rants and riffs

Marginalizing Myself

2011-03-23T08:26:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article in AWP's Chronicle with Andy Nash who quoted Robertson Davies. Robertson Davies was once asked why he had waited until he was sixty to write some of his best work. "Well, he replied, "certain people died, you see." Nash aptly adds to that, "what’s the Thanksgiving dinner table going to be like when you’ve just spilled the beans about family and friends?" That makes total sense to me. And then my good friend and fellow masochist (MFA candidate at VCFA) Kali Von Baale wrote a great piece about who you write for that also got me thinking.

All this adds up to me thinking about my own question. Why I write has never really been something I can answer. I just do. It's just who I am. Who I write for has always been: me (readers be damned!). My question is: Why now? It's not so much that I've waited until my characters aren't at the Thanksgiving table, it's more that I no longer care about the consequences. I'm marginalizing myself from "real life".

I'm sure you are asking what that means...because I'm a mother, I work full time and I'm a wife (and ask my husband, it's definitely in that order) it would seem I couldn't be less central. But I'm starting to move gently away from all that and into the world of a writer.

Don't be alarmed (especially you Jeffrey)! I'm not abandoning my family. I have not cleaned out the bank account. I'm not heading for an island. Although, that would be nice.

Talented writer (and VCFA alumna) Robin Oliveira advised me to stop washing dishes, cleaning the house and shopping for groceries when I asked her how to make time to write. That was easy (I didn't do any of those things anyway). But while I wasn't doing that, I was doing all kinds of other "real life" things that had no value. I was engaging in small talk at work, I wasn't taking a lunch hour (check the time of this post),I was sleeping until 7 am, I was spending nights out at dinner and bars, I was wasting time. Time that is all too precious when you are beating the bushes for ideas, characters, motives, themes, and lastly, finally words to evoke what has been hanging around inside you all your life waiting to come out.

If I knew then what I know now, there'd be no Jeff, no Anna, no MBA, no corporate. There'd also be no best friend/life partner, no heart's delight, no dearest closest women friends, and most importantly no money to do this. I would also not be the woman who has chosen this path with all that life experience supporting her. I would not be as good a writer as I am, and I would have no chance at being the writer I am going to become. Watch me now!

Elitists have feeling too

2011-03-04T03:43:00.000-08:00

Surfing through the New York Times today I came across the story about James Franco and how hunky and smart he is pursuing about fifty degrees while having a brilliant career. Trolling on down I started reading some back film work he did and landed on one of my favorites "Eat, Pray, Love" by my girl, Liz Gilbert. Lael Jepson and I saw this movie together (and then had dinner of course) and we both loved it. The comments from the Times readers were dismissive and elitist about being an elite. That the movie was a picture of self-indulgent woman who had money and went around the world to find herself. The same criticisms I have heard from women who have read the book. The book, a junket of self-discovery, is polarizing. Why? I find this question fascinating.

Don't Elitists have feelings too? Can't I be affluent and miserable? Can't I feel that my relationship is empty, or confining even if I have a job, grew up in a home with both parents, have been educated (even over-educated)? I know plenty of people who do not have financial distress or physicial safety issues that have psychological or emotional distress. Isn't that real too? Maybe on Maslow's hierarchy of needs they fall to the bottom--but they still exist for those people.

Do not misinterpret what I am saying, that a memoir from Elizabeth Gilbert demonstrates the same resiliency of spirit and bravery as a memoir from Sue Silverman. I think Liz would be horrified by that suggestion. But there are room for both experiences on the shelf. And the outrage and dismissal of the truth of her experience seems to me to be, of itself, an elitist view.

Work Ethic

2011-01-29T04:15:00.000-08:00

You may or may not know, that I have begun and MFA in Creative Writing at Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA). So I know you are all asking yourself "How does Jen get it done with that full time job and the six year old, plus husband works, no nanny...." I thought I would take a minute out of my busy day to explain my strict working guidelines (along with some examples of how I practiced them recently).

