Bargain Hunting

know a number of people who are militant about not paying full price. They clip coupons and wait for sales. I’m not one of them. If something I want is, to my mind, fairly priced, I’ll pay that price. I understand that the item might be available elsewhere for less money, but I factor in the time value of money, the inconvenience and stress of comparison shopping, and if the slightly higher price might support an independent vendor over a big box store or an online behemoth like Amazon (don't get me wrong, I love Amazon, and I have the credit card bills to prove it) I pay the marked price.  But for me, fair is fair and value is value. And value is intrinsic and should not be discounted below its worth. This is especially true when it comes to love and relationships. Bargain hunting with our hearts is a fool's errand. What do I mean by this phrase?  Well, I'm talking about all the subtle and not-so-subtle ways that our significant others discount us, and perhaps, how we do the same in return. "I'd never do that," you exclaim.  "And I certainly wouldn't put up with it," you continue. I applaud your good intentions, but you might want to take a moment to check the sign on the road you're walking (you might be headed to hell, so take a look). Despite our best intentions, we all do it. When we listen with half an ear to our spouse’s recounting of their day we are discounting our beloved.  When we roll our eyes or behave less than graciously when attending a work function with our spouse, when we give them lip service but no real attention to their interests and activities, we are discounting them. When we "jokingly" criticize their driving to our kids, or poke fun at their foibles, we are discounting their value and decreasing their worth.

e often see this theme in paranormal and urban fantasy relationships that fail. These provide excellent models of what not to seek when we're looking for love. Two examples that stand out (spoiler alert if you haven't finished the Sookie Stackhouse series by Charlaine Harris or aren't up to date with Laurell Hamilton's Anita Blake works) are the unsuccessful romances between Sookie and Eric and Anita and Richard.  I wasn't too upset about Richard, because Jean Claude is so much more... everything, actually. I was rooting against Richard the whole time. And once I got over my deep depression that Sookie and Bill broke up (because he took her for granted and discounted her value until it was too late), I wanted her to end up with Eric so badly… but it was not to be because he didn’t value her highly enough for who and what she was.

The problem with both of these failed relationships was that the men discounted their women. For Anita and Richard, he disapproved of Anita's job and her paranormal abilities. Odd, of course, given that Richard is a werewolf. Richard devalued who Anita was and what she did, which cost him her love -- and sent her right into Jean Claude's bed, luckily for us. Richard redeemed himself a bit later in the series, but never completely.

In the Southern Vampire series, Sookie loves Eric, and she is his heart’s desire. But in the end, Eric revealed his long term plan to turn Sookie into a vampire like himself, regardless of her opinion about this. So, while Eric loved Sookie, he didn't trust her to know her own mind. He was completely dismissive of her humanity, essentially depreciating her worth unless she became more like him. Not good. Discounts don't work in this scenario.

I've often told the story of why, when it came down to brass tacks, I married my husband. I had been engaged before to a Special Forces officer--complete with a green beret and an Army Ranger badge. He was a badass and I was smitten.  But in the end, I knew I couldn't marry him, because every time I had an issue he would say, "That's your problem."  By which he meant that my perceptions were invalid --what I considered important wasn't valued by him. Definitely not a keeper. By the same token, the reason I married my husband was because instead of discounting my opinion, he added value to it by validating it. When I say I have a problem, he says, "Well, I'm not sure I see that as a problem, but if it's a problem for you, then it's a problem for us, and let's fix it together."  When it comes to my opinions and happiness, my beloved never hunts for bargains. I love that about him.

Unfortunately, I didn’t start reading in my now-preferred genre until about eight years ago.  I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and heartache if only I’d progressed beyond mysteries, police procedurals and international intrigue earlier in my reading career.  While I learned a lot about espionage tradecraft and courtroom protocols, not to mention a ton of random knowledge from my historical mysteries, I didn’t learn about love and the dangers of devaluation from these kinds of books. The truth I have absorbed from reading my beloved fantasy novels is that no matter how gorgeous (‘cause they are all drop-dead beautiful), dangerous (in the compelling bad-boy way), devoted (in the overbearing, protective, Neanderthal way), or accomplished (as only unnaturally long-lived vampires and werewolves can be), if they don’t value us for who we are, we need to kick ‘em to the curb.

Opposites Attract

Do you remember the Paula Abdul song "Opposites Attract?"  Am I dating myself (as in giving away my age, not turning Japanese--quick--name that hit! Okay… I’m here all week… but you likely won’t be if I keep digressing.). Anyway... Today I'm contemplating the phenomenon that birds of a feather don't actually flock together; they look for birds with different plumage to marry. I certainly did. And most days that's a good thing.

I know from my beloved fantasy books that I'm in good company in my choice. In almost every book I can think of, the hero and heroine are virtually polar opposites. Take a few of my all-time favorite couples, including Pia and Dragos, Mac Lane and Barrons, and Raphael and Elena. Each of these pairings include individuals who could not be more different either in species or characteristics.

In Thea Harrison's Elder Races series, Dragos is an apex predator, a carnivore of the highest order, while Pia is a peace-loving herbivore.  Their relationship encounters numerous problems as a result of these and other differences. But because Pia’s most pressing need is safety, and an über alpha male like Dragos offers that, she makes it work. In the Fever series by Karen Marie Moning, Mac Lane is a frothy Southern Belle who's happy tending bar in her sleepy hometown in Georgia. Jericho Barrons is an ancient immortal being whose alter ego is a mindless beast. I'm not sure they could have less in common. But their love works--as they both evolve to meet each other  somewhere in the middle. In the Guild Hunter series, Raphael is an archangel of unimaginable power, whereas Elena is a twenty-something human with an acute sense of smell, qualifying her as a hunter of rogue vampires. Again, hard to see the connection at first, and any yenta would be disqualified for fixing these two up.

I've often said my husband and I would never have met if we'd relied on OK Cupid to bring us together. Fortunately for us, we met in the days before Match.Com and Tinder, so we were able to connect the old fashioned way—at a bar. And I'm not sure what would have happened if we'd had too much time to compare notes on our disparate backgrounds, interests or philosophies of life before the chemistry kicked in and we were hooked. Thankfully, by the time we found out he was the Oscar to my Felix, the Spock to my Captain Kirk, the Murtaugh to my Riggs, we were wildly in love and didn't give a shit.

