Age 3 in Retrospect

Occasionally I make it a habit to clear out my writing folder on my desktop, discarding pieces or re-organizing them into my writing portfolio if they have some legs. Sometimes I find a piece or two that never made it to a formal blog – these are usually rambling, micro observations on my life at a point in time.  Today I found this one…obviously written at the height of epic year long struggle with my then three year old Jaden, and it gave me the opportunity to look back.  This was the year I decided, simultaneously, that my daughter was a force of nature and that I was destined to be a one-child mommy.  By far, age 3 was the roughest year to date – but one that, even dominated by struggles and challenges, provided me those amazing moments of serenity, grace and beauty that come with raising a child. I remain, humbled and grateful by the amazing blessing that is my daughter.   

Most mornings with my three year old are dominated by defiant stances in pink polka-dotted tights, barely eaten breakfasts and dramatic screams during hair-combing and styling sessions.  Most mornings my little girl wakes with only one true desire…to challenge me at every turn. I battle over clothes, shoes, what can and can’t accompany her to school.  She makes demands and launches sabotage attacks to delay our departure while I anxiously watch the clock.  Somehow we manage to stubble out the door, both of us a little worse for wear than we should be.  Most mornings.

Oh… but then there comes that rare, blue moon of a morning where every moment seems as saturated by joy and mirth as any before.  Jaden wakes up with smiles and kisses.  She makes her own way to the potty. She does not throw open my shower door but just waves at me through the glass, a blurry, happy vision in pink princess pajamas.  She helps me feed the dogs. She cleans up her books and toys, before I trip over them.  She gladly accepts whatever outfit I have and dresses quickly instead of diving back beneath the covers to avoid me. She leans lovingly against me as I slip on her shoes. She even takes her drink cup downstairs and puts it in the sink for me.  I make breakfast and she eats it.  We sit side by side, munching and talking contentedly.  

Those Seismic Shifts and the Theraputic Properties of Electronic Ink

This quote, from one of my favorite writers, brings me particular comfort today - a day when I feel out of sorts, like a ship that has suddenly broke from its mooring in an increasingly agitated sea.

I have always found my balance through writing. It has brought me closure and peace more readily than any hour spent on a therapist couch. Sometimes I feel like I have a nest of bees inside, an angry buzzing colony of secrets and the only thing that brings me serenity is to write. I have often used electronic ink to battle back my anxiety and plaguing doubts. There are things however, that I can not put to paper and because I can not, I carry them with me always. Grief, guilt, anger, shame...these things all bare a particular weight in one's heart. Still, I do the best I can, even on those days when I feel the shifting seismic plates of fate beneath my feet.

The Irreplaceable Truth

Once upon a time I wandered a bit farther than I should have from my hotel in Bogota, Colombia and found myself in a tiny makeshift shop of an old woman who worked with clay. 

I was instantly enchanted by her creations, the intricate details of her tiny donkeys and saints scattered across the folding table.  The woman looked to be in her nineties, her fingers were terribly snarled and crooked with age.  In my tentative Spanish I asked her if she made them all, gesturing to the figures strew about her.  She nodded vigorously, then as if to prove it, she produced a tiny burro from her pocket.  I could see the clay was still damp and dark. She began to carve and smooth it, holding it up to show me how she worked the clay with one of her thumbnails.  She watched me looking over her wares as I tried to decide what I should take, calculating how many of the delicate pieces I could realistically cart back safety.   

I had a tiny donkey in each hand when I noticed the nativity behind her.  I was immediately struck by the serene expressions on the faces of Mary and Joseph and on the tiny baby Jesus in his crib of straw. It was rustically beautiful.  The lines of Mary’s flowing robes and the magical tilt of her face were peaceful and perfectly wrought. In her sweet face one could see all the wonder and mystery of her faith.  The touches of white paint on the trim of her hood and the delicate features of her infant were almost magical in their artistry. It was at once both simple and intricate. This nativity had been clearly made, not just by an artist, but by a woman of deep faith and love.  It moved me, touched something in spiritual inside me.  

I put down the donkeys and pointed to the nativity. The woman broke into toothy smile. Without thinking about how I would manage to get such a fragile thing home in one piece, I handed her a twenty dollar bill – almost twice the price she had told me.  She produced a roll of bubble wrap and some crumpled newspaper and proceeded to wrap each of the figures with deliberate care.

