I Thought My Father Was God

I hope this does not insult believers, it’s not my intention. But I did think my father was God, at least in the eyes of his young daughter. His intelligence, his swift and capable handling of arising problems, his compassionate and caring mannerisms, his protective personality. I felt safe and fearless in his care. Isn’t that what faith is about?

I felt this with Mom, too. But the frequencies were different, feminine/masculine energy, yin/yang, etc. She did protect me – my mother was compact but powerful, her size gave her an edge, her strength was unexpected, her movements swift with intention. Mostly she was the nurturer, the feeder, the one who sat and talked to me late into the evening.

My youth, even with divorce and the ugliness and shame that evoked, was happy. There was stability, routine, and popularity enough to make it work. My parents were available, just not together. While I loathed this fact, I learned there were advantages. I had more alone time with each of them, our time, while perhaps less flowing, was more intentional. We were aware, especially with my dad, that it would end.

I think that going through tough times early in life has advantages – particularly when primary needs (and beyond) are taken care of. Amd mine were. The disruption that difficult times cause brings with it awareness, presence, feelings – all the little reminders of being alive. Troubled times set me up to appreciate fun times. This wasn’t a conscious decision on my part, it was by default – but it was.

So, while I am aware that my mom and dad are not God, I am just as aware that they were two of the most influential people in my young, and adult, life. They taught by example. They were smart, thoughtful, selfish, injured and loving people. They gave me life and care and attention and guidance. I do not believe I can adequately thank them, although I do not believe they would need me to. I, as a parent, can pass it forward.
And that is enough.


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I Can See The Dawn

Life in the self publishing lane has improved. When Balboa heard my concerns, when I got to the right person (always important), circumstances changed quickly and I received a competent human to work with. The difference (duh) is remarkable not only in the speed of response, the content in emails back and forth, but in my state of mind. I feel calmer, taken care of, unruffled.

IMG_0333And in the midst of the experience comes possibility from other sources (cover designer, support from many writers). Synchronicity. Serendipity. All kinds of good stuff. Another reminder to not stay stuck, to open the channels of energy and communication because therein lie the unexpected goodies of life.

In yoga, we take poses to open spaces. They are generally intentioned for body parts – chest, hip joint, back, jaw. When I feel stuck and overwhelmed, I back up, close off, turn away, the opposite of what my yoga poses are meant to achieve. I imagine, at the time, that I am getting perspective. But more often I am getting isolated and withdrawn, traits accompanied by their own sets of problems.

IMG_0304Yoga classes leave me stronger, more connected, vulnerable and open. The real change of import being the attitude with which I approach what is happening. I believe I am supported so I come from an attitude of security, not fear, knowing that I can handle what comes up, no matter the outcome. It is a very different way to live life.

I am excited about the book and its forward motion, I am excited about my blog and my readers, I am excited about my family members and friends (who I am connecting with on deeper and sustainable levels), and I am excited about the activities in my life. May this day bring you an unexpected nudge inviting you to join, just a bit more, your inside and outside environments.

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The Dealeo?

I was fully prepared to write a glowing review for Balboa, virtually retracting my prior bouts. But that is not going to happen. Not today.

The reason for this, is that the call I was to receive this morning, by a new Check-In-Coordinator, never came. Zilch. Nothing. Nada.

Really? Am I paying good money – thousands of dollars, to be ignored, dealt with shabbily, have my time disrespected? As I shake my head and work to control my rising anger, my closest friend calls. We discuss her son’s wedding.

It takes a conversation with my daughter for the fog in my mind to clear, and to realize that the day I sit at my computer, waiting patiently (or otherwise) for a phone call from a publishing business – is Sunday. To compound the issue – because I am nothing if not fastidiously detailed (except, apparently, for the day of the week) I wait a reasonable thirty minutes, then make phone calls to the dear Coordination Manager I spoke to last Friday, and the friendly woman who initially signed me up.

The conversation with my daughter goes like this:
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Dara’s.”
“But don’t you have things to handle today?”
“Mom, it’s Sunday.”

And that’s when it hits me, like a ton of bricks. My hyper-vigilance, my micromanaging, my lost day. I immediately re-email these women, who I am embarrassingly aware must think I am insane, and apologize.

There are reasons, justifications, considerations. But still. I was presented with myself full on and I had to take a deep breath and a hard look. I was feeling insecure about the competence of the help I was receiving from Balboa and I turned a bit looney in the face of it. And I had gone to an afternoon backyard party Saturday that felt like a Sunday.

The lesson for me, when I feel this way, is to slow down. I jump onto the fast track, and I speed along like a racing interstate locomotive. I take no prisoners. Nor do I apply brakes. And, an even harder lesson for a perfectionist like me, is that I make mistakes, too. Like. Every. Other. Human. It’s humbling, and I clearly need the reminders: Stay focused, stay kind, and still do what I need to do. It’s a hell of a lesson for a Sunday morning.

