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The Sands of Time

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Time.  In the end it’s all we have and what we lose when the final grain of sand slips from the hourglass of our lives. In my favorite quote of all time (and that’s saying a lot), J.R.R. Tolkien tells us that, “All we have to do is decide what to do with the time that we have.”  I believe it. I live by carpe diem I am appalled and terrified about the rate at which time is speeding up as I get older, whizzing by at an ever-increasing velocity by virtue of physical laws I neither understand nor wish to acknowledge.  But time doesn’t care.  It just keeps slip sliding away, and we are all one day closer to death. Wow, I’m seriously harshing my mellow right now. I’m still immersed in the Fever world of Karen Marie Moning.  I know, it’s been a while, but I’m not rushing the experience.  I’m enjoying it too much.  I’m choosing to spend my precious time with her compelling characters in a world I wouldn’t want to live in, but that I love visiting.  The book I’m currently reading, Iced, is focused on Dani, the 14-year old super-smart, super-strong, super-fast, superhero who says “dude” and “like” enough to set my teeth on edge.  But she is so alive, so vibrant, so full of…everything. She is making every single minute count.  She abhors wasted time.  I agree with her.

Time is a funny thing.  In our language we pass it, kill it, make it, do it, have it, fill it, use it, squander it.  I’ve never understood the concept of killing time.  Why the hell would we want to do that?  It’s killing us, dude! And we need to turn the other cheek, not retaliate, because that’s just another way that time kills us. On the other hand, I’ve always approved of the colloquialism of ‘doing time.’  Because that’s exactly what we demand of those who transgress the laws of our society—we extract that which is most precious to them, their time and the freedom to spend it as they choose. There is nothing more valuable we can take away. I know for a fact that I would never survive prison. The thought of all of that useless, lost time would weigh on me to the point where I’d lose my mind.

Many of us focus on stretching our years, months, weeks and minutes for as long as possible. We don’t seem to worry as much about quality as we do about quantity.  I couldn’t disagree more.  It’s all about the quality of the time that we spend. I hope I won’t have to put this speculation to the test, but I think I would choose an earlier death instead of living longer in the state of pain, fatigue and sickness that characterizes the hideous choices we offer to cancer patients and others suffering from chronic, fatal illness.  And I strenuously disagree with the American practice of spending the majority of our healthcare dollars on the last weeks and months of life. To what end?  The answer is, paradoxically, to the end.  For no discernable reason, as far as I can see.  I am forever grateful that neither of my parents lingered for any length of time before they passed.  They would have hated it, and it would have been an exercise in futility.  Which is, by definition, futile, and therefore incomprehensible at some level.

And then there is the fact that many of us aren’t even spending the time that we have.  We are living so far from the present moment that we’re not experiencing life as we live it.  We’re thinking about yesterday—either about how horrible it was and how the world, our parents, the big boss, the school bully, etc. has done us wrong and needs to pay.  Or we’re thinking about the glory days that are now in the rearview mirror, and the best we can do is take a walk down memory lane and relieve the good times. Or, we’re projecting into the future, my preferred time killer here.  As Dani would say, gah!!  No matter how many wise people tell us about the power of now, so few of us choose to hang out there.  Partially because it’s hard to do, especially in a society that is so full of distractions from the now.  But also because we are constantly thinking about how much better it could be, or should be, or would be or will be.  I say again, gah!

And even though we are so concerned about longevity over peak experiences, so few of us are willing to do what it takes to add years to our lives and life to our years.  Have you worked out today?  Nah, me either.  Did you enjoy the Big Mac you just scarfed down?  I wouldn’t touch that crap, but I’m certainly not above enjoying my wine and chocolate beyond what could be considered true moderation.  I know I should move more frequently and eat extra greens, but I only do so occasionally.  Why?  Because we seem to think that sloth and gluttony are more fun than work and abstinence.  Go figure.

But it’s true.  For me, the repeated engagement in less-than-healthy behavior, physical and emotional, is something I tell myself enhances the quality of my life and counts as a worthy use of my time.  But that’s just my denial talking here.  I tell myself I don’t have time, and I have no choices, even when I know that’s total bullshit.  And then I hear about someone my age dropping dead of a heart attack, or I realize that I have fewer years ahead of me than there are behind me and I start to panic big time.  And I berate myself for the paucity of good choices I’m making with whatever time I have.  Tolkien would be very disappointed with me.  And I promise myself that I will make every second count.  And then I do, until the second comes that isn’t quite as perfect as I’d hoped or expected, and then I’m back to wanting to pass this moment, kill this minute, and get to the next one as fast as I can. Which at the rate I’m going, will be faster than Dani when she’s moving at super speed.

We don’t need to rush tomorrow.  It will come.  And it will go.  And so will we.  So, we need to ask ourselves, are we making good decisions with the time that we have? Am I?  Are you?

People Need Love Most When They Deserve It the Least

The Seahawks lost the Super Bowl last night. I can't say that it mattered to me one way or the other, as I don't enjoy football. But, man, it mattered to my husband, born and raised in Washington State, and to my two sons, who are their father's children. And, as I understand it, the loss was wholly preventable and the Seahawks snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, which made the whole enterprise that much more difficult to swallow. At this point you are probably asking yourself why you are still reading this seemingly irrelevant post. But please hang in, as there is a pony in here, I promise. The point is that my beloved men were not happy campers last night, despite the fact that we'd had a triumphant weekend preceding the devastation of Sunday night; my son had earned first place in a debate tournament, my husband had returned from an extremely productive work trip, and my boys' high school whupped their arch nemesis in basketball. None of that mattered, though, when the Seahawks lost. And my men had a hard time rising above it. They behaved badly in their disappointment. They took it out on me, albeit in a relatively restrained manner.  Nonetheless, I didn't appreciate it. But I've learned a thing or two from reading my beloved fantasy books. And one thing I’ve learned is not to kick a loved one when he’s down. I've learned to ride the wave of acting out and lashing out. Because, as Mac Lane, Dani O'Malley, Anita Blake, Jane Yellowrock and Mercy Thompson have taught me, people need love most when they deserve it the least. 

You don't have to know the characters of which I speak to know of what I speak. Think of the people closest to you. Hell, think of yourself. How well do you act towards others when you are sad or mad or frustrated or disappointed?  Well, if you’re me, not so well.  As my son pointed out last night, “Yeah, Mom, like you never take it out on us when you’re in a bad mood.”  Horrid child, that one.  Just kidding.  He was right, of course, and don’t think I thanked him for pointing out my own failings.  I didn’t. Shocking, I know.

But I think it’s instructive to explore the why of the bad behavior just a little bit for a moment.  Why do we lash out in anger or act out in frustrated hissy fits?  I have a theory about this (I pretty much have a theory about everything, and if you’ve read enough of my posts, you have been exposed to a lot of them). I think that it is much, much easier to be mad than sad. It’s easier to be annoyed than wounded. It’s more comfortable for most people to be offended rather than hurt. And while I know there are those out there who revel in the role of victim or martyr, I can’t say I spend a lot of time with those poor souls because I absolutely cannot relate at all to anyone who would willingly offload their self-determination to someone else and then blame them for their troubles.  I always blame myself—if it’s my fault, then I can do something to rectify it.  If it’s your fault, I’m SOL. And who wants to be SOL?  Not me, that’s who.

How many times have you experienced a major melt down of the shoe throwing variety because of a situation that has left you feeling devastated in one way or another?  When that happens to me, I know that the unwelcome tears are not far behind.  This is analogous to referred pain—like when your leg hurts and your doctor tells you it’s really your lower back.  When I’m gripped by a spasm of grief, the intensity of the sadness is almost always preceded by a bout of belligerence, usually aimed at my long-suffering husband (and yes, I realize that I called him on his bad behavior after the Super Bowl and expect him to put up with mine—but, seriously, are we really going to equate grief over the death of someone close to us to the loss of a freaking football game?!). The point here is that I am rarely behaving badly during the sad/hurt/vulnerable/crying phase of my emotional roller coaster. It’s only during the aggressive, bitchy prequel to the brokenhearted, inconsolable main event that I’m at less than my most loving, sensitive self.

So, if my theory is correct, and people behave badly because they are feeling sad and therefore vulnerable, what is the appropriate response?  Anger?  Annoyance? Irritation?  Impatience? No, no, no and, you guessed it, no. This behavior is usually a cry for help, a message that says, “hey, I’m feeling exposed and defenseless right now, and we all know that the best defense is a good offense, so please, instead of being angry with me, please, please, please, offer me a hug, a kiss and a little understanding that I’m going through a rough spot here and could really use some support.” At least that’s what I usually mean when I’m being testy. Most of the time.

But knowing this doesn’t make it easy.  After all, I knew my menfolk were sad last night. But because I didn’t really agree with the source of their sadness, I was prepared to discount it rather than honor it. Not cool, in retrospect. I need to remember that the Golden Rule is shiny for a reason.  People need love the most when they deserve it the least. Me most of all, so I’d better put up or shut up when it’s asked of me in return.

Apathetic Passion

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So, I just finished the Fever bundle, by Karen Marie Moning, and I'm beginning to work my way through Iced in anticipation of reading Burned. I'm fairly certain it's going to be a quasi-religious experience for me. In the interim, I can't stop thinking about Mac and Barrons and the Unseelie King. I'm thinking about passion, joy, lust for life and an infinite amount of desire. I’m thinking about the objects of those desires, and what happens when desire is destructive rather than generative.  And I'm thinking about what it means when those feelings are missing. For me, the world seems divided—into those who know what their passion is and those who don’t have one. And I’m really only talking about passions that are contributory.  I’d much rather see passionate people like Mac who care about the world and the fate of humanity rather than the kind of lust for life that characterizes Barrons.  I love the guy, but he’s somewhat selfish. Which is a little like saying Kanye West is somewhat self-absorbed.