Go to bed early (I fall asleep in Anna's bed at 8)
Read at night (after getting back to my own bed, I pick up one of the thirty critical anthologies my advisor has suggested and read no less than 2 pages before I fall asleep again--I"m very strict about this)
Get lots of sleep (At 2 am, Anna comes into my room and wants me to "snuggle" her. We go back to her bed where she drinks all her water, climbs into bed and says"after I'm asleep can you fill up my water again." So I lay there until I hear sleep breathing and then get up and get her a drink, pee, get back into bed and lie looking at the ceiling thinking "I should just get up and write." But I don't because rest is important.)
Wake up early (after 2 full hours of sleep my alarm goes off, I snooze it twice, then go get some tea)
Get right to work (I jump on FB, check my email, send an update so that people know I'm "working" and then I open up my short story)
NO interruptions (at 5:20 my phone buzzes with the WCSH Channel 6 automatic school delay notification; at 5:30 my girlfriend texts to see if it's a snowday; at 5:45 the land line rings to tell us about school delay; at 5:47 my cell phone rings with the same phone message; at 5:55 I hear Anna come into the bedroom; at 5:57 she's inside my room with me)
Work alone (Anna sits behind me in the armchair and draws pictures then "shows" them to me for the next 10 minutes)
Write until you are finished (After 5 minutes, I check FB again, take Anna back to our bed, and get showered for work)

It takes practice to run such a disciplined life, but if you really work at it you can aspire to my standards. You'll want to start slowly, and consult your physician before you begin any rigorous program.

Le Mos Just

2010-12-29T04:15:00.000-08:00

I have arrived at my MFA program at the distinguished Vermont college of fine arts (VCFA). Last night we had our new student first meeting, you know the kind where you interview the person next to you and then introduce them? This was great because it gave me some understanding of the great mistake VCFA made when they accepted me. I, for instance, have not published in a magazine. I have not studied privately with anyone. I do not have tattoos. I am not worried about whether the program is worth the money (10 days in a single room alone is worth the tuition alone). I am not (overly) tortured or (extremely) neurotic. I am in fact a complete fraud. I didn't even bring a pen.

In my favor, I wear a lot of black. I like wine. I use poetic license liberally when telling a story or persuading someone to do something. But more than that, I love to read. When I see a new novel by a writer I like, my mouth waters. I love words. I love the sounds they make, the way they feel In your mouth, the taste of them. Pragmatic, licentious, copious, interrogative, sublime. There is no victory as sweet as le mot just. The right word.

So all I can hope for is that I find the right words here.

The Seduction

2010-02-22T22:16:00.000-08:00

Lest you think, based on the late hour I have taken up a new kind of riff, sorry to disappoint you.

Today, I met the perfect job. Process innovator(cutting edge): needs attitude(have it in spades), work with small teams(escape bureaucracy), do something important (finally!). And my seesaw began to tip.

You know how that happens? Everything that must be maintained (mortgage, family, child's education, food) at one end, all those things you dream about (surfing in Hawaii, trekking through Nepal, living on a small island) at the other. Mostly that seesaw stays firmly rooted in the dirt of the "must". But sometimes when you have been incredibly agile, or extremely lucky, the end of that seesaw begins to rise up ever so slightly as you haltingly walk towards the fulcrum. And for full minutes at a time, during a hard earned vacation, after writing a brilliant piece of fiction, or escaping to the beach during (gasp) work, you stand in the middle in awe of how you've finally achieved it all.

The seduction plopped itself at the other end of the seesaw, and it must have weighed a thousand pounds. And everything at the "must" end went flying up into the air with a huge JOLT. The job, you see, wasn't here. It wasn't really that far from here, but it wasn't here. What it would take to get that job, to commute to that job, to be successful at that job would mean that many many things on the "must" end would have to be compromised.

But maybe, I was thinking, it could work. We haven't moved in 3 years, I don't really like living at the beach THAT much, if I commuted at 5 am I could miss the traffic, perhaps I could work from home at times...you see where this is going. In order to have "the perfect job" I have to reorganize everything and everyone at the other end.

I'm edging back from the tipping point(the fantasy). And the sigh of my kid in her sleep, and the quiet of the house, is helping the insanity of desire ebb.

And it IS seduction. The idea that there is something "out there" that could be worth it. Like any seduction, it is flash and light and heat and DELICIOUS! And I want to be tempted. I want someone else to have done the heavy lifting for me. To have dreamed up a job that would be so perfect, so compelling, so challenging. Alas, someone else has not created the perfect job in the perfect organization for me, they have built it for themselves.

And I can and will build my own. Here. At the beach.

Being What We Are

2010-02-14T17:17:00.000-08:00

I recently got a new boss. Well not really a new boss, a new boss's boss's boss. A woman, and she came to our staff meeting and she shared her life experience. And I really liked her.

But here is the thing (with me there's always a thing). She's been with our organization for 29 years. And she said that she would have "never been hired today" based on her skills. And she also said that "she was asked to do jobs that she had no business doing" throughout her career. And some may attribute that to my company recognizing potential and asking her to stretch. And some might say she's being charming, authentic and connecting with us.

