Nothing Like Memories to Send Sadness Packing

During the holidays, I can get as giddy as a 9-year-old. I listen to Christmas music 24/7 (just the oldies like Bing, Perry and Burl) and watch my lit Christmas tree in a darkened room, and bake cookies to deliver to friends, and obsess over wrapping paper and ribbon and tags. I even think about renting a child so I can show up at the Santa pancake breakfast at McDonald’s.

With a few pounds, I could be Mrs. Claus. In fact, I’ve thought about using Ancestry.com to determine if I have relatives from the North Pole.

All kidding aside, the holidays also make me kind of sad. I have no immediate family in the area. My dad died when I was 18. My mom died eight years ago. My sister’s family is in Texas and they celebrate there to be close to the remaining grandparents. So, I’ve never *hosted* Christmas at my own home.

Still, I’ve decided to tell Sadness to take a vacation in Phoenix this Christmas. This year is about gratitude and remembrance.

As a writer, I value memories – mine and others’ – because they provide the rich details that make any story come to life.

Here are a couple of my fondest memories. Each year, Mom would give a special ornament to the three of us kids (and I still have mine on my tree to this day). Often, they’d be in the same *theme* but my brother would get the Santa, I’d get the angel and my sister would get the elf. The photo to the right is probably 38-40 years old!

Fruitcake was a big deal in our household. And not for giving! The kids would chop the neon-colored fruit and nuts while Mom would make the batter. We’d end up eating fruitcake for breakfast the whole season.

And now for a memory shared by my cousin Kathy. Her dad would hide money in their stockings and my cousins would have to figure out where the bills were hidden. No easy task! One year, he carefully opened a candy bar wrapper and inserted the money, then resealed the packaging. Another year, he went to the trouble of opening walnuts (!) , hiding the money inside, and then gluing the nut back together.

Would you please share one Christmas memory with me while I help Sadness pack its bags?

Savor the 'Now' Like It's the Best Sandwich You've Ever Had

It must be a function of aging that time seems to fly by at an astounding and alarming rate. December? Already? What happened to November and the six months prior to that?

My (mostly unspoken) fear is that time flies by so quickly because I’m not fully awake; present and attentive to what I feel and do and say each and every day. Kind of like when you drive a familiar route and then, wham…you’re home and you don’t remember passing landmarks along the way. Just yesterday, I was 18. And today I’m 46. That's a helluva blink of an eye.

On Saturday, my nephew graduates from the University of Texas at Austin. He’s very stressed: money woes, grad school applications for himself and his girlfriend, the future.

I wish I could stop time for him so that he could fully be present in the moment, to savor the current milestone before worrying about the next.

It’s hard to do. I often worry about “when” and “if” scenarios instead of sitting with the now.

For me, that might mean having a holiday coffee drink and reading the paper without my Blackberry on the table, blinking at me to check it. Or it might mean enjoying each bite of the amazing BLT at Poppy’s sandwich shop instead of inhaling it so I could get back to work.

What’s going on in your “now” that you want to savor? There’s no time like the present.

Society's Idea of Beauty is Beastly

My brain is noshing on the notion of beauty today – what it is, how it differs for each of us, how society shapes our ideas on what’s attractive or sexy.

Tawna Fenske, a writer I follow online, recently posted a fun blog entry called “Not so hot boys who make me want to get naked.” She talked about men who have a certain charisma that transcends societal norms of attractiveness. Case in point: Lyle Lovett. (yummy)

Then, last night, I had dinner with my dear friend, Joelle, who is dog-sitting for someone. Sissy, the sweetest little bulldog you’d ever hope to meet, isn’t pretty by anyone’s standards. But to me, she’s BEAUTIFUL. I couldn’t stop kissing her mushed in face. I can’t define in words what attracted me to her but I wanted to scoop her up and take her home.

Joelle and I then talked about how our ideas of beauty have changed as we aged. She’s an avid (i.e., obsessed) road- and mountain-biker so naturally her cute little body is muscled, lean and athletic. She finds the ‘strength’ in her legs beautiful and thanks them for bringing her so much joy.

I’ve come to appreciate the beauty of my hands. I type all day, every day, so I look at them a lot. My fingers are long. My nails have always been really healthy. And now that they are professionally manicured, I can’t stop staring at them! Not only are they utilitarian but they’re sensual and expressive.

What’s beautiful in your world today? Do you find you buck society’s idea of beauty?

To Deonne, my writer friend in Taos: would Billy Bob Thornton make your sexy man list?

When $35 Million Doesn't Equal Success

Last night I stayed up until 11 p.m. (I know! Can you believe it?) to watch From the Sky Down, a documentary about my favorite band U2 and the production of their 1991 album Achtung Baby. The film chronicles the difficult recording period and the group's creative process.

In April 1987, my friend, Christi, and I saw U2 at The Summit in Houston. Joshua Tree was an astounding album and a phenomenal tour. In fact, we had to stay up all night at IHOP, eating blueberry pancakes and discussing the experience. The four boys from Ireland had skyrocketed to success in a matter of months, moving from arena to stadium venues.

I was astounded to learn in the documentary that the band was far from thrilled about the Joshua Tree tour. They said they’d often leave the stage and have a morose sit-down about how disappointed they were in their performances. Lead singer Bono said they were musically unprepared for their success. Drummer Larry Mullen, Jr. said, “We were the biggest, but we weren’t the best.”

