new posts in all blogs
Viewing Blog: Life Scripted, Most Recent at Top
Results 1 - 25 of 63
Remembering Maggie
Statistics for Life Scripted
Number of Readers that added this blog to their MyJacketFlap: 0
Sometimes it’s the little unexpected gifts that surprise me most. A baby dove cooing on the windowsill or a bunny asleep under our crepe myrtle. I experienced one of those amazing moments today, in fact, but I had to go a bit further than my backyard to find it—or rather, for it to find me. I’ve taken a break from social media, blogging and a few needless chores to finish my writing project. A thin layer of dust never hurt anyone, and no one cares if the bed’s unmade. But there comes a time when the toilet paper runs low and you’re out of all foods that are actually healthy for your diet. Naturally I didn’t want my husband living off pancake mix or rationing the last of the TP. So, I grabbed my list and headed out for what I thought would be a normal grocery run. A trip to the store in the middle of a storm paid off in a great parking space, but the clouded sky and rain taps on the windshield lulled me into nap mode. I dragged myself out of the car and joined the rest of the shoppers inside. It was like slow motion in there. Everyone was running on empty. Then I smelled it—that dark bean roast whiff that makes your nose perk up. And I made a beeline for a caffeine fix. Only one person ahead of me, I thought. Her drink order was almost done, credit card out. I was so close. Then came Betty and John (at least that’s what I’m calling them). Right as a second barista emerged from the back, a couple rounded the other side of the coffee display and rolled their cart up to the counter. Honestly, I’m short, like, 5’2” in heels short. I knew they didn’t see me over the display, and it really wasn’t a big deal. But when John turned and saw me, he literally blushed. “Did we . . . cut in line?” John asked. “It’s fine.” I threw in a shrug, like, seriously, it’s not an issue. Besides, they were older and had just come in out of the rain. Betty was rubbing her arms like she wished she’d grabbed a jacket before they left. John tap, tap, tapped on Betty’s shoulder. She turned mid-order and said, “Oh, no. Was she here before us?” I repeated my go ahead’s and after an awkward pause, the barista got everyone’s drink order. Like I said, it was fine. I honestly didn’t think anything of it. Until I tried to pay. “Yours is covered,” the barista said when I took out my wallet. What? Now I was the one fumbling for what to say to John and Betty, but really all that mattered was, “Thank you.”
We talked until our coffee was ready, wished each other safe travels then parted ways.
Sometimes we forget what it’s like to be on the other end of kindness. To John and Betty, I say thanks for the reminder. I smiled all the way home.
 |
| From my Valentine |
This Valentine’s Day my husband did something amazing. He’s given me hand-made Valentine’s for several years, so I knew why he was staying late at work a few weeks before the big day. What I didn’t expect was for him to pour his heart and our dreams out on paper. He spent hours hand-cutting iconic landmarks of our dream vacations. It was over-the-top awesome.
The inside was a simple reminder about where we’ve been and where we’re going. And that got me thinking about how meaningful a few words can be for a relationship. They're a record for the heart, and records can be replayed anytime we need or want to hear them.
I spent part of Valentine’s sifting through a box of old cards and letters I’ve collected from family and friends over the years. Some of them were simple birthday greetings and wishes. Others were more intimate and made me examine who I was and who I was becoming.
One such letter came from my grandmother more than twenty years ago. Her words were hard to hear at the time, but they needed to be said so I could grow. Another was a brief note from my old boss who encouraged everyone she met to “make a difference” in people's lives. Both women were an inspiration to me.
Then there were the store-bought cards from relatives who were looking for the best way to express their sentiments. I treasured those words as if they were original to the giver. Sure we don’t normally gush like this out loud to each other, but when one of us needs to hear it we don’t hold back.
Typed and hand-written pages from my husband’s father, I love you’s from my parents, notes from my writing partner reminding me not to give up on my goals—I’ve kept them because they remind me that someone took the time to say something they felt was important. And maybe, if I listen to what they have to say, I'd be better off for it.
Okay, I know that sounds bad, but the reason I haven’t written in a while is because my husband and I have been through a difficult season. It began this summer with a bit of news about my health, which led to surgery and all the stress that comes with it, followed by another minor surgery for something different. A whole slew of issues arose post-op, but they were eventually resolved. Then my precious grandmother passed away in October, and though she’d had Alzheimer’s for many years, it was hard facing the fact that I wouldn’t be able to drop by and chat with her anymore.
So last night when my mother-in-law called to wish us a happy anniversary while we were cleaning the kitchen, hubs and I gave each other a what-in-the-heck-is-she-talking-aboutlook. Her next words were, “I know it’s a little late . . .” and I glanced at the date lit up on the phone, focusing on the number 23 when it hit me . . .
Holy crap. It’s our anniversary!
Ryan and I busted out laughing and admitted we had completely lost track of what day it was, so our 12th anniversary will fondly be remembered as the anniversary we, ahem, forgot.
To be fair, at the beginning of November we were so pooped coming out from under everything that had happened over the previous three months, we decided right then to wait and celebrate our anniversary after Thanksgiving. The closer we got to this weekend the better the idea seemed. His co-workers had a gathering Friday night. His sister and her family came in for my niece's birthday on Saturday, leaving Sunday for all the pre-Thanksgiving shopping and laundry. In fact, the weekend was so fulfilling, we didn’t even realize what we were missing.
Maybe it’s because we had spent part of Saturday morning telling each other what we appreciate about the other person (Yes, we do this from time to time and it’s one of my favorite things about our relationship). Or that we talked about our goals and future plans, feeling hopeful for the first time in a while. Whatever it was made the weekend special enough that neither of us felt let down by what happened.
