comes. I have wondered if I am afraid of intimacy and have come to the sensibility that I am not. I have fled to that place of safety that is solitary so that I can regroup, reflect and try not to impose my healing heart onto others. The second kind of letting go creates the pulse from which growth and learning is possible. I fail to find words to describe all that is in those tightly locked rooms of memories and maybe that is why I think of them as sacred, whether they are devastating or things that were a source of great elation and fulfillment.

Love is a big thing. And it is much more than a feeling. In his widely read book, The Road Less Traveled, Scott Peck argues that loving is about "doing"--being there even when you don't want to be, loving another even when they are not behaving in a lovable way, and making a choice to commit to making it through difficulties. "Doing" love means taking a partnership or parenting relationship seriously enough to choose to be there. Yet that gift of love becomes a kind of masochism for the tenacious one when another has already let him or herself loose from genuine commitment.

That is the tricky part. For me with family members, that commitment is lifelong. There is no question and no letting go. In relationships of choice, there is an everpresent opportunity to enhance or destroy what is there. While the same opportunity exists with familial ties, there is no good that can come from doing things that destroy relationships with people who will in the end, be the ones to lean on when everything else seems to be falling apart.

I have been loved unequivocally by certain people at my best and worst moments and hold those who have done so with a felt tenderness that is immeasurable. I believe these folks know who they are. I cannot explain what boils down only to an overly sentimental sounding description of a place where souls meet and I have been "known" by that other with pure acceptance. This is the best approximation of the experience I am trying to convey, but it is still inadequate and cheesy. Another way to put this is that they "get it" and show me love anyway. These gifts have come often enough at just the right times to allow me the freedom to let go when I have needed to. I don't know if I will figure out the rest of it, but knowing I have places to go where I am loved, accepted, enjoyed and appreciated makes life more meaningful than anything if all else from daily living is stripped away.