But you know what my reaction was? STOP IT! She has worked long and hard in our organization. She is smart and has great instincts and she has been successful because of those. I don't think she should underestimate herself. If she was a guy with half of the qualifications she brings to her job, she would be heralding herself as the next king of the world.

I don't mean this to disparage men. I mean this to recognize that men have a much healthier ego. That being successful to men is natural, and laudable. They don't attribute their success to luck, or fortune, they OWN it. And that we women need to develop.

I hope to God, that if I ever work anywhere half that time and space, that when I introduce myself I say, "I have a collection of talent, and this is where it has taken me..." And that I encourage other women to own their talent as well.

I think I'm going to Puke!

2010-02-04T14:48:00.000-08:00

You are brave if that title has you reading this. But this entry is not about salmonella, Pat Robertson or even beets (yeecchhhhh). This entry is about possibility.

A few years back, I met a phenomenal woman on the verge of leaving corporate life and starting her own business. And she said something very prescient, she announced that she knew she was really onto something when it made her feel like she was going to throw up. So now, whenever I get that "so excited I might just hurl" feeling, it's a good thing. A tribute to Lael Jepson and SheChanges.

This week has been a nauseating one. I was accepted to this MFA program (alumni like WALLY LAMB!!!). And I was asked, "So, an MFA? This could be a game changer for you." And suddenly my stomach revolted. I had just been blindly taking the steps, writing the essays, setting aside the funds, and getting the recommendations, but not really thinking about what it could MEAN! And in order not to vomit in Panera, I had to reply, "Yes, a gamechanger. And I can't think about it." So channeling Scarlett O'Hara, I moved calmly into the world of denial.

Panera, at risk once again, fostered a conversation with Eli Stefanski of the Maine Women's Fund that made us both green at the gills. Imagine the potential of a Maine women's community that is driving financial and social capital? Need some alka-seltzer? Maybe a little ginger for you homeopaths?

So altogether haven't felt this sick since pregnancy. This birthing process is a bitch!

2010-01-20T16:37:00.000-08:00

My inlaws recently left for Florida. And because I'm an excellent DIL I invited them for dinner AND the family cleaned the house. And when they arrived I got an extra kiss from my MIL because the house looked SOOOOO beautiful.

So let me tell you what I didn't do while cleaning the house. I didn't read to my child to increase her exposure to reading. I didn't make progress on my MFA for Creative Writing Application at Vermont College for the Fine Arts. I didn't update my blog. I didn't exercise. I didn't call any of my friends I haven't talked to in ages. I didn't visit our grandmother age 93 who was recently hospitalized. I didn't walk the beach. I didn't even--ho hum--catch up on work. I didn't read a book I've been meaning to read.

But my house looked fabulous. For five freaking minutes. So I've got that going for me.

Differences

2010-01-07T14:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to a leadership series luncheon. I am not technically a leader, and they did not serve lunch. That aside, it was a powerful way to start off 2010. You see, some amazing women at the Maine Womens Fund and SheChanges decided that Portland, Maine needed to have a conversation. The topic was: The Difference. The difference you ask? The difference between leadership approaches across genders. But there aren't differences in gender there are only differences in people, you say. But the question is so rich, so juicy, that 75 women took time out of their busy day to attend a luncheon where they didn't even serve lunch. So clearly, there are.

So what are the differences you ask, moving your chair a little bit closer. Because you know it's true, you just want to hear it from someone else. We build community. We believe in communication as the key to success, not being talked to, not talking at, but real dialogue. We invite others in. We believe in the power of ideas, we believe in strengths and skills, not roles and responsibilities. We believe in flexibility. We believe that there is a way that is different, a definition of success that we help to create. And we have the talent, the education, the experience, and the skills to make it real.

What kind of organizations would this birth? To watch that develop, check this blog and see http://www.whatwouldshedo.blogspot.com/ Don't wait for permission.

Dirge

2009-08-08T10:55:00.000-07:00

I saw a dead man today. Flew right through his windshield, lying face down next to the turnpike. A cop was squatting at his side but not even trying to resuscitate. Anyone could see the futility of it. For a mile or so I drove on, a passenger on the highway. And thought there but...goes I. And I considered my small, unimportant and privileged life. I thought about my loves and felt sobered by the presence of death.

And after a few minutes. I turned up the radio and annoyed at the NPR fundraiser, pushed the CD button and sang along the rest of way. LOUD!

A piece of cheese with that whine?