So . . . happy anniversary to my husband and closest friend. He accepts all of my flaws, quirks and smirks. We’ve been through the best, the worst and the crazy difficult over the last 19 years (7 courting, 12 married), and I wouldn’t want to go through any of it without you.
Bramble rings adorn her toes,
Briarroot and sundried rose.
Ashen eyes with shaded grin,
Twisted roots flow from her skin.
This weekend my husband and I visited a 200-acre preserve. It was a bit of a drive with all of the highway construction, but once we got past the congested traffic the roads were open and quiet. When we reached our destination, parking, or a lack thereof, was a challenge so we circled the lot like sale-seekers on Black Friday. A spot eventually opened up and we got out of the car to stretch our legs.
With the air warm for the first time in months and the sun on our shoulders, we hiked the trails around a creek pressing deep into the forest . . . well, not really. We only went a few feet off-course to take pictures by the stream. Other families were there too with kids and pets, keeping as close to the main trail as possible.
It was a perfect afternoon, beautiful in all its late winter glory. The rustling leaves and eerie stillness gave me a ton of ideas for my new book. I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to get lost in the woods—splintered limbs and shadows in every direction.
How long would it take for the mind to become dense with fear? Five minutes into your off-path-detour? Perhaps later, when you became disoriented and a rustling vine next to your leg seemed to slither out from the shade.
I hope to hang on every hyper-vigilant sensation—uneasiness oozing onto the page as I craft my new scenes. It’s been difficult to write about a subject with so much retrospection, but it’s a challenge I hope will change my book’s main character as well as myself.
After a long couple of months of life knocking us about via illness and family in the hospital, my husband and I were thankful to spend a beautiful winter day strolling around my favorite gardens. We walked down the path and stopped to watch a squirrel forage for food. When he plucked up an acorn, his tail twitched in celebration. His teeth hummed like a saw as he sheared the shell from the meat. He didn't flinch when we walked away, and I doubt he noticed my shoulders relax at the sound of his soft crunching.
Our walk snaked through wooded trails and curved around a pond where turtles sunned themselves on stones. We hooked a left into the rose garden where a group of volunteers buzzed around the bushes pruning away expired buds and dead branches. Hidden in the butterfly nook, a painter stood at his easel working away at a beautiful watercolor. It seemed everyone was enjoying the stillness. Then a faint note slid across the breeze, a sound unlike trickling water or paws unearthing treasures. It had a higher pitch and was drawn out and down over the vast lawn, skittering about like dried leaves in the wind.
We set ourselves in a new direction toward the music and discovered a lone violinist tucked among the brush. The closer we got my insides unfolded like a flower reaching for the morning sun. The gentle melody flowed through me, pushing out everything else. When he paused between songs, I asked the musician where he was from and learned he’d stumbled on the gardens the same way we had, unexpectedly.
Our conversation was brief, but it was wonderful to meet someone who loved the city’s green space as much as we did. He went back to his violin, and for a moment I watched him, taking slow breaths in and out with the rhythm, fingers gliding over strings, bow cutting through the air around it. His music layered over the falling water, and I drank it in.
If I close my eyes, I can hear the last song he played. Though it wasn’t for me, I thanked him for his music anyway. He’ll never know how it warmed my heart and how grateful I was he chose that day and that hour to share his gift. It was a breath of fresh air that left me thinking about how we all have something beautiful to give.
While thumbing through some of my grandfather’s old military photos, I wondered what it was like for my dad’s father to kiss his family goodbye and board a ship during wartime. Or for my mom’s father to marry the woman of his dreams before he was deployed, his wedding band a reminder of the one waiting for his safe return.
As you can see in the photos, the men my grandfathers served with were so young, so brave—with loved ones of their own. I can only hope they were able to return to their families as my grandfathers did. As I look at those old pictures, I see the confident men they were, and I’m grateful for the men they became.
Paw-Paw and Frank
What I remember of my mom’s dad, Paw-Paw, is sitting on his lap by the fire while he taught me to read. Or the mornings we got bacon and cheese croissants for breakfast before heading to my elementary school where he coached the athletics teams. I remember the last big family trip we went on before he passed away. Paw-Paw drove, yes, I said drove the lot of us: granny, their best friends (Frank and Edith), my best friend and me up the east coast and into Canada.
Why would a man who survived a war wish a month-long car ride on himself, especially one with two first graders in tow? Maybe he wanted us to see what he fought for, to see our history and how far we’d come as a country. Maybe he wanted us to touch the Liberty Bell, to play in the ocean, and to see a harbor-side Tea Party that didn’t involve a rainbow-haired doll, a pup from the pound and friends from the cabbage patch.
Paw-Paw let us get away with everything on that trip. We set the alarms off at the Smithsonian, got into trouble at the World Trade Center for running circles in the building, and made faces at a cabbie in New York who flipped us off. (Not sure if I copied that move on the trip, but I’m sure Paw-Paw wouldn’t have tolerated it if I had.) He passed away a few years after that trip, and though I didn’t get to know him as an adult I did find out what a generous person he was in his community.
After his funeral, someone came forward and shared how Paw-Paw had delivered food and gifts to families in need during the holidays. He did this for years, and he did it in secret. No affirmation or applause for him. He just saw a need and met it. In the years that followed, his best friend, Frank, became a grandfather to me, stuffing me with cream filled cookies and bologna sandwiches. Frank picked up right where Paw-Paw left off.