What do we lust for? Is our passion worthy?  What if what we are passionate about is the pursuit of pleasure? What if it turns out that what we care about, what we’re passionate about, is ourselves, and not really anyone else?  I feel like I see a lot of that out there. Obviously, there are those whose passion is for helping others—and we read about them in magazines and hear about them on the news.  But I have a nagging suspicion that we hear and read about these people because they are the exception, and not the rule. That there are more people for whom a lust for life looks more like eating a bowl of potato chips while watching the Superbowl than joining Doctors without Borders.

What happens when desire is thwarted?  What happens to those of us who find out that what we thought we wanted wasn’t? The Unseelie King pondered this problem for an eternity, but it’s not clear he came up with any answers. How many people do you know who spent years in school studying one thing, thinking they loved it, only to discover that they really weren’t that enamored after all? What if our purported passion doesn't feel like we thought it would?  What if it doesn't feel like passion, but instead feels like ashes? What happens when our desire turns into apathy? What happens when nothing inspires our desire?  Look around you. There are more people than not who just don't give a damn. Rhett Butler is all around us, and we don’t care about that, either.

What does all this mean? It means we live in a world where a lot of us either care passionately about only that which promotes our own agendas, or they don’t care at all.  Rock and a hard place, for sure. There is so much apathy in the world.  As well as misplaced passion. Which leads me to ask, how can we inspire engagement in those who have disengaged, and redirect those whose passions are turned inward? Again, I don’t have a lot of answers, just a lot of questions. For Mac and Barrons, there is purpose in rebuilding the world and passion flows from purpose.  So there is one answer—purpose produces passion. So does curiosity. And authentic connection. And gratitude. I guess I had some answers after all.

We need the good kind of passion.  Without it, we are lost, and when the Fae apocalypse occurs (I prefer it to the Zombie apocalypse, so we’ll go with that) we’ll be hard pressed to rouse ourselves from our food comas, rampant consumerism and prurient voyeurism to give a shit.  And this is an issue, because, as my favorite philosopher, Dr. Seuss, tells us, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not.”  We need to give a shit. And we need to do it with passion. Let's get on that, shall we?

About Last Night

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Among the many blessings in my life, I have amazing friends. In fact, I could write an entire post about the joys of friendship, and I probably will, but for today, I want to mention a friend of mine who hosts salons. Not the kind where you get your hair cut and your nails painted, but the kind where intellectually-minded folks gather (the original meaning of salon) in someone’s living room to discuss the issues of the day or other erudite topics for the sheer joy of exercising their brains. How cool is that? I’ve long admired her commitment to furthering the cerebral pursuits of her friends and acquaintances. Anyway, before I go too far afield, the reason I’m telling you about this is because the speaker at yesterday’s salon was none other than yours truly!  And the reason I want to tell you about my experience speaking to a group of folks who don’t read paranormal and urban fantasy (except for our host, my friend, who is an avid fan), is because the experience intensified my mission to spread the word about our favorite genre to as many people as possible. 

The format of this salon involves a speaker, me, in this case, pontificating for about 30 minutes or so, and then engaging in a group discussion about the subject at hand.  I began my talk with an abbreviated curriculum vitae—just to assure everyone that I could hold my own among the incredibly accomplished company attending this event in Washington DC.  Once I had established my bona fides, I told them about my deep happiness in reading fantasy and I explained why it was so compelling for me.  There was skepticism, for sure.  But I think I was able to win a number of them over to the dark side by explaining all the intellectual reasons to read these books (if you need a reason beyond hot, steamy vampire sex—boo-yah!),

My first hook, so to speak, was the concept of world building.  World building interests me for many reasons. The quality of the world building is usually indicative of the quality of the writing.  A fertile imagination can conjure complex and fascinating rules for whether vampires can come out at night, or reproduce, or eat food, or have bodily functions.  World building may also involve the description of exotic, paranormal locales, such as the pockets of Otherland in Thea Harrison’s Elder Races series (Thea is a master of finding beautiful pictures and photos that could be Otherworld locations that she posts on her Facebook page, which are amazing).  World building includes descriptions of the creatures that inhabit these worlds as well as the details of their societies, customs, habits, etc., such as the social mores of shifter cultures, for example, or the anthropological evolution of the opposing courts of the Fae.  Authors who construct worlds get to write their own creation stories, which appeals to the theologian in me.

But the most amazing aspect of world building in fantasy novels is the analogy to our normal, as opposed to paranormal, lives, where, if we are both lucky and good, we are able to build our own worlds and, at a minimum, co-create our own lives.  We are all the authors of our destinies, and the worlds that are built in my beloved books remind me that I am the author of my own creation. It pays to be reminded of that.

Another aspect of paranormal fiction that I discussed at some length at this salon was the trope involving illusion and glamour that is so common in these books.  I’ve written about this before here, and I’m intrigued by the concept of illusion and the ability to see through it—or even the desire to see through it. Not everyone is interested in seeing what is true A lot of us prefer to have our truths adorned with lies to make them more palatable.  Mac, in the Fever world of Karen Marie Moning, claims she would rather live a hard life of fact than a sweet life of lies, but I think she’s the exception that proves the rule.  Most of us like our illusions because they feed our denial—another topic I’ve explored in this space here.  And there is nothing that holds a mirror up to our own predilection for deceit than a fantasy world where nothing is as it seems and everyone is peddling their own self-serving versions of the truth.  In many cases, truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

But the most compelling aspect of these books for me, and for my audience last night as well, is the exploration of mortality that the world of immortals allows us to access.  I have found it nothing short of mind blowing to read about the consequences of immortality—none of which are pleasant or desirable—that help me to value the poignancy of our own mortal coil.  In one of my favorite songs, Queen asks, “Who wants to live forever?”  And the answer, especially after reading enough paranormal fiction in which immortal beings become jaded beyond apathy, cruel with the continual need to up the ante, or simply insane as a result of the passage of eons, is not me.  If time is of no consequence, there is no urgency to do anything, and nothing has value because for those who cannot die, tomorrow is always another day.  For the rest of us, we could have an appointment with Death that no one bothered to pencil into our calendars.  The uncertainty and fragility of existence, the inexorable progress toward the end of life as we know it, is and should be the flame under our asses motivating us to pack as much as we can into our brief sojourn as possible. We aren’t going to live forever, and therefore we have an absolute imperative to seize the day. For all of these reasons, I urged my audience last night to check out my “Favorites” page and take a dive into the deep end of these remarkable books.  Because vampire porn is fun and educational.  And not just to learn better technique from those who’ve been perfecting theirs for millennia. After all, everything I know I learned from reading smut.  And you can too.

Hope and Fear

Hope strengthens, fear kills. This is the mantra and philosophy of MacKayla Lane, the heroine of Karen Marie Moning's Fever series. I can't tell you how often I've thought these words to myself. They are so true. And it took a paranormal fantasy series to explain it to me. I probably always understood this concept, but I couldn't have articulated it so articulately. Hope strengthens. Fear kills.

Without hope, there is despair. Despair, is the absence of hope. It is the thought that nothing will get better and that whatever hell we are experiencing will go on without end. I've been there. I know. It is the most awful place to be. What’s the point?  It doesn’t matter.  Whatever. I don’t care.  Lack of hope is the ultimate apathy, and, as my favorite guru, Danielle LaPorte, tells us, lack of passion is fatal.

But the opposite is true as well. Hope is the wellspring of strength. When we have hope, we have the power to fight on, to continue through hell, knowing it will end, believing there is something better yet to come. I've often felt that any pain or discomfort or inconvenience is tolerable when I know that it will end and, preferably, when it will end. Hope is a promise. It is unfulfilled potential. It is a projection of optimism that all will be well and maybe even better than before.

But I don't think hope springs eternal. I think we want hope to spring eternal, but it doesn't, always. Sometimes, hope fails us. And while maybe in theory where there is life there is hope, life ceases when hope dies, just as hope ceases when life ends. Life and hope are inexorably bound. Without hope, fear has a chance to come in, put its feet up, and take over our minds.

And we know without a doubt that fear kills. Think about panic--the absence of rational thought, the inability to think our way out of a bad situation so that it subsumes us. I will never forget my first experience of panic. When I was young I was swimming in a pool and someone threw a rubber boat into the water. I'm afraid of the water. I was under the boat, and when I went to come up and breathe, I couldn't lift the boat, even though it didn’t weigh much. The bottom had created a suction seal against the surface of the water. I panicked. I tried and tried to lift it, to no avail. I tried to outswim it, but I couldn’t. Finally, when I was seeing grey spots in front of my eyes, it occurred to me to swim around it. In retrospect, it was almost inconceivable that I could have drowned because I couldn't think through the panic to swim around the boat. But it’s true. Fear kills.

And there is another side to fear and hope. Fear motivates. Hope inspires. Both will get our asses in gear and cause us to take action. But it's been my experience that action motivated by fear is much less successful than that inspired by hope. It is so much more pleasant to be inspired by hope than motivated by fear too. Fear causes us to run from things. Hope causes us to run to things. It is more desirable to run toward something than away from it, if for no other reason than it is hard to outrun ourselves, which is most often what we run from.

Inspiration comes from within. Motivation comes from outside. One feels effortless. The other can feel like a burden. We are motivated to earn money, achieve professional and social success, accomplish goals and objectives. These aren't bad things, of course, but they are the reflections of others that give substance to our lives. On the other hand, we are inspired to be of service, to love, to be useful, to connect with each other and with something bigger than ourselves. We are inspired to create: art, music, books, excellence in all areas. Inspiration is generative. Motivation is productive. There is a difference. Like my favorite story of the three bricklayers building the cathedral. Look it up. It's something of a Rorschach test. What you get from the story probably says something about your attitude and ability to see beyond yourself and something about whether you are called to action through the motivation of fear or the inspiration of hope.