2009-06-30T05:29:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling stale. And since I have 30 minutes in my schedule, I thought I'd just figure out my life.

I'm feeling stale because of my Sisyphean role which continues to make two steps forward and then a step back. I'm tired of apologizing when I make progress that I didn't include everyone, their brother, and Aunt Maisie in the decision. I'm tired of looking ahead and seeing the same old same old coming down the pike in different clothes (most of them ugly).

I'm feeling stale because two of my most talented friends have made serious progress in their writing lives and I continue to think about writing and not write. And that pisses me off. Not at them, of course, they've been doing the hard work despite having just as chock full lives as me, and they deserve everything they have achieved. Pissed that I don't seem to be able to do it too.

I'm feeling stale because despite being on the treadmill 4 or 5 times a week (at 5:30 IN THE AM) my forty something body is not responding, and the scale continues to register at "Are you kidding?"

OK so now I have 10 minutes left. See how I waste my time? Between this, FB and Twitter, its a wonder I still hold a job.

So, all I need to do is: be more zen, focus on what's important, ignore all the social pressure to be commercially productive, slow down to speed up, create space for myself, treat myself like the precious human being I am, start eating whole grains, give up refined sugar, make exercise fun, set some goals, start networking, build better relationships, find the miracle in the everyday, write for 15 minutes each morning, grow my own produce, get closer to nature, and get some rest.

Whew, I'm exhausted. I think I'll grab some leftover birthday cake and update FB.

My Worst Day

2009-04-09T16:49:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought you'd have to live your worst day ever over again?

Well, let me tell you what my worst day was, ever. Two years ago this coming Easter Sunday, Anna 2 1/2, my mother 78 and I flew over to England to visit my whole maternal family. My husband followed a week later (missing the drama). On the plane, 30,000 feet above the earth's surface, I looked into the ear of my sleeping child and saw a TICK. Well it looked like a tick, but couldn't have been because-well because I was 30,000 feet above the earth and couldn't do a thing. So I talked myself back into breathing and pulled the classic Scarlett O'Hara "I'll think about it tomorrow, when I can stand it".

We landed at 5:30 am Greenwich Mean Time, which--as you know is--really freaking midnight in the US. With no sleep, we traveled to my family's home in Norwich and then I did the unthinkable. I looked in her ear. And when I looked, the bastard was wriggling, embedded inside her ear and wiggling! Apparently coach class wasn't his style. So I got some tweezers and ripped his everloving body in half. And then, we went to the emergency room. Did I mention we were in England, and it was Easter Monday? And I had had NO sleep in 36 hours? Three hours in the waiting room we were seen by an Indian/English doctor who pleasantly extracted the rest of the tick and watched warily while I freaked out.
"It's a tick!" I am screeching.
He replied, "Yes, I know," (thinking: crazy American mother)
"We have lyme disease in the U.S."
He replied "Yes, I know".
"This is not something you READ about on the internet, this is lyme disease for real".

He patted me and told me it would not present for at least two weeks. I was supposed to feel better.

Two days later, we were back at a doctor's office. Anna had put herself to sleep the night before murmuring, "Mama is right here, Mama is right here" and while from the adjoining room I thought that was charming, I awoke to my worst mother moment ever. My poor child had vomited, multiple times, all over herself and her bed and and had slept in it. The "charming" mantra had been to soothe her fears and I had neglected to check on her.

NEVER NEVER NEVER have I ever felt what I felt at that moment. Helpless, neglectful, horrible. The thought of that night and day make me cry to this day. As it turned out, the two had nothing to do with one another. But in my mind they are forever related.

Next week, we leave for England. And today, Anna and I came in from playing in the glorious warmth of an April evening. And as we sat at the dinner table, I felt an itching on my hand. I looked down, and there crawling over me, looking for a lodging place, was a TICK!

If only I had smaller thumbs

2009-03-02T11:07:00.001-08:00

Okay, so I have man hands. Ever since I've grown it's been clear that I am not favored with delicate slender fingers. Seinfeld made it socially laughable but technology has accentuated my disability profoundly. I am the proud owner of an iPhone. And my love for it is only slightly less than for my own child. I am fascinated by the fact that I ever survived B.I. (Before Iphone). I can talk and it can write. It can call, text, buy, take photos and load them to my email. I can surf, get news, play games, email and even blog. Yes, I am blogging from my phone.
My child is sick and desperate for my nearness but not my attention. As we watch Ice Age for the 456th time she wants me so close I can't use my computer. So I am sneaking this blog. And the only thing that would make this phenomenon more phenomenal would be if I had dainty thumbs. For all the power of the future, I still have to use one finger in order to not make this blog read like this....djdksbs sksnksbs skxkzk a zkz a kzbsakzjabajz.