There's a reason opposites attract. I have a friend of almost two decades who started as professional colleague. We really enjoyed working together as our styles were almost identical. In fact, we are so similar in personality that we used to joke that we were twins separated at birth.  Interestingly, we both married spouses who are very different from us, but very similar to each other. Our spouses balance out our intensity with stability and an even keel nature that helps both of us to come back down to earth if we begin to fly too close to the sun.

Balance is important. Yin and yang, light and dark, privilege and responsibility. Even in fantasy fiction, balance must be maintained and dues paid. As I've written about before, there's no such thing as a free lunch. So when become frustrated with our opposite mates, it's important to remember that we need to take the bad with the good. For example, my husband's equanimity in the face of my hyperbole is usually a welcome balm to my overheated emotions. Except when I want a big reaction from him--for a good reason, mind you. It makes me mental when something goes really wrong and his response is... Nothing. Makes me think of the recent movie, Bridge of Spies, when Tom Hanks asks the Soviet spy he's representing in an espionage trial if he's worried. The spy asks, "Would it help?"  And we know that spy guy is right… but…. Oh. My. God. I thought only Vulcans had so little blood in their veins.

But no, there are, apparently, many humans sporting pointed ears and bad eye makeup. I'm married to one of them. Just this weekend, we had a pretty intense fight (well, intense on my end; while I was awake for hours seething in another bed, my cold-as-ice husband was snoring soundly, sleeping like a baby. Which only fanned the flames of my outrage.)  The fight was about the relative merits of high ideals and standards versus letting the perfect be the enemy of the good. Three guesses as to which side of that equation yours truly resides.

Sometimes it's hard to remember why opposites attract. Particularly when I want my beloved spouse to see things my way, do things my way, and just be more like me. But if I'd wanted that, I probably wouldn't have married him, and then where would I be?  Perhaps in a relationship with my other half, my doppelgänger, spontaneously combusting left, right and center as we clashed in a conflagration for the ages. Intensity met with intensity head-on, with nothing to temper the fires, and everything stoking them. It seems like burnout or scorched earth would be the likely result of that scenario. No, thanks.

So today I will take a page out of my beloved books and tolerate, along with Pia, Mac and Elena, the dark side of the moon until I come back again to the light. I'll endure the discomfort of my beloved being radically different from me and bask in the many benefits, like my favorite leading ladies of fantasy. Thanks for the support, my fictional friends.

Silent Suffering

’m still savoring Thea Harrison's amazing novella, Pia Does Hollywood. There are about 59 minutes of heaven, according to my Kindle tracker, remaining. Yay. It doesn't take long for Pia and Dragos to inspire my muse. This time, I was struck by the idea that so much occurs below the surface that we don't see. So many of us are suffering in silence among strangers—or even those we love—bearing the burdens of grief, anxiety and despair, while wearing a outward mask of serenity. It makes me wonder what people are thinking and feeling inside, and how I can avoid adding to the load so many carry at any given time. In Pia Does Hollywood, Pia has been compelled to visit the Light Fae Queen, Tatiana, at the Queen's home in Bel Air. It quickly becomes apparent that all is not well in the Light Fae realm, despite Tatiana and her daughter, Bailey’s, efforts to show the world that they are making lemonade out of life’s lemons. Nevertheless, it's clear that something is wrong, and the truth comes spilling out contaminating all concerned. Clean up is a bitch in this case. 

I can relate. We were spending the weekend with a friend of my husband's, Bill, with whom I'd socialized casually. The weekend we were together, Bill had a major family crisis. So major that his façade cracked; he took phone call after phone call, appearing more distraught with each conversation. The story came out, and we offered what support we could. The experience made me think about all that we hide, or try to, from those around us whom we encounter incidentally. Because we can’t judge a book by its cover, we need to be compassionate at all times; most of the time, we have no idea what's going on with people.

In the aforementioned instance, we were given a window into the private life of someone we wouldn't otherwise have known so intimately. In other circumstances, I'm sure Bill would have chosen to keep his private life to himself and maintain the appearance of a genial host with nothing more on his mind than the comfort of his guests. But like Tatiana, the situation could not be contained, and the guests were necessarily coopted to action. The only upside for these beleaguered hosts – both real and paranormal - was the sense of relief they must have felt that they no longer needed keep up appearances.

A friend related a similar anecdote. Shortly after her mother died, my friend was sitting in a Starbucks, nearly paralyzed by her inner grief, drinking coffee. Later, she realized that her interior turmoil was invisible to those around her as they enjoyed their own beverages. My friend had the profound realization that we are clueless, mostly, to the suffering of those with whom we share space—in coffee shops, elevators, trains, planes and buses, restaurants and stores.  It's possible our co-worker across the aisle just had a bad breakup, or our neighbor just lost her job and has no idea how she's going to pay the rent. The man standing next to us on the escalator might be thinking about his schizophrenic son; the woman in line behind us at the grocery store might be overcome with fear about her husband's recurring cancer. We have no idea how many Eleanor Rigbys we encounter as we go about our daily lives.

Although sometimes we do. Even in those moments when we just have an inkling of the storm below the surface, we have an opportunity to practice compassion. My brother and I found out that our father had died when we returned to our hotel room following a visit to his bedside. We had left him resting peacefully, with a glimmer of hope that the immediate crisis had passed. Shortly after we left, however, he took his last breath.  These were the days before cell phones, so my mother had to wait until my brother and I got back to the hotel and saw her message on the hotel phone. We returned her call immediately. She didn't want to tell us he'd died on the phone, but we kept asking, and she finally confirmed our worse fears. We caught a taxi back across town to the hospital, my brother and I sobbing uncontrollably in the back of the cab. The driver asked what was wrong and we told him, embarrassed by our overt emotion, but helpless to contain it. I will never forget the kindness of that driver, an immigrant from Ethiopia. He drove as fast as he could so we could be with our parents – and then refused payment for the ride.

That driver knew how we felt because the emotions were so new and raw that we couldn't put our game faces on. This is rare.  For the most part, we don't give people an explicit reason to help us, with a smile, or a kind word or gesture -- anything that makes us feel less alone. 

So, what to do? Seems simple enough: we need to assume that all of us need those random acts of generosity, those casual expressions of kindness and support, the comfort of making eye contact and sharing a moment of human-to-human connection. We are all capable of helping, even if it's just putting some genuine warmth into the smile we offer our fellow passengers on the train. We don't need to be magical beings like Dragos and Pia to save the day.  Humans will do just fine.