Hope strengthens. Fear kills. Hope inspires. Fear motivates. I ask myself often where I am on the spectrum between the two.  I work to discern whether I’m being motivated by fear or inspired by hope. Sometimes I can’t actually tell the difference, which seems odd, but I know it’s true.  Fear has a way of making us rationalize decisions that do not serve us. One way to tell is by the fruits—does a decision or action make us feel happy, or just relieved? Are we filled with passion and joy, or just the absence of pain, uncertainty and doubt? Are we living in the wreckage of our futures, or the glory of what we hope will manifest for us?

Right now, I’m feeling wonderfully inspired by Mac and Barrons’ story to grab life by the horns and proceed full throttle—hopeful that not only is this not as good as it gets, but that the best is definitely ahead of me.

Where are you in this moment?  

With Great Power

Life is good.  I’m still reading the Fever series bundle in anticipation of the release of Burned on January 20 (tomorrow!!).  I’ve determined that Karen Marie Moning is a genius and I want to be her when I grow up.  Oops, I am grown up and I haven’t been able to come up with anything like what she’s created.  I’m burning with envy that the Muse hasn’t visited me the way it’s inhabited Karen Moning.  There is so much in these books to think about it’s a bit overwhelming. It’s a whole philosophical system/unique worldview rolled up into a compelling story with characters who literally invade my dreams.  I almost don’t know where to start. So, I’m just going to jump in with a thought train that left the station as I read Mac’s story. One of the coolest things about these books is that they raise a number of interesting questions to ponder—and then they don’t give you answers tied up into a neat bow.  I know I said that I liked that—and I do in my paranormal and urban fantasy sometimes—but in this case, because she has inspired so much furious thinking on my part, I’ll forgive Ms. Moning her trespasses, as I’ll hope she’ll forgive any I make in writing about her work. The dilemma du jour is about obligation and responsibility.  I’ve come across this question before, in Charlaine Harris’ Sookie Stackhouse character. The question is, just because you can do something, are you required to do it?  Does capability engender obligation? In the world of the Fever series, Mac struggles with the issue of whether her special sidhe powers—powers that might mean saving the world—necessitate that she has to use them to do so, even at the expense of her own life and joy.  Sookie ponders whether it is selfish and wrong of her to hide her ability to identify accident survivors after a catastrophe, or not to use her telepathy to solve crimes—knowing that if she doesn’t, innocent people will be hurt and guilty ones will go free.  Tough stuff, for sure.  Makes me happy that I can’t read minds or sense Fae objects of power—I would have the same dilemma as Mac and Sookie.  But wait—I already do—and so do you, actually.  We all have something we can do that would make at least someone else’s life better than it is.  Does that mean we have to do it? What does it make us if we don’t?

This leads to other, maybe even thornier questions. Do we need to always give money to beggars on the street? Must we help out a friend—every friend? Every time? Lend our talents to the military, the intelligence community, the police, first responders? Help a colleague? Do we do what's in front of us to do or do we go looking for people to save and help? What is our moral obligation? To ourselves? To others?

How do we square the circle at the intersection of “not my job” and the concept that with great power comes great responsibility?  I have no idea.  Do we behave like Sookie and go back to our lives, rather than sacrifice ourselves to the greater good?  Or do we do like Mac and decide to go all in, despite the risks and potential sacrifices?  This is a very personal decision and it goes beyond the question of whether to save the world just because you can.  How much should we sacrifice for others?  Should Bill Gates give all his money away, or just much of it, as he does? Should doctors treat patients for free in all circumstances?  There is a line, somewhere between Ayn Rand and Karl Marx, but hell if I know exactly where it is.  There is an art to saying no, of course, but for me, there is an even bigger art to avoiding the guilt that comes afterward.  I know, rationally, that I probably can’t save the world, although I do have a postcard above my desk that reads, "I am fairly certain that given a cape and a nice tiara, I could save the world."

But I can’t always help.  At least not without giving something up that I don’t want to give, including my time, my energy, my money and my reputation. And I’ve learned to say no and to live with it somewhat comfortably, at least much of the time.  But damn, it’s hard.  I used to believe that when someone asked me for something, the request itself created an obligation for me to fulfill it.  Even worse, I had a bad case of “if I spot it, I got it,” and I don’t the idea of seeing our own character defects in others and being all high and mighty about it (OMG—did you see how catty she is? I ask my BFF—in a decidedly feline manner).  What I mean is that if I saw something that I knew I could make better—even if no one else recognized this reality—something in my brain made me want to take up the cause and volunteer (in the military they teach you not to do that, ever). And then subsequently, when I was slaving away at midnight or later, seething with resentment, I had no one to blame but myself.

So, I don’t pretend to have the answers here, but I know these are important questions to ask, and I’m grateful to Ms. Moning and Ms. Harris for sparking my thoughts in this direction. There may be no right answer for everyone, and the answer may change with the situation and the time in one’s life, or even whether we’re just feeling generous or stingy that day—but now I’ve gone and given myself away, with my niggling suspicion that if I don’t do absolutely everything there is to do to help humanity and improve the world, I’m a selfish bitch. I’m thinking that’s not true, but I guess I need to work on my internal dialogue a bit.  I’ll need to switch off between Sookie and Mac and try to find some balance in my life. Wish me luck.

A Day Like Any Other

It's that time. I'm returning to the scene of the crime, the place where it all began. The latest installment of Karen Marie Moning's Fever series will be released on January 20, and I've started to reread the whole series in anticipation. These books, particularly Shadowfever, the last in the Mac and Barrons story thus far, fundamentally changed the way I read paranormal fantasy and how I think of these books and how they affect my life. And while I didn't know it at the time, these extraordinary books held the seeds of my blog and, hopefully, my soon-to-be-written book between their magical pages. It was with the Fever series that I began to see the truth and wisdom that is offered by paranormal and urban fantasy. And just like that, I realized that these works were inspiring deep and meaningful thoughts about life, love and how to do it all with as much truth and integrity as possible.

And so, because these books mark a demarcation line between Before the Fever series and After, today's post is a reflection on how quickly life can change from one moment to the next, much in the same way that MacKayla's life changes when she learns of her sister's death in the beginning of the first book in the series, Darkfever. Mac thinks of the phone call that upended her world and her life as a "line of demarcation" and so it was. She also observes that "it began as most things begin, not on a dark and stormy night... It began small and innocuously, as most catastrophes do."  All of this hit me hard with the truth of what she said. An extraordinary day can begin as a day like any other.

Life can turn on a dime, and it often does. I think back to almost every specific day when I received unexpected news (usually bad, but this would apply to good news as well) or when I realized something important had occurred and my life might be unalterably changed as a result. Days, or really moments, like this are always preserved in my memory with incredible clarity and detail. And in those moments I always have the thought that, wow, there was absolutely nothing in this day that could possibly be interpreted as a portent of the bad thing (or good thing) to come. It seemed like such an ordinary day, during an ordinary week, embedded in an ordinary month. Have you ever experienced this?  This phenomenon has always intrigued me.

I was also intrigued by the time warp aspect of MacKayla's experience. A detail of the story involves her dropping her cellphone into the pool several days before she learns of her sister's death from the authorities in Dublin. When she finally gets a new one and listens to her messages, there's one from her sister, Alina, who is highly distraught. Alina dies very soon afterward and MacKayla realizes that while Alina was being killed and then lay dead for two days in an alley, Mac was sunning herself and swimming in her pool and chillaxing her days away. I don't know why it is always such a shock to find out that something awful happened and in the time between the event and our learning of it, life goes on as it was.

I experienced a similar situation upon the deaths of both my parents. They died, or, more accurately, suffered soon-to-be-fatal heart attacks, while I was unreachable for a time. So, while they were dying, I was getting on with my life as if nothing were amiss. Because, of course, ignorance is bliss. What we don't know won't hurt us. It is only later that we realize that the universe had shifted and we hadn’t known. I’ve always thought that when something bad happens to someone I love and am connected to, I would know it.  There are some people who claim that they do, but I’m not one of these.  I’ve experienced no premonitions of doom—or joy, in fact. I had no idea, for example, on the day I met my husband on a blind date that was supposed to be with someone else that such a lovely event would occur.  Nor did I have any clue, many years later that he’d been in an accident on his bike on a day where I actually wasn’t worried about that happening (ironic, I know). Lines of demarcation, before and after.

Occasionally, life-changing events occur and we aren’t aware.  Like when I went to see one of the deans at my college to try to sort out some academic issues and he ended up helping me avoid failing out of school, a fact I didn’t discern until the crisis had already passed.  Or when we look back at our lives and see, in hindsight, that an event or situation was a line of demarcation, as Mac calls it.  I think that there may be more of these than we think, but that it’s often easier to identify them in hindsight than when we are living through it, because life-changing events can overwhelm us very quickly.  Of course, an unexpected (or even an expected) death is usually a very clear line of demarcation. But, as I know Mac will discover as she progresses through the story of the Fever series, there are others, and sometimes they come very fast, while at other times, these lines make themselves known more slowly.  And how we handle the accrual of these lines within our own world determines how we’ll live our lives.

These lines of demarcation can become prison bars, and keep us stuck in one place.  Or they can become the markings on the road we continue to travel, providing guidance and direction. It’s up to us how we respond to life-changing events.  We can cling to the past and wish it weren’t so.  Or we can embrace the new reality and adjust ourselves to it. As Barrons would remind us, it’s our choice.