WHAT THE F***? Boys, did you hear the gazillions of women screaming and crying? Did you see the lighters held high? Your album sold more than 25 million copies! The 79 North American shows on the tour sold more than 2 million tickets and grossed $35 million.

The point I’m making is that despite outside appearances, the band still didn’t think they were good enough.

How often do we feel this way in the face of success? Do we downplay milestones in our creative journeys or attribute them to luck? Or worse, do we beat ourselves up that we haven’t lived up to some ideal?

The whole documentary left me feeling a little sad because that album defined an important period in my life and the concert was an extra-sensory overload experience that stays with me today – 25 years later. But it taught me a powerful lesson. Money and fame and millions of adoring fans couldn’t make the boys feel good about themselves at that time in their lives.

I hope I can define success for myself in a way that is more compassionate.

On Growing Old and the Kindness of Strangers

Last night as my husband and I were about to fall asleep, he said, “I can’t believe you’ll be 64 tomorrow.” Then, he backtracked furiously about having dyslexia and of course, he meant 46. I told him I feel awfully spry for a 64-year-old, or awfully rickety for a 46-year-old. Most days, I fall somewhere in-between.

Just a couple of weeks ago, my sister visited me. It’s weird to realize how we’d both started worrying about our aging bodies at about the same time in our lives. Age spots, wrinkles, neck waddles, crepey skin (girls, you know what I mean).

Naturally, we found ourselves in the Oil of Old Lady (Olay) aisle at the Rite-Aid perusing the various skin care miracles. The price of that stuff is enough to scare the wrinkles right off you!

Anyhoo. After a few minutes, I grabbed a kit that contained a few different products. I turned it over to check the price. On the back were two yellow Post-it notes. One said: Yes, you are! The other: Beautiful just the way you are.

I grinned. A huge grin. The kind of grin that stays with you for hours. Days.

We left the Rite-Aid without purchasing anything. One simple, beautiful note from a stranger erased a lot of the self-judgment we’d arrived with.

I’m left with two thoughts:

1. Let’s be kinder to ourselves and to all women and girls. Life is too short to feel inadequate at any age.
2. Words are powerful. Let’s be careful to use them to uplift rather than tear down.

If you have a Post-it note handy, write a kind note and leave it in a library book, a menu, a bathroom stall, the gym locker room. I'm guessing you'll be responsible for a huge grin.

An Ode to Dreams Come True

I'm in awe of those writers who keep up their blogs. I'm either a procrastinator or time is now on supersonic speed and days fly by faster than ever before. (Probably a little of both?)

So, today's post is an ode to dreams coming true.

First, my awesome friend and college roommate, Christi, is inches away from being a REAL PUBLISHED AUTHOR. She signed a two-book deal some months ago and the first book debuts in early January. She's just released the cover to NIGHT SCHOOL -- which makes me all tingly because it's tangible evidence of a dream come true. Congrats, dear friend!

Second, my dear friend Carson celebrated the opening of her photography studio last night (Red Scarf Shots). I arrived to find the charming little space packed with friends and supporters. I'm not joking when I say you could feel the love! Recently, I was a subject for Carson's next photo exhibit (December in Durango, and February in LA). When she put out a call for subjects, I emailed immediately and said "Hell, yeah, count me in." She was in awe of my response. I told her that it was a no-brainer. I trust and admire her artistic vision and am honored to be part of her journey. Dreams-come-true are better shared, right?

The fact that I was able to go part-time with my day job and carve out full days like today for writing is also a dream come true. As is the fact that two of the most successful agents in the country have a copy of my manuscript at this very moment! (Talk about feeling all tingly!)

"Living the dream" is possible on so many levels. Wherever you are today, I hope that you're living at least a part of the dream that you envision for yourself. And it you're not, why not start now?

Don't Wake Me If I'm Dreaming

In the novel Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell, two characters (Emma and Stephen) are forced each night to attend balls in the Faerie kingdom of Lost-Hope, where they dance all night long. During the day, they have no knowledge of this ‘second life’ they lead — and understandably, they’re exhausted!

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had vivid dreams — and multiple dreams — every night. Some are just odd or whimsical, some frightening and foreboding. I often liken my overactive ‘dream life’ to the fate of Emma and Stephen. It sometimes seems that I lead two lives and that if I didn’t dream, I might feel more rested. (Hey, it’s a theory.)

What I find most fascinating about dreams are the unique, extremely specific details. Last night I dreamt that my cousin Kathy and I visited an antique shop. I entered a storage room to view an antique table and chairs from China. The details were so clear: the black and red lacquer finish, the intricate carvings on the tabletop, the red silk of the chair covers, the ‘feet’ of the table legs that resembled lion’s paws. Next, I browsed dusty shelves where I found an old leather-bound church hymnal. It was square and the spine of the cover had pulled away from the browned and aged pages inside.

Have I seen these items somewhere before? Or are our minds capable of storing a million (billion?) tiny bits of data that we draw on to construct these dream worlds? Do we tap into a collective unconscious as Jung would suggest?

I don’t have the answers but as a writer, the questions compel me. When I construct a world on paper, what images do I rely on? My own memories? The images absorbed through movie, television, books? Or, do our imaginations — like our dream worlds — draw on the collective unconscious?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Do you dream? Where do you think your dreams come from?