My holy family made it home with me unscathed. Every year since, I have gently unwrapped it and set it out during the Christmas season in a place of honor. Over the years, edges have chipped and some clay has crumbled in places.  I am dismayed each year to find more clay dust in the wrappings whenever I unpack the figures.  I am the only one who handles it and each year I try my very best to minimize any damage. It has become one of my most treasured heirlooms. It is one of the only things I own that is truly irreplaceable. That is why when I came home that first afternoon and saw the anguish on my mother-in-law’s sweet face, I knew. I knew she had broken something. As much as I silently prayed it wasn’t my beautiful nativity, in my broken heart I knew it was.  

She had accidently bumped the table and sent Joseph tumbling to the floor.  He had been efficiently decapitated, the clay fragments turning to dust on the hardwood floor.  She was devastated, asking me over and over if it had been expensive. I assured it that it hadn’t been valuable, and it hadn’t been, at least not in the monetary sense.  My daughter’s eyes were like saucers having learned from a very early age that my nativity was never to be touched.  She reached for Joseph’s tiny clay head, visibly preparing for the rage she expected was coming. I looked at my mother-in-law in tears and took one very long deep breathe before dismissing her apologies and telling her reassuringly that it was “no problem Mom.”   

After, I fled to the driveway to shed my private tears and call my husband. 

He listened, understanding at once the gravity of it all. I believe he must have instantly began combing the internet looking for a replacement sending me pic after pic of nativities that were nothing at all like mine. I told him that was pointless. I knew would never find another like it.  I told him how awful she felt. We agreed that he would not to say anything more. The damage was done, it had been an accident and there was no sense in making her feel any worse.  I reasoned that at least I still had my beautiful Mary and baby Jesus was still safely stowed away until Christmas Eve.  I admitted that we could probably try to reattach Joseph’s head, sans his neck of course, and conceded that perhaps no one would notice his missing hands or nose in dim light.  I reasoned, I reassured, I conceded…and I cried. 

 Standing in the driveway in the bitter cold, tears running down my face, I managed to find a surprising element of humor in the event. Suddenly laughing, I told him that how nativity had survived the trek home from South America, three moves, 14 years of being packed and unpacked, life with two dogs and a toddler and yet it could not make it through the first 24 hours of his mother’s visit. If that wasn’t ironic, I didn’t know what was. The laughter made my heart hurt less as laughter often does. 

By the time I went back inside, my mother-in-law and I had both recovered from our grief. I thought the most important thing was that my daughter had her grandmother here for the holidays. I thought about how much that meant and how much more meaningful that was than any Christmas decoration, regardless of how much it might have meant to me.  

I looked over to the solitary Mary in her corner and saw that the soft glow of the Christmas lights were casting bands of light and shadow over her serene features.  She looked as peaceful as always. 

I love my mother-in-law. Sometimes she is a virtual tornado that knows no bounds…but…I love her.  I love that she loves me and my daughter with the same fierceness that she loves her own children.  She treats my daughter like the treasure she is and lives every moment of her life to better the lives of her children and grandchildren and asks nothing in return.  I am completely and utterly certain this will not be the last thing she breaks, but regardless,  I am blessed to call her mother and to share my home and life with her. I welcome the peace of forgiveness and the humility of realizing that in the end, things are still just things.  It is our people and our moments with them that are irreplaceable.  

Writing to Remember and the Rush of Discovery

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Prompt: DAY 1449-- December 5, 2017
Prompt: “To write things as they happened means to enslave oneself to memory, which is only a minor element in the creative process.”
Aharon Appelfeld answering a question by Philip Roth
Do you agree with this statement and, as far as creativity goes, is writing fiction more creative than writing only stark personal experiences?