Delusions and Denial

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You know what it is. You know you've experienced it. Maybe. For sure you know lots of other people who suffer from this particular malady. I'm talking about denial. That state of being that isn't just a river in Egypt. The worst thing about denial is that it is the one mental weakness or deficiency or defect, or whatever you want to call it, that works hard to convince us that it isn't real, or, at least, doesn't apply to us. Kind of like the fact that Americans hate Congress but like their own Congressman. It makes no sense, of course, for so many of us to feel that way. But we do. Cause we're all living in denial.  Denial is all about the stories we tell ourselves until we believe our own bullshit. I was reminded about how powerful a force denial can be when I read the continuation of Jim and Dali's story in Night Shifts, one of the best anthologies I've read in a long time. Jim and Dali live in the world of Kate Daniels, who, in turn, is the creation of the very talented Ilona Andrews. In the story, Dali, a shapeshifter who transforms into a white tiger, is in love with Jim, the Alpha of the cat clan. Dali has convinced herself that Jim would never consider her a suitable mate because she is not a good fighter. She's convinced herself that it could never work because of her gentle nature and aversion to violence. She spends a large part of the story repeating this supposed truth from a number of different angles.  She did a good job of convincing me.

But then we find out—spoiler alert—that her view of herself is colored so deeply by denial that her perspective is wholly alien to Jim's. He doesn't see her as a liability. He sees her strength and determination. He also sees a big-ass cat that can do more damage to an opponent just by sitting on him than a more aggressive, but smaller and weaker cat could ever hope to achieve. Moreover, where Dali sees her magic as useless, Jim believes it's a game changer. Again, Dali is so blinded by denial she can't see the forest for the ocean. Cause there is no ocean—it's a figment of her denial and the stories she's told herself for so long that they have become ground truth.

My favorite story about the stories we tell ourselves involves my mother (and I love this story so much that all my friends and family are thoroughly tired of hearing it!). For years and years my mother maintained that we had a Christmas tree for only one year during my growing up. She claimed that she tried it once and then she felt her Jewish mother rolling in her grave and never got another tree. This story was in direct conflict with my memories of many years of beautifully decorated trees. One of us was clearly lying to ourselves. My mother worked assiduously to convince me that I was crazy. She almost succeeded. I definitely doubted myself. I almost caved and began to believe her and not my own memories. Have you ever seen the movie "Gaslight"? Anyway, the glorious end to this story is that we discovered a huge trove of photos we didn't realize we had. Guess what the pictures showed—in denial-proof full-color prints?  Years and years of my brother and I posing in front of our Christmas trees—with him and me getting older and taller every year.  You can't imagine how validating that was for me. I wasn't the one telling myself crazy stories that had no bearing on reality, she was. Yippee!! On the other hand, I’m sure that I was busy telling myself other stories.

We've all been in denial to some degree or another at some point or points in our lives. It happens to some of us perhaps less than others, but absolutely no one is immune.  Here's the thing about denial, though, that actually makes me quite nervous:  how do we know we're in denial when we're in denial?  This is something I think about a lot. Clearly, we don't know what we don't know. And we don't know that we're in denial about until we wipe the sand out of our eyes. So I worry that I may think I'm a queen bee, but really I'm a wannabe. I worry that I think this blog is good and worthwhile and it really will take off eventually, but maybe I'm just fooling myself.  I worry that I believe I can write a book that someone will want to publish and that more than one someone wants to read, but maybe I'm living in Egypt after all. 

How can we know whether the stories we tell ourselves are total crap or not?  How do we know if we're full of shit? We get invested in a story and then we don't want to let it go, even if it's a bad story. We cherry pick and choose the facts that fit our fantasy lives. We tell ourselves the same things so often that we come to believe them. We ridicule others (in our heads) whose realities don't conform to ours. We accept the unacceptable by telling ourselves that we have no choice, which is just another story we tell ourselves. We rationalize and we justify. We create whole worlds in our heads that have absolutely no resemblance to reality.

Denial is an insidious problem.  We need to be vigilant in guarding against it and rooting it out.  If we’re lucky, someone will help us to see the error of our ways and we will come to accept reality. Then, we are able to see past our delusions and understand a more objective reality-- i.e. one that others can subscribe to as well. Like when Dali is finally able to see herself through Jim's eyes and realize that the stories she'd been telling herself about herself were completely inaccurate.  As I often find, there is a lot of truth in fantasy, and there are some fascinating shapeshifters out there who are only too happy to teach us. So, let’s all try to take our heads out of the sand and stick them in a book instead. 

I See You

I feel like Christopher Columbus.  Or Galileo.  OK, maybe not so much, but I feel like shrieking “Eureka!” Although I don’t plan to run screaming from my bathtub in the altogether. To what do I owe my happiness?  I’ve discovered a new author.  And I love her already.  She’s funny and clever and the premise is original—just when I started to think that there was nothing new under the sun, no new worlds that someone else has built that I can explore.  But there is, and there are.  And Lisa Shearin is a real find.  The first book in a series I can’t wait to read (the second book, The Dragon Conspiracy comes out in two weeks, the first book is The Grendel Affair, and I saw on her website that she’s promising a third entry by the end of 2015!) The heroine of Ms. Shearin’s world is Makenna Fraser.  Yes, another Mac to know and love.  She isn’t really anything like MacKayla Lane, except that she is spunky and real, and that is OK.  Oh, she shares one other trait with MacKayla Lane—she’s a seer.  MacKayla Lane is a sidhe-seer, and Mackenna Fraser is more of a pan-being seer, but they both see.  And this got me to thinking.  Always a dicey proposition, I know.

So, what I was thinking is, what does it mean to be a seer?  What does it mean to see someone or something? Seeing is a powerful phenomenon.  We have so many adages related to sight and seeing.  “Seeing is believing.”  “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” “Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.” “What we see depends mainly on what we look for.”  I could go on, but I won’t, as you can probably see what I’m saying (pun intended).  So this idea of Makenna Fraser (and the other Mac, too), being able to “see” behind the glamours (mask/veils) that supernatural beings adopt to hide themselves from others, is very interesting.

What would it be like for someone to see through what we don't want people to see-- through make up, clothes, the attitudes we mask ourselves with, and through the personas we adopt, depending on who we are with, or who we want to be in a given situation?  I don’t think I’d like that at all. For example, when I’m rocking my tough businesswoman persona, I would hate to think that the person I am meeting with could see through my hard-nosed confidence to the part of me that wonders whether I can really pull this off. And God forbid the world at large should see me without my makeup—I feel naked when I run out of the house without it.  And we’ve all heard the saying that “clothes make the man.” Clothes make a woman, too, not to mention accessories. We wear our jewelry and our designer handbags as symbols of status and wealth.  We put together our outfits with the express purpose of creating an impression in those who see us.  We want people to see our outsides—not the stuff they are covering up.

And what about the opposite phenomenon?  Don’t we want people to see in us the things we see in ourselves that make us proud.? But so often, no one seems to see the quiet heroism that it takes to just get out of bed in the morning and face another day. They don’t see the casual generosity and the quotidian kindnesses that we leave behind us in our wake.  Or worse, maybe they do see, but it doesn’t register, and all of our qualities are just so much white noise. That may be the hardest thing.

Has anyone ever said to you, “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you?”  Usually, although certainly not always, that is a compliment.  Because oftentimes, the way we see ourselves is so very skewed.  There is even a clinical name for this—dysmorphia—when the image we see reflected back at us is so distorted as to be unrecognizable. It can be so hard for some of us to see our own beauty, and value and intrinsic worth.  We don’t see the success, just the failure.  We don’t see the good, just the bad. We don’t see the sufficiency, just the deficiency.  This is why we need people who love and care for us—to act as mirrors that reflect back their loving image to us, and help us to see ourselves in their eyes.

Is there a such a thing as a seer in reality?  I think so, yes. There are people out there who have the gift of sight.  We’ve all met them—the person who seems to see into our souls when we first meet; the person who looks into our eyes and we know, instantaneously, that they’ve been able to pierce our glamours, like Mac does in Lisa Shearnin’s books, and see beyond the masks we present to the world.

And the existence of seers in reality begs the question of whether we all have the potential to be seers at some level or another. Can we all make the effort to really look and really see? Yes, I believe so.  So, why don’t we?  Are we afraid of what we will see?  Are we afraid of the intimacy involved when we truly see one another? Have you ever tried to spend quality time looking into someone else’s eyes?  It’s actually quite hard, and the urge to look away is almost overwhelming.  But it’s a worthwhile endeavor—to look, to see, to have vision. It’s better to go through life with eyes wide open, rather than eyes wide shut. It’s better to aspire to being like Mac—both of them—and to see, rather than to remain shrouded in darkness.  Go ahead.  I see you.

Practice Makes Perfect

New Year’s is a time to make resolutions, or, for me, to set intentions. It is a time of new beginnings and of endless possibilities. Most of these have to do with accomplishing a goal, like writing a book (my goal for 2015!), or losing weight, or finding love, or getting a degree.  And many have to do with adopting good habits. Which begs the question, why are good habits so hard to have and to hold onto?  For me, it's a function of being able (or not) to design and maintain routines and practices. Some people enjoy routine and the control it brings. Others prefer spontaneity, adventure and serendipity (otherwise known as surprises). I’m a spontaneous kind of gal, as you may have guessed, and I have a majorly rebellious streak when it comes to routine and persistent practices. I hate doing what is expected of me.  Even when the expectations are generated by none other than yours truly.