Rebel, Rebel

The wait is over. Drum roll, please… I’ve picked Thea Harrison's novella, Pia Does Hollywood as the first foray into my new pile of soon-to-be favorite books. I'm reading it slowly, excruciatingly slowly, savoring each sentence and scene so I can prolong the pleasure.  Maybe I'll speed up later, but for now, I'm pacing myself. And that’s okay, because even though I’m only a few pages in, I’ve found something that made me stop, think and write. I am indebted to Ms. Harrison for providing access to my Muse. Thank you. Today, I'm thinking about rebellion—of the adolescent variety. In the opening pages of the novella, Pia wonders what will happen when her dragon son, Liam, grows up and decides to challenge his dragon father's authority; what will happen when he inevitably rebels? What would a dragon teenager's insurrection look like?  If it's anything like my teenaged son's defiance, hang on to your hat, Pia, it's gonna be a rough ride. 

I am the proud mother of fraternal twin boys who will turn 16 later this month. They are both awesome individuals, and they couldn't be more different from each other, which was evident the moment that they entered the world. Our "older" son has been the more cerebral, while his "younger" brother has been historically more athletic, although those roles are now shifting. I've been blessed to be very close to both of them, together and individually, since the day they exited the womb. We’ve shared a relationship based on honesty, trust and a willingness to be imperfect and vulnerable with each other. Their father and I provide guidance and boundaries and serve as role models—hopefully good ones—but we strive to let them make their own choices and then live with the consequences.

And all of this has worked well … for the most part… until recently. Our older son has decided that his personal process of individuation must involve the adoption of views and opinions highly antithetical to those with which he was raised, and, as if this wasn’t enough, there’s a bonus: a heartbreaking rejection of the intimacy we once shared. He has nothing but snark and sullen commentary to offer me, and his tone of voice often earns him punishments for disrespect. Testing limits is part of the individuation process – doing so rudely is unacceptable. I'm sure this all sounds familiar to anyone with a teenager, but it feels so different when it's happening to me in real time.

I believed I was exempt. I believed that because I've always respected my boys as people and not extensions of me and treated them as humans and not babies that our relationship would remain on an even keel throughout the oft-reported rocky road of transitioning to adulthood. I've always been able to talk to my boys about anything and they've always been open—completely—with me. I've never tried to be their friend, as they have plenty of those, but to be the adult they can come to with questions, issues, triumphs and challenges. I've worked to be a safe harbor and safety net, so that they can spread their wings and fly, knowing they have a nest to come home to when they need to rest, recalibrate or crow with pleasure.

I've always shared my values and opinions with my kids, as well as the reasoning behind my views. I've invited them to form their own opinions, and assured them that differences would be celebrated and not discounted. We are different people and we need not agree on anything to remain in a loving, familial relationship. We can fight and disagree and it doesn't impact our underlying bond.

I thought that by giving my children the freedom to be themselves, they would have less need to reject everything I care about. I was wrong. So what does my kid's rebellion look like?  Well, he's not a dragon child, so I'm not worried about his losing control and incinerating those who piss him off – that’s a relief. Nor do I fear that he’ll fly away from home to places I can't follow (Pia isn't a dragon and she can't fly). But I do need to worry about a child who espouses interest in nothing but hanging out with his friends and his girlfriend. My son's rebellion is through apathy, sloth and playing the blame game. He's trying on the persona of a man/boy who has more in common with Pierre, who always would say, "I don't care," than with the earnest, hardworking, persistent and focused young man he could be. This drives me insane. His intention, I guess.

With so many problems facing our world, created by my generation for my children's generation to address, there are myriad places to get involved. And yet my son isn't interested in any of them. I guess he figures that others will carry that water for him. And maybe they will.  This drives me insane. Our current environmental issues and the vast discrepancies in the distribution of wealth around the world are problems of the collective good; all will benefit from the ameliorating actions of the few. By the same token, all will suffer if no one picks up this particular ball. I had hoped to be raising children who play ball, because their parents do.

And now I'm hoist on my own petard. We've told our kids they can create their own lives, and we need to stick to that. If our son is content to wallow in mediocrity, we've got to stand back and let him.  This is hard to do and also drives me insane. And thus, frankly, I'm failing pretty miserably at my stated objective of leaving him to his choices. But every day I get back on that horse, praying that today will be the day I get my beautiful boy back. Because I miss him so very much. 

And I find myself wishing that my son was more like Liam, whose childhood has been greatly accelerated by his magical proclivities. I wouldn't have wanted to rush my kids' earlier years, but I'm thinking a smidge of the fast forward button through the teenaged years might be okay – especially about now. I'm told they do leave this phase behind. I'm looking forward to that. In the meantime, my son came over and cuddled a little while I was sitting on the couch, watching his father put lights on the Christmas tree. It was a moment reminiscent of our "old" relationship, made more precious by its rarity at this stage of his development. I'm holding onto it for all I'm worth.  

An Embarrassment of Riches

f a book is good and worth waiting for, the day it’s released is better than my birthday and Christmas -- combined. When Thea Harrison releases a new addition to her Elder Races series, or when Kresley Cole adds to her Immortals After Dark series, and, of course, JR Ward adds to the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the new BDB Legacy series … that is a great day. And this week, was a trifecta. I'm completely beside myself as a result. I've decided to wait to read any of them, so I can extend the period of delicious anticipation. I know, I'm weird. No news there.  As I considered which book to read next (Oh--and I have the new Elder Races novella that was released last week as well--still channeling my inner Carly Simon on that one, too… and it’s scrumptious… but) I had an unwelcome realization: it's possible to have too much of a good thing. 

This brought me up short. I'm a more is more kind of gal. I operate on the assumption that if some is good, more is better. This has definitely gotten me into trouble while cooking, not to mention make up, hair care products and buying yarn (I knit, in spurts). So the idea that having too many choices seems oxymoronic at first blush, but when I started to delve into the idea, it began to make a certain amount of sense.

Here's the thing: I have three novels and one novella I am 100% sure I'm going to love waiting to grace my Kindle screen and… I’m not reading any of them. That's right, I'm reading the latest Sue Grafton alphabet book (X-- I guess she got stumped on that one), because I was overwhelmed with the choices in my favorite genre. How can this be? Well it is – and not just in my reading habits.  This unfortunate phenomenon shows up in myriad ways in my life, and rarely to the good.