I began, in the early days of my pregnancy, to do something I had never done previously, I began writing for someone other than myself. I wanted to be certain my daughter would be left with a testimony on how it had felt to be her mother. From the ramblings of an anxious expectant mom to the joy of marking her milestones, I wrote with as much candor and emotion. There are many entries in this blog that I have earmarked for to be included in a book for her one day, a book only for her. I have continued to do that over these last few years and I am happy to have "enslaved myself" to the memories. There is a special joy in the gift of being able to read over something I've written about her as a toddler, or as a budding little girl that takes me back to the specific and lovely moments of raising her. While this type of writing may not be as creative as penning a story I felt like it some of the most important writing I have done. If I want to reach back to her at any age, I can find something in my words that evokes those feelings, those insights and they are not lost to the passage of time or the frailness of memory. For her, she can one day read my words and know that I was there - fully engaged and that I "saw her", every beautiful detail in her journey - even , the screaming fits and fights, the tears and the triumphs. These days I feel so acutely that time is fleeting. My daughter is a few short months from turning 8 and she is exploding with personality and ideas. I am running to keep up. She is strong and fierce, surprising us with her affinity for physical obstacles and fitness. I swear she grew three inches this summer and her slim, leggy frame hints at a adolescence that may well mirror more her father's lanky teenage years than mine. She loves reading, playing school with her dolls and lavishing affection on our aging Min Pin. Ultimately though, I see evidence that she is lonely. I am frequently plagued by the guilt of not have given her a sibling at the same time I know it will enable us to put all our resources into her. I have made a commitment to encourage and provide play dates as often as I can and I delight in watching her make the most of those opportunities. I know she is a good friend. She has made some wonderful friends and she adores them, dotes on them. Most of all at this age, my daughter has a kind heart as evidenced by her friendships and her perceptions of the world around her. She is a world of change, an amazing kaleidoscope of shifting likes and dislikes, interests and passions. Her eyes still speak volumes and her mona lisa smiles are still my most favorite expression to grace her beautiful face. I hope that one day, she will read about herself at age almost 8 and know how exceptionally proud we were of her and how clearly we could see her special spark.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1846 December 5th, 2017
On this day in 1848 US President Polk triggers Gold Rush of 1849 by confirming gold discovery in California.
What type of physical commodity (not something found on the internet) do you think would trigger that kind of reaction in today's world? Would you be tempted to join the masses and go for it or would you be a bystander?

If any commodity today were to trigger the same effect as the Gold Rush did, it would have to be especially rare and elusive. With the technology and resources today it would ignite a race of very different proportions. It would have to be something like physical proof of an alien civilization - moon rocks and alien technology that could be mined from the core of our own planet. Or, perhaps evidence of a celestial presence living among us, the hunt for the physical traces of angels and demons? Much I wouldn't have expected to run off to the wilds of California with my gold pan and waders, I doubt I would join the masses in such any such quest for the new "gold". I would be more apt to be a bystander, observing and recording. It is not that I am opposed to the thrill of the adventure, it is more that I hate that crowd mentality.

The Fearless Writer and the Super Moon

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
 DAY 1845: December 4, 2017 Prompt: "Write about something you don't know. And don't be scared, ever." - Toni Morrison. What are your thoughts on this quote?

A long time ago I was lucky enough to have taken a creative writing class with author Wally Lamb while he was still teaching at my local high school, before the commercial success of "She's Come Undone" and that life-changing call from Oprah. I remember there was one thing he told us that I still keep with me to this day...he told us to "write about what we know." I've have tried to do that, keeping a grain of truth and personal knowledge running through even my fictional pieces. Even if you are writing about the unknown, some lateral universe like the Upside down in Stranger Things...if you infuse it with details and elements that are familiar to you, of which you have some insight and knowledge, overall it will make your work read with more credibility. If you always come through with a bit of personal expertise or perspective, the readers will have a much easier time of accepting your worlds, your characters and plot lines.

One of my favorite authors is James Lee Burke. He has written many novels set in different eras, not all of them ones he has personally experienced. There is enough of his impressions, enough of his experiences and details in those stories that one would think he might have time-traveled. His descriptions of the places and people are so enriched with his own experiences and insights, that they come alive. There is no doubt in my mind that someone could not write so profoundly about the sites and sounds of the such places without having listened to them, seen them, felt them on some molecular level.

“The evening sky was streaked with purple, the color of torn plums, and a light rain had started to fall when I came to the end of the blacktop road that cut through twenty miles of thick, almost impenetrable scrub oak and pine and stopped at the front gate of Angola penitentiary.” The Neon Rain, by James Lee Burke

"It was the year none of the seasons followed their own dictates. The days were warm and the air hard to breathe without a kerchief, and the nights cold and damp, the wet burlap we nailed over the windows stiff with grit that blew in clouds out of the west amid sounds like a train grinding across the prairie. The moon was orange, or sometimes brown, as big as a planet, the way it is at harvest time, and the sun never more than a smudge, like a lightbulb flickering in the socket or a lucifer match burning inside its own smoke. In better times, our family would have been sitting together on the porch, in wicker chairs or on the glider, with glasses of lemonade and bowls of peach ice cream." Wayfaring Stranger, James Lee Burke

There is a fearlessness in Burke and in Lamb that inspire me. The ability to craft rich stories and lace such intimacies through them that we feel at once in step with their characters. These authors are giants in their talent in my humble opinion. I try to be fearless. I try to write without apology. I try to make sure I weave enough of me, enough of what I might know in the fabric of my stories. I don't know if I always succeed but it is one of the things I strive for.