This dichotomy between routine and spontaneity was illustrated in the latest Dragon Kin book, Light My Fire.  G.A. Aiken is a master of characterization, and even minor characters are well drawn.  Light My Fire introduces two relatively minor (so far) characters, Brother Magnus and Talan, the half-human, half-dragon Prince of the Southlands. When the book begins, Magnus is slogging through the mind-numbing, soul-sucking routine of being a cloistered monk in a remote monastery. Boh-ring! And then he spies his friend, Talan, who has been a fellow monk for years, slipping out the side door of the monastery. When Talan tells Magnus that he's leaving, never to return, and invites Magnus to join him in his adventures, Magnus hesitates only a moment and then he's all in. Magnus can't wait to get the hell out of Dodge and embrace the exhilaration of uncharted waters. Made me think about how much I like to shake it up and shake it off, despite my antipathy for Ms. Swift.

So, what can we make of these disparate, though related thoughts?  Plenty, that's for sure.  Routine is boring. Doing the same thing day after day, year after year is difficult, if not impossible. It's monotonous and makes me, like Magnus, run screaming from the room. I totally get it. In fact, when I was in my early twenties, I left a boyfriend almost exclusively because I knew my life with him would be filled with the drudgery of routine and horrors of habit and that my life would be one, seemingly-endless recurring loop till the day I died—Tuesday lunch with the ladies, Friday bridge or Mah Jong, yearly vacations to the same exact places, monthly dinners with the same exact friends, season tickets every season. You can see why I ran screaming from that relationship?  

Well, maybe you can't.  I’m told that there are some folks who actually like it when life is the same day in and day out.  Grocery shopping on Saturdays, house cleaning on Sundays, hamburgers on Tuesdays and family game night on Thursdays. Okie dokey—whatever floats your boat is fine with me. Because for some, a life of secure predictability sounds like heaven. But not for me and Magnus and Talan.

So, here I was, feeling pretty righteous in my preferences and the company I was keeping (Talan is a prince, after all), when I was brought up short by a priestly sermon, no less.  I was at church (not a place you’ll often find me, as I’m not a Christian, but I was with my in-laws who appreciate that I attend), when I heard the preacher talking about rituals leading us to God.  He talked about how tiring it is to be persistent and to do the same things again and again.  The priest made a virtue of monotony and talked about needing strength to not get tired and give up.  He suggested that persistence in the face of sameness is celestial. He had a point.

It takes strength to do whatever it is that we don’t do naturally or comfortably.  If you’re like me and find elation in the unexpected, then routine is challenging. If you prefer the serenity of the mundane, then flexibility is the more demanding task for you. But no matter how much one craves certainty, everyone likes a break in the tedium, a departure from the daily grind.  And that is exactly when we need to remember our resolutions, or intentions. Because good intentions require a commitment to repetition, and a willingness to endure tedium.  All worthwhile practices, like exercise, or journaling, or learning a musical instrument or a new language demand putting in the hours.  I believe it was 10,000 hours to achieve mastery.  10,000—that’s a big number. Way too big for me to contemplate doing more than one at a time.

So, I’ll learn a little from Brother Magnus and Prince Talan and a bit more from the priest’s sermon. I’ll set my New Year’s intentions and hope I can persist in my practices to the point where I see some results for my labors. I’ll stare at that blank page day after day, hoping some words will magically appear in the white space and become my book.  I am reminded of the oft-quoted phrase that writing is more about hard work than inspiration. Personally, I wish the Muse would show up, possess me and be done with it. In the meantime, I’ll try to tame my inner Talan and tolerate the tedium.  Because practice makes perfect. Or something like that.

The Kindness of Strangers

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In A Streetcar Named Desire, Blanche DuBois declares that she’s always depended on the kindness of strangers.  This is a line my mother enjoyed repeating, and, therefore, it’s a line I’ve pondered over time.  I’m not really sure what Blanche meant, or maybe I am.  But I think I understand what my mother meant. And for the record, I don’t agree.  Shocked, you are, I’m sure.  But it’s an interesting concept, actually, and one I’ve been thinking about a lot recently. And I’m going to digress in the next few paragraphs (more shock, I know), but I promise I’m going to get back to this concept toward the end.

As I continue to look back over the past year, I’ve been thinking about the books I’ve read.  I’ve read some amazing books by well-established authors who I love, love, love, and about whom I’ve written extensively.  And I’ve also read some memorable books by new authors who are less well known. There are four books (or series) in this latter category in particular that I want to talk about: The Light Who Shines, by Lilo Abernathy; Jade, by Rose Montague; The Sanctum Trilogy (The Girl and The Boy, so far), by Madhuri Blaylock; and The Unelmoija series by Elle Boca (including The Dreamshifter and The Mindshifter, which are the two of the four that I have read so far).  All of these books have at least one common theme, despite many differences in the specifics of plot, characterization and world building.

The theme at hand is decency and generosity.  Each of the main characters in each of these books/series confronts adversity and reversals with open hearts, minds and hands.  And the openness of their beings is an important element in defining who they are.  I’ve written about this aspect of these works specifically twice here and here  and more obliquely elsewhere here; here; here; and here .  But now I want to say more about these books and their authors.

I have always assumed that individuals write what they know, on one level or another.  Thus, I believe that Thea Harrison and Nalini Singh know a thing or two about how to have successful relationships between strong-willed individuals. I’ve assumed that Laurell Hamilton understands, in a visceral and meaningful way, what family is, or should be, and what it means to find meaning in the minutiae of life. And I think Charlaine Harris, Jeaniene Frost, and Faith Hunter appreciate the soft underbelly of strong women, that which makes them human, even when they aren’t.  Perhaps I’m wrong about these amazing authors, but I don’t think so, and here’s why.

Over the course of the past nine months, since I began writing this blog, I’ve gotten to know Lilo, Rose, Madhuri and Elle a little bit through social media.  Sounds a little shallow, I know, and I might have thought that myself prior to my recent experiences, but it’s not. When I began my very tentative foray into Twitter, last summer, I made a commitment to putting out one tweet a day. No sooner than I’d started my very basic and bland one tweet a day with my brand new Twitter account (@truthinfantasy), I was discovered by Lilo, who added me to some sort of retweet list, and, boom, my Twitter life was launched in earnest. Shortly thereafter, Rose found me and promoted me to her followers, followed in short order by Madhuri and Elle, who also added me to their inner Twitter circles, retweeting me and favoriting my tweets and blogs, and in doing so, ensuring my success in the Twitterverse.

And the truth is, this was all about what these amazing authors write about:  paying it forward, turning the other cheek, offering the hand of friendship with no expectation of compensation.  These women are just like the characters and themes they write about, and this is why, based on my highly unscientific sampling of four, I am sure I am right about the other others I have read and loved.

I don’t think it’s possible to write books this good and talk the talk so authentically without walking the walk in one’s personal life.  I mean, after all, does it make sense to you that someone like Lilo, Rose, Elle and Madhuri would write about being compassionate in the face of hate, giving in the face of stinginess, and tolerance in the face of close-mindedness if these authors didn’t reflect these higher characteristics of the human condition in their own lives?  Even if these characters and characteristics are aspirational rather than descriptive, I applaud their intentions. I can only hope mine are as pure.

So, back to the kindness of strangers (I promised, didn’t I??)  For Blanche and my mother, the kindness of strangers meant in relying on the intimacy of the one night stand over the intimacy of a long term relationship. It meant the freedom to say and do things you would not otherwise do because there were no consequences of having to face the other person at another time. The kindness of strangers, for Blanche and my mom, was the ability to be all in--for a very finite period of time with no fear of repercussions later because there was no later. There was no disappointment because there were no expectations. There was no betrayal because there was absolutely no context. There was no tuning out because it cost so little to tune in temporarily. So, that is certainly one way to look at it—and then look what happened to Blanche.  Not so pretty (my mom, too, but that is the subject of another post).

But then contrast that with what I mean by the kindness of strangers.  I mean the ability to be generous because it elevates us.  The ability to be open and real because it feeds our souls.  And if we get something back, that’s the icing on the cake. But we don’t need the icing, because we’ve filled up on the spongy, vanilla goodness (I like vanilla better than chocolate, remember?  Here.  My faith in humanity has been validated again by the knowledge that these authors really are like the characters they write about.  And how awesome, amazing and lovely is that?

So, the kindness of strangers is a real thing, not another irony in a sad and pathetic life.  Depending on how you look at it, of course.  And I’m a half full kind of gal, dontcha know? Thank you Lilo, Rose, Elle, and Madhuri.  Write more, please, so I can continue to grow and learn through your work.  And thank you for reaching out the hand of friendship to someone you don’t even know—just because that’s the kind of women you are. Thanks for helping to make 2014 a banner year for me, and I look forward to even better things in 2015. Life is good. 

The Unexamined Life

Today’s post isn’t tied into any particular book or books.  It’s about why I’m doing what I’m doing and whether what I’m doing has been what I’d intended when I started.  I would love to hear your opinion, as always. As many of you know, I'm not one to dwell on the past click here.  I would much rather contemplate the adventures of the future and think about all the great stuff yet to come that, in my fantasies of the upcoming present, have none of the unpleasantries of the here and now or the before and over. The future is forever pure in my imagination. Kind of like the birth of a baby, which is always met with joyful anticipation about the infinite possibilities yet to come.But here I am talking about the future when this post is supposed to be a meditation about the past. This past year, specifically. As Socrates said, the unexamined life is not worth living. So, let's examine the past year. I had set a number of intentions at the beginning of the year, and it's good practice to evaluate whether I was successful. I had a number of intentions, but most of you wouldn’t be interested in those, so I’ll talk about that one that might be more engrossing. My most important and motivating intention was for my writing, which, at the beginning of 2014, did not yet exist.