Frank took care of his own family and basically adopted ours. He was the most active, hardworking man I ever met. Frank was also a war veteran and hero who once navigated a convoy of tanks up a mountainside on foot in a warzone. I didn’t know him in those glory days, but I knew him when he carried me on his other hip, opposite his granddaughter. I knew him when he checked on granny and me every night I was there to make sure we didn’t need anything before he and Edith went to bed. If ever there was a mold to break . . . he broke it and left his own legacy.
PopMy dad’s father, Pop, was also a huge part of my life. Pop had served in the military, and when I look at his pictures I see a quiet leadership, something he carried with him onto the biggest battlefield of his life: raising his five children and later babysitting his nine grandchildren. The stories I heard about my dad and his three brothers—firecrackers in toilets, accidentally lighting the back steps on fire (Who would do that on purpose?) . . . it’s a wonder Pop had any energy left for his two eldest, hyperactive, ballet dancing granddaughters.
I think my cousin and I gave him that white hair, and yet he took us to the park every weekend we were in town. He took us trick-or-treating on Halloween and decorated the outside of his house for us every Christmas. He even hand-painted our favorite caring bears on plywood cutouts he’d made and stuck them out on the lawn. And Pop was serious about his yard. He spent hours keeping it clean and made sure no animals, ahem,
went on his grass. So for him to stick cartoon characters out there where the whole world could see them—we knew we were special.
He endured every visit and let my cousin and me play hide-and-seek in the closets, jump on the beds, and slide down the stairs on our butts. Did I mention our volume was always set to high? Screams, giggles–it’s why Pop napped with a pillow over his head.
Now our visits with him are a little more . . . calm. He talks for a bit then settles into his red cushion and stares at the TV. Why? All he really wants is for us to sit beside him on the sofa while he watches black-and-white westerns in Spanish. Half the time he falls asleep, but hey, he’ll be 91 next week so I think he’s entitled to doze off whenever he wants.
So, what makes a great leader? Sacrifice. Bravery. Letting difficult situations shape your character and make you a better person. Giving what you can, even if you don’t have much yourself. Being there when it’s important. My grandfathers passed down these values, and I’m grateful for their service not only to our country, but also to my family. Happy Veteran’s Day, Pop. And thank you to all of our service men and women.
This week I began physical therapy for my ankle and foot. I was looking forward to my first visit about as much as I would a trip to the dentist or, oh, I don’t know, slamming my hand in a door on purpose. When I arrived for my appointment, the doctor’s office was filled with grunting, red-faced people who were working various injured limbs on machines. It was less like an edgy gym and more like a car repair shop.
The consultation was more or less torture with a smile. Toes were yanked, popped, twisted and bent in every direction. My foot was next. Then I limped from one office to another where I was stretched out on a table while a therapist wired my foot for electricity.
Me: “What does this do again?”
Therapy Lady: “It runs a current through your ankle and foot.”
Me: *gulp*
Therapy Lady: “I’m going to turn it up now. Can you feel it?”
Me: “Is it supposed to feel weird?”
Therapy Lady: “Like tingles?”
Me: *nods*
Therapy Lady: “Let me know when you feel any pain.”
Me: O_O
Therapy Lady: “We want it up as high as we can go. And if it hurts we bring it back down.” *smiles*
Me: “Um . . .” *ants crawling under my skin* “I think we’re good.”
There wasn’t much to do when she left except stare at the ceiling and wonder how long it’d take to cook my foot like a hotdog. Thankfully someone in the office loved rock music because it helped blur out the curse words coming from the gym floor.
Over the next few visits my mobility improved. They fried my foot again and added some strange exercises for my ankle involving a rubber ball and a wooden board. I got lots of high fives and attagirls and a sticker on my way out.
Not really.
But I did get a nice crisp receipt for my insurance. And there was a bowl of Easter candy on the counter for the taking, in July. Seriously though, the doctor and his staff were super awesome, and they made the hard work of rehabilitating a major body part fun.
One week behind me. Five more to go. Need chocolate. Preferably the kind that’s not expired.
Top ten things I’ve learned from twisting my ankle: - When the doctor says, “This may hurt a little.” Know that whatever they do next will probably involve re-twisting your ankle and you wanting to pass out, or barf.
- Don’t forget to reset the bar on the icemaker so you don’t run out of ice for your cold packs.
- I should NOT have skipped those pull-ups during my P90X workouts. (Who knew crutches were such a pain? *sigh*)
- Don’t be embarrassed to ask for help. I must’ve asked my hubs for a thousand little things this week, especially before we picked up my crutches. “Can you hand me my toothbrush? Deodorant? Some shorts? No. Not those shorts. The green ones. Yes, the ones with the squares on them. They’re dirty? Then just hand me whatever.” (How about a hammer to knock myself over the head.)
- When carting lightweight items from one place to the next, hang an old grocery sack around your wrist and use it as a carrier. (Think of it as being recycle chic.) If it’s heavy, wave your bag at the closest person and say, “Well, it’s not gonna’ fit in here, and it’s not gonna’ move itself.” (Totally kidding. If you just stand there looking pathetic, hopefully you won’t have to say anything.)
- Feeling useless and being in pain may make you grouchy. Try to keep it to yourself. (Note to self: Try to keep it to yourself. Try hard.)
- Conserve your energy with lots of reading, and if you have to be on crutches for a long time and your arms give out from sheer exhaustion, you can always crawl to your destination. (Don’t judge.)
- Nighttime can be rough if you’ve done too much during the day, i.e. trying to be helpful but actually getting in the way because you can’t get over feeling useless. See 4 and 7.
- Enjoy all that extra help around the house, and don’t forget to say thank you, a lot. (Thank you, hubs.)
- Every living room should come equipped with a toilet. (The less hobbling around, the better.)
Just a few notes for future reference, though hopefully there won’t be a next time.