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
DAY 1448-- December 4, 2017
Prompt: “The moon stared at me through sprinkled nighttime stardust and I alone smile.”
― Jay Long. On December 3 and 4 this year, we have the Super Moon. What kind of an effect has the full moon on you or some people you know or the characters you create?

Given the use-inspiring absolute ripeness of the super moon, its a small wonder that one had never featured prominently in any of my work.
As far as moon affecting people, there may be some truth to that. One has to wonder as fragile as human life can be, are we not at mercy to the pulls and tugs of celestial bodies moving in space? Who hasn't at one time or another blamed the irrational behavior of a co-worker, spouse or otherwise on the "full moon"?

Christmas Hearts & The Gift of Time

It is a rare and darkening mood I find myself in these days. Usually during the holidays, in all those candied days between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I walk around in some kind of blissful euphoria, giving in to that pleasant anticipation of the warm and happy memory-making to come. These days however, I feel immune to the charms of what has always been my favorite time of year. I feel numb to it. Pedestrian. The initial blossom of joy I felt after setting up the tree and decorations has faded somehow. I try to keep up all the appearances for the sake of my daughter, who has embraced all things Christmas with the unbridled excitement of a second grader. She should not be denied all the wonder of the season, all the joy, all the "feels". It would be tragic if I let my perpetual shadow cast a pale over her holly jolly world. It is somehow fitting that the prompt, on the day I recommitted to blogging (in hopes it would help my slip and slide), would be one about the "Christmas Heart". Writing to prompts is always a challenge and it is through challenges that I have always improved my writing. So....onto today's challenge.


"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 1443 November 29, 2017
Prompt: "Let us remember that the Christmas heart is a giving heart, a wide open heart that thinks of others first." What are your thoughts on this?

It is no secret that people feel naturally open to charity on the holidays. During Thanksgiving and Christmas, the very virtual of the holidays ask us to reflect on our blessings. In that time of reflection and gratitude, many of us are compelled to pay those blessings forward, to pass on the good fortune and help others. In the wake of Cyber Monday, we now have Giving Tuesday. Yesterday my Facebook feed erupted with friends and colleagues promoting causes - a wide array of charities worthy of donations and support. It is easy to have a Christmas heart during the holidays when we are surrounded by warmth and merriment, when we are moved by the spirit of giving. And that is truly wonderful...however, being charitable and openhearted shouldn't be just another part of the holiday season. When we take the tinsel down and put away the new gifts, shouldn't we still think about others? Shouldn't we still be present, be aware, be willing to pay it forward? Should the Christmas Heart just be stowed away in the back of the attic with the artificial tree? I think that for some that may be the case. Certainly it gets harder in this world to remember others when our own struggles become difficult. It is harder to keep that Christmas spirit once the carols fade and the curbs are covered in dirty snow. The challenge for us all as human beings is to maintain that giving and charitable heart all year round. It isn't just about donations either, its about kindness and acceptance. Its about thinking of others and understanding that we may never know the battles that people are fighting inside and so being kind should be our default setting. In this world today, we could all use more random acts of kindness, more year-round Christmas hearts.


DAY 1840: November 29, 2017
Prompt: “One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
What can you never get enough of? Is this something that people don't give you as a gift on a birthday or other gift giving holiday?

Over the years one of my favorite gifts to receive were books. I am a very tactile reader. I prefer the rigid bindings, the smell of the paper pages...the experience of crawling into bed with a good book. I have always shunned the e-readers and kindles. I dreamed of having one of those libraries that some mansions have with floor to ceiling shelves and one of those sliding ladders to pursue all the assembled titles. Reality has revealed the impracticality of such a dream. I don't have a room to spare for any such collection. Even the anthologies and magazines in which my own stories appear are relegated to one or two shelves in the closet of our spare room. And while I still love getting a good book for a gift, there is a necessity (and thankfully), a joy in passing it along to someone else to read and enjoy. Books aside, these days I think the one gift I can never get enough of may be time. As a working mom, I have such appreciation when someone tells me take some time for myself. When someone gifts you an hour or two of free time to "just do what you want to do"...its priceless. Having a few hours to myself to do something I want, like read a book, is the best possible gift.