I knew I wanted to share my philosophy of life and love and death and purpose with a larger audience beyond my friends and family, who had stopped paying attention to me some time ago, as friends and family often do. I wanted a platform from which to mentor others and share my experience, strength and hope, potentially sparing others the need to live through some of the mistakes I've made along the way. And also potentially helping others to put things into perspective.

As I reflect on why I decided to start writing, it is instructive to think about whether I have been true to my original purpose. I began my blog for a wide variety of reasons. I knew I needed to write--that there were words and ideas cooped up inside me that were screaming for an outlet. Who was it who said that writers write not because they want to but because they need to?  I can't remember. But it's true. I needed to write like I needed to breathe. And until I started, I hadn't even realized how true that was.

I also wanted to write about my beloved paranormal and urban fantasy books. I had spent some time working through Danielle LaPorte's genius book, The Fire Starter Sessions, and I had come to realize that my books were immensely important to me and that I wanted to talk about that. I wanted to explore the themes I'd understood but had not played with. I wanted to see where these themes would take me and if there was as much there there as I had suspected. There was and there is.

I like sharing my thoughts and philosophy. Hell, who am I kidding?  I like to pontificate and be didactic and stand on my soapbox and go tell it on the mountain.

But mostly, I started this blog because I wanted to engage with other like minded folk and start a conversation about what it means to live authentically, to see clearly and to have the courage to face reality whether I like it or not. This integrity business is not for the faint hearted. It is not for those who want to live in denial, or blame others, or play the victim or the martyr. The cowardly and lazy need not apply. Those who would rather distract themselves into oblivion with food, drink, drugs and/or compulsive behaviors like shopping, gambling, indiscriminate sex and other such self-destructive and utterly absorbing bullshit should also stop reading right about now.

I'm only interested in talking to those who want to go through life awake, or at the very least who want to wake up, even if they're not there yet. This is the no excuses club. Because here is the deal, and here's why I write:  we are all, every last one of us, afraid, confused, and filled with doubt and anxiety about all that we can't control and all that we don't know or understand. How we deal with that fear and confusion and doubt and discomfort is the stuff that makes us who we are and defines how our lives are going to be. No one gets all the good cards. And I don't think anyone gets all the bad cards either (for more on my concept of the universe as one big Texas Hold 'Em game, click here.

Some hands are better than others, true. And mine has been better than many. Remembering that, and doing something worthwhile with all of my gifts and talents is the work of my lifetime. And yours, too.

And my work, at least for now, is this blog, which I intend to turn into a book in 2015, God willing and the creek don't rise, as my mother would say. I feel like I was given a gift of clarity that can be of service to others, and that is what I want to do.

So, all in all, I feel like 2014 has been a very good year, and I am very, very grateful. Thank you all for reading, for paying attention and for helping me not to scream into the void. It's OK to look into the abyss when one has some company with whom to share the view. Thanks for being with me on the journey. I hope I can continue to interest, instruct and interact in 2015 and attract even more fellow travelers to the conversation along the way. Happy New Year.

Restless, Irritable, and Discontent

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Why is it that some people just set us off? Why can one person say something and it's fine, but then someone else says it and you want to beat the shit out of them?  I've been spending lots of quality time with family, and I'm just about ready to commit murder. And how, you might ask, am I going to tie this bitch session into one of my beloved fantasy novels?  Never fear, my book addiction comes through for me yet again!  I'm reading the latest installment of G. A. Aiken's Dragon Kin series. This offering, Light My Fire, is about Celyn the Charming and Elina. Celyn annoys pretty much everyone, and they all complain loudly about him. I can relate to their annoyance. And complaints.

And because this is my blog, I'm going to indulge myself in a bit of a cathartic rant. And hopefully achieve and impart a little wisdom along the way. Because I'm me, I've got to spend at least some time considering the whys and wherefores of the situation. Because it really does seem like it's only some people who really get our goat, while others get a pass. I'm wondering whether there are specific characteristics or circumstances that contribute to weighting the scale toward one side or the other.

One element is certainly the tone with which a comment or conversation is delivered. This is why text and email are such dangerous communications media. No tone at all. No ability to soften or sharpen a statement to modulate the message in any way. But then there are times when the person communicating is standing right in front of you, or maybe on the phone and we get the full benefit of their tone and we wished we hadn't. Because the obnoxious tone, coupled with the offensive comment is enough to send us over the edge. And yes, you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you? And then there's the situation where the issue isn't so much what is said or how the message is delivered. It's the history between two people that tars every statement with the bad blood of a difficult relationship. So when my mother used to make comments on my clothes and appearance, even if the comments were relatively benign, they would set me off as much as if she had accused me of dressing like a two-bit whore. Oh, wait, she did accuse me of dressing like a two bit whore. Which is why pretty much everything she said to me pissed me off. She's gone now but there are others, who shall remain nameless, who make me angry no matter what they say. And part of that is the fact that he has been saying nasty things to me for twenty years. So I get to be annoyed. 

Sometimes, the issue is simply where we are in the present moment that spoils a comment or a conversation for us. If I'm in a pissy mood, which happens more often than I would like, I can take offense or just get fed up with something someone says just because. But if they said the same thing to me when I was in a better mood, no harm, no foul. Which seems kind of unfair to the poor unfortunate who pissed me off because I was in a bad mood. Oh, well.

Another thing that can completely derail my equanimity is the Chinese water torture of someone who just does not know when to quit. Just like Celyn in Light My Fire who asks question after question after question, it can drive a person to drink. I have a kid like that. God love his curiosity, it's a wonderful quality. Except when I cannot answer any more question lest my head explode. Although I try not to show my impatience so I don't quash his inquiring mind, which I am certain will serve him well in his adulthood.

The only productive way to handle this issue, then, is to ask ourselves a series of questions involving how we can channel this irritation toward the greater good, rather than becoming mired in impatience and eventually bitterness. No one likes a curmudgeon. So, what can we do about it? What would we like to do versus what should we do, that is the question. Personally, I'd like to make sure everyone who annoys, offends or irritates me gets it back in spades. But that is neither practical nor nice, so let's move beyond that particular fantasy. What we should do about it is a two-fold prescription: first, let it roll off of you. You know, like a duck. Second, turn off the revenge fantasies. No getting back at folks who annoy us.  It is not a good plan.

Because in truth, the problem is ours not theirs. Any irritation or impatience we feel toward someone else says a lot more about us than it does about them, of course. Only we have the power to give away our power and allow others to disturb our serenity. So don't do it. Just say no. Smile at the irritating person and tell them how much you enjoy their witty repartee. Abandon our high horses and jump down to earth. Because that is the major function of being irritated with others: it makes us feel superior-- we are less irritating, less annoying, smarter and more clever than our exasperating friends and family. We simply feel better when we are irked. Which is why we need to avoid these specious feelings of vexation and resultant superiority.  We need to be tolerant and calm. Not for anyone else's benefit, but for our own.

So, I've come full circle. Celyn gave me the exuse to indulge in thinking about how everyone was annoying me. I was happy to think it was them not me. But I've come to realize it's me, not them. Wow, that sucks. Only good news is that I have a lot more control over myself than others. So if it is within my power to be the duck, then I'm gonna start quacking. I'd rather be a dragon, of course, but it's not clear water rolls off their scales as well as feathers. A question for the ages. 

Merry Christmas, to all who celebrate. Happy night to all who don't. The New Year is almost upon us. Are you getting ready to set your intentions for 2015? 

Signs of Change

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Today I'm going to jump right in. No digressions or distractions. Today's post is about transformation, and about what happens when something rocks our world and pulls the rug out from under us. What does the aftermath of these earth-shaking events look like? How does the landscape appear when the dust settles? The short answer is, everything changes. Sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly. Sometimes the changes are temporary and sometimes they last forever.  And sometimes they are obvious, but not always.

I'm thinking about all of this as a result of reading the second book in the Sanctum trilogy, The Boy, by Madhuri Blaylock. This offering is even better than its predecessor, The Girl, which I wrote about here. As a fantasy novelist, Ms. Blaylock is able to create the perfect construct to highlight this theme of transformation and its complex consequences. And here comes the spoiler alert--in the book, one of the main characters, Wyatt, is killed by a former brother-in-arms.

Wyatt is killed after he's had his life upended by the harsh realization that everything he believed about his life and the cause to which he's committed his life is a lie. He is killed shortly after he falls in love with the being he had been ordered to destroy. He is killed shortly after everything he knew to be ground truth was revealed as quicksand. But then, because this is fantasy, Wyatt is brought back to life. Mostly. The fragments of his soul are gathered and reconstituted and he is alive again—more or less. But he is changed, both physically and mentally. His once-blue eyes are now green. His memory has significant holes in it. He is not the same. And in his difference, his relationships are affected too. And all of this is a wonderful metaphor for the truth we find in similar—figuratively—situations in real life.

I love the way Madhuri Blaylock captures how, in reality, we have to gather the shards of our being and put them back together after a trauma or major life-changing event, like a death, a job loss, a major illness or injury. And I especially love that there is a physical manifestation of the change to signify the internal changes in Wyatt. I have wished in the past, after a death, for example, that people could see--actually see-- that I wasn't the same person anymore, that the changes that had been wrought by the circumstances of my life had transformed me to the point that I could no longer be related to in the same way, nor could I be assumed to react in ways that might be familiar to those who knew me before.

For me, though, as for most of us, that didn’t happen. For others, more unfortunate, perhaps, the changes are so profound, both physical and emotional, there are more obvious signs, like Wyatt's change of eye color. The world knows that someone is no longer who they were before when they’ve lost an arm or a leg or an eye, for example, through war or accident. And when the evidence of their transformation is as overt as that, we know to tread lightly, and to take care in our approach.