I don't think I'm adept at juggling infinite or even broadly-defined finite possibilities: I'm guilty of paralysis in the face of too many choices. I’m okay with options A or B.  I can be decisive even if we go so far as maybe the letter G (which stands for "gumshoe" in Sue Grafton's world, in case you were wondering), but I have significant difficulty with the whole alphabet.

For example, my professional work is fairly light right now, only taking up a couple of hours a day, in truth. I have two teenagers, so there is work to do on that front as well, so I'm not completely footloose and fancy-free. But considering how much I used to work and how few free minutes I had in a day or a week, my current circumstances seem positively expansive. Relatively speaking, I have copious free time. And I get to choose how to spend it. I can work out, read, write, do volunteer work, take a class, veg out in front of the TV, take my dogs for an extra-long walk, talk on the phone with my friends, and cook elaborate meals on weekdays (alright, that last one is a stretch).

Which is great. Except when it's not. I was talking to a friend who recently left her job at a large corporation to take a job with a start up that is very small and not overly ambitious. She went from being a high-powered VIP whose actions affected many employees and government policies to a place where she wondered, "If I didn't do anything today, would anyone notice?"  Ouch. A good, albeit hard, question.

Because there is no one telling me what to do and no accounting for that which I do do, I'm totally free... To do nothing at all. To become paralyzed with possibilities and consumed with utter frivololity or even counter productive behavior. Do I really need to eat a three-course lunch, just because I have the time? Do I need to "window shop" at the Mall, because I have nothing better to do? (I gave that particular time sink up some time ago, thankfully, but still browsing through catalogues is almost as bad, and I’m still doing that).

When I have too many choices, it can feel like I have none. When I have no organizing principle to my life, it's hard to prioritize options and choose well. How to decide whether to read Cole, Harrison or Ward first?  Does it matter? And what happens when I'm finished?  I'll be finished and then what?  Maybe it's best to delay making a start, so that my time with these favorites wouldn't have to end. You see where this is going, yes?  Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. 

When I have a bounty of alternatives, I can feel lost instead of blessed. An embarrassment of riches. That just leaves me embarrassed to admit my foolish inactivity. So, action is called for--and then more action.  Pick a card, any card. You'll probably know which book I read first (when it shows up in this space on Monday). As to the rest of it, I'm going to try to get over myself while I still have some free time left to spend.

The Lost Art of Courtesy

'm reading Book Eight in G.A. Aiken's Dragon Kin series, Feel the Burn. This installment focuses on Kachka, a (rather fierce) human, and Gaius Lucius Domitus an Iron Dragon and the Rebel King. As always, it's an entertaining story of dragon shifters living in a world with two suns and many gods. This time, the war is religious rather than political and thus the carnage is commensurately greater. And, as always it’s a satisfying read that engages my intellect while satisfying my craving for a good story with interesting characters all the while providing grist for the mill of my blog. In Feel the Burn, Kachka is a daughter of the Steppes: rough-hewn, tough and no nonsense. Kachka and her sisters live close to the land in a society dominated by women. Men serve them and raise their children and there seems little purpose or desire for common courtesy. They don't have it and they don't miss it. On the other hand, Gaius is a king, a royal with a court and courtiers, where courtesy is an essential part of the comportment and decorum package. In Gaius' world, none can imagine an existence without the intricacies of court protocols. When these two ways of being collide, everyone feels the burn. 

So which world’s rules are right?  Are my teenaged children correct in thinking that courtesy is an overrated, outdated, useless convention of old farts like their parents? Are they right to assume that my husband and I have no idea how people live these days? Am I silly to try to teach them the tenets of basic courtesy?  To insist, to the best of my ability, that they adhere to the social mores of my time rather than their perceived reality of a world in which courtesy is passé?   No. No, I am not an anachronism. I do not spend my time thinking that, "Young people these days are going to hell in a hand basket."

I believe in courtesy as an essential tool of living in a relationship. With anyone. This includes strangers on the street and lovers with whom we share our souls. Courtesy is the magic bullet, the secret sauce, the "Open Sesame" of good behavior of all kinds. I can't think of a situation where a simple "Please," "Thank you," "After you," or an acknowledgement of another's existence with a non-committal "Good Day," is not appropriate. Also always appropriate is the appellation "Sir" or "Ma'am," the request to, "Excuse me" or "Pardon me" and the question, "How may I help you?"

None of these courtesies means that you like someone or want them to be your best friend. We can be courteous to anyone regardless of how we feel about them. There is no reason to stoop when we come to a low place. Take the high road. One thing my young sons have yet to learn is that excruciating courtesy is an excellent way to be quite obnoxious. Courtesy in the face of poor behavior only serves to make the bad boy or girl look churlish, mean and petty.

Nor should familiarity breed contempt in the form of shortcuts to courtesy. I see so many people--those I know and those I don't--fail to thank their mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters and close friends for the daily services we do for one another. Not me. I am scrupulous about acknowledging a service or a kindness. This includes at restaurants and stores, doctor's offices and gas stations. Because I never hesitate to inform a manager about bad service, I am equally meticulous about commending those who go above and beyond. I am quite put out when I'm not acknowledged in return. My husband and children are great about thanking me for cooking breakfast or dinner, or picking them up from a social event or going out of the path of my life to do something for them.  My husband was effusive in his thanks last week when I let him sleep in and I took his turn to drive the kids to school. It feels good to be appreciated. And it serves him well in return as it incents me to repeat the kindness.

Another advantage of courtesy is that it can effectively diffuse fights and what would otherwise be curt exchanges between my family members and me.  Courtesy is like taking a time out or ten deep breaths. It gives you room to act rather than react. It's also like a reset button on any interaction. Courtesy can diffuse and de-escalate a tense situation and transform an awkward encounter into a comfortable conversation.

Courtesy is classy, which has nothing to do with wealth or actual social standing. Class is a manner of being and behaving. A courteous person sweats class from their pores. If they were to sweat, that is, which they don't, of course. They glow, don’tcha know?  And as a courtesy, we pretend not to notice.

Courtesy is an essential element of a well-dressed man or woman, without which no one can be considered adequately groomed.  Courtesy, as Kachka grudgingly realizes toward the end of the book, makes the world a nicer place to live. Courtesy is one of the small pleasantries that makes living less ugly and more manageable. Courtesy reminds us that we are all humans sharing the same planet. Even if it takes a dragon king to teach a human daughter of the Steppes what's what and who's who. I’m not sure what it will take to teach two teenaged boys the same thing, but I’ll get back to you on that one. 