A haiku about dance: Ballerina girl
Subjects her heart to the world
When she takes the stage.
So . . . apparently April 29 is
International Dance Day, a very cool fact I did not know until today. I find myself thinking back to all the hours I spent in the dance studio, including the first years of my college life—something I wouldn’t trade, no matter how many pairs of jazz and ballet shoes I went through.
Dance is like writing for me. It’ll always be a part of who I am. Some of my favorite memories are from that part of my life. I remember this one swing routine we were learning in college for a University alumni banquet performance. The choreographer we brought in from New York was, well, a real ball-buster.
It was getting down to the wire, and I was having an off night and getting yelled at, a lot. There was one tense moment when I was singled out. It was like the scene in
Meet the Fockers when Robert De Niro lets Ben Stiller know he’s watching him. It was all I could do to get through the week without the choreographer driving me to a breaking point. Through it all, my friends were a huge comfort.
When the week ended we kept rehearsing as a group, getting better, encouraging each other. And when I got on that stage for the performance, I didn’t even have to think about the steps. They just came.
Dance helped me grow. It taught me to persevere under pressure, and thank god because the performing arts world and the writing world aren’t much different in that respect.
So, in honor of International Dance Day, I’m sharing some old photos of some of the most supportive people I ever met—my fellow dancers. You can celebrate too. Just turn on some music and dance today.
This past Sunday was clear and breezy, a perfect day for the bluebonnet trails in Ennis, Texas. My husband and I made the drive, winding through dirt roads at slow speeds just to take in the miles of indigo fields.
There’s something peaceful about stepping out of the car and actually hearing the wind as it rustles branches and carries birdsongs from one tree to the next, a luxury I don’t always have living in the Metroplex. No honking or sirens assaulting my senses—just the sweet scent of spring and the warm sun kissing my shoulders. It was like being wrapped in a clean blanket fresh out of the dry.
At every turn I experienced something different: the giant carpenter bees buzzing around a dilapidated barn that lay fallen in the middle of a dense section of woods, cows settling down for an afternoon nap in the shade, butterflies drifting across hilltops looking for the perfect flower—everything doing what it was created to do. It was beautiful.
Today I look back on that wonderful afternoon and remember how vast the sky is and how small I am in comparison. I have hope that there is good and beauty and grace in this world, though, at times, it is hard to see it. I remember it best in the stillness. Other times I have to still myself.
My thoughts and prayers are with Boston. From what I’ve read in various posts, there are ways to help those affected by what happened at the Boston Marathon Monday, April 15.
One Fund Boston is one of them. For those interested:
http://onefundboston.com.
Not sure why things happen the way they do, but it feels like it’s raining out today. I did have a wonderful Valentine’s yesterday and found myself reaching out to check on a friend, a friend who was ill for quite some time. I was sad to learn she had passed away. At first, I found myself overwhelmed. Then I remembered her joy and precious love for her family and friends, and it brought me peace.
I could share pages about her kindness, service, mission work, the tons of baked goodies that came from her kitchen and the gift she was to all of us. But I knew her well enough to know she’d rather me keep those memories and not make this some grief-heavy memorial. So I won’t.
Instead I will share a recipe of my own because she loved to bake for our writer’s group, and she shared recipes with me for sweets of all kinds, including some adorable chocolate mice that inspired my Valentine’s hearts. I had hoped to drop some of these by for her along with the recipe because that was our thing. I’m leaving it here now in the hope you’ll share something special with someone you love.
Salt & Pepper Hearts1 (12 oz.) bag of Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate chips3 tsp. bacon grease
2 tsp. pure vanilla
Plastic heart candy molds (I used Wilton brand)
Note: I did two half batches so the chocolate wouldn’t get clumpy, but if you have enough molds you could do the whole recipe all at once.
Make sure the mold is clean and dry. Then sprinkle a pinch of kosher salt and a twist of cracked pepper into each heart-shaped mold so each piece of candy will be seasoned. Set aside.
Dump 1 ½ tsp. bacon grease and half the bag of chocolate chips into a microwave safe bowl. Temper mixture in the microwave until melted (best done in 30 second intervals). Stir until smooth and glossy.
Stir in 1 tsp. vanilla, and spoon the chocolate into the mold. Tap the mold on the counter to get out any air bubbles.
Chill in the fridge for five minutes. Then transfer to the freezer for ten minutes. The chocolates should pop out of the mold easily (I used my thumb and gently pressed on the relief to release it).
Serve immediately or store in the refrigerator. Eat within a few days. And don't forget to share.
 |
| Nana & Granny |
It’s been a while. Much has happened since my last post: a wonderful trip to Boston for my ten-year anniversary, the holidays, massive amounts of time spent on book revisions for my first novel . . . But I have not chronicled those memories and events here, where I have enjoyed sharing my heart and life with family and friends. I’ve asked myself why, and the only reason I can come up with is sometimes it’s easier to keep things to oneself. However, as a writer, one realizes, as with the characters in all stories, one must eventually do something different to see change.
Baring your soul, having a moment of truth, getting some perspective, call it what you want, at some point there has to be a time where an honest-with-yourself moment happens. For me, off and on for a period of time now, it’s involved grieving the loss of several things so I can move forward.
Some of them have happened in the past few years, like my grandmother’s descent into the final stage of Alzheimer’s, the loss of my sense of security due to a break-in at my home (not to mention all of the things that come with an experience like that). Then there’s the most recent, the loss of my husband’s beloved Nana, Helen, just after the New Year.
Today I found myself in my living room with a warm cup of coffee and the perfect sunrise thinking how wonderful it would be to call her. I wanted to tell her about the art piece Ryan just finished and how proud I am that he created it and how wonderful it turned out. I would’ve talked to her about the book she was reading and the stories she loved because our conversations always ended up there.