But maybe I’m being presumptive in suggesting that an outward manifestation of internal transformation is a good thing.  Wyatt certainly didn’t think it was a good thing when those around him, particularly Dev, treated him with something akin to horror, or worse, pity. So maybe it’s better not to wear our internal landscape in our outward appearance. Hard to say.  Maybe the grass is greener for all concerned in most situations, and it doesn’t really matter in the end.

And then we have the question of what happens after the transformation occurs and we are faced with the new reality of our world. Do we reject it, like Wyatt?  I know that I’ve tried that approach--cursing the Universe for leaving me bereft and vulnerable.  What happens when we can’t accept the reality of our transformation? Do we fight it? Collapse into ourselves?  Push others away who would try to help? I think many of us do all of those things when faced with major changes in our lives.  Are there better ways of responding to major transformation?  I believe there are, and that with practice, we learn to accommodate change in a healthy, constructive manner. But it does take practice, because the first time our worlds get rocked, it is unclear that the essence of who we are remains the same, regardless of changing circumstances, and regardless of how those circumstances change us.

After a trauma, it may seem that we are not the same people not only to others, but also to ourselves.  Getting to know ourselves after a major change is challenging, another reality that Ms. Blaylock captures perfectly.  Asking others to get to know us anew is even more difficult. And if we doubt, as Wyatt does initially, that the core of who we are remains unscathed, then the task is even more difficult. Fighting our way back from the brink of that doubt, as Wyatt does, is the work that we are called to do as we negotiate life’s vicissitudes. If we remain true to ourselves—if we know the truth of who we are—then we can shoulder the inevitable burdens of life. This is the truth that both Wyatt and Dev come to in The Boy, and it’s done with excruciating authenticity. As in life, it takes time, and effort, and perseverance.

But the result is worthy.  The result is valuable.  If we can come back from the brink of despair and desolation, no matter how bad the trauma and no matter how difficult the transformation, then we get back to ourselves.  We can reclaim the shards of our essence and return to life and to love. Not everyone makes it, I’ve seen.  But it is inspiring when it happens, just as it is to read about in The Boy. And it reminds us, or at least it should, to take the time to be confident in our essence, so that we can find our way back when the planet tilts for us and we must gather ourselves anew, and come back to who we are, and who we strive to be.

The Pretenders Sing-Along

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I've just finished the second book in Elle Boca's intriguing Unelmoija  series, The Mindshifter. Ms. Boca has created a very interesting world and I'm enjoying the unfolding of the story and the development of the characters. As always, my favorite parts of the book involve the deeper themes I’m inspired to contemplate, in this case a variation on the Harry Potter syndrome: the idea that one day we could wake up and find out that we aren't who we thought we were and that our whole reality has been turned on its head. What would that mean for us? How would we react? And what aspects of our character determine the direction we take upon learning that we are, in fact, more than we feared, and maybe even as much as we’d secretly hoped?

In Ms. Boca’s world, there are individuals go through life not realizing the truth of their identity, and then find out as young adults about their special status as part of the Weeia race. I don't know about you, but I would have given almost anything to learn that I was extraordinary (in a literal way) when I was growing up (and maybe even after I was grown up). Doesn't everyone secretly, or not so secretly, yearn to discover how and why he or she is special or unique? Don't we all want to be exceptional?  How great would it be to find out that instead of being Joe Sixpack or Jane Winespritzer, we were actually part of an exclusive club of superhumans?

This situation is similar to a common theme of childhood, one that I remember pondering a great deal when I was young: What if my parents weren't really my parents and I found out that I was secretly switched at birth and I wasn't who I thought I was? What if I were really a princess, or a queen, or a fairy (and yes, I had a very active imagination and spent way too much time reading). This would explain, to my childish way of thinking, why I felt so out of place in my family. It would explain my feelings of exclusion and difference. And, as an added bonus, it would also mean that my mother, with whom, as you know, I had such a difficult relationship, wasn't really my mother. Which was good news in my book. It would have also meant that my beloved father wasn't related to me, either, but in true kid-like fashion, I tended to gloss over that part of the logical sequence.

Not only that, but if we woke up one day and someone told us we were part of a secret world, it would clarify so many baffling facts—well, at least for me, but maybe you all are more normal than I am. Instead of feeling like a freak or someone who sees life from the outside in, as I did for so many years, especially from my early teens into my late twenties, I could think of myself as part of an ultra-covert, super cool, in-crowd of people like me who I didn't even know about, but with whom I now belonged.

And if that were true, then I would also be able to validate my secretly-nurtured, barely acknowledged and rarely shared conviction that I really am singular and extraordinary and worthy. That all the rejection and dejection I've experienced was just the necessary tempering of the metal to make it stronger before it emerges into the world ready to fulfill its function. Wouldn't that be something?

And as I write this I realize anew how much I used to yearn for the kind of legitimization that anonymous Weeia in Ms. Boca’s world received upon learning of their previously unknown heritage in the Unelmoija world. I so wanted something or someone outside of myself to tell me that I was more than I feared I was. But here is where truth and fantasy diverge. Beyond the fact that no one in the real world is going to tell us that we are members of a secret race of superhumans (beyond White Supremacists, or other misguided haters, of course), we don't, in fact, need that to happen.

We are all special and unique and valuable. By virtue of being garden-variety humans, rather than a superhumans, we are part of the club, a member of the in-group. We all get to participate in the privileges and responsibilities of being human. Just plain human. That we don't feel this way is a tragedy of epic proportions, generated by incompetent parenting as well as the constant comparisons we make about ourselves while being forced to watch artificially enhanced people pretend to be perfect on TV, in the movies and on social media. Sadly, as we strive for a perfection that doesn’t exist in reality, we enter a vicious cycle of inadequacy and self-hatred, leading back to our secret desire to get a letter from Hogwarts telling us that our lives to date have been just the warm up—that the real thing is starting soon, and it will be so much more, so much better than what we have.

Don’t believe it. It isn’t true. Because I’m special.  So special. Just ask Chrissie Hynde.

When Love is Not Enough

I've been told that love is all you need. It sounds good. I wish it were true. But it's not true. And it's a dangerous untruth, at least in my mind. I've gone down many a bad road and made many a wrong turn under the misapprehension that love is enough. I've stayed in relationships well past their expiration dates and performed many heroic feats of attempted salvation in the hopes of convincing a beloved that love will save the day. Only, sometimes it can't. Or it won't. Either way, the disappointment of discovering that love does not conquer all can be absolutely devastating.

Why am I thinking such depressing thoughts, you may wonder. Well, I'm still contemplating the experience of reading the entirety of the Vampire Academy series in one fell swoop. It was an utterly marvelous adventure in which I lost myself for hours on end in a thoroughly compelling world filled with characters I cared about and loved to spend time with. Thinking all the while that I was so grateful to have discovered (along with millions of other fans) another truly outstanding series and author.

Now don't get me wrong, I enjoyed this series immensely. I found myself forgoing other activities to be able to read instead. And I always like it when a series actually has a beginning, a middle and an end, rather than going on ad infinitum like some series I could name. Nothing good ever comes from a never-ending story. At least not in reality. But, having said that, Ms. Mead left quite a number of loose ends dangling like participles at the end of a poorly-constructed sentence. Not generally considered good form. I had a lot of questions, personally, which I won't list here, lest you haven't yet read the books. But suffice it to say, there was quite a bit of Batman's utility belt going on toward the end--you know what I mean--miraculous coincidences, deus ex machine, everything tied up neatly in a bow. And you know how I feel about that. I'm opposed, for the record.

And, in case you need a spoiler alert, here you go--spoiler alert--Rose and Dimitri get their HEA (I know, you are totally surprised!). But I have to say, I had a bit of a problem with it and here's why:  Richelle Mead got it right the first time, when toward the middle of the series things fall apart between our erstwhile hero and heroine. And while I was sad that things were going south for them, and that I was only going to get one stinking, tepid sex scene after three or four books--oops, did I say that out loud?!--I loved the way that Richelle Mead described the absolutely heart-breaking, gut wrenching phenomenon of knowing someone loves you and also knowing that it doesn't matter, that it's not all going to be OK, and that despite true love, the two of you are not going to go riding off into the sunset together.

Has this ever happened to you?  If not, count yourself among the fortunate. I think I read too many historical romances as a teen; you know, the kind where the hero and heroine hate each other for most of the book or have some other compelling reason to keep them apart, despite their palpable attraction to each other? But it always works out in the end for these fantasy lovers, and, in fiction, love usually does conquer all. And while I'm not a child of the sixties, I liked the Beatles as much as anyone, and I absolutely believed love is all you need and all you need is love. So when I dated a series of completely unsuitable men who I absolutely believed in my heart of hearts loved me, I held onto those relationships with everything I had because I thought that love would prevail, if I could just persevere.

But, here's another spoiler alert, this time, of the real life variety:  love doesn't always prevail. My problem, it turned out, was that I was listening to too much Beatles and not enough Rolling Stones. I should have paid attention when Mick Jagger sang, “Angie, I still love you baby, everywhere I look I see your eyes.” But the song is still about him breaking up with her. And I hated that part of it, and secretly berated Mick for leaving his love.  Because if he loved her, why was he leaving her?  I really didn’t get it. And, on top of my tendency to perseverate to Angie, I had a bad habit of listening to Guns and Roses Don't Cry over and over again, until my roommate wanted to throw herself out of the nearest window (which was 39 stories above street level, so you can imagine her annoyance). It’s harder to let go when you know that love isn’t the problem. At least it was for me.