The Gift of Gratitude

This post is dedicated to my readers—THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for spending some of your precious time with me. I also wish to express my deep thanks to my husband, Michael, and my friend and editor, Amy Sommer, without whose support this blog would be impossible. I just took a moment to read through my post from last year at this time. And the first thought that jumped to mind is that this is my second Thanksgiving blog post, and how cool is that? My second thought was that I've learned a thing or two about gratitude over the past year, and I'd like to share.

I used to think that the other side of gratitude was ingratitude—an absence of appreciation for that which we have and that which we are. And, of course, at a superficial level, this is true. When we are not feeling the thanks, we're usually wallowing in the swamps of privation and penury, which is just as miserable as it sounds. And while it is important always, but especially at this time of year, to focus our attention on what's working rather than what's broken, it's hard to do sometimes. Granted, when we are willing and able to magnify the positive and minimize the negative, that's a good day. But what about those days we can't seem to pull our heads out of Eeyore's clouds to catch a glimpse of the sun? It sucks to be ungrateful on Thanksgiving. So how can we not be, in a way that doesn't involve faking it till we're making it?

For many years, I prayed for a grateful heart. Sounds weird, I know. But maybe some of you have had the same experience: we know that objectively, our lives are good. We have good marriages, healthy kids, interesting work that pays well enough or even very well, supportive friends and time for fun. We understand intellectually that all of these well-working aspects of our lives are cause for sincere gratitude as it is so much more than so many have. But we're just not feeling it. In the middle of our chests, in our heart of hearts, there is a gaping emptiness where our gratitude should be. We're numb. Or otherwise dissatisfied.  Or just generally annoyed, resentful, and somewhat put upon. Whatever the reasons—and they all have to do with a sickness of the soul that afflicts so many of us these days – we can't feel —truly feel, not just think or know with our heads—the bone-deep, soul stretching, bring-us-to-our-knees thankful to anyone who's listening for this amazing existence of ours.

That kind of gratitude is a gift. Some of us seem to get a double helping when such life affirming emotions were handed out. But not me. I had to beg the Divine for the experience of gratitude that brought tears to my eyes and expansion to my heart. I had to ask for a long time.

Part of my issue was my extreme need for confrontation and my near-phobic avoidance of fear and grief. My go-to stance is a crouching lunge with my fists up—I'm always going to choose to fight, and opt for mad before choosing sad or scared. In my head I'm a warrior queen, and my kind doesn't hold with weeping and cowering. So I was not granted the gift of gratitude until I could learn, painfully, to accept that which I wanted to be otherwise.

I've written about acceptance before, and for some of us, it's a bitch. I struggle with the idea that acceptance equals approbation. I'm learning, slowly, that it doesn't. And here is the rub:  if we can't achieve acceptance, we can't experience gratitude. It turns out that acceptance is the other side of gratitude. Who knew?

As far as I can figure, in order to feel gratitude for the good stuff, we need to accept the aspects of our lives that aren’t so fabulous. For example, I'm floundering professionally right now, caught in a state of neither here nor there. My dog just died, and most distressing of all, my very close friend was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease, a fact we're all still processing.  I wish none of this were true. I want reality to be different. I'm sad and scared and uncertain and anxious and I feel utterly powerless, only ‘cause I am.  But this is my reality—along with all the blessings and abundance in my life. I'm told we need to take the good with the bad, and I know it's true.

What I didn't realize was that the gift of gratitude, the kind that beams you into the present moment at warp speed, is dependent on my level of acceptance about the parts I'm actively not grateful for. It's OK, apparently, to spurn gratitude for the bad stuff.  For me, I flat out refuse to be grateful for the "lessons" and "opportunities" that my friend's illness engenders. But I can accept it—hopefully with the same level of grace that she has, although God knows, it is hard to do.

But for today, I am profoundly grateful for the beauty and joy in my life, and I accept that all is not sweetness and light. I will continue to pray for a grateful heart, because the gratitude itself is joy in its purest form. When my heart is full of gratitude and grace, I know that I’ve also accepted the vulnerability of living and loving as a mortal being.

Happy Thanksgiving.  I wish you gratitude and grace, with a healthy helping of acceptance.  I wish you enough. 

Reality and Romance

As part of my research for the book I'm writing based on this blog, I'm reading Everything I Know About Love I Learned From Romance Novels by Sarah Wendell. It's an interesting book whose thesis, that the romance genre has much to teach us about life, love and relationships, mirrors my own (well, she was first, so I guess mine mirrors hers). I was particularly struck by a passage from romance writer Loretta Chase that listed the differences between reality and romance: "In real life, men compartmentalize; in a romance, most of the compartments are filled with Her. In real life, men are easily distracted by, say, golf or a football game, when their women are trying to tell them something; in a romance, the hero is totally distracted by Her." Interesting perspective, and probably true, but I would like to pull this string a bit and see where it takes us.

Reading about this dichotomy between reality and romance in Wendell's book (by the way, Wendell is the cofounder of a wonderful website, Smart Bitches, Trashy Books), made me think of a related scene in Dragos Goes to Washington (I love Thea Harrison's stories--so much grist for the mill!).  In this scene, a sleepy Pia wakes to find that Dragos has packed her things for an upcoming trip.  She is amazed and impressed that he got all of it right, and he responds by telling her he watches her get ready every day and knows what she uses and what she wears. Later, when she is sick in bed, he buys her books and magazines that she actually likes and a new iPad, because he noticed the screen on hers was cracked. Ah, romance.

I've been married for more than twenty years. My husband and I share a bathroom and a closet and he does 100% of the laundry in our household. My husband and I both mostly work from home, so we see quite a bit of each other. And yet… there is no freaking way he could pack for me--casual, formal, toiletries, makeup and jewelry. No. Way. In. Hell. But I pack for him all the time. Ah, reality.

This must be a measure of the reality versus romance novels to which Chase referred (I don't put my paranormal and urban fantasies in the same category as general romance, although I know some do--I used to read a ton of romance, and my preferred genre these days has significant departures from its more traditional cousin--but I digress—which I haven’t done for a while.) It could be that whole compartmentalization thing, perhaps, but I prefer to deny that reality and believe that men have not been sufficiently educated.

For example, I think it would come as a shock to my husband that I would consider it a mark of his love that he paid enough attention to be able to pack for me. I believe this is true despite the fact that he clearly sees it as a mark of my love that I know him, his tastes and his belongings well enough to pack for him. Is this a double standard?  Maybe. But in his mind, I think, he sees it as a division of labor thing, not a love thing. In our romance, love is expressed by an equitable distribution of responsibilities in which he willingly and graciously assumes his share of the burden for our shared existence. I think this is a fundamentally fair approach, and so I don't complain.

