Look at Me!

In book four of Thea Harrison's Elder Races series, Oracle's Moon, the power of the Oracle of Delphi has passed to a human witch who lives in Kentucky. Well, why the hell not?  It's paranormal fantasy, after all, and Thea Harrison has an exceptionally rich imagination. Anyway, the way the Oracle works is very interesting and instructive. Those seeking to consult with the Oracle come as supplicants, accepting what is offered. There is no immediate quid pro quo at the time of the consultation, but the supplicant is expected to make a donation to the upkeep and maintenance of the witch to whom the Oracle’s power has passed. The elements of this exchange that I found fascinating were the concepts of attraction rather than promotion, the imperative of the supplicant to seek an audience and the requirement to make a pilgrimage of sorts to do so, that the value of the exchange is left to the supplicant to determine, and that it is up to the seeker to do something good with what the Oracle offers. Or not.

In our world today, where we are constantly bombarded with advertising, living in a culture that encourages us to scream, "Look at me, look at me!" it's hard to get noticed or to notice anything else in return. One does not have to be diagnosed with ADHD, as I am (for which I am quite grateful, thank you very much, but more about that another time, perhaps) to get serious whiplash trying to keep up with all that is out there vying for our attention. We live in a material world that is heavily promoted--by mad men selling big food and big pharma, by multinational corporations wanting us to buy their products and services, by the need to keep up with the Kardashians, or at least with the neighbors. Everything is promoted, nothing is off limits, including yeast infections, erectile dysfunction, hemorrhoids and painful intercourse after menopause. Really?!

So the idea of attraction rather than promotion espoused by the Oracle is an outlier. In the book, Oracle's Moon, the Oracle has just finished putting up a basic website, explaining how things work. And, possibly because this witch with the prophetic powers wasn't out shilling her wares (the website wasn't really cutting it), the poor thing had fallen on particularly hard times.  But even though what she offered could have been abused or exploited, Grace, the current Oracle, never thought to do so, because of the tradition of supplication, attraction and offering of the Delphic Oracle. She upheld the honor and tradition of the Oracle, even when it did not serve her.

We can learn a thing or two from this model, seems to me.  There's a whole lot of expectation in the world today from people demanding help—of the magic wand variety. There's a pill for every ill out there, we can get anything we want delivered the next day (and Amazon and Walmart are working hard to make that instant gratification even faster), and no one wants to work too hard for anything. Grace, on the other hand, explains to one of the Oracles "clients" that it is incumbent on the supplicant to make the journey, ask the question, process the information and then do something productive with what they learn.

This is the difference between buying prepared food and making it yourself, even if you didn't grow or hunt the raw materials. How many of us do that these days?  Not me, I'll cop to that right here and now. In fact, while I made the meatloaf from scratch tonight, it was only because I couldn't find a ready-made one at the store that usually carries them. On the other hand, I'm a big proponent of analysis and synthesis, as well as the notion that we value that which we have to work for. So I’m a living, breathing contradiction.  Or a hypocrite, take your pick.

Which leads to the question of value. Can you imagine a society where the value of goods and services is determined by the buyer rather than the seller--after the service has been received?  I'm thinking that isn't going to go too well for the seller. But that could be my New York talking.  I might feel differently if I were from Minneapolis. It is unthinkable that the cost or price not be determined up front—although there are little pockets of experimentation out there trying on this buyer-determined value.  I had lunch at a Panera restaurant once in Portland, OR, where one pays what one can—the idea being that those who can pay more than the value of the products received do so so that those who can afford less can still eat there.  I’m not sure how it all turned out, but it was an interesting idea.  In the book, the Oracle was getting stiffed, more often than not, until some powerful entities sat up and took notice and began to enforce the donation-after-the-fact aspect of consulting an oracle.

I loved the values and ideas promoted in this book.  They made me think and long for a world where there were fewer folks shouting, “Look at me” and more people whispering, “Please connect with me.”  A world where we look out for each other and happily pay a fair price for value received, rather than everyone trampling each other to get the early bird discount like it was Black Friday at 6:00 AM. I love the idea of deciding for myself what I want and what I value, instead of wondering whether my subconscious has been manipulated by subliminal messages I have no hope of discerning, turning me into a lemming falling off the nearest cliff.

I love that my beloved fantasy novels make me think about all of this, and entertain and uplift me along the way. I love the seeking, and the finding even more so. Cause I know just where to look.  Look at me!

Of Catalysts and Sacrifices

I have finally—finally—finished the Farseer trilogy by Robin Hobb. And now I know why I read paranormal and urban fantasy over straight fantasy. I think I'd been seduced into a false sense of security that as long as I avoided George R. R. Martin, I didn’t have to worry about harsh reality intruding in my fantasy novels. What's that joke about good old George? That he doesn't use Twitter because it would only give him 140 characters to kill off?  Well, Robin Hobb proved that an author need not kill her characters in order to break the hearts of her readers. I invested countless hours in this trilogy—it's long—and I kept reading because I was desperate to unravel the mysteries she weaves and see how the story comes together in the end. And Ms. Hobb makes good on her promises; she resolves her mysteries in a clever and original  manner, which is all well and good. But there was little satisfaction to be had at the end of the series (although I understand that there are other books with the characters of the Fitz and the Fool, but I'm taking a break from all things Hobb for a bit). I find myself unutterably sad at the way it all turned out. As one of the main characters is called, I felt like the Sacrifice--leaving my reader's sweat and tears on the altar of these books. Which makes them great, I suppose, just not what I had been looking for. Too fine for my tastes, perhaps. Too demanding to be truly entertaining. Too heartbreaking to be called escapism.

But that is not what this post is about, I'm sure you will be shocked to learn.  In these books, we are introduced to the concept of the Catalyst, a hero prophesied to come to save the world, which is, of course, a common theme in true fantasy stories. And, like most of those destined to save the world in the fantasy genre, this Catalyst is not much to behold at first glance. In the eyes of his co-conspirators, he is but a green child who knows neither his skills nor his strength and fumbles around from pillar to post, ignorant of what he does, succeeding only by accident, seemingly. It is a well-worn device, but well played in the hands of a master storyteller like Ms. Hobb.

But what of this concept of the Catalyst who comes to change all things?  I found this idea compelling, pulling me back again and again when I didn't think the books were so deeply embedded in my psyche. But they were, and I found myself wondering whether there was any such person or even event in my life, coming to change all things. I thought of my husband and my children first, of course, followed quickly by my mother, all of whom certainly changed all things for me.

I thought also of my former career in national security, and of events that served as catalysts in the truest sense of the word—events like 9/11 in recent memory, and Pearl Harbor in the more distant past. What does it mean to change all things?  I think it means to turn the world on its axis and shift the perspective of all who inhabit the area. It means that we all see through new eyes that which has always been there, but was perhaps not understood.

I thought of things that have not occurred—and hopefully won't—projecting into the wreckage of my future and worrying about that over which I have no control, like illness or injury visiting me or my family, or additional attacks, worse than those that have already happened—involving weapons of mass destruction or the crippling of our infrastructure and financial institutions through cyber warfare or EMP.  And then I realized that Ms. Hobb had put me in mind only of negative catalysts, influenced as I was by the despair of the denouement of her series (which some may have found uplifting, but in which I found only desolation).

What about vehicles of change that are positive and inspiring?  Isn't that an equally valid definition of catalyst?  In fact, isn't it true that it has been my goal and joy to be an agent of positive change in the lives of those I touch? It is true. I am very conscious of working explicitly to help my friends and colleagues, and sometimes even strangers, as I do through this blog, to think and reflect and do the hard, uncomfortable thing for the sake of forward movement in life and love and work and play. I want to be the fire under someone's ass, spurring everyone I encounter to right action, even when it is difficult or frightening.

I love the idea of being the catalyst in others' lives, coming to change all things, to help tilt the world on its axis, in a good way, and help people understand choices they didn't think they had and to discover strength they never dared hope they could poses. Change is always hard, yes, and often painful. But it's always been my objective to help others shoulder the burden of short-term discomfort to achieve the greater good. All things are possible with help, and I love offering the hand of friendship and support to those seeking to better their circumstances.

A catalyst can be cataclysmic or constructive. Both aspects are valid. And after reading about the Catalyst in the Farseer trilogy, I'll aspire to creation over catastrophe every time, although that aspiration is itself a fantasy, as nothing is ever all good or all bad. But it's time to shrug off the depression of these books—as impactful as they were—and return to the world of my exultant HEAs, so that I might rest more easily in my thoughts as I seek a respite from my life among my beloved books and the ease and comfort to be found there. Usually.

Marking the Mid-Century

I turned 50 two days ago. Happy Birthday to me. You all are probably tired of hearing about my birthday preparations, but it's almost over, I promise. The thing is, I had a terrible time with my 40th birthday, and as I approached the half-century mark, I was afraid of history repeating itself. Luckily, the Universe is generous, and provides us with second chances--or third or fourth chances--so we have the opportunity to get it right. I'm grateful I've needed only two chances at meeting the march of time with grace, dignity, gratitude and appreciation for the ephemeral nature of life.  And my meditation on mortality has led me, of course, to contemplate the joys and challenges of immortality, as portrayed in my beloved paranormal fantasy novels. One of the hallmarks of paranormal fiction, of course, is the inclusion of immortal, or near-immortal characters. Each series does it differently, of course, but all of my favorite authors explore, to more or less extent, the consequences of living forever, or at least for hundreds or thousands of years.