I've been in at least two, maybe three relationships where the man I was with was in love with me--and acknowledged it-- but didn't like that he felt that way so he punished me for it. Twisted? Upsetting?  You bet. Truth?  Absolutely. In fact, this is exactly like the situation between Rose and Dimitri at one point in the series, and I celebrated the author's foray into authenticity.

But then Richelle lost her nerve.  She cheated. Like a light bulb going off, Dimitri "realizes" that true love must endure, so he gets over himself and throws himself wholeheartedly into the relationship with Rose and they get their HEA after all.

I think this could lead to the creation of dangerous expectations concerning romantic liaisons for some individuals. This is not usually what happens in real life. In real life, when someone can't accept love, it's usually because they are emotionally damaged in some way (in the way Dimitri is damaged, in fact), and it is only rarely that another’s love can overcome that (at least not without massive therapy for the damaged person). But how many times have we told ourselves that if we can just love our beloved a little more, hold on a little longer, it will all be OK? How many times have we made excuses for the other, dismissing hurtful behavior, rationalizing that he didn't mean it?  Yup, I thought so.

Abandon this trope--it doesn't work. Love is marvelous and unquestionably necessary for relationships to work. But it is not the only requirement. Respect, trust, and compatibly are equally important for the long-term success of any romantic alliance. I wish someone would write a song about that.  I’d hit the repeat button and settle in for a long listen.

It's Just a Matter of Trust

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I just finished the fourth offering in Nalini Singh's Psy-Changeling series. The books are getting better and better. Always the mark of a truly gifted author. This one, Mine to Possess (commence eye-rolling now), is not really a Psy-Changeling story, as one half of the romantic pairing is (mostly) human (with, as usual, a little bit of something extra). The story centers on a couple who knew each other as abused children who survive a violent past together, but are then lost to each other for twenty years. When they come together again, there is a significant amount of betrayal to overcome between them, as well as the dysfunction produced by the tragedies in their shared and separate pasts. Deep stuff. And the larger back-story running throughout the series is also extremely complex and thought provoking. The primary issue that captured my attention in this novel is the creation, destruction and recreation of the bonds of trust between two people.  Trust is such a difficult subject. In my experience, trust is a function of both external and interior forces. Some of us, myself included, did not learn trust from their families of origin. For some, these early lessons may lead to lives of deception and dishonesty--both toward others and toward themselves. Some of us, though, the lucky ones, begin to walk down this road but able to achieve a course correction, and learn--usually with difficulty, to have honest, authentic relationships.

But as Talin and Clay show us, trust, once broken, and between two damaged individuals, is a tricky thing. We may want to trust. We may need to trust. But, in my experience, we cannot will ourselves to trust. In the book, both Talin and Clay come to a series of intellectual realizations that are then coupled with the impact of their mutual attraction and comfort they find with each other. There is so much complexity in their relationship it was really gut-wrenching to read at times. There was an element of previous sexual abuse as well as sexual acting out as a means of self harm. Lots of stuff going on here. 

And my only quibble with Ms. Singh, who I love, is that I think overcoming those kinds of psychological obstacles would take a lot more time and shared experiences than she portrays. But I guess I'm willing to suspend my disbelief about this (ironically I have a lot less trouble suspending disbelief with shapeshifters, vampires, witches and angels-- go figure) for the sake of argument and the development of a compelling plot.

I think a lot about trust. It's such an important element in living a full and authentic life. But trust is so hard. I don't know that I can say that I trust anyone unconditionally.  I'm not sure that kind of trust actually exists. There are many different levels of trust, and many different ways to trust. For example, we trust a variety of websites to recommend people who perform critical functions for us, including doctors, lawyers, babysitters and contractors, not to mention restaurants and hotels. We trust machinery to work (having experienced the vertical climbing abilities of ten-person Hummers in Moab, Utah, I am quite familiar with putting my trust in machines). Anyone who flies understands that it really isn't magic or purposeful thinking that is keeping that winged aluminum tube aloft--my personal efforts to the contrary--it's that we trust that the engineers and mechanics and pilots are doing their jobs and that we won't go down in fiery flames.

But that is a different kind of trust than what is required in interpersonal relationships. For example, I trust that my oldest girlfriends will not start telling tales out of school about my misspent youth to anyone else. I trust that my relatives will help me move furniture or let me borrow a van or give me a kidney if I need it.  And, fundamentally, I trust that my husband won't leave me after two decades of marriage on a whim because I've suddenly become more trouble than I'm worth.

At least I think I do. But sometimes I read these paranormal romances and wonder whether my ability to trust isn't somewhat impaired. It was hard to relate to Talin's decisions, conscious and unconscious, to love Clay no matter what, even knowing that she might lose him again, and that in losing him, might irretrievably lose herself. I want to have that kind of courage, and the strength to overcome my self-imposed barriers. But I'm not sure I can. And I'm not sure that this is something we can make ourselves to do, as Talin does. Perhaps it is, though.

I've read a lot of books by Nalini Singh, and I've come to trust her philosophy on relationships. There is that trust again-- and I'm willing to consider that she is right here, too, and that it is possible to make a decision to trust. Or at least to act as if we do, which is sometimes the best we can hope for.

Nothing More Than Feelings

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I'm reading the latest installment of Darynda Jones' Charley Davidson series, which is so much fun. The books are getting better as they go along, which is awesome. My only real complaint is that I started the series when only the first three or four books were out, and I've had to read new installments one at a time instead of all at once (when Charlaine Harris was writing the Sookie Stackhouse books, I reread the whole series every year when the new one came out, which was awesome but no longer feasible with my schedule and my list of "to read" books, which is getting longer all the time). But I digress. Again. I know, if you only had a nickel for every time I do that, you'd have a pile of nickels. Got it. 

Back to Seventh Grave and No Body, which has made me laugh out loud on several occasions, including the scene where Charley and her best friend are watching a birthing video on the Internet, which an onlooker mistakes for South American porn. I mean, really, I had no idea that one could discern the various ethnicities of porn to such a degree of granularity. And the little sayings at the top of the chapters always make me chuckle (my favorite for this book is "We are all searching for someone whose demons play well with ours."). And who wouldn't fall in love with a character who asks people whether they like their coffee the way she likes her Death Stars, "gigantic, on the Dark Side, and powerful"?  To quote Darynda Jones some more, "Gawd, I love these characters!"  

But now I'm really off the reservation and need to find my way home. Maybe I could get some help from Charley's fiancé, the ultimate bad boys of whom I've written before. He has a map to the gates of Hell permanently tattooed on his arms. Might help. Might not, as I'm drifting even further afield. So, if you could read my emotions now, you would know that I've been very busy amusing myself, but now I'm anxious that I might have annoyed you, dear reader, and that my indulgence could cost me your good opinion of me (assuming you had one to begin with, although if you are taking the time to read my posts, that's probably a good bet--wow, with those kinds of deductive skills, I could be a detective). The issue at hand is whether we would want our significant others to know what we are feeling.  Like, all the time.  In every situation. When I first read about Charley and Reyes' ability to read each other's emotions I was fairly appalled. I can't imagine wanting my husband to be able to know me that clearly and completely. But then I started to pay a bit more attention at home and to reflect on the idea of what we hide from others and what we think we hide, but really don't.

So, would we want our significant others, our friends and even strangers to be able to read our emotions like that?  Again, I think not, in a big way. But, the question at hand is whether we actually fool ourselves into thinking our feelings are so well hidden to begin with. Personally, I've been told I wear my heart on my sleeve so much that I've got a permanent divot on my bicep. Apparently, I shouldn't count on a lucrative career as a professional poker player either.  It's been said that when I school my face it resembled preschoolers playing in the sandbox, rather than a well disciplined organ of my iron-fisted control. So, for me, I'm already an open book. Just ask my husband, who seems to know me better than I know myself sometimes (not an inconsequential feat for someone as introspective and contemplative as I am). He often anticipates my thoughts and actions to an almost scary degree of accuracy. And here I was thinking I'd been clever in telling our children not to let Dad know I bought them the really expensive brand of football gloves when he specifically told me to get the cheaper ones. He can always read my pride in thinking myself clever and my guilt in disassembling. And he knows.

But what about those of us who pride ourselves on how close to the vest we play our cards?  Those of us who delight in denying our companions and observers any insight into the inner workings of our minds or even an inkling of the true feelings of our hearts?  I've written about these people too, as well as my utter delight in cracking the ice that obscures the churning waters beneath click here.  How would these paragons of cluelessness feel if everyone knew what they were feeling?  I'm thinking “horrified” would be a good descriptive adjective to use here. 

Having said that, though, I think the clues are there for those who care to look, even if we can't be 100% accurate about what we are reading off of others. I think that in truth, everyone has "tells" if we know what to look for. A clench of the jaw, a flash of the eyes, movement of the Adam's apple as someone swallows with surprise or some other deep emotion. I think none of us is as inscrutable as we think we are, although some people do elevate obfuscation to high levels.

So, maybe we are more like Charley and Reyes and know what others are feeling than it appeared at first glance. Maybe we just need to pay a bit more attention to becoming aware that there are teeming emotions all around us and respond accordingly, rather than becoming annoyed at the driver in front of us who didn't start as quickly as we'd like or the person in line ahead of us who failed to get her money out of her wallet even though we'd been standing there forever. Because if you pay attention, you might notice that the other is roiling with emotions because they just lost a parent, or a job, or their minds over something that sent them over the edge. 

Feeling others' feelings can make us more empathetic people. Blocking, as Charley tries to do briefly and with hurtful consequences, results in making us less empathetic, less connected, less human. And, as often happens for me, it took a book about demons and angels, not to mention ghosts and other supernatural phenomena, to appreciate the reality of my more mundane world and existence.