I want to be the man

2008-12-21T15:47:00.000-08:00

This time of year always demonstrates all the power and energy of women. So many things happen and so many wishes are fulfilled. It's a magic time of year, whether you are Christian or not.

But this year I've decided I want to be the man.

This is the first night of Hannukah which we celebrate alongside Christmas. To date I have: bought and wrapped all the presents, created, ordered and addressed all the holiday cards, arranged for latkes on the first night, tried to untangle and -since I failed-cut and restrung the Hannukah decorations.

My daughter got the American Girl doll she has been dreaming of because I ordered it. My husband got the Nintendo game he wanted because I ordered it. I got nothing. While she was asking where my present was, I was thinking. It's taken years and generations and centuries to be as liberated as I am. Yet, I do it all. Like a servant. And --do not for a moment think I live like a servant or act like one-- ask anyone, I am the queen of entitlement--if I can buy it, I will. But somehow it still comes down to me. I am the enabler in the codependent relationship that is often marriage.

I want to be the man. Because more than not doing it all, I want to NOT CARE. I want to NOT SEE. I want to think that if my child does not get the perfect present all will not be lost. I want to believe that perfect holidays are not my responsibility. It never occurs to Jeff that any of it is his. Never. If he forgets a present (shit, we haven't sent anything to his sister yet) he just lets it pass and doesn't think that it has any implications whatsoever (except that maybe he's saved a buck). Where do I get that sense of independence of action? That nothing I do matters.

But everything I do does matter, and maybe that's the lesson here.

Happy (imperfect, but think what it could have been without you) Holidays!!!

I keep having this recurring nightmare...

2008-10-15T08:39:00.000-07:00

What I like about Sarah Palin

2008-10-09T14:18:00.001-07:00

Psyche! Just kidding!

No seriously, there are a few things I like about Sarah Palin.

1) She makes me feel smart, really really smart, like I could run for president

2) Our chance at a united world becomes greater with her in office, sadly the United States won't be part of it.

3) She shops on Ebay, and maybe with Meg Whitman, she can arrange for an Ebay percentage to finance the bailout. Because let's face it, $700 billion hasn't made a dent and I need some new shoes.

4) She understands us womenfolk, I mean come on, who hasn't hidden a pregnancy at work?

5) She calls her husband dude. I call my husband dude. It's like we married the same guy only my husband doesn't kill things with his bare hands.

6) She's a mother. She wants to strip her children of all their rights and most of their future income but hey, kids today need to toughen up.

7) My investment in a small coastal town in Nova Scotia is going to be recouped a thousandfold when most of New England tries to move to Canada.

8) She's a maverick. With lipstick.

9) She won't care that I drive a SUV and have a carbon footprint the size of Wasilla. So I can take that off my guilt list.

10) She always talks to Joe Sixpack, and you know what? I dated Joe Sixpack in college. And even though he was a complete ass--well it's two degrees of separation.

WOW!

2008-10-06T06:07:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went back to camp. I loved camp as a girl. The only child in me loved the constant energy of living in a pack. The animal in me loved living outside. The water child in me loved moving in and out of the lake, wet and dry, cool and warm. My body exulted in the range of motion, freedom to run for no reason, move, move, move until I fell into bed and slept like a stone. And the eating, oh goodness, the raging hunger that comes from every ounce of you being put forth and stretched physically and metaphorically and the feeding of that hunger in deep rich breads, stews, pastas, soups.

And camp this weekend was the return. The retreat was called Homecoming and it was conceived, birthed and nurtured by one of my most talented friends--Lael Jepson. If you don't know Lael, I'm so sorry for that space in your life. If you want to know Lael check out her website and watch the video and know that as beautiful as that video is, it doesn't even begin to capture how spectacular the weekend was. We slept in cabins (really really cold cabins), we danced, we sang, we swam, we cried, we laughed until we almost peed, we returned to ourselves as women. And oh baby, did we eat! There were these two women, no not women, food GODDESSES whose artistry nourished us in every dimension. I can't really describe it adequately but a sampling for my readers: hand made truffles, warm english muffins made from scratch, soups that filled you and whipped your senses with spices, pear stuffed french toast and ginger tea.