What does upset me, however, is that he doesn't seem able, as Dragos is, to observe me, my habits and my preferences closely enough to demonstrate an intimate knowledge of who I am, at least in those ways. I sometimes think he wouldn't do very well if we participated in that 1970s TV show, “The Newlywed Game.”  Sure, he’d likely nail the questions about what is the most exotic place we've ever made "whoopee." But I doubt he could answer questions about my preferred yoga style (Yin), whether I believe it's okay to mix black and brown (I do), and where I keep my extra TBR book pile (in a corner of my office).

I'm not even sure he could answer all of the questions in an immigration interview if one of us were trying to get a Green Card. It's not clear he knows the brand of shampoo I use (Color Proof) or my shoe size (eight). On the other hand, I'm also not sure that any of this is important, except that there is no doubt I would be flattered by the attention. I am a creature of definitive and repetitive tastes: I like diamonds over colored gems; I prefer an ear wire to a post; I love to knit with brightly colored yarn, and to wear beautifully patterned yoga tops, but only with black yoga leggings. I love word art (and he's given me a number of pieces I adore, in fact – so at least he notices what’s on our walls), and I collect Tarot decks and chakra-related candles. 

Like romance readers everywhere, I absolutely understand the difference between fantasy and reality. Despite my occasional wistful references to my beloved not being more like Jean Claude or Jerricho Barrons, I don't really mean it. I want my husband to be himself. But I would love it if, at least occasionally, he would prove Loretta Chase and Sarah Wendell wrong and fill more of his compartments with Moi!

With respect to distractions, I don't think paranormal and urban fantasy authors got the memo about romance. In most of my beloved books, the uber alpha males are high-powered leaders of their communities, species and worlds, and thus have a to-do list a mile long. Neither Dragos, nor Jean Claude nor Jerricho Barrons is ignoring his responsibilities and obligations to hunker down and make whoopie with our heroines (not that they don’t do plenty of that, thankfully). And that's okay, because, often (but not always, more's the pity), our heroines are busy being leaders and bad assess in their own right. Which is awesome. So I get that all of us are distracted, whether by ruling and protecting our worlds, or by golf and football.

What might be a smidge different in fantasy over reality is that when the alpha males of my books are with their females, they are with them, body, mind and soul. Sometimes, I get the feeling when I’m talking to my husband that he hears the auditory equivalent of the parental voices in the Peanuts programs. This is not always or even mostly true, of course, as I would never tolerate that (nor should anyone, for that matter), but I will say that having my husband's undivided attention whenever I speak would be nice. And knowing he was listening deeply when I opined, rather than just hearing me would be lovely as well.

Is that too much to ask?  Have I crossed the line from reality to fantasy and everyone was too embarrassed to tell me?  Maybe, maybe not.  This wife will continue to hope that I’m on the right side of the romance line.

Because I do believe that everything I know I learned from reading smut--and that there is more truth in fantasy than not. And I've got almost 100,000 words in this blog to prove it. Hear that, honey?

It Was Just My Imagination

Albert Einstein, who knew a thing or two, said imagination is more important than knowledge. "Logic," Einstein opined, "Will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere."  I've been thinking a lot about imagination, courtesy of one of my favorite characters, Thea Harrison’s Pia Cuelebre. I've just finished reading Dragos Goes to Washington for the fourth or fifth time, and damn if I don't glean something new from every reading. This time, I noticed how often Pia called attention to her failure of imagination. At the beginning of the novella, her focus is on how she could never have imagined her life turning out as it did. Later, she notes that she cannot imagine having to move the entirety of her people to another dimension. And finally, a lack of imagination results in her inability to see the truth that is right in front of her. The limits of our imaginations and the consequences of those limits interest me at the moment, so here we go.

Imagination is the capacity to see that which is not there; it’s concerned with the pictures in our heads comprised of memories- both real and embellished – and projections of what we hope – or fear -- will occur. We can imagine things we hear about from others, or bring to life in our mind's eye words from the pages of books. It is sometimes said that if we can imagine it, we can make it--and this includes creative expressions, athletic endeavors, work-related projects etc., etc. Imagination is as powerful as Einstein suggested. Smart guy.

So what happens when, like Pia, we have a paucity of pictures in our head?  It might not be such a terrible thing -- it wasn't for Pia in this most recent story. But sometimes, a lack of imagination can be a real problem. In my case, I vacillate between feeling wildly imaginative and being sure I'm the imaginative equivalent of a Muggle.

When I was young, I lacked any vision for my future. I could not see beyond escape from New York, which for me meant one thing: getting away from my mother. In my limited vision, freedom from Rhoda (yep, that was Mommie Dearest's name, 'cause God has a sense of humor) was the end all and be all. I was never able to see beyond the escape itself. I couldn’t imagine life after Mother. So I didn't. I had zero expectations for my life and almost the same number of hopes. When I finally hit middle age, I think it was easier for me than for others because there was no sense of, "Wow, I always imagined I would be farther down the path by this time in my life," because I never even imagined a path in the first place.

A failure of imagination led me to accept poor treatment from employers, lovers, and friends. I never fancied that I deserved better, so I didn't ask for it. A failure of imagination meant that I was very late to the party of self-actualization, fulfilling my highest potential, because I had so many primary needs that hadn't been met, including safety, security, love and a sense of belonging to something bigger than myself. For a long time, I couldn't understand the concept of self-actualization because I couldn't fathom I had a self to actualize. 

Because I didn’t spend much time as a child nurturing my imagination, I feel somewhat cut off from that aspect of myself, which makes me sad because I believe that imagination is the engine of desire, and desire is the ultimate catalyst to achieve all of one’s dreams. Sometimes I feel empty in the part of my soul where I understand my desirous fire should burn brightest. I yearn for those flames to inspire me to new heights.

I feel like my imagination is a phantom limb that I am unable to scratch when it begins to itch. Nothing is more frustrating and nothing fills me with the same kind of despair. I know--I think--I hope it's there, and I just need to figure out how to find it. Perhaps I never lost it, or maybe it's just hidden underneath too much reality – and too many safe dreams.

Unlike Pia, my inability to imagine is a big deal. I wish I were more like Pia who can brush off this failure without too much thought. But I'm not. So I will continue to look for and cultivate my imagination and hope it's less elusive than a certain mysterious unicorn.