Mornings like this used to begin that way, and at times I really miss them. So, I’ve decided to have a real moment here and say that loss can be challenging. It doesn’t always leave you with the greatest feeling, but thankfully emotions can change.
I will end by saying how much I love these two women and the impact they made on my life. I had the best times with my granny. We went on wonderful trips together, baked together, and had deep, character-building talks. She was a huge part of why I am who I am today. My granny and Nana were fast friends. They even got together and sewed my bridesmaid's dresses for our wedding, as shown in the photo above. I am also thankful for Nana. Her humor, her candidness, the way she put herself out there sometimes, holding nothing back, it was inspiring.
Both women were strong, keeping faith though facing life-threatening illness. I still see my grandmother from time to time, though she is not aware of her surroundings. And our last night with Nana reminded me of one of the last conversations she and I had about how good can come out of bad, and sometimes the hardest things in life can change you for the better. It’s something I take with me and hope to leave with you.
 |
| Photo from my Boston trip. More on that later. |
Top ten Halloween treats, and, um, questionable sightings at Boone Manor:
- Baby Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader
- Baby Minnie Mouse
- Kid with the sword who was super excited about trick-or-treating and froze on our doorstep
- Super tall dad dressed as gladiator with tiny baby princess daughter
- Family dressed as "Yo Gabba Gabba!" group
- Kid who asked for more candy (Three pieces isn't enough? *sigh*)
- Kid who stomped through my flowerbed and kicked mud all over my sidewalk
- Kids who came by twice (Oh, yes. They did.)
- Kid who told my husband to give him candy or, “I’ll smash your house.” (What???)
- And the winner of the night: boy dressed as robber in sweats, ski mask and gloves. (Low aspirations? Hopefully not.) :^/
Hope everyone had a great Halloween. Love to hear some of your costume favorites. And to the kid dressed as a robber, the kid before you had a pillowcase-candy holder. Would have been a nice touch. Just sayin'.
Roller coasters—unless they’re on the kid’s side of the amusement park I’m not riding them. The click of the metal as the cars make that slow steep crawl toward the first rapid drop, the nauseating sensation in your stomach as it tries to dislodge from its home, working its way up your guts into your throat—not so thrilling for me. I like the secure feeling of my feet on the ground. So much so, I’m what I’d call a holder, the one person in the family who’ll wait two hours with armloads of purses and water bottles while everyone else rides their back bruising, hair raising favorite.
But there are roller coasters you can’t see and thus can’t avoid, like losing a job or hitting a wall in a relationship. Or in my case, something, an experience, that reached into a place I once felt safe and pulled me inside out. It was like being strapped in on a ride I did not want to be on. And since I don’t want this to be the world’s longest blog post I’ll focus this piece on the beginning—fear.
After reading Donald Miller’s post
Who Taught You to Fear, something churned in me. I wrestled with Miller’s closing thoughts. My stomach twisted at the remembrance of a lifetime of negative experiences that culminated last year with one final blow to my sense of security. TKO. Down for the count. One final shred of peace, the thing I’d tried so hard to hold on to, sailed overhead, landing who knows where.
My answer to Miller’s core topic was, and is, a hard one for me because it involves looking into the face of something that crippled me emotionally for a long time—PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve known for some time I needed to write about it. But that is easier said than done. Thousands of thoughts jumped to mind, pulling me away from it.
Am I ready for this? How much should I disclose? Will I regret putting it out there for the world to read? Okay, that’s a stretch considering this blog is mostly a family and friends thing. But my life will be out there, exposed to whomever drops in for a read.
Those questions, and tons more, have kept me away from my blog too many times over the past year. This is, after all, the place I share bits about my life. And if I’m going to be transparent about the good then I want to try and do the same with the bad. So here goes . . .
Last year I was sitting on my sofa when someone broke into my home. For safety reasons, I won’t include too many details, but I can say I remember the sound of wood braking. It was like lighting cracking in my ears. I briefly blacked-out and didn’t see the intruder’s face when they entered. Then fight or flight kicked in, and I ran. I ran until I couldn’t breathe.
That one moment changed my life for the worse for a long time. I would stare for hours in terror at the robber’s point of entry. I developed hypersensitivity to sound and was constantly getting up to look out the window. For months I was afraid to leave the house for fear I’d see the person who’d broken into my home, my mind, my heart.
Words like intruder, thief, and invasion came up in conversations multiple times, each hitting me in the gut as I relived and retold the story to police, advisors, family and friends. But how could I explain what I didn’t understand? And would it do any good? (Well, yes, but not until much later.)
I had flashbacks and nightmares and was waking up in a sweat, screaming (still do sometimes). It was something I couldn’t face on my own. So I got help, and that’s when the healing began.
With PTSD, everyone’s journey is different. In mine, I’ve realized that one threat can lead to lots of irrational fears, but I’ll save that for another time along with:
- The anxiety
- Being angry at everyone and everything
- Feeling the three V’s: vehement, violated and vulnerable
- Pat answers to questions that have none
- The isolation one feels when people try to fix you or tell you how to feel
- And how sometimes it’s lonely and other times you find a safe place to talk and a listening ear, one that doesn’t pass judgment or give advice
- The therapeutic side: sharing, journaling, and other positive hobbies
So here it is, the first post, with all its tense changes. But I don’t care about that. All I want is for anyone reading this to know they’re not alone, and it’s okay to grieve a loss and to have real feelings about difficult situations. How long will it take to get over this hump? As long as it takes.