So I went back to camp to come home. And I found 40 other women who were there to do the same thing, coming from different geographies of both land and soul. And we shared under the arching mother oak, before the smoking fire, in front of the still lake, how much we need to rejuvenate and return. How our gifts of emotion, passion, clarity, power, presence and leadership need to be shared, and shored and stored. That is our home, we are never without it, we are never alone. Funny that a "retreat" has brought me back into the world feeling tall and strong and ready to kick some ass.

Oh (and here comes the wind) I also learned, that every woman needs a Dobby!

Elizabeth Gilbert

2008-09-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night I had the privilege of going to see Elizabeth Gilbert talk at the Merrill. When I read Eat, Pray, Love I wanted to hang out with her. After seeing her talk, I had an almost-stalker desire to go find her, hunt her down and make her be friends with me. Which is the secret to Liz (can I call you Liz?) that she makes you feel like you are friends. And that is because despite the fact that she has written a bestseller, she is an everywoman. Because the truth is, no disrespect Liz, that we are all that funny, we are all that neurotic, we are all that absolutely brilliant at any given time. And all we have to do is let it show. And that was her message. Creativity is knocking down our doors, USE it. Don't take on someone else's image of who you need to me (shut up, mom!) but allow yourself to imagine the possibilities of life on your terms.

And she was genuine without being preachy. And she was truthful without being a sap. And she was funny as shit. And she used the word shit. And she used my favorite word (now that I have a 4 year old) "frickin'" which, let's face it Liz, isn't as satisfying as a full out "fucking" but does the job.

And so , I return to my must reads, and tell you that if there is any way you have not read this woman, DO IT! I don't care how. And absorb her message, and be.

I went to the speech having found out that my daughter's best friend has been abused by his (ex) father, having had to present a series of bullshit about my accomplishments this year, and then was told that someone else had been chosen as a "leader" in my organization for development over me. That was capped by school leaving a message at 5:30 that "we aren't sure who's picking up Anna and we are still here with her..." School closes at 4:30. This is followed by a call from her father (not ex) asking "Did I miss something?". And me thinking, forgive me Liz, "OH FUCK, do I have to miss this too??". And not having to, but feeling guilty that my child was philosophically sitting on the doorstep without a key.

And then I got the gift of that evening, full of women who are just like Liz, leaning forward out of their seats to not miss any word of THEIR STORY. Because even if we've never traveled around the world and eaten homemade pasta, tortured ourselves through meditation, or fallen in love with the man of our dreams, we have walked in her shoes.

Oh, and Liz? Nice frickin' boots!

The Return

2008-08-09T05:02:00.000-07:00

I'm returning to this blog after two years, could it be that two years have passed and I am exactly where I was? That is a riff for another day. Today I come back because I have encountered something we all fear, and because encountering it has made all of life more real.

My girlfriend, we'll call her the cougar and let you speculate, has been diagnosed with stage 3 aggressive breast cancer. She is a beautiful, divorced, working mother of two and at the age of 42 this diagnosis seemed outrageous. Until I started talking about it, and then I realized that I'm "at that age". At the age where cancer produces a string of connections that bring you into a completely new community. At the age where people nod and then respond with a similar story or two or five or fifteen. At the age where this is not an anomaly, but in many respects par for the course, almost an expectation.

It is early yet. The things we don't know outweigh the things we do. More tests will show the way, but it could be as bad as total mastectomy and ovaries, and as good as chemo and a lumpectomy.

And let's be real, this isn't my cancer. This isn't my story, but somehow I feel compelled to write about it. And maybe through that I can feel less helpless in a helpless situation.

What did you want to be when you were 16?

2006-10-18T10:40:00.000-07:00

Someone recently asked me this question, and suddenly it linked itself to an idea I've been having about a book on women who are in the middle of their lives, and where they thought they would be when they were younger. And how where they are feels to them.

So tell me: What did you want to be?

I wanted to be a lawyer. I was on the debate team and nothing was more powerful than persuading someone that my ideas were right. Some might say that still holds true, although I like to think I need to be right less. I gave a speech to the Lion's Club about rape crisis laws. My opening line was something like, "A woman is raped every 10 minutes, byt the time I'm finished five women will have been assaulted". Talk about choosing your audience, you could have heard a pin drop and there were NOOOOOO questions.

So I'm not a lawyer, right now I'm a writer-wannabe author, mother, prospective employee. And I'm trying to figure out what to do next. At 16 I thought by now (nearing senility at 39) I would have my shit together. As it turns out I do, and none of it has to do with where I work, or what I do.

Constant Struggle for Zen

2006-09-24T10:23:00.000-07:00

Today I went to the pool in my quest to NOT be a jellyfish at surf camp (seek link). Yes surf camp, yes me, yes in November on my 40th birthday. Stay tuned.