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Balboa – Bout Two

It has been a while since I signed up with Balboa, and a while since I last wrote about the process.

Suffice it to say, I’m not having fun.

The gentleman I’m working with, let’s call him WE (as a metaphor for all us authors and what we’ve got to deal with when we choose to self-publish). WE, has a very long turn around time responding to emails. So much so that he either responds after the email was relevant, as in: “Oh sorry, I just saw this, I didn’t know I should’ve called,” or he misses the emails entirely, as in: “I apologize, I didn’t even see your last email.”

This has caused frustration (What else is new?) and more importantly delays in handling issues and moving forward. My timeline for services has been pushed back. Daily. I became so annoyed at his fourth or fifth apology, that I called the woman who originally signed me, convincing me, sucker that I am, of the benefits of using a self-publisher that puts the name – HAY HOUSE – on their books. Quality control. Would HAY HOUSE let anything important slip by? The implication, I am now only assuming, being that it does not.

Well guys, so far, not impressed. But let us not put the cart before the horse, I have a 10 a.m. phone consult with WE, in which I plan to address – and handle – any and all outstanding impediments to moving forward. He assured me it was “on his calendar”. I am unable to rush the process on their end, but I bloody well can make sure he and I are on the same page and up to date.

Once again dear friends and readers, stay tuned…Bout Three is right around the corner. Perhaps with a surprise ending.

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Writing is a sign,  an expression, a sharing of the soul. Today I read a creative nonfiction project that my son wrote for a writing class in college. Four years ago. It turned up randomly, accidentally, intentionally. Regardless, it was really good. 

It makes me happy to see how good a writing class can be, especially when the person has talent.

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Worst Is A Five Letter Word

My worst day was the day I understood with my mind, and felt in my heart, that my marriage had ended. That it was really, actually, fully, over. My wishes and hopes for my future and my children’s future, vanished. Like a well-executed magic trick.

The white dove in the magician’s hand – gone. The colorful scarf pulled from his sleeve – gone. The lady sawed in half, lying in a wooden box – gone. How is it possible? It makes no sense. And yet, it happened. Everyone saw it.


But it wasn’t until I lost my parents, that I understood the concept of worst days. Days so meaty I felt broiled, burned, thick with never-ending grizzle that strangled me. It was heavy and out-of-body. An experience I wouldn’t recommend – except that it’s a wake-up call, the likes of which I haven’t felt, before or since. Reminds you you’re alive. Reminds you to be grateful. Reminds you how often we are consumed with very unimportant matters.

And it reminds me that worst is relative. My imagination cannot successfully conceive of worst. And this, my friends, is a problem for which I am grateful.



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The Problem With Prolific

Since I was a pre-teen, and emotions swept through me like the raging storm they were, I wrote. There is hardly an extended period of time I can remember, except when life was boringly easy, that I wasn’t expressing myself in poem, song, prose, story or journal. It came as naturally as summer breezes and winter frosts.

4675450200_fab91ffb75_sI am, at times, so abundantly productive that I literally lose myself in writing. Unfortunately, as easily, I lose the writings themselves. This morning I scoured my computer looking for a fictionalized story of my life that I began writing yeas ago. I found it (thank God I printed it out) when I was looking for the email list I lost – which was to be fodder for the sale of my memoir. Another topic entirely – to which I promise to return In time.

KoalaAs I age, I get more involved with more dealings and I find myself less organized. Or perhaps it’s a memory issue. Anyway, I was looking on my computer for this fictionalized story because I was editing the hard copy and that was becoming cumbersome. I did not (of course) locate this story anywhere – on my hard-drive, in my documents, downloads, Microsoft word files, writing folders – but I did come across something else. Chapters of beautiful writing for my book that I entirely lost sight of, forgot was there, remembered I even wrote.

roaring tigerThe heartache, the tears, the self-flagellation that took place – nah, just kidding. It was more shock, surprise and pride. I was amazed at how much and how well I could express myself. Then my pride turned to overwhelm. I sat starring at a computer screen of lovely words, and I wanted to crawl under my desk, like a child, and hide. From myself. Because I questioned my memory, my commitment to myself, my career, my future, what exactly I was doing. I was not proud now, I was frightened – because an old friend, rather an old energy, known by the name perfection – had found her way back into my unsuspecting brain.

saying for self esteem'happinessJudging. Myself. Not an unfamiliar feeling, and I don’t usually measure up. Especially if perfection is hard hitting, which it is by definition (to say nothing of impossible to achieve). So, the healthy side of me chose to write about it in a post, bringing it into the light of day and out of the recesses of my enabling mind. And I feel better. A little. Because I see it for what it is (although the organization and memory issues are not un-disturbing), a blue dragon with fire breath that will never be satisfied. On the other hand, while imperfection abounds, I can still be pleased with small successes achieved and a talent I relish. Regardless of the outcome.

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