For me, this is just another roller coaster, another step in a long process of walking through something so I can grow up from it, hopefully stronger. But this time I’m strapping myself in because even though I can’t change the fact that I’m on the ride doesn’t mean I have to let a bad situation take something from me or jerk me around.
You don’t have to answer out loud, but who’s with me?
Jill S. Alexander, author of The Sweetheart of Prosper County and Paradise, will hold a two-part workshop on “Craft and Career” this Saturday, August 25, 2012 at Westminster Presbyterian Church, 1330 S. Fielder St., Arlington, TX, 76013 from 1-4 p.m.
Topics will range from tightening those manuscripts to what it’s like to be a career writer, and you can bring your manuscript to the workshop for possible discussion (something I’m kind of psyched about).
Another fun way to interact is to tweet Jill your writing related questions to @jillsalexander before the workshop. Find full details for tomorrow’s event here. For more about Jill S. Alexander, visit her website.
So if you’re honing your craft, working on those rewrites or are interested in writing for the children and young adult market, join us tomorrow. Admission is $10 for members and for $15 non-members. Hope to see you there.
Have you ever been on one of those long plane rides? Maybe there’s turbulence or a crying baby behind you or you’re stuck somewhere between where you are and where you want to be because of a layover. Then, when you finally make it to your last stop, the pilot announces a delay on the runway. So you circle the air with the rest of the planes, checking your watch because you have somewhere to be and the person next to you is drooling on your shoulder and you’re about to lose it.
Holding patterns.
It feels as if they’ll go on forever doesn’t it? And when you arrive at your destination, it takes everything in you to drag yourself to the baggage claim and into your car so you can make the last leg of your journey. It’s exhausting, so you think about the pillows on your bed and how every muscle in your body will relax when you’re home.
It seems life is filled with these patterns—wheels spinning but going nowhere. I’ve been there, especially last year after a traumatic experience had me battling PTSD. And for some reason I see family and friends going through their own difficulties now, held in a season and wanting desperately to move forward.
The anxiety, the pressure in your chest, it’s the worst. What helped me was talking about it with people I trust. Getting everything out of my head. Also, shifting focus from the temporary of the present to the potential of the future.
A few months back at an event I heard Christine Caine, public speaker and founder of The A21 Campaign. Her words profoundly impacted my life, reminding me to see beyond self, beyond today, beyond the worst moments because things can and do change. Thankfully, things have gotten better since. And if you’re in one of those holding patterns, I will share Christine’s encouraging words and hope they lift you as they did me: Sometimes we’re being prepared for the things that are prepared for us.
I may not have enjoyed the holding patterns in my life, but I try and look at them differently now. I see them as periods of time where things in me are being culled and cultivated for what lies ahead.
My heart is with family and friends today.
Get the <a href="http://www.widgetbox.com/i/06257a9b-9644-458e-952a-e7fd69a574aa">Countdown Creator Pro</a> widget and many other <a href="http://www.widgetbox.com/">great free widgets</a> at <a href="http://www.widgetbox.com">Widgetbox</a>! Not seeing a widget? (<a href="http://support.widgetbox.com/">More info</a>)
If you are a writer you don’t want to miss out on
WriteOnCon 2012, a free online writer’s conference taking place next Tuesday and Wednesday, August 14–15.
Much like a conference you’d attend in person,
WriteOnCon is packed with educational info that will benefit any writer. The curriculum does, however, have a children’s writing emphasis, i.e. picture book, middle grade and young adult.
What are the perks? Um, you attend for free, from the comfort of your lovely 1975 floral printed sofa, or whatever you’re sitting on, or in, like, say a hammock or your mother’s basement. Also, pj’s may be substituted for day clothes. Doesn’t get much better than that, or does it?
- Keynote addresses from industry professionals
- Lectures from authors, editors and agents
- Forums to meet and connect with fellow writers
- Writing topics covered in detail from crafting to pitching
Why are you still reading? Go and sign up. And don’t forget to polish those writing samples so you can post them in the forums to participate in critiques.
See you there!
About that whole connecting thing, ahem. Not so much on my end. Clearly I have not figured out how to strike the balance between working on my novel and keeping up with my blog. However, since I use this space to share what’s going on in my life I can honestly say not much has happened between my last post and this one other than lots of typing, some book research, and, um, more typing. Not that there’s any excuse not to post more often, nor should I drop off the face of the earth for, um, three months.
So now I’m working on some ways to keep my blog fresh and updated with new pieces that will appear hopefully more than just once a month (my dad is miles away, but I’m pretty sure I just heard him sigh in relief). Not to mention the hubs has been nudging me to do this as well, so here goes the first in what I hope is a series of updates about where I am in the writing process.
As of today, I’m most of the way through my young adult novel and hope to finish the draft this week. I’m already over 65,600 words and am almost to the climax of the story. So exciting. Seriously, I would do flip-flops across my living room if I could, but I can’t because I’d probably break something, self included.
Also, I will have a real website up soon thanks to my awesome husband and graphic/web designer extraordinaire, a.k.a. The Boonester. (I have other nicknames for him like Boo and Turd Ferguson, but will spare him the embarrassment and possibly future harassment by friends. Oh, wait. Oops.)
So, things are coming together. Fast. Now I’m trying to keep from jumping ahead to one of the hardest parts of writing a story—extracting the crap scenes, characters, dialogue and bidding them farewell as they make their way to wherever deleted text goes.
 |
| Andrew Belle & Katie Herzig's Duet |
Last weekend was one for the memory book. My husband and I wanted a date night and heard about the
Andrew Belle and
Katie Herzig concert at the last minute. I was excited to read Katie’s tweet about it because I’ve been listening to both artists for inspiration while working on my YA novel. Something about their transparency really speaks to me.