I got to the lap pool and found every lane occupied. Now pool etiquette says you sit on the edge of the lane and let the person who has the lane know you are joining them. I usually sit on the bench and look pathetic clutching my plastic counting beads until someone invites me to join, or just gives up swimming because they can't stand my discomfort. Today a woman who was kicking the crap out of the water with her butterfly offered me half her lane, then inexplicably moved over into the next lane saying "it's okay, really, I was swimming with him to begin with". Instead of just enjoying my cosmic luck, the woman's generosity and the freedom of my own lane I began to think.

Why would she do that? Was it obvious I'm as graceful as a manatee, and about as fast as a snail? Did she want to swim with that guy (they were doing a lot of chatting), was I supposed to protest and persuade her to rejoin my lane? Was I being selfish? Did I smell? And so the quiet zen of swimming bust wide open.

It took 20 laps before I was beginning to stretch and pull and enjoy when-you guessed it-another woman sat on the edge and dipped her feet into my lane. Eager to pay back my earlier good karma I smiled warmly and said of course it was okay for her to join my lane. Bad move. She was twice my age and twice as fast. I tried not to compete but it was impossible and so the next ten laps I started reflecting on how much I hate sharing lanes. About how much I hate sharing any space. One part only child two parts claustrophobia. Ask my husband who continues to advocate the sexiness of showering together. Thinking about it makes me queasy. I was just getting going on how much I especially hate sharing my food (I order what I order for a reason dammit) when another lane opened up and the pure force of my thoughts drove my partner into it.

So I relaxed and swam freely with an open heart for my final two laps.

It's a new year

2006-09-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day of Rosh Hashanah and having belonged to a Jewish family for almost 15 years now, it's a ritual that I enjoy. I've never really been a new year's person, feeling immediately on January 1st that all my good intentions are for naught. Two years ago I made all the right resolutions: to eat better, drink less, exercise more. At noon, Jeff and I, our dear friends Jeniene and Greg were drinking leftover champagne while we ate ice cream sundaes. Enough said.

But September, aahhhhh that back to school feeling. I'm such a geek and I just LOVE school. I love the pencils, post-its, brand new notebooks just itching for my genius to fill them. I love back-to-school clothes shopping, big bulky sweaters and corduroys just give me shivers! So the timing of Rosh Hashana makes sense to me. In temple we sit for hours, we speak a language I don't understand, we sing hymns that-even after all this time-I can't quite get the tunes. And yet the enforced stillness, the sanctity of a holy space, the appeal of belonging while sitting amongst this vast group of people all make me feel joyful.

And Oh! The Rabbi! Our Rabbi is a woman MY age. It blows my mind that someone of my generation can not only choose and adhere to a religion (she knew as a child she was going to be a rabbi) but be the vessel of that religion. She is smart, funny, articulate, she is reasonable (no dogma), and personable and profound and provocative. And though I don't want to be Jewish, and I don't believe in God, I desperately want this woman as my spiritual advisor. So not only do I not resent sitting for 3 hours on a hard bench, but I look forward to it.

And what she said at the beginning of the service today was, "If you are unfamiliar with this prayer book, simply hold it to your heart and the words will fall in." You can't do it wrong

So that is my new year wish for myself and for all my dear friends who are struggling with something: that we learn that we can't do it wrong.

The deepest fear

2006-09-18T18:04:00.000-07:00

The most terrifying thought is that everything will be okay, because it makes us irrelevant, renders us helpless and eradicates meaning from our existence.

Being 40 when you're Virginia Woolf

2006-09-15T11:40:00.000-07:00

She writes (having published two novels, countless articles and criticisms) in her diary July 26, 1922:

There's no doubt in my mind that I have found out how to begin(at 40) to say something in my own voice; and that interests me so that I feel I can go ahead without praise.

Choices

2006-09-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

Last night I was invited to the house of a friend, I was one of eight lucky women. The friend wants to keep a structure around her while she plunges headfirst into launching her own business, leaving the comfort/discomfort of the corporate world. She is a woman I haven't know long but to whom I feel great connection. She brought us all together to declare her intentions for her life. Each of us is the guardian of one of those intentions. I am the writing guardian. I cannot tell you what a terrifying privilege it is to have someone turn to you and say "help me". As terrifying as it was for her to ask, and her courage awed me. I've always felt my humanness is an imposition on others (who can't possibly be as human (read: needy) as me).