But really, it's more than just immortality. It's living forever or almost forever in prime physical and mental condition. As we traverse middle age on our way to our golden years, our limitations are two-fold:  the knowledge that there are fewer years in front of us than behind us, and the fact that our spirits, which may be young and vibrant, are trapped in a corporal cage that is deteriorating even as we speak. These limitations are sobering, to say the least, which is why, perhaps, we tend to drink more as we age. Just kidding.

For the immortal characters in my beloved books, there is no mandate to achieve anything today, because there is always tomorrow. There is no reason to make the hard choices and eat right, exercise, sleep and manage stress. There are no consequences for missed opportunities or not living a healthy lifestyle, so there is no reason to do it. Some of my favorite books reflect this aspect of immortal youth; in the Fever series, by Karen Marie Moning, the ancient Fae, both Seelie and Unseelie, choose to drink periodically from the cauldron of forgetting lest they lose their minds completely. In Nalini Singh's Archangel series, another one of my favorites, the oldest and most powerful of the Archangels eventually go mad and need to be put down as sociopathic dangers to the world.

If there is no imperative to action, because there is no motivation for achievement or excellence, then only a tiny percentage of immortals would choose to do anything worthwhile or contributory in anything resembling a timely manner. Why bother? I'll do it tomorrow. This would be procrastination on steroids. Think Paris Hilton multiplied by thousands.  Wasted lives.

On the other hand, an infinite or near infinite number of years could be used to make huge contributions to the world. An unlimited amount of time to study, create, construct, produce, meditate and change the world. In this I'm reminded of Dragos Cuelebre in Thea Harrison's books (my favorite alpha male of all time), Edward Cullen of Twilight fame and Raphael of Nalini Singh's Archangel series. All of these males managed (in their authors' fantasy worlds) to avoid madness and make something of the many years they were given. But they are the exception rather than the rule. 

This is probably true for the rest of us, too. It is the rare soul who consistently chooses to do good and do well. Even though we only  get a few short decades relative to these immortals, we have the same choices to make with our time. We just have less of it, so the decisions become more acute in their consequences.  We need to take seriously JRR Tolkien's exhortation that all we have to do is decide what to do with the time that we have (a quote you've heard me reference). Because our time is short. 

I've been thinking a lot about how I spend my time and how I want to spend it moving forward. Harder questions than they seem. Hedonism and indolence may look attractive at first, especially if we are busy or if we feel like we do a lot for others and not necessarily for ourselves. But self-indulgence is a specious luxury that will inevitably lead to self destruction, but probably not until we've taken at least some of those we love down with us. And while I'm not a proponent of infinite selflessness--on the grounds that we can't give away what we haven't got--I do believe that giving of ourselves in a meaningful manner is the key to a life well lived. 

How can we give ourselves in a positive way?  There is a concept called kenosis, or self-emptying, described in Christian theology (seminarian here, remember?) that means making room for the Divine will, rather than throwing our will all over the place and deluding ourselves that we are in control. We're not. Life can turn on a dime no matter how much money, power, fame, skill, beauty, or intelligence we have. Because we are not immortal, nothing can save us from death--either tomorrow because of a drunk driver, or years from now because of the inevitable failure of the flesh. We all walk the same path. 

Asking ourselves what we are being called to do and to be by something bigger than we are--the Universe, the Divine, God, Goddess, the gods--pick your favorite(s)--is always a good idea. For me, it's important to question--constantly at times--whether I'm doing what I'm supposed to do and becoming who I'm supposed to be. These questions are at the heart of kenosis--self-emptying to make room for the Divine will to guide us.

Perhaps when one is immortal there is no external reference and all such beings are self-referential by definition. If so, that actually sucks for them. I've had enough experience of my life and myself to be horrified at the thought that I would have the last word and be the ultimate arbiter of truth and goodness. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Or not, if you are human and living an existence that looks beyond yourself for meaning and guidance while visiting this mortal coil. Embrace mortality and enjoy each anniversary of your birth as evidence of enduring grace. That's how I spent my birthday. Cheers. 

Freaks and Geeks

I was in my car the other day with my family. I'd forgotten my ear buds, and so, while my husband and kids retreated to their own worlds, attached to their media through the wires coming out of the cartilage on the sides of their heads, I listened to my audio book on the car's stereo system. All good so far. I was enjoying Lover Unbound, book four in JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood series. This offering is about Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, and doesn't that name just make you want to run screaming from the room?  On top of that, poor guy had a difficult childhood (his father's name probably gave you the first clue about that), and he's got some serious psychological issues and a complicated sexuality. So, here I was, driving in the car, listening to my beloved BDB and knitting a baby blanket for a friend who gave birth five months ago (I knit--and I know—seems totally incongruous with everything you think you know about me. But don't worry, I also have a hang gliding license, so my street cred should remain intact). Anyway... I'm tooling along when one of JR Ward's famous, scorching, explicit sex scenes begins—over the stereo system. Oops. As I fumbled to turn the damn volume down, wildly glancing back at my teenaged sons, I realized no one was paying any attention. So, I did what any book addict would do: continued listening while laughing to myself at the ridiculous situation. I decided to file the whole thing in my "Problems I never thought I'd have" drawer. You probably won't be surprised to know that all of the above has absolutely nothing to do with the subject of today's post. I just wanted to share. The subject is about being social, popular and attractive in our youth—or not—and how that experience affects our characters and our lives into adulthood. In Lover Unbound, Vishous' mate, Jane, is a serious sort—a gifted, human surgeon who is brilliant but somewhat plain. She was definitely not part of the in-crowd as a girl.  I love it when authors make the love interests of spectacular alpha males less that heart-stoppingly beautiful. It gives hope to the rest of us and soothes the tight, hurt places in my inner child who was never in the popular crowd and always wanted to be.

Not being included in the A-group throughout my elementary, middle and high school years definitely left its mark on me and, I have to assume, countless others. Even when we were not bullied, the fact remains that those of us who watched the beautiful people from the outside in were negatively impacted by default. No one likes to feel excluded. Especially when that which we are being excluded from looks so amazingly fun, exciting, vibrant and attractive--as the life it represents pulls us like a moth to a flame—only to have us butt up against the invisible wall that separates us from the popular people—while simultaneously allowing us to see in and understand exactly what we are missing. Bummer all around. 

I know I'm not the only one who felt this way, as I had friends who were in exactly the same boat. And until we all learned to accept ourselves, our friends and our social position in the highly-defined hierarchy that is high school, which would put the most disciplined military unit to shame—no fraternizing there—most of us were left feeling like there was something about ourselves that was inherently insufficient.

So, what to do with all of this angst as a newly minted teenager just learning how to fit into the world? For people like me and Jane in Ms. Ward's book, we retreated into our fortresses and made sure to bar the doors behind us. For each individual, that fortress is different—it could be one's art, or a physical gift, like dancing or gymnastics, for example. For me, like Jane, it was my intellect, which never let me down, and which made me powerful and lent me strength to resist the messages of inadequacy that not being popular caused me to play in an endless loop in my head. I retreated to my books and my studies and made sure I was the smartest of them all.

Like Jane with a scalpel in her hand, my brain made me strong and confident, and allowed me to accept that while I wasn't beautiful, I was worthy in another, more lasting way. And because I am human, I worked hard to talk myself into the proposition that being smart was superior to being pretty. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I ever quite believed my own mental patter when I was younger and it mattered most.

And while the pain of being snubbed was difficult, I can look back now with gratitude that because I had fewer social opportunities, I was able to focus all of my attention on my schoolwork and the development of my cognitive and intellectual skills. These skills have served me well in life, but they are also the bricks I use to wall myself off from people and social situations that represent any danger of taking me back to feeling like that sad teenager who wasn't going to get asked to the prom by anyone at my school.  But don't feel too sorry for me—I I took myself right out of the running for the attention of the boys my age—who weren't interested—and got myself a date with an older gentleman—much older—to escort me to my prom and cause a scandal at the same time—so take THAT, all of you beautiful people!  My date was the only one who could legally buy booze, too, so we were a very popular couple, nah, nah.

So what is my point, beyond a trip down memory lane to a difficult time in my life?  The point is one that Bill Gates made a couple of decades ago. Beauty and physical prowess fade. Intelligence only grows over time and becomes more powerful. It's not the meek who shall inherit the earth, it's the freaks and the geeks. I wish I could go back to my teenaged self and tell her, "Don't worry—it's all going to be good. Your teenaged nemesis is going to grow up and be a one-hit wonder on the screen, and you're going to have a life beyond your wildest dreams."  I might have understood that better if I'd been able to read about Jane and Vishous when I was younger. Unfortunately, Ms. Ward started publishing her amazing novels relatively late in life--hers and mine. But, to all the girls and boys who now have their noses pressed to that invisible wall, I say, take heart. Those folks on the inside will be working for you some day

Yours, Mine and Ours

I'm still enjoying a return visit with Thea Harrison's Elder Races. I'm currently re-reading Book 3, Serpent's Kiss, which focuses on the First Sentinel, Rune, who is a gryphon (half eagle, half lion, all sexy—in his human form). Anyway, in the book, Rune must fulfill an obligation, which he does, and then decide whether to involve himself in a more complex problem to help a friend. I've written about this issue before here, wondering whether the ability to do something creates an obligation to do so. Today my question is a bit different, and involves the line between what's mine to do, what belongs to someone else, and where the Divine fits into the equation. I've always liked the adage that we should pray like it all depends on God and work like it all depends on us.  This saying can be modified in a few ways. First, if the concept of God is uncomfortable, the ideas of fate, luck or the Universe work too. Secondly, the whole thing works if we understand it entirely in the mundane realm—where we can rely on others—not the Divine—while simultaneously putting forth our best effort.