We arrived early at the venue to find an intimate setting of tables for four, meaning we’d be sitting with people we didn’t know. It was sort of exciting to see everyone trickle in, wondering who’d be sharing the next three hours with us. Two ladies were having a girl’s night away from their husbands and asked to join us. During the break we talk about where we were from, what we loved about the artists, family stuff . . . it was a great way to pass the time.
Of course I can’t leave out the best part, the live performances. Katie’s band was impressive, playing both hers and Andrew’s sets. Andrew was the opener and was just as beautiful vocally as he is on his album, if not more. I’d heard a few of Katie’s songs, and was blown away by the power in her voice.
She filled the room and played alongside her band, with most of the group picking up various instruments, bringing the audience into the music with cello, piano, clarinet, percussion . . . Seriously, I think if someone had thrown a paper bag on stage, they would have found a way to work it in. They played everything.
 |
| My husband and i with Andrew Belle |
At one point it was as if they had a symphony on stage. Both artists had amazing performances, and I appreciate the intimate setting they created for their fans. It was a great way to connect with new people who had a shared interest.
We met Andrew Belle after the show. He was very personable, as was Katie from what I could see of the throngs of teen girls she was chatting with between pictures and autographs. It was a great night, and to top it off my husband met Ben Folds coming up the stairs and got to shake his hand, he’d played a show next door. We left a little star struck.
Saturday my husband and I went to
Art in the Square in Southlake with some friends from church and spent the evening catching up on life before splitting off for separate d
 |
| Beach at Key West |
After nearly a two-week battle with bronchitis and the horrible cold mess that comes with it, life is slowly returning to normal as I slip back into my book writing. With a cup of iced Island Coconut Tea in my hand, the one souvenir I was glad to bring home from our cruise, it can be hard not to get pulled back into memories of Key West beaches and the laidback attitude of the Bahamas. So hopefully writing about our vacation will help get it out of my system, for now at least.
My husband and I went with his parents on an eight-day cruise. We left Easter Sunday. The first two days were what the cruise line called
fun days at sea, meaning you better find something to do onboard or else you’re going to get cabin fever. Of course they offered an array of
entertaining activities, including those amazing shows with the cheesy dancing, one of which we attended then resorted to wandering the ship, getting lost several times, overeating in the dining room, and reading books between naps in our cabin.
 |
| My husband and I |
So we didn’t win any participation prizes. Big deal. We did, however, have steak and lobster at the steakhouse. (Most of our onboard adventures were food related. I mean, who wouldn’t splurge on all that free food at the buffet? And did I mention the ice cream machines?)
Our first stop was Key West, my favorite. We took a tram tour of the area then walked to the places we wanted to see, like the Ernest Hemingway House. His home was well furnished with beautiful antiques and the grounds were lush and crawling with six-toed cats. On our way back to the shopping center we had lunch at Sweet Tea’s, a great place for gourmet sandwiches and . . . sweet tea, duh. The last part of our day was more of a scavenger hunt through kitschy t-shirt shops and to our surprise a few wonderful foodie finds: Key West Tea & Spice Company (where I found my coconut tea) and several shops with all things Key Lime. Yum.
The following day we went to Freeport, Bahamas. I’ll save a little space and give you the highlights because I could go on for days. Bus tour: A scary shop with vendors waiting outside the bus with signs (we chose to stay in our seats), Sidney Poitier’s home when he filmed in the Bahamas, a severely damaged resort hit by a major hurricane in 2004 (The driver kept telling us it was for sell, a true oceanfront property I'm sure.), random neighborhoods, a man peeing on his front lawn (I kid you not), every native plant our driver could identify from his window, the place where everyone on the island paid their light bill (yes, this was one of many gems our driver pointed out), their version of Sam’s Club, and the whole of the island which is basically a shipyard. This was why my father-in-law spent the day onboard instead.
Nothing about the day seemed out of the ordinary. It was quiet, overcast, and I was eating lunch like thousands of other people in Dallas/Fort Worth. Of course I had heard the weather predictions for days: potential for severe storms, possible tornadoes—a typical spring forecast. So when the high wind sirens went off, I wasn’t surprised.
I turned on the TV to find out where the hail cores would be, thinking this would be the worst of it. The weatherman had mentioned the possibility of baseball-sized hail, which had hit last year too. I remember it sounding like someone had dumped bricks from the sky onto our roof. Thankfully my car was safely in the garage that day.
I then had a sinking feeling, realizing my husband had the car and it would be fully exposed if his office were in one of the highlighted areas on the radar.
According to the large purple square on the weather map, it was.
My eyes fixed on the screen as the weatherman waved his hand over the whole of DFW and said, “This area is very dangerous.”
But we’re all in ‘this area,’ I thought.
He proceeded to instruct everyone to, “Take shelter if needed, find a bathtub, an interior room with no windows. Grab a mattress off of a nearby bed to protect your head from flying debris . . .”
Feeling my pulse surge, I called my husband. He was calm and collected as we watched the radar together. Arlington was hit first. The tornado looked enormous on the TV. Calls were coming into the station left and right, reports of wall clouds, a truck stop was hit, tractor-trailers were being crumpled like soda cans. Dallas was next—residential areas popped up on the map.
The weatherman bounced between the two cities, shouting out street names and highways in the tornadoes’ paths. By this time one had come up close to DFW airport (not twenty minutes from my house). I took deep breaths to keep myself from having an anxiety attack. We had heavy rain at the house. My husband’s area had hail, and my heart pounded at the 14-mile distance between us.