I have traveled through much of my life feeling "other". I thought it was because I was an a) only child, b) adopted, c) socially awkward d) riddled with anxiety e) subject to depression, choose any combination of those. I felt that everyone else had a guidebook to life. Knew how to connect to others, understood the subtle ebb and flow of popularity and fashion, learned from their siblings how to be "cool". Because everyone had it more together than I did. So I've worked very hard to fit in, integrate, keep up.

This has followed me through into my (late) thirties as I traded up jobs and homes. For example, I believed it was a character defect that I didn't like to clean, didn't know how to clean so that it really stayed clean (hint: it doesn't), that no one else could possibly feel the mountain of dread that I did when looking at a pile (many many piles) of laundry. I feared that others somehow knew how to sort and dispose of, organize and file the hundreds upon hundreds of bills, newspapers and junk mail that threatened to bury me. That Pottery Barn was a real way of life, not a catalog. That perfection in the domestic domain was possible and more importantly a reflection of my being a decent human being (a good girl).

But recently, very recently, I have come to see that it as my choice. I can have the perfect, clean, color-schemed house if I want to. But then I don't have a life that is rich with playing with my daughter (the more mess the more fun), reading interesting books, struggling with my own writing, training for surf camp, and meeting with women whose intention in life is to be someone authentic, someone struggling and connected to others. Kind of a no-brainer.

home front

2006-09-12T10:05:00.000-07:00

As soon as you hear the word "vulva" at dinner you know that you have passed from simple casual acquaintances, or women with something in common, into friends for all time. Women are brutal about dancing around each other, sizing each other up and pissing on their territory but that is only because we don't make friends lightly. Men, do not be fooled into thinking that because we talk about and to an unending stream of friends that we like even half those people. We just have to have people like us even if we cannot stand them. It's those we hate the most, that we are the nicest to. Guilt goes a long long way....

That said, I have worked for four years after moving back to Maine from "away", to cultivate some friendships. And fortunately, I have met some astounding individuals. But it wasn't until I was having dinner with my former-playgroup-moms-now-lifelong-friends(yes this is where "vulva" followed a critique of the Portland area bars' Cosmos recipes) , meeting with Jess the magnificent (for business but mostly so we could admire each other's cool new frames), trusting my child to another woman who was not my flesh and blood that I realized I have arrived home!

September 10th

2006-09-10T15:31:00.000-07:00

It would be ridiculous to ignore that this is the eve of 9/11. It would also be impossible unless you lived under a rock. I can remember being told "planes are smashing into buildings in New York, we need to get out of here" while sitting in my 22nd floor office in Boston. I remember going home and turning on the tv and watching the whole unreal situation unfold. My husband's company lost people on one of the flights, a flight that he had taken in the past. I remember feeling the cold hand of fate pass over my head and move on. And when I returned to Boston the very next day, went back to work and looked into the faces of my staff who wanted to know "Are we safe?" I never had such a feeling of helplessness. That week I went to church, a church packed to the doorways, on the daize because there was no other place for them to sit, camped some skateboard punks driven in by the immensity of it all. And we prayed together, and I hung my head and squeezed my eyes shut and with all my body I said "Help us".

And I'm not sure he's heard us. It ashames and embarasses me that W will be at ground Zero tomorrow. No doubt it will have to be evacuated to keep him safe. An additional insult to those we lost that day, and those we continue to lose in search of dominance, greed and the arrogant belief that we are "right". In my opinion (and this IS my blog), he has no business being there. He has no business pretending that he understands anything victims and families of that disaster experienced. He who has created more victims and families than did the terrorists.

We are not safer, being safer is an illusion. Life is not safe. As much as I want my daughter to know that she is safe when she is with people other than her father and I, it is not true. Life is risk. We cannot wrap ourselves in bubble wrap and keep our heads down. If any moral comes out of 9/11 it is repeatedly "don't let them win". Don't retreat into our smallness and become bitter and cynical. Do not--for that matter-become like our leaders who have found it convenient to label and alienate and generalize in order to foster support for aggression, violence and domination. And the good news is that for the most part we-the American people-have not. Our press is bad, but we still retain an optimism that is unfounded. And thank God for term limits in the oval office.

This, too, shall pass.

First day on the blog

2006-09-08T10:43:00.000-07:00

Blogs are a sign that we are so desperate for approval that we need to put ourselves out there in the most private of times. The reality show inside our head. We are aghast that the world might pass on without knowing our most innermost thoughts about hangnails or the doggy position. So this is my addition to the destruction of all that is human and decent and private.

Today is day one and clearly I am in transition.