This is a complex and abstract concept and the whole thing tends to get very muddled in my mind. What to do?  Turn to the genius of Dr. Seuss, of course, who tells us that all of life is a great balancing act. I am constantly wondering how much I need to do, how much I need to turn over, when to ask for help, when to hold on and when to let go. In Thea Harrison's book, when Rune decides to stay and help, it turns out that his actions have far-reaching consequences. This is often true for us as well. There are so many nuances in making decisions and taking action. The whole thing can paralyze me.

I believe that God helps those who help themselves and that the harder I work, the luckier I get. I have never been one to stand around hoping or expecting that what I want will magically fall in my lap. In my experience, that doesn't usually happen, although serendipity is a beautiful angel who occasionally lands on my shoulder and offers her bounty. But I don't think we can count on that. On the other hand, it's also important to make sure we are exploiting opportunities when they present themselves. Sometimes they are easy to miss if we aren't paying attention, as I’ve written about before here.  Sometimes the bush is seriously on fire. 

I love the story about the guy trapped on a rooftop during a flood. A raft, a boat and a helicopter come by and offer assistance, which he refuses, saying the Lord will save him. When he dies and stands before the Lord, the man asks God why he wasn't saved and God replies,  "I sent a raft, a boat and a chopper, why didn't you use them?"  Which adds another level of complexity to my rumination about what is for me to do, when to accept help, and when to surrender altogether. So confusing. 

I guess if it's impossible to find the line, we just need to keep dancing, stepping lightly all around, hoping we don't step on too many cracks. I'd hate to break my mother's back, after all. I'll go with the idea that everything depends on me and act as if it does. But I'll also put in my time on my knees and continue to ask the Divine for help. I'll take assistance anywhere I can get it. 

So whether it's yours, mine or ours to do, and whether the Universe will deign to intervene in a positive way (or possibly to our detriment), I've always got to do my bit like everything depends on it. If I'm really not sure if it's mine to do, or best left for others to carry the water, a little discernment is in order. I think there are basically two types of people in these situations: those who tend to walk on by and those who tend to make like Atlas, with the responsibility for everything resting on their shoulders. I'm in the Atlas category, and if I'm not careful, I can be my own worst enemy. I have to think twice before I decide something is mine to do, because my tendency is to get my exercise jumping to conclusions that it's always all up to me. For others, the opposite may be true, and for those folks, the right answer might be to say yes more often than they are inclined to do.

In any case, it's important not to assume, and to do our due diligence concerning where our obligations—those we choose and those we have thrust upon us—reside.  Yours, mine, ours, God's? These are the questions of a well-lived life. My thanks to Thea Harrison for helping me to sort out some of the answers, or at least to make sure I continue to ask the questions. 

Queens Rule

I was a strange little girl—who's grown up to be a woman proud to fly her freak flag high. I don't remember a time when I wanted to be a princess. I did not covet the pretty gowns or the glass slippers or the ballrooms and the banquets. I had no interest in princes either—give me a bad boy every time. As a tween and then a teen, my heroines were Eleanor of Aquitaine (does anyone remember A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver by the great E. L. Konigsburg?), Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth I (I was very affected by an early viewing of Anne of the Thousand Days and innumerable historical romances that took place in Elizabethan England). I had no idea (still don't, in fact) why anyone would want to be a princess when one can be a queen? 

In fact, to continue my rant against Walt Disney, I feel he singlehandedly propelled the whole princess meme into the viralsphere. I thank God regularly that I don't have a daughter and so can avoid explaining to her that princesses and their dresses are not the most important things in life. It's an independent woman's nightmare. The only princess I want to be is Laurell Hamilton’s Meredith Gentry—and only because she kicks butt!

Queens rule, princesses wait. No freaking contest. I was reminded of this dynamic by fantasy author extraordinaire, Robin Hobb, whose Farseer series continues to capture my interest, despite the glacial pace of the plot progression (have I mentioned my need for speed—and fast-paced action?). But I find myself coming back again and again because of the detail of the world building and the incredible depth of the characters and their relationships. In Ms. Hobbs' world, there are no princesses (or princes, for that matter), only queens and queens-in-waiting (this applies to kings as well, lest you think her imbalanced). I found myself quite taken with the concept of the queen-in-waiting, who is considered a queen in her own right, but without the authority to rule.

And really, who wouldn't want to rule? In Ms. Hobbs' world, the current king-in-waiting, actually, would have preferred to remain the second son and serve his elder brother when he ascended the throne. Didn't work out that way, though, so the younger brother became the king-in-waiting, his wife the queen-in-the-wings and the widow of his brother... Well, she doesn't seem to have a title any more besides "lady."  Sad for her. Because there is no reigning queen, the queen-in-waiting is the de facto feminine power in the realm. She is good with that, and she comes from a place where women are allowed to rule, which is rightly understood to mean service to the people.

But she is not allowed to assume the mantle of leadership she would naturally wear as if it were bespoke. First, she is still in waiting. Second, she must take her place behind both her husband and her father-in-law. She's going to be waiting for a long time. What's worse, she's like me, with no interest in being ornamental. Quite a pickle for her, poor thing. She is confused, frustrated and not a little betrayed. She was meant to rule, not live in a perpetually gilded cage and sing sweetly.

What to do?  Well, I haven't finished the series, so I'm not sure. But I know I wouldn't be content in such a circumstance. I hope she figures out how to break free of her bondage and find a way out of the static waiting. You know how I feel about Dr. Seuss's dreaded waiting place. Not the place to see and be seen. A complete waste of time and talent. But I'll let you know how it all works out. Back to the problem of princesses. Really, unless you're the Paper Bag Princess (who I love with a burning passion—if you don't know her, look her up), what's the point?  The point seems to be to look pretty, smile in a simpering manner, and make sure you look like a million bucks hours after giving birth to the heir to the throne—which is your true purpose in life—brood mare.  Gag me. I much prefer the current Queen Elizabeth, who isn't so pretty, but appears to be doing a bang up job of preserving the British monarchy during a time when there are many who believe it to be an anachronistic relic that the country can ill afford.

Queens wield power. I like power. Power is the ability to affect change—hopefully for the good. Power is necessary to maintain peace—although please don't think I mean that power is necessarily might or weapons-based. I think people like Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Mother Theresa all wielded tremendous power in different ways. Power can influence people to achieve great acts of compassion and construction. Power implies self-reliance, or at least reliance on the divine rather than others. Power speaks to control and security, at least for me.

I have a coffee mug that reminds me it's good to be queen. And it is. I'm the only female in my household (except for one of three dogs).  I expect to be treated with deference and respect—because I've earned both in service to my family. Such deference and respect confer influence and power to build and to make things happen, both necessary aspects of lives well lived. And power also conveys pleasure, of the potentially corrupting variety, as anyone who's read George Orwell knows well. But pleasure and enjoyment are not intrinsically bad things, and experienced with forbearance and in moderation are among the blessings of a generous Universe.

So, to be clear, I aspire to queenhood of the non-consort variety. With no waiting involved.  And I encourage all girls to do the same.

The Power of Purpose

I know a lot of people fantasize about winning the lottery. In the dream, they tell their bosses to take this job and shove it, and they live out the rest of their days free and easy, living large and in charge. The idea of not having to do anything, and being able to decide how to spend our time seems achingly compelling. In fact, we have a whole structure around this possibility--it's called retirement. In a perfect world, for many of us, we get to stop working while we still have some physical and mental capabilities left, and we live out our golden years doing...something. The question, however, is what? I'm still with Butch O'Neal and the Black Dagger Brotherhood, which is ironic, as he is one of my least favorite characters. But he's offered me a lot of food for thought. Which seems to happen a lot—people I don't like being the ones to teach me things I need to learn. But I digress. What's new?  Anyhoo, I've talked about how Butch was plucked from his life to become involved with the Brotherhood here. One of the many things I love about JR Ward is that she doesn't take the easy path. Instead of Butch riding into the sunset with the Brotherhood, we see what happens to him, living on the margins of their world. Butch has a place to live, a killer couture wardrobe and close friendships with the Brothers. Sounds just like the won the lottery, right?  Except the one thing. Butch doesn't have something to do. An activity that provides purpose for his life. A reason to get up in the morning and greet the day with enthusiasm. And without that, he's lost and miserable.

People think it would be wonderful to have all the free time in the world. What do you do with that time? What do you do when you have no place you have to be in the morning? How do you structure your days so that they are purpose filled, without any external scaffolding? It's a question my husband, as a financial advisor, faces from his clients all the time. It's a question some of my friends are asking themselves. Is there life after work? Is there life before and during work if the work is not meaningful?  Where do we find meaning, if not in purpose?

I'm not saying that not having to worry constantly about money isn't great. It most certainly is. But I'm also not saying that having the means to choose how to spend one's time is the walk in the park that those who don't have that luxury think it is. Because it's not, as Butch so clearly shows us. Yes, it's nice to have great clothes and to live in a great place. But even when we have meaningful relationships in our lives, there is still something missing when we lack purpose to fill our time, engaging in activities that express ourselves in some way and go beyond the necessary to the visceral.

We all engage in necessary activities. We bathe. We sleep. We eat. But unless eating also involves cooking, and unless the cooking is an expression of our creative center (which it most definitely is not for me), then we are just doing what we need to do to survive, but not to thrive. And this is true when our activities consist of the actions necessary to fulfill our responsibilities to those we love. I take great satisfaction in feeding my family and supporting them in their endeavors. There is joy in such activity sometimes as well. But these actions don't feed my soul, which needs action of a different sort. 