After three grueling hours, the tornadoes had passed through. All total there were six reported sightings, lots of damage to homes and businesses, and miraculously no reported deaths.
The photo is a crude shot I took from my living room couch while watching the weather segment on KDFW Fox 4 this morning. You can see the areas hit in yesterday’s storms.
I am thankful for all of the prayers we received. It can be difficult to keep it together in an event like this, which admittedly I did not do very well. However, I am grateful for God’s protection and for His help in times of need for those affected.
Some things are worth the drive, which is why my husband and I spent several hours in our car listening to songs repeat on the radio while staring out at the miles of fields sprawled out before us. It was our Valentine’s Day weekend adventure to Hico, Texas. We went on a Sunday to visit two of our favorite spots, and though many of the surrounding towns had rolled up the carpets after their lunch hour we were happy to peel ourselves from our seats, breathe in the clean crisp air, and stretch our cramped legs at our first destination.
I opened the door to
Wiseman House Chocolates where a warm mix of spiced cocoas rushed to greet me. The wood planks creaked as we stepped across the threshold into the heart of a Victorian home turned confectionary/gift shop filled with whimsical and romantic items to delight one’s taste.
A burnished haven of hand-dipped truffles and slabs of creamy fudge peeked back at us through antique glass display cabinets. We tasted hot sipping chocolate and mulled over our choices. Venezuelan, Dark Belgian, sweet vanilla, and liquor flavored ganaches—the list went on so we did the easy thing and chose a variety.
We then went to
Homestead Antiques & Home Furnishings where the ceiling was lined with the most beautiful greenish gray weathered wood, and light flooded the room accenting each little vignette the shopkeeper had created. It was like walking into the pages of an interior design magazine.
Hanging baskets of scented soaps dripped down from above and swayed against a backdrop of vintage wrought iron and damask. Cupboards, armoires and old doors stood as tall as the ancient stone walls surrounding them. The building, an architectural gem built in 1895, was once an opera house. Inside was a wonderland of treasures from another time and place.
We rounded out the day stopping off at an overlook to take a few more pictures. When we finally left Central Texas we were starving. It took everything in me not to dip into those truffles before we got home—though they didn’t last long once they were opened. Oh, sure, I could have ordered more online and had them delivered to my door (which I may do), but it’s definitely worth the wait to make the drive and visit in person.
One of my favorite things to do during the holidays is visit the Main Street District of historic Grapevine, Texas. It’s like stepping into Christmas past where cell phones fall silent and sprawled fingers are pressed against store windows instead of keypads. Pajama-clad little ones wait in anticipation for a memorable evening on the North Pole Express.
This year my husband and I were surprised by how many new things there were for art lovers. We viewed paintings and sculptures in an art gallery and met local artist-blacksmith Will Frary who was entertaining a group of corndog-eating kiddos. With a smile on his face he hammered out petals for a floral design he was working on—hand forged gifts for family and friends.
Even with the wheezing chimney and the clanging of metal on metal, there was something calming about his shop. Maybe it was his patience with wide-eyed guests or how he welcomed a community in to study a different art form. Either way, I left happy because this artist took something he loved and shared it with others.
Rounding out the day, my husband and I stopped in at Vetro Glass Blowing Studio and Art Gallery to make a hand-blown art glass ornament. It was unique, fun and something to include in our future Christmas traditions. I’ve shared a video below with highlights from our ornament-making experience. I hope you enjoy some holiday fun with your loved ones this season.
I’m not one of those people who likes getting caught in the rain, which is why my floorboard is lined with a colorful selection of umbrellas. So, maybe one for each passenger plus a backup is a bit extreme, but they have saved the day on more than one occasion. Okay, they weren’t involved in some big rescue mission, but they sure came in handy when my husband and I were stuck in the bleachers at an outdoor graduation ceremony with his family several years back.
Nevermind the fact that my husband had to run two blocks to retrieve the umbrellas, or that seconds after he left the sky unzipped and dumped several inches of water on the crowd. With the outpour of screams that followed, you would have thought the world was ending. But alas, it was only the cry of those whose over-teased-Texas-tresses had fallen to there deaths.
As my niece and I huddled under our ceremony program, hoping the student’s names wouldn’t run straight off the paper and on to our clothes, I wondered what was taking so long. Why didn’t I bring those blasted umbrellas with us?
By the time my husband returned, the crowds were sliding out of the stands, sloshing their way to their cars. Since we were already soaked, we waited (under our umbrellas of course) as the traffic cleared. Then, just as quick as the rain came, it left. And the darkness slipped away, revealing a rainbow.
Sometimes life comes at us like a storm. Maybe you see a few warning clouds, or maybe it comes out of nowhere. Either way, it can be hard to weather it out especially if it’s a downpour. In times like these I try and remind myself of one thing — the rain won’t last forever. And my hope is that on the other side of this struggle, obstacle, mountain…there will be something good.
Bluebonnet fair, in your Sunday best,
Lily-white hat and indigo vest,
Onlookers flock from far away towns,
Marveling at your blossomy gown.
My husband and I caught the last of this spring’s bluebonnets down in Ennis, Texas over the weekend. Though the heat had turned many of them to seed, there were several fields covered from top to bottom with what remained of the fading blue beauties.
We were told the best time of year to see them in their full brilliance is late March to early April, but even at a week and a half out of season there were still large patches of pink primrose intermingled with red blanket flowers and Texas paintbrushes.
If you enjoy scenic drives through rolling hills, springtime in north and central Texas, the latter often referred to as hill country, will not disappoint.
View Next 25 Posts
Sorry to hear about your friend. I think the recipe is a sweet tribute to her.
Thank you, Misha. She was one-of-a-kind.