Change and Pain

My work here is to reveal the universal truths I’ve processed through the prism of paranormal and urban fantasy. So, I usually avoid politics and current events in this space. Therefore, I won’t comment on the recent attacks in Paris, except to say that my heart goes out to all the victims, and my prayers go out to our troubled world. My topic today is the relationship between pain and change, and whether the two must be inexorably linked. My hope is that we can separate the two, and affect change without first being beaten into submission by pain. I started down this particular path as I listened to the first novel in Kresley Cole's fabulous “Immortals After Dark” series, A Hunger Like No Other (a title I actually like - surprise). In the book, Emma, our half vampire/half Valkyrie heroine, recalls an early childhood lesson. With her vampire nature, the sun is deadly to Emma, and she has the scars to prove it. When she was small, one of her aunts allowed Emma to place her hand in the path of the sunshine streaming through an open door.  The rays quickly burned Emma's hand, and the pain taught her a lesson that no amount of schooling could ever replicate. Emma's other relatives were horrified, but the aunt who orchestrated the "lesson" said that it was better to learn early and well, through a relatively small pain, than to have to learn later when the stakes could be fatal.

So, is pain always the best teacher?  Is pain the most effective way for us to become motivated to change our behavior? Unfortunately, this has been all too true for me in the past, and, as I look around, I’m not alone in this truth. I've said before that everything I release has claw marks, which is just another way of describing my need to be hit upside the head before I’m forced to make course corrections. Remember the rat bastard boyfriend who betrayed me on multiple occasions (I wrote about him here)?  That was one of those times when I needed the pain to reach excruciating levels before I could let go. Sad but true.

It took a lot but eventually, as they say, “I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I endured the seemingly endless suffering and constant fatigue caused by my lifestyle choices (and a genetic predisposition), before I was willing to make the changes necessary to heal. And those changes were extreme. I had to leave my high-stress Pentagon job, rethink everything I ate and drank — and I mean everything — address my sleep, the way I exercised and my techniques for stress management (apparently, wine is not the technique of choice, more’s the pity).  I went from a high-powered national security analyst who thought I ate pretty well, to a gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar and processed-food-free yoga and TM®-practicing naturopath.  Not to mention I cut my long hair short and switched from PCs and Blackberries to MacBooks and iPhones. In the end, there was very little of my old existence left — with the important exceptions of my relationships and my home, all of which served to ground me during this upheaval.

I desperately needed to make all of these changes. My lifestyle was killing me —literally. But I resisted making the necessary modifications mightily; it all seemed too much to give up. I was very attached to my identity as a national security analyst doing globally important work. I was attached to the foods I liked, and addicted to the compulsive busyness of that existence. I felt that to give up would leave me as the hole in the doughnut. I had no idea who I would be if I wasn’t the person I thought I was. 

Finally, I couldn’t tolerate the pain any more, even though part of me wanted to continue to hold on. So I let go. Not quite all at once, but I made enough changes that I started the snowball rolling down the hill, gaining momentum, gathering more changes along the way.

Such change brings about its own brand of pain — or rather discomfort, as the doctor always tells us. And through all of this, I learned something else: discomfort is often more intolerable than pain. It's like the torture device in The Princess Bride. Pain can be compartmentalized. Discomfort crawls up underneath our skin and slithers around in there, making us squirm. So we avoid it, like the plague, even if the price is pain. Until someone ratchets up the machine to 11, and like Westley in The Princess Bride, we can't ignore it anymore. That is always a bad day. But it's a day that sets us free, too, in a way.

I don't think we ever know, except in hindsight, what the final straw is going to be. Do we need more pain to learn and change? I don't know. I always hope not. But we shall see. In my experience, the letting go and the discomfort of change is never as bad as it seems in anticipation. This was true for Emma in A Hunger Like No Other, and I think this a universal truth, like so many I find in my beloved fantasy books. Often, the present reality is much less terrible than the fantasy we projected onto the future when we were back in the past.  Emma came to that realization when she declared that if this was the worst life could throw at her (in her case, kidnapping and multiple attacks), then life could Bring. It. On. I agree. I’ve been through a great deal, and I’ve come out the other side. So maybe, next time, I won’t have to wait till the machine hits level 11 before I decide to embrace the necessary transformation.  After all, life is change, is it not?

The High Price of Hubris

I'm enjoying Dragon on Top, the latest installment of G.A. Aiken's (the nom de plume of Shelly Laurenston) Dragon Kin series. I adore this series because it always brings a smile to my face; this extended shapeshifting-dragon family is crude, loud and proud. In fact, each faction of dragons is more arrogant than the last, and it's a rocking good time to see them taken down a notch (usually through the power of love, so it's nice—and naughty, it’s a twofer). All of these arrogant dragons got me thinking about the fatal flaw of hubris. It's a killer. There's a reason Greek tragedies focus on the issue. Arrogance is a character defect. It is the opposite of humility, which is also a grossly misunderstood trait. I've actually spent a great deal of time contemplating my navel... I mean thinking about the twin notions of hubris and humility. I used to confuse confidence and arrogance while simultaneously mixing up humility with humiliation. I doubt I'm alone in my befuddlement. 

Take my current predicament, for example. For about the past ten years (out of a total of almost 16), I've felt pretty confident of my skills as a parent. Our kids were secure, outgoing, athletic and intellectually gifted. They defended those who were weaker and/or less popular than they, and they were good with adults without being as smarmy as Eddie Haskell. That they drove me crazy was more about the fact that it wasn't a very long distance to travel in the first place, more than it was about any particular deficiencies or issues on their part. Our kids talked to me and told me what was going on, more so than other kids. I thought I was the shit. 

That would be an excellent example of hubris, and it is coming back to bite me in the ass, as it always does. I'm just praying that the consequences are less severe than they were for, say, Oedipus. I'm also praying that my son doesn't pay the price for my pride.

It turns out that our "older" son (by 90 seconds) is much more of a typical teenager than I'd hoped. His father and I actually need to intervene a lot more than I thought we would. I've had absolutely no idea what I'm doing, except all parties are telling me that what I’m doing isn't working. So I was feeling fairly humiliated, not to mention clueless, ineffective and totally oblivious.

And then a friend pointed out that this wasn't about me. Oops. This was true. And what was called for in the face of my previous pride was not humiliation, but humility. Sounds good and all, but what the hell did it mean? My very patient friend calmly explained that humility is a simple concept; humility is the state of being teachable. As opposed to arrogance, the state of knowing it all, in the country of "Why should I listen to you?"