What action is that, you may ask?  Great question, and one I've spent considerable time contemplating. What feeds the soul?  On my Twitter profile (@truthinfantasy), I have a quote from Walt Whitman that says, "Whatever satisfies the soul is truth."  I love this quote. But what does it mean?  Where do we find our truths?  Unfortunately, no one can answer that question but us. And it's not necessarily an easy question to answer, although some of us are blessed with certainty in their passion, I'm not one of them. I'm a multi-passionate person. I haven't been able to focus down on any one thing that provides purpose in my life. But I haven't stopped looking. 

Because there is power in purpose. It is the power that fuels great feats of human achievement and drives us to excellence. Purpose gives us wings to fly and the ability to do things we didn't think ourselves capable of. Without purpose, we tend to be sad sacks of flesh housing blood and bones, without the animation of inspiration. So it is worth looking for, and worth rejoicing when we find it.

I’ll give you a hint about Butch.  He finds his purpose in the end.  HEA and all of that.  Would that it were so easy for the rest of us.  Having said that, I must also say that I love JR Ward. She "gets" all of this, and more. She has clearly found her purpose in life and thank God for that, as she brings joy to thousands, if not millions. And I have found some purpose and quite a bit of power in writing about her brilliant books. Good stuff all around. For today, it's enough to thrive.

Plain Talking

If you've read my bio, you know I'm from New York. I'm also from a large and loud extended Eastern European family. We talk with our hands a lot. At extreme decibel levels. Sometimes, we scare outsiders. Often, we offend them. But, honestly, I don't care. We are who we are, and I'm glad we're loud and proud. Because the other side of that coin is that we are direct. We will definitely tell you if your fly is open, you have a hole in your pants, that your breath smells like three day-old fish and you have spinach in your teeth. And we'll hope like hell you'd tell us too. Except you probably won't. Unless you're also from New York. I'm still listening to the Black Dagger Brotherhood by JR Ward and I'm somewhat annoyed by what was a minor plot line currently being developed in the third book, Lover Revealed. Butch loves Marissa. Marissa loves Butch. But, apparently, neither of them is from New York, because they are both laboring under the misperception that the other is uninterested. I really can't stand these plot lines. This is like mistaken identity and frame-ups. Boh-ring. Eventually, you know it's going to get sorted out, so there is no mystery or even any originality with this plot device.

This storyline annoys me because I absolutely, positively cannot relate. Why the hell wouldn't these two just speak plainly to each other? Cards on the table instead of close to the chest. What you see is what you get. Shoot from the hip and ask questions later. OK, perhaps there is a small purpose to prevarication, subtlety and circumspection. But I can't do it. I hate it. I would always rather know exactly where I stand than wonder, mooning about, applying my not-inconsequential analytical skills to a black box situation.  None of us is a member of the Politburo, so there is no reason to be a black box. I shouldn't have to guess what you are thinking and feeling if we are relating to each other properly.

Because the only reason to be so stingy with the 411 on what's going on is our pride. And we all know what comes before the fall. That's right, our big, fat egos, our puffed up pride, slithering in our ears like the Khan worms in the second Star Trek movie, telling us to protect ourselves. Our egos tell us to act cool, pretend we don't care too much, so no one will see how small and vulnerable we are. Our pride moves us to wait before we call someone back, or at all, to adopt a casual attitude about people and situations about which we feel anything but casual. To hide our enthusiasm and passion and excitement and inspiration, lest others find us too exuberant.

And to my ego I say, "Bite me. Leave me alone. Get the hell out of here."  Passion is a gift. Inspiration is divine. Enthusiasm is contagious. Why in the world would we want to throw a wet washcloth on all of that beautiful feeling, threatening to overwhelm us like lava down a volcano?  Oh!  Maybe that is exactly why we do it. We're scared of the heaving magma. I get it. We might get burned. Hurt. Maybe even dead. I've heard strong feelings can do that to a person.

Wait!  No, they can't. Feelings aren't facts. Even though feelings themselves can seem like having surgery without anesthesia, but, in reality, it just feels that way. This is virtual pain, not literal torture. So we can survive it. Maybe learn something. Maybe not. But whatever happens, at least we didn't put the kabosh on our emotions in the name of preserving our street cred. Be real. Tell it like it is. Take a chance and let the hope and anticipation and yearning out into the world. Act like you're from New York. 

We New Yorkers are a direct bunch. Full frontal all the way. Saying' it, but not spraying it. We are the most exuberant people on the planet (except maybe the uptight Mayflower types--you know the ones I mean). And it's amazing. It's why New York is so full of life and why guys and gals with stars in their eyes flock to the city like flies to dung. They all want to participate in all of that teeming, vibrant, pulsing life. They want to feel.

Unlike some of us who like to pretend that we don't feel a thing. The Vulcans among us, who I've written about before. The ones with ice water flowing through their veins whose cards are up their sleeves, nowhere near plain sight. Folks like this eschew plain talk and they live by the never let them see you sweat code of conduct. I want you to see me glowing--it's how you'll know I'm in it to win it.   

I encourage all of you to put on your Rudy Guiliani and let it all hang out. 

Coming Home

I've been sick. Feel like shit. Flat on my back and weak as a kitten. I'm in serious need of comfort. So, what did I do?  You guessed it, I returned to an old favorite and am binge-reading the entire Elder Races series by Thea Harrison. No joke, I've read Dragon Bound at least fifteen times. As I've mentioned before, I love Dragos and I want to be Pia. I love the rest of the characters, too, and Ms. Harrison has a new addition to the Elder Races, Midnight's Kiss, which I will read at the end of my glorious binge. And today I'm contemplating the way Thea Harrison describes finding a mate. Of the forever, never to be torn asunder variety. The kind of bond forged by the Wyr warriors of the paranormal variety.

I always find it clever when an author changes the traditional spelling of a word to indicate its new meaning in a fantasy world. Sometimes, like in Robin Hobb’s books, the first letter is capitalized, like the Wit and the Skill—two magical faculties shared by the few who are blessed with it. In other books, like Ms. Harrison's, were (as in wolf) becomes Wyr, worm becomes Wyrm, vampire is Vampyre and fae is Fae, of the Light and Dark variety (instead of, say, Seelie and Unseelie--are you taking notes here?!). This is one indication that we're in a world not our own.

There are other indications that this is a brave new world as well. Beyond the creatures that defy our reality is a world with rules and structures and possibilities that go beyond our imaginations. This is why I love the genre so much. When an author as skilled as Thea Harrison builds a world, we feel like it exists, not just in our heads, but in reality, although it is an alternative reality for sure. And when characters are drawn so believably, we might find ourselves contemplating their realties and urging them to alternate action, or feeling happy and sad for them, or wishing we could really be their friends. Or lovers. Or mates. 

I've written before about the wondrous concept of the mated or bonded male. This is a popular theme in paranormal fiction. It is usually applied to a supernatural being, like a shapeshifter or vampire. The details are sometimes particular, but the upshot across multiple series (including the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the Twilight quartet, and, of course, the Elder Races series) is the same: male bonds with female. Bond is unbreakable and immutable. Death of a mate usually results in death, or serious harm to the bonded male. In some series, a female can feel the same thing.

All of this makes for excellent romance. And serious longing. Who wouldn't want to be the object of that much devotion? I certainly would. I think everyone wants to feel totally secure in the love of our mates, sure that the feeling will last for eternity and stay strong throughout the years, no matter what. Kind of like marriage vows, which, apparently, are only binding on less than 50% of the married population. And how sad is that? No bonding there.

But the aspect I'm most appreciative of in this moment is Thea Harrison's depiction of finding one's mate as coming home. Because it's true. The feeling of mutual trust and security in a good relationship that has withstood the test of time is unparalleled. As I'm sure you're tired of hearing, I'm contemplating time quite seriously these days, and its impact on relationships. I've written about old friends and new friends. I've cogitated on the passage of the years, and how they seem to speed up the longer we've experienced the inexorable progression of moments, minutes, months and years.

The blessing of a life partner who has actually experienced life with us is more precious than anything. It is coming home and being home. It's not worrying about being sick and looking like dog meat. It's believing that no matter what, we will work it out—and there are so many things to work out in life—including work, kids, money, hobbies, friends and family—yours, theirs, ours. It can be overwhelming and difficult at times. And unlike the bonded males of my beloved paranormal fantasy, we can't be sure, at least at first, that our partners will stick around for the long haul and not give up when the going gets tough.

And that is the difference, at least in this case, between truth and fantasy. If I lived in Thea Harrison's world, I could have faith and confidence in my love relationship if my partner were a bonded male, capable of mating for life, no matter what. But in truth, no one can be sure, at least in the beginning, where things will go. We want, and we hope and we make plans. But you know what they say about our plans and the laughter of the gods. I think it's true.

It's only after years and years of steadfast purpose that we can really believe that it's going to last. Or maybe it's just me and my messed up abandonment issues. Maybe others are more trusting. For me though, trust comes with time and a proven track record of suiting up and showing up. Perhaps not perfectly (OK- for sure not perfectly), but certainly well enough for me to believe that home is real. Home is where my love lives. 

So I don't believe in the fantasy of the bonded male who knows from the beginning that this is the woman for him, end of story. But I do believe that such bonds are created over time and strengthened with demonstrable acts of love and support. And when that happens, it's just like the fantasy novel—right and true and a blessing beyond measure.

The Magic of Mothers

I'm reading Robin Hobbs' Farseer Trilogy. It is a departure from my normal fare, as it is neither paranormal nor urban, but rather straight up fantasy. I'm enjoying its quiet pleasures, the depth of the character development, the slow roll-out of the world building, which is sufficiently original to be interesting but not so alien as to feel like I'm learning a whole new language and way of thinking. There are no vampires to be had, but the zombie apocalypse is imminent, at least in a manner of speaking. So I am content.  The books focus on a royal bastard named Fitz. We meet him when he is six years old and abandoned at the castle, where his father, the crown prince, resides. He has no real memories of his mother--she is a shadowy figure who smelled good. Essentially, she is completely out of the picture.

I have long noticed the widespread plot device of the missing mother. It is rampant in children's stories, especially those promulgated by Walt Disney, who I am convinced was a misogynistic SOB with serious mommy issues. Have you ever noticed that pretty much all of the original Disney movies and most of the newer ones rely on the dead mother motif? Let me see, Bambi--dead mother, Cinderella-- dead mother, Snow White-- dead mother. In the more recent oeuvre, we have The Little Mermaid--dead mother, Finding Nemo--dead mother, and in Brave, the heroine turns her mother into a bear. Nice. But I've digressed in order to vent my spleen against the evils of Disney (except for Disneyland--the one in California, not Florida, which I love with an irrational passion borne of happy childhood memories--some of the only ones I have-but I've digressed again--back on track we go).

Despite my whining, as well as my personal experience, I understand why this plot device is so rampant. Mothers matter. In a visceral, indisputable way. If, in a story, the mother is MIA, that absence paves the way for all sorts of adventures and misadventures that would never occur under the watchful eyes of mom-which really do exist in the back of her head as well as in her face.

Mothers see all, they know all, even when our kids believe we haven't the faintest clue. The bond between a mother and child reminds me a bit of that described in Ms. Hobbs' fantasy novel, where her hero, Fitz, has the magic of the Wit, which allows him to bond completely with an animal, see out of his eyes, hear with his ears, feel his pain, joy and excitement. It can be like that for mothers with their children. We bleed with them, rejoice with them, and their pain--emotional as well as physical--  is magnified in our own hearts and bodies. We would gladly spare our progeny the difficulties of reality, but we don't. Or, at least, we should not.

Just as escape from reality cripples the addict and stunts the growth necessary for successful living, so too does maternal protection backfire. We must allow our children to fail and to experience the consequences of their actions so that they learn to live with what is, rather than what they wish it would be. It serves no one to participate in delusion and denial. I've written about the dangers of that path here.

As we mothers do the right thing, however, and sit on our hands instead of reaching out to help our beloved children, we may wonder what the point of being there is all about. If we allow our kids to trip and fall, why is Disney so bad with all his dead mommies?  What is the proper role of a mother in the unfolding of the life of her child?  

I'm sure it will shock no one that I've invested a tremendous amount of thought to these questions. Being a mother is the one role in which I cannot fail. I birthed these children and I owe them the very best effort I can put forth in all of my many, many imperfections. That's what the therapy jar is for, of course. Seriously, though, I am constantly wondering about the location of the line between serving as a safety net to smooth out the edges of my children's mistakes, and leaving enough sharpness to teach them what they need to learn.  How much should I allow them to get away with so that they don't feel like I'm Big Brother, or the NSA, monitoring their every move?  When is it appropriate to soothe their wounds, and when to let them protect their pride?  I'm sure I step over these invisible lines with regularity, but God knows I try hard to avoid the cracks.

Mothers are here to watch and reflect back to our children their triumphs and achievements and to offer nurturing arms to hold damaged ones while the worst of the pain passes. We are the mirrors that show our kids that they are loved no matter what--even if we don't like their choices or behavior.  That kind of love changes a person. Not having it makes its mark too, as I've discussed before once or twice. The security of a mother's love is the bedrock on which the foundation of a well-adjusted, confident adult is built. Confidence and security, in turn, nurture compassion, kindness and generosity, as well as an ability to trust and experience intimacy without the fear of bad things happening when we acknowledge and expose our vulnerabilities.

So, mothers make magic. Their existence is alchemical and their absence becomes a crucible of transformation as well. There is a reason so many stories rely on the elimination of the maternal influence to explain far-reaching consequences.

I hope you were good to the mothers in your lives on Mother's Day. Actually, my hope is that we don't need Hallmark holidays to spur us to right action on any given day. But such reminders are good to help focus our attention on that which we can sometimes take for granted and should not. Have you kissed your mother today?

The Great Escape

I know you'll all be delighted to know that I've finished listening to the second book in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series and I'm making my way though the sixteen glorious hours of Book Three, Lover Revealed. This one is focused on Butch O'Neal, a human living on the margins of the Brotherhood's world, neither integrated nor completely excluded, but living limbo somewhere in between.  Butch is an interesting character. He is one of several characters in the series who get plucked from their everyday lives and vanish without a trace to become part of the vampire underworld in which the stories take place. These characters just walk away from their lives, without even a backward glance. The author, JR Ward, explains this by saying that Butch and the rest lack family and close friends, and that they work in jobs they don’t like and live lives in which they are not invested. These are sad people, from my perspective. In JR Ward's world, however, this quotidian dislocation is considered a positive, not a negative, as each of her carefully constructed characters move onto something better—lives that are full and meaningful and overflowing with connection and purpose, all of which were missing in their former incarnations. I get that, and, of course, she needs to populate her plots, but I question the validity of some of her assumptions. The problem with starting a new life is that we take ourselves with us. 

Shortly after the birth of my children, I used to have a fantasy. It was a fairly well-developed daydream, and I spent considerable time dwelling there, which was not time well spent, unfortunately. My fantasy had a shorthand, and my husband would sometimes ask me, after catching me staring into space for too many seconds in a row, whether I had traveled to "Nepal."

I've mentioned before that I had a hard time when my kids were born. I was both physically and emotionally unwell. It was a very dark time for me, made all the more difficult because I had worked so hard to have those babies and almost nothing went well with the experience. I felt trapped in a body and a life that didn't feel familiar or comfortable, and I was scared and confused. My response to these realities was to fantasize about escape. I hadn't yet discovered the joys of reading paranormal and urban fantasy, so I wasn't aware of the whole poof-yourself-out-of-your-current-life-and-replant-yourself-into-a-better-alternative-reality motif, but I would have been all over that action if I'd known about it. The idea of being Butch O'Neal would have been very appealing to me.

Instead, my fantasy involved moving to the most remote, inaccessible place I could think of and living by myself in a cave and not having to deal. At all.  For me, Nepal seemed like the perfect place to do my imitation of the invisible woman, who's there one minute and gone the next. Beam me up, Scotty. 

So, my fantasy was called Nepal, which was code for “I-want-to-run-screaming-from-my-life-as-far-and-as-fast-as-I-can-where-no-one-can-find-me.” And I "enjoyed" my time in Nepal, at least on a relative scale. I recognized that Nepal was a better place to go than, say, substance abuse or any other form of actual self-destruction, which was a road I'd traveled in the past and had no wish to revisit. It was the least bad option in a range of not good choices. 

And even though I knew, mostly, that Nepal was a fantasy, I'd be lying if I said I didn't give actual consideration to implementing the plan to ditch my life and start all over with a "clean slate," whatever I thought that meant (remember, my brain was not firing on all cylinders, given my post-partum hormonal upheaval—I was really not myself in those days). Thankfully, however, enough of my higher-functioning faculties were still working well enough for me to realize a few immutable truths.

The first truth is that you can't escape your past. As I thought about life in that cave in Nepal, I appreciated that no matter what, I was a wife and a mother and nothing, including total separation from those who conveyed my relationship status upon me, would change that. I would still be someone's wife and two someones’ mother, even in my Nepalese cave. I would simply have failed in those roles, not escaped them.

The second truth I could not deny was that I'd still be me in that cave. I would have to take myself with me—not just the roles I played in others' lives, but the role I play in my own drama—the starring one—as I was the agent of all the commotion in the first place. Even in Nepal, I couldn't escape myself. And if I had created circumstances in the good old U. S. of A that I didn't like, then it would only be a matter of time before I created similar problems for myself in Nepal. Only then, I'd have other complexities to add to the drama, including a lack of indoor plumbing and electricity, not to mention the mess I'd left behind.

When I read about Butch O'Neal, who gets his HEA, of course, I wondered about it all. This is JR Ward, though, so she makes it work because each of her characters does the hard emotional and spiritual labor necessary to grow and progress and achieve the HEAs they get. So it didn't bother me too much. In the real world, however, the work we are called to do is most often accomplished in the life we have, not the one we wish we had.

I remember taking scuba diving lessons (as a token of my love for my husband, because I am deathly afraid of the water). I've forgotten most of what I learned, except one thing that has stayed with me all this time:  the instructor explained that when you are sixty feet deep, you've got to solve all your problems where you are, with the tools at hand, in the environment you're in. Because the solutions are not at the surface. Once you are safely there, you will, by definition, have resolved your troubles.

It's the same with life. We have to tackle adversity where we find it, not run away from it. If we feel like we're underwater, we probably are, and we need to figure out how to resurface and breathe again. But we have to do that from where we are, with the tools at hand. And it can take a while. If you shoot to the surface from sixty feet deep, you risk the bends and possible death—you need to surface slowly, stopping along the way to let your body acclimate and your lungs work under the decreasing pressure. If that's not a metaphor for life, I don't know what is. 

I never did go to Nepal. Or anywhere near there, thankfully. I realized that such a place didn't really exist, and that any attempt to go there or to try to find it was a losing proposition. I'm grateful that I didn't have a life I could just opt out of. I'm grateful that I didn't choose to opt out anyway. I'm grateful that those closest to me didn't give up on me and helped me break through to the other side of the nightmare I had mistaken for an escapist fantasy.