My friend's explanation hit me like a ton of bricks. Not teachable? Me? Know it all? Moi? Surely she jested. But no, she was as serious as Severus Snape in the middle of a Defense Against the Dark Arts class. I was brought up short. This was one step beyond even Egypt—I wasn't just in denial, I was treading the waters of the Atlantic, that's how far off course I was.  I needed to become teachable, fast. 

One would think I'd have learned this lesson already. My hubris has cost me plenty in the past. As a senior in high school I was on a glide path toward certain Harvard admission. I was near the top of my class and our college counselor had served as a Harvard admissions officer in a previous incarnation. I’d always assumed I would attend the most prestigious school in the nation. I guess you know where this story is heading, and it ain't Cambridge. Being the highly annoying, massively arrogant seventeen year-old that I was, I thought Harvard should be honored to have me, so I showed up for my interview in jeans and an attitude. Long story short, no Harvard for me. Not even wait listed. That was a hard, hard lesson to learn. Not only did I not know it all, I knew nothing, Jon Snow. 

You'd think I'd learn. But, if I'm not humble and not teachable, then I'm not gonna learn squat. And the Universe is going to keep giving me additional learning opportunities until I am well and truly schooled.  Even the dragons in Ms. Aiken's stories learn faster than I do, apparently, and they’re dragons, for pity's sake!

So it's back to the blackboard for me to learn my lessons. I'm hoping to avoid the fate of Bart at the beginning of every episode of “The Simpsons”, but more will be revealed. In the meantime, In the meantime, I will remind myself to be humble – because none of us – whether, dragon or human – knows it all.

Parenting 101

I am the mother of almost 16 year-old twin boys. They're good boys, and I love them beyond reason. I like to think that I've learned a thing or three over the years. I also like to think that I do a reasonably good job as a parent. What I didn't think was that I'd be offered parenting advice from one of my wonderful paranormal fantasy novels. But I would have been wrong about that. I've just finished Molly Harper's fourth installment of her Half Moon Hollow series, The Single Undead Mom's Club, which I wrote about here. Fun read. Halfway through, I was struck by a piece of wisdom voiced by Wade, the hot, single, human dad who has feelings for the newly undead widowed mom, Libby. Wade explained to Libby, "Bein' a parent is a constant cycle of gettin' yer ass handed to ya. Anytime you think you're ahead of the game, that you got it all figured out, that's when reality pops up and bites ya."

ard to believe that I'm listening to some fictional Kentuckian who dates a vampire tell me what parenting is all about. Well, maybe not that hard to believe because, damn, he's right. Parenting is exactly like getting your ass handed to you. Regularly. Tell me again who thought it was a good idea to have kids?  Oh, yeah, it was me. Worked hard to get them too.

Parenting is the most humbling experience I've ever had. I used to lie on the floor of my closet in a fetal position with my thumb in my mouth, reduced to a blubbering mess contemplating the enormity of the task. Who the hell were we, my husband and I, to think we could raise these children to be well-adjusted, contributing members of society? One could argue that we weren't. Well-adjusted, that is. We'd both had issues with our parents, and didn't want to model our behavior on theirs. So we had no road map for what to do. 

And children are so needy.  There are the physical demands of rearing infants and toddlers (sleep was more precious than gold, glory or sex--in those days, I would have traded my soul for a six-hour block of sleep-- with no interruptions). And later, as in right this minute for me, we have the emotional roller coaster that constitutes the teenage years. All I can say is, "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a hell of a ride."

As I contemplate the state of being the moral compass, teacher, disciplinarian, font of all wisdom (it's possible my boys would question that last one… unless they’re laughing uproariously), provider of unconditional love and number one cheerleader for these incipient adults, I am in complete agreement with Wade. Parenting is 100% about having my ass handed to me. Recently, I was that annoying smug mom who was so sure her kids were pure as the driven snow while everyone else's children looked more like the stuff found on the streets of New York. And then I came home unexpectedly one evening to find my boys essentially peeing in that previously white snow. I got my ass handed to me big time and was forced to open my eyes to the reality of my kids--not the fantasy I'd created in my mind where my super parenting skills had reared children who made excellent choices each and every time they were presented with situations that challenged their sense of right and wrong versus fun and pleasurable. Yeah, right. I'm sure there were other parents enjoying the schadenfreude of seeing me plummet from my high horse. 

Pride cometh before the fall. Parenting is the one institution guaranteed to make us aware of our human imperfections. Which of course sucks badly, as parenting is the one job that we absolutely, positively must get right. The stakes are so, so high, the penalties for failure so extreme that I can almost choke on the pressure. It can be paralyzing. But doing nothing as a parent is the same as doing something bad, at least most of the time, so we march on….

Getting our asses handed to us again and again. And Wade was also right in noting that there is no such thing as getting on top of the situation. The second--no the microsecond that happens, the sands shift, the world tilts, and the whole landscape is completely different … leaving me scrambling to understand where we are and learn the new rules of the road. It's exhausting.

And rewarding. And terrifying. And gratifying. Every day I question my judgment in choosing to walk this path. And every day I thank God that I was chosen to shepherd these amazing, exasperating, magnificent and gloriously aggravating beings into existence as citizens of the world. I'll take my ass in my hands again and again for that privilege. 

Who Am I?

I'm reading the fourth installment of Molly Harper's Half Moon Hollow series, The Single Undead Mom's Club. I love Molly Harper's books; they are lighthearted, fun stories that contain deeper truths for those who care to look (for those who don't, that's fine, too, but it's nice that they're there for those who like their fantasy with a side of truth, like me!). This book is about a mother who gets terminal cancer after her husband dies (I know, not particularly lighthearted, but Ms. Harper doesn't dwell on these sad facts—they just set up her story). The protagonist, Libby Stratton, decides to solve her problems with a sire-by-hire, a vampire paid to turn her into a blood-sucking creature of the night who also happens to be immortal—or at least cancer-free. Apparently, this is a no-no in the vampire world, so Libby is getting some supervision, up close and personal, from the local vampire council representatives until she can prove she’s not a danger to her human neighbors.

s Libby adjusts to her undead status, she contemplates her new identity.  She doesn’t know who her sire is (there may have been better dying through chemistry on her part to cope with the whole drain-you-till-you-die-and bury-you-in-