First, Do No Harm

"But I didn't mean it; it's not my fault."  My kids seem to think these are magic words, words that have the power to negate the consequences of any misconceived action they incorrectly choose to take. I've explained again and again that just because we don't intend to hurt someone doesn't mean that they don't bleed. I've pointed out that whether they meant to break the fan with the lacrosse ball, the fan is still broken. We still put people in jail for manslaughter, even if it's involuntary. And while good intentions definitely count against the degree of culpability, they fall into the same category as remorse after the fact: nice to have and relevant toward calculating the probability of future misdeeds, but immaterial to the outcome at hand. Why am I thinking about my personal parenting challenges in this moment? Well, I'm still engrossed in the Black Dagger Brotherhood (I'm listening to it on Audible and each book is about 15 hours of blissed-out pleasure, so you'll be hearing about JR Ward's amazing vampire warriors for some time to come, as there are 13 books so far). The second book in the series, Lover Eternal, focuses on Rhage (all the Brothers have cool names, and many nouns and proper nouns in Ms. Ward's world come with an extra "h," just so we know it’s an original language—sort of). So, Rhage is a Brother with a scary alter ego. As punishment for past transgressions, he has been cursed to shift into a mindless, dragon-like beast when he loses control. Can you imagine?  I would spend considerable time in my dragon form if I shifted every time I lost control of my anger. But that was the point of the curse--to teach Rhage about control and to teach him about restraint. When we meet him, he is a hundred years into a two-century curse. He's learned to control himself to some extent, and he's achieved a measure of humility, which was another objective of the deity who cursed him in the first place.

Rhage is like my kids. As he's explaining the circumstances that led to his being cursed, he told his prospective mate, "I'd always told myself because I meant no harm, anything that happened wasn't my fault. But then I realized that carelessness was a different form of cruelty." Gross negligence and willful disregard for the safety and lives of others is a crime in our society. This applies to people’s emotional safety and the lives of our spirits as well.  Carelessness with others’ feelings is also another form of cruelty.

Over time, Rhage came to realize that intentions weren't nearly as important as actions. When in his beast form, Rhage was an indiscriminate killing machine; an animal with no particular ill intent toward anyone or anything specifically, but deadly and destructive nonetheless. He began understand that even without an intent to harm, his Brothers would be just as dead if his beast got close enough to kill. Actions speak louder than words, after all, and certainly louder than our intentions, which exist only as thoughts in our minds.

We are judged by what we do, not by what we want to do or don’t want to do. There are no thought police out there (Fox News doesn't count). No one really knows what goes on in our heads, and therefore the why of what we do is not nearly as important as the what.  I'm sure we can all think of examples where we did great wrong while trying to do right.  Doctors take the Hippocratic oath because they understand how much damage can be done in the name of trying to heal. How many times have we gone to the doctor only to find that the cure was worse than the disease? Personally, I have too much experience with that particular party. I'm regretting the invitation next time, thank you very much.

In Lover Eternal, Rhage originally believes himself guilty only of accepting what is offered, a misdemeanor at best, in his own mind. At first, he doesn't understand the nature of his sins. He thinks that if it is on the table, he has the right to pick it up—regardless of whether what is offered rightly belongs to another, or if it is forbidden. Frankly, I don't understand his confusion; he should ask Eve about accepting everything that's offered. Didn't work out so well for her either. In truth, we have a responsibility for discernment. We have an obligation to do our due diligence, lest we transgress without intent or even understanding. For me, if I'm going to break the rules, I want to know what they are so I can make a conscious choice about it. I have no interest in mindlessly wandering into the line of fire. I only want to go if I've planned ahead and worn my Kevlar and maybe learned some evasive maneuvers so I can go to dangerous or forbidden places undetected and unscathed.

I can't think of anything worse than hurting someone by accident. That feels maximally awful. I don't want to hurt anyone on purpose, either, but being an accidental bitch is so not in my wheelhouse (if I'm going there, it needs to be with malice aforethought, thank you very much). Because there are those out there who wouldn't even tell me that I've hurt them (this drives me nuts, I might add), and so I live in fear, like Rhage, that I will inadvertently damage those I care about, which would be devastating.

So, first, do no harm. These are words to live by. Second, don't hide behind an innocent intent when the consequences of our actions are deleterious. We need to own our deeds, whether we intended them or not. Which leads to the admonition to do what we mean and mean what we do. We must take action mindfully and with consideration of foreseeable outcomes. And in this way, we can, like Rhage, cage the beast, and live in love. I intend to do that.

Friendship, Part II

In my last post, I was inspired by the long-term friendships of JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood to expound on the joys of old friends. Today, I'd like to continue to explore the phenomenon of friendship, courtesy of the BDB, and discuss the excitement and pleasures of new friends. In JR Ward’s world, new friends (and therefore characters) are added with regularity, and they are integrated into the existing structure almost seamlessly.  In this particular instance, I think there is more fantasy than truth in the instant bonding, immediate trust and smooth transition into to new roles and relationships for all. I'm not saying that new friendships aren’t wonderful, because they are.  I think it just takes a little more effort and time than Ms. Ward depicts. Nevertheless, her description of the delights of new friends is exceptionally well done. For me, a new friend is anyone I've met since I was about 18 years old.  I have a couple of close friends from college and graduate school, and I've also made friends from the various aspects of my diverse professional life.  I've met wonderful people as a new parent and as a not-so-new parent. I have found that new friendships have somewhat different characteristics and tone than really old friendships. Different is not better or worse, it’s just not the same. And variation is the spice of life, after all.

New friends know us as we are now, more than who we used to be. Because they came into our lives after our misspent youths, they have no preconceived notions of who we used to be or where we came from. We get to be judged on our current merits. Because of this, we can neither rest on our laurels nor feel compelled to overcome any negative impressions from our pasts.  This can be very freeing. New friends even refer to us differently, as the nicknames of our childhoods fall away to be replaced by more adult nomenclature. We're not the same people we were way back when, and the grown up handles reflect that.

Old friends stay connected often by the weight of time served. That is not to say that we maintain old friendships from inertia, just that what we had in common with someone in kindergarten—like being in the same class—does not necessarily last into adulthood. So we often have divergent pastimes and passions than our old friends. With new friends, we tend to connect because of common interests, work, or functional commonalities--like new mothers meeting day after day at the playground with their kids. So we often have more in common with new friends, a ready-made scaffold on which to hang the new feelings of bonding and connection. Not to mention activities. I seem to spend a lot of time “hanging” with old friends while actually doing things with new friends. That is not always true, of course.

We are more mature now, and new friendships tend to be less tainted by competition or jealousy (not that teenaged girls are jealous or competitive!) More to the point, where we have little resistance to descending into childish behavior with old friends, we don't usually indulge our impulse to immaturity with newer pals. That is a good thing, by the way. New friends expect to be fitted to the existing structure of our lives, rather than expecting us to rearrange ourselves around a long-standing relationship. They have existing lives too, which we are expected to honor and accommodate. This makes new friendships more flexible sometimes, which is also a nice bonus.

After college and graduate school, it is more difficult to make and nurture new friendships. We have less time, and we have less energy as well. It was one thing to go to classes all day, party all night, and have plenty of energy left over when we're in college. It's quite another to get through a grueling work day, realize you have to come home and actually make dinner, and somehow find time to fit in a workout and time for old friends.  Newer friends  can fall to the end of the priority list unless we work with them and spend time with them on a regular basis.

But that is one of the gifts of new friendships. They are harder to cement, so we value them all the more because we know the effort it takes to make the friendship work. There are also more hurdles to overcome: does our spouse like the new friend, are our schedules compatible, do we have similar world views and opinions? If all the myriad conditions have been met and we decide to make the investment in the new relationship, it usually means it’s a good fit and a close connection when it happens.

Friends are the family we choose rather than the one we are born with. I'm sure there are lots of people whose families of origin are lovely. I don't happen to be one of them. The family I've created with my husband is absolutely wonderful, but at this point in the game, our children are not supposed to be our friends. They still need us to be their parents. So my friends, my family of choice, are that much more important to me. Having a variety of friends from all walks of life is particularly wonderful, as we can give and receive just what we need from the just the right person. So, whether old or new, friends are the ties that bind—kind of like Spanx—holding us together when we need it most. 

Friendship, Part I

To my old friends:  you know who you are and you know how much I love you.  I'm still enmeshed in my second full repeat exposure to the Black Dagger Brotherhood by J.R. Ward, and I can't seem to get enough. Not only am I happily drowning in all that leather-clad goodness, but listening to these books has opened the floodgates of my creativity and the ideas are coming almost faster than I can write them down. Talk about a win-win situation. But my personal happiness is not the topic du jour. Or perhaps it is. I just wrote about how the BDB series led me to think about the common human need to belong, and that, in turn, has led me to contemplate the blessings of friendship. Particularly of the long-lived variety (although I have some thoughts on newer acquaintances as well, which I will share in the second part of this post on Thursday).

Old friends knew us before we became who we are. They know what made us who we are—our parents, our siblings, our childhood friends and enemies. They know what we looked like throughout our awkward teenage phase, as well as the disco phase, the Goth phase, and the ever-popular hipster-hooker phase. And they may even have pictures. But we know that they will never show and tell. We can trust them with our secrets. We have faith that they won't betray our transgressions,  our pettiness, the times when we were less than our best selves, largely because our best selves had yet to be created. Our old friends knew us before we evolved. And I'll speak for myself here, but my unevolved self was a hot mess, not to put too fine a point on it.

Old friends speak to each other in a special language, and sometimes with no language at all. We have inside jokes and obscure references. We can have whole conversations with a look—kind of like Mac and Barrons in the Fever series. We can meet each other's eyes from across a room and know exactly what we’re thinking. We explode into hysterical laughter at exactly the same time, overcome with a private realization exclusive to us, usually based on a common experience from our shared past manifesting in our current shared reality.

Old friends celebrate and rejoice with us, because they know how much that win meant; they've been there when the tide was against us and understand the toll it took. They grieve with us because they get the depth of our despair; they understood the intensity of our feelings and the true nature of what we have lost. They smile when someone praises our spouses and partners because they've seen what we've chosen in the past and know just how far we've come. They marvel at our children and wonder how the best of us has been passed along to the next generation. They validate, they criticize, they lift us up when we need support and take us down a peg when we've gotten too big for our britches. There is never a question of abandonment or moving on. There are no thoughts of betrayal or exploiting weakness. That is the gift—we can show our soft under bellies (not to mention our sagging tummies), secure in the knowledge that we are safely held no matter what.

Old friends have seen us at our absolute worst and at our triumphant best and they love and accept it all. We can be wholly, fully ourselves, and maybe even take out our inner children together occasionally and play like we're not middle aged women anymore. We can also be middle aged together, assuring each other that whatever the calendar says, we're still young at heart, and we can still rock our stilettos, even if our feet are a bit worse for the wear.

Old friends never bullshit us, and they tell it like it is. But we don't get offended because the advice, or criticism, comes with the associated certainty that even if we do exactly the opposite of what our friend thinks is right, she'll stand behind our decision and be there to help pick up the pieces when it all comes apart, just as she predicted. With nary an "I told you so."  Or maybe just a quick one, after we've dried our tears and can laugh just a little at our stupidity and ourselves. Our friends will definitely laugh with us. And maybe just a little bit at us, but with lots of love and tolerance for our foibles and blind spots and our stubborn insistence on doing it our own way and damn the consequences.

At this stage of life, I have friendships that have spanned almost five decades, which is mind boggling in and of itself. The best part of old friends is that we know they will continue to make the journey with us as we embrace each new chapter. They will be there to tether us to the finest parts of our pasts, and to face what is yet to come, both good and bad. They are there to remind us of who we have been and all that we have become, a yardstick by which to measure our progress, a touchstone to hold us to this reality when the path is difficult.

Old friends are like the most comfortable pair of slippers we've ever worn. They are our threadbare pajamas that we can't relinquish because they are so soft and they fit so perfectly and they just feel so good. Old friends are the place we can be ourselves so completely that we can forget we're not alone. And we're not alone. We're living in a Carole King song.  We are blessed and rich beyond measure. And not just because we get to listen to all the Black Dagger Brotherhood books on Audible. Lucky, lucky me.

I'm with the Band

The need to belong is a basic human experience. We all want to know that somewhere in the world is a place and a group of people we can call home, even if the location and group are virtual and not concrete. Sometimes the need can be visceral, raw and deep. When the need is unfulfilled, it is devastating and self negating—we feel less of who we are because there is nothing to which we belong. And when our need to belong is met, there is no feeling that compares. It's chocolate melting in your mouth, a warm puppy in your arms, the soothing balm of ice on a burn, winning the lottery and fitting into your skinny jeans all rolled into one. Today, and not for the last time I'm sure, my thoughts are inspired by JR Ward and her Black Dagger Brotherhood, which I'm listening to while I read a new author, Robin Hobb (whose works I'll be writing about in the future).  I'm listening to Book 2 of the BDB, Lover Eternal (the only thing I dislike about these books are the ridiculous titles-- I should look to see if Ms. Ward is published by the same house as Nalini Singh, who gets the prize for silly titles). The theme of belonging and what it means for individuality and it's expression, the ability to be independent, and the condition of being whole and complete is woven through all of the BDB books, in a myriad of ways, from belonging to a specific race, culture, or sub-culture, to a soul mate, and to a larger societal group or caste. It must be a subject about which Ms. Ward has given a great deal of thought, because she writes about it so profoundly.

As its name suggests, the Black Dagger Brotherhood is just that, a brotherhood of individuals, at first only males, but later expanded to include females. As I'm reading the books devoted to the original six Brothers right now, I'll keep my references masculine for this post. These guys are tight, in the way that only centuries together and a combat group mentality could make them. The group has been forged in the crucible of battle against a common enemy. Moreover, their service to their people (civilian vampires, just in case you were wondering, cause it's all about those fangs for me, never mind the bass) has made them a breed apart--outsiders to their own kind. Which makes belonging to the group that much more powerful.

The Black Dagger Brotherhood is a cohesive, homogenous unit.  But it’s comprised of beings who could not be more diverse, which is an interesting phenomenon.  The group nurtures the Brothers’ individuality in a healthy way. Each of the brothers is not only allowed but encouraged to be who they are, knowing that their brothers will tolerate their idiosyncrasies, tread lightly around the damage caused by their troubled pasts, and protect their vulnerabilities.  As brothers by choice and not biology (except for one set of twins), these males know that their triumphs will be celebrated and their achievements recognized.  It’s the best kind of family—the one we choose (which doesn’t, of course, preclude a blood connection but doesn’t require one).

The group we belong to should be a support network, a safety net, and provide the confidence of knowing that someone, or more than a few someones, are always going to have your back. When we feel safe and supported, we can do anything. And because the group is more than the sum of its parts, the individual components, the members, are stronger, better than they otherwise would be. That is the best part of belonging, at least in my book.

I suspect that JR Ward knows a thing or two about the need to belong and perhaps what it feels like not to have that.  There is no way she could write so convincingly of the longing of the lonely-hearted if she didn’t have some experience in that area. I can relate, though I wish I couldn’t.  I spent the better part of my childhood feeling like an outsider—within my family, at school, with boys my own age, with life in general.  Sometimes feeling like we don’t belong has more to do with the chaos in our heads—chaos that we’re sure no one else feels.  And many of us grow out of that phase—thinking we are terminally unique and that no one else in the world feels as we do.  And we realize that our outcast status is a self-inflicted wound that we can cauterize at will.  But then there are the poor unfortunates out there who never quite figure out that we are all struggling, and that we are all insecure, and that there is no imperative to remain on the outside.  We can all belong, simply by virtue of letting our humanity out and showing ourselves to our fellows.

Groucho Marx famously said that he wouldn't want to belong to a club that would have him as a member. I don't believe that. I want to belong. I want to know that there are people in the world who love me, have my back, and want me to succeed beyond my wildest dreams. Do you think maybe I can join the Black Dagger Brotherhood?  Actually, I don’t need to.  I am fortunate enough to belong in many different ways.  I have my family, my social circle, my faith community, and the group of writers and readers I’ve met through my work and my interests. I am, therefore I belong.  We all do.

If Today Were Your Last Day

I'm dealing with a situation at work. One of the folks who works with us is not being a good team player. In fact, she's being a party pooper, which is a major downer exacerbated by the fact that she believes whole-heartedly that it's us and not her. Which makes constructive conversations difficult, if not impossible. Why am I writing about my sad work situation, you may ask? Because I'm immersed in the world of the Black Dagger Brotherhood and it's a total body experience. So much so that work is most certainly getting in the way of my preferred activity, which is reading and writing about the BDB. There is so much to read and say. My thoughts today are still on Trez and Selena in Book 13, The Shadows. In case you missed my last post, Selena is dying and she has only a little time with the newly discovered love of her life, Trez. And when your life expectancy can be counted in days and not years, it's all about making it count. 

So Serena and Trez are living in that awesome Nickelback song. The lyrics are genius poetry asking us if today was our last day how would we choose to live it? I'm thinking I would not choose to deal with my difficult work situation and I would choose to read great books and write my truth and be with the people I love (you were getting nervous that I wasn't going to circle back to the beginning of this post, weren't you?  That I'd gone completely off the reservation, huh? I wouldn't do that to you). Which begs the question, why don't we live like today is our last day? 

How would we behave if we knew we had six months to live? Three?  One?  Why don't we live like that all the time? The first thought that comes to mind is that if we lived like there were no tomorrow, it would be hard to build anything or work toward long term goals or practice delayed gratification, which is a necessary aspect of peace, serenity and mature contentment. Who could be persuaded to work?  Or plan for home improvements? Or self-improvement?  I'd eat what I wanted, drink what I liked and damn the consequences. Hell, I'm hoping to live to a ripe old age and I still end up damning the consequences with alarming regularity. So not having to worry about the consequences is probably not in my best interests. As I think about this, living like it's my last day or last month looks too much like my 15-year-olds' definition of YOLO. Whose kissing cousin is my old friend, F--k it. Not the best friend to have. 

But what about the other side of that action?  The carpe diem imperative that exhorts us to stop assuming we have all the time in the world and to take a lesson from James Bond On Her Majesty's Secret Service? There is absolutely no guarantee that we'll even have tomorrow. The zombie apocalypse could be upon us, not to mention all manner of dystopian futures that our own arrogance may rain down upon us—including greenhouse gas summers and nuclear winters. Or, as one of my bosses used to say when telling me to make sure someone knew what I was doing and where all my work was located, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. So I believe in seizing the day, as I've written about before. And I work very hard to live without regrets, which includes saying what needs to be said, even when it's difficult to say, and doing what needs to be done, even when it’s not remotely comfortable. Because we may not get another chance. Taking a wait and see approach could result in severe myopia if our vision were to be prematurely blocked—by illness, injury, death, or any other eminently possible reversals of fortune. 

For Trez and Selena, the lack of time together sharpens their focus to a lethal edge. There is no time for bullshit, or embarrassment or fear of failure. The dearth of moments requires putting on their big kid undies and telling it like it is, with brutal, excruciating honesty. These were among the most visceral scenes in a book I've read in a long time, or at least since some of JR Ward's earlier novels. She writes the real deal, and through her description of the words and feelings of Trez and Selena, I felt motivated and resolved to be even less complacent about how I spend my time. 

Chad Kroeger asks us if we would spend our last day giving away every dime we have, mending a broken heart, or forgiving our enemies? Would we engage in meaningful activity or anesthetize our pain and fear in hedonistic and selfish pursuits? I don't know. Because while I'm exquisitely aware that with each passing day time is running out, I can't say I'm living on the edge of my peak experiences. The balance, as always, is precarious. We need to look forward to our absolutely-not-guaranteed-future enough to plan and strive and seek.  At the same time, we need to abstain from assuming that future so that when opportunity knocks, we open that door and let out a resounding, “YOLO!”  So for me, when we’re down to the count and counting moments, count me in.

The Two Faces of Hope

Like the three faces of Eve (for all you old movie buffs), hope is a schizophrenic bitch. On the one hand, as Karen Marie Moning will attest, hope strengthens (and fear kills, as I've written about here). On the other, hope can be the tie that binds, and cuts, and hurts more than any other pain possibly could, as Lilo Abernathy tells us in her Bluebell Kildare series. And, as I am endlessly curious about such things, how can the same feeling elicit such divergent responses from us?  Under which conditions does hope strengthen? When does it hurt?

I thought the answer in this instance, like so many others, might lie in truth. True hope gives us strength. Strength to go on, to endure, to persevere. False hope, by contrast, is a harbinger of death; it creates unrealistic expectations that, when disappointed, crush us under the weight of being dropped from a high place. Upon further reflection, though, I don't think I'm right, and it took JR Ward to show me the error of my ways.

I'm reading Book 13 in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series. And boy, oh boy, are these books good. And rich, and complex and real as words on a page (or screen) can possibly be. I could probably write blogs for months based on inspiration from this series alone. And I likely will. In fact, while I'm reading The Shadows, I'm listening to Book 1, Dark Lover, on Audible in the car and while I'm in my kitchen (hey, I need something fun to distract me from the drudgery that is cooking and preparing food!). So it's a double dose of BDB goodness for me. Yippee. But back to why Ms. Ward is relevant to this post. In the most recent book, one of the male characters, Trez, is in love with Selena. Selena is sick, dying from a rare and terrible disease. She and Trez have only a little time together, and they want to make it count. He is determined to give her whatever he can. And he concludes that the most important and valuable gift he can give her is hope. Right up until the last minute, he can act like they have forever. Even if they don’t.

So even if it may be false, it appears that hope is productive, not destructive. This basically shreds the truth and fiction theory of hope. And in fact, one cannot know if hope is well-founded or misplaced until one is looking in the rearview mirror on the situation in question. I remember clearly when my husband and I were going through fertility treatments, desperately trying to get pregnant. The hope of success was the only thing that kept me going during the roller coaster ride of emotions the process generated. It was so hard. And I clung to the hope that I had, but, as time and procedures and drug therapy continued, my hope became a threadbare thing, with weak spots in imminent danger of ripping entirely. Until one day, when an urgent situation on Thanksgiving Day caused me to see a new doctor who happened to be on call. He spent two hours with me. And he told me I would be successful. Straight up, “you will get pregnant,” he said. And renewed hope bloomed in my heart. It was the most amazing experience. It felt like I had been thrown a lifeline. I held on. I had renewed motivation. Just when I needed it the most, hope strengthened. And he was right. I was ready to give up. The gift of hope made all the difference. And it was well-founded, but I didn’t know that till I had two bouncing baby boys in my stroller.

In other situations, hope can be a cancer that eats away at our good sense. Like for Blue, with Jack Tanner in Lilo Abernathy's series. Blue fights the hope she feels that Jack will eventually soften toward her and acknowledge their mutual feelings. She has experienced the yo-yo of his emotions for so long, she eschews hope as a portent of crushing disappointment and unfulfilled expectations.  Nothing hurts more than when you hope beyond hope it will happen, or you will get it and it doesn't and you don't. It's better to abandon hope, all ye who enter such situations. 

So, clearly the distinction isn't truth. Or maybe it is, because hope is true until it isn't. And sometimes hope is something we force ourselves to sacrifice because having it hurts more than letting go. So, if we give up before the miracle happens and consciously uncouple from the hope in our hearts, was the hope false in its failure, or did we merely create a self-fulfilling prophesy of failure when we let go prematurely?  Makes my head spin. Maybe hope strengthens until it doesn’t, when the scales finally tip, and the camel’s back finally breaks, at which point success would be pyrrhic anyway.

I don't know. It is said that where there is life there is hope. And sometimes that is both a blessing and a curse. Maybe it is a function of perspective. A pessimist fears her hope, while an optimist fears her fear, according to the poet James Richardson. Maybe hope isn’t a schizophrenic bitch, but I am.  I hope not.   

Batman's Utility Belt

Note:  Today is the one-year anniversary of my first blog post.  Thank you to everyone who reads and supports my work.  I am so appreciative of your comments, FB likes, tweets and messages.  THANK YOU!!

When I was a kid, I loved to watch the Batman series on TV. It was deliciously kitschy and even as a child I recognized the cheese factor. It was highly entertaining and action packed, which I loved even then (these days I have no interest in a movie unless there are lots of explosions, car chases and shootouts. Rom coms, with the exception of Love, Actually, bore me to tears.  Deep in my soul, I'm a fifteen-year-old boy). Anyway, back to Batman. I loved the show, but I had a major bone to pick with the creators. Actually, two, the first being that the bad guy always wanted to spend time gloating about the impending death and defeat of Batman, which allowed the Caped Crusader to effect his escape. In this, Batman is a lot like James Bond. I've learned to live with this trope. But it's the associated ploy that annoys me to no end; how is it that no matter how improbable the situation, Batman always had exactly right tool to save the day stashed in his utility belt?  Have you noticed that?  It's a deus ex machina of the silliest sort and it's a plot device that I despise.

It can be worse in paranormal and urban fantasy. Sometimes an author can decide to wave her magic wand and make all the protagonists' troubles disappear in what amounts to a puff of smoke. I am not a fan. I was reminded of this particular pet peeve as I was reading the latest in the Arcana Chronicles, Dead of Winter, and its main female character, The Empress, Evie Green, who seems to grow in power minute to minute (not really, and I loved the book, but the new-powers-all-the-time thing was wearing).  I was reminded again as I whipped through Robyn Peterman's Fashionably Dead series starring Astrid Porter. Which in turn led me to think about Anita Blake, who is one of my all-time favorite kick-ass heroines. But all these ladies resort to the pull-a-rabbit-out of-your-hat trick when new, previously unheard of powers, that we've never seen before, and which have not been foreshadowed in any way, appear just when our fair damsels need them. Convenient, much? Drives me nuts. Or, it did. But then I got to thinking. The plot thickens. What I started thinking about was whether I was being self-righteously judgmental. Not that I would ever be like that. Well, maybe sometimes. Or maybe a bit more often than sometimes. I began to wonder whether it is really so unrealistic that new skills evolve over time to meet emerging needs and challenges. At one point, when Astrid, the Chosen One among the vampires, erupts with a new demonic power, surprising herself as much me, the reader, her mate points out that she is evolving, and that time will reveal new abilities as a matter of course. Which is true.  As we grow and learn and evolve, we are all certainly capable of gaining new abilities and powers.  After all, none of us is born knowing how to read or write or do math (I still can’t do math, but one never knows what new superpowers will emerge in the future!).I believe strongly in learning new things.  All the time.  I believe in changing it up, getting comfortable with new equipment, software, TVs and tablets, etc.  I believe very strongly in continually challenging myself to do something new as often as possible and to get out of my comfort zone. I believe in making an investment of time and pain to keep myself sharp and relevant.  I believe if we aren’t moving forward, we’re moving backward.  And I believe that if we’re not making progress toward self-improvement, we are stagnating.  And stagnation feels like death to me.  Now, it’s true that there is a fine line between stagnation and contentment.  And that there is an even finer line between necessary regeneration and sloth.  But, wow, those lines are so hard to find.  And I’ve got to say that I’d rather err on the side of moving forward with both barrels blazing than come to find out that I’ve become standing water that is inexorably evaporating.And I do understand that not everyone thinks the way I do (this is a good thing, I’m told by many who love me).  But, honestly, I don’t really get it.  Why wouldn’t we want to have new tools to use for the myriad situations life tends to throw at us?  Batman had the right idea—a tool for every fool.  Wait, no, that wasn’t it.  A toy for every boy?  No, that doesn’t work either.  How about a solution for every challenge? An answer for every question? Is that a fantasy, more appropriate for mythical superheroes than for garden variety humans like myself?  Probably. But I can still work toward that as my ideal.  Nothing wrong with striving toward perfection, as long as we realize we aren’t going to get there in this lifetime.

So, new day, new trick.  Just like Astrid and Evie and Anita. I could do a lot worse than be like them. Perhaps I will give my annoyance a rest, for today, and see the truth in this fantasy; where I believe that new powers are mine for the asking and the taking—provided that I am willing to work to get them. I’m going to strap on my handy, dandy utility belt—just like the Dark Knight—and I’m going to be extraordinary.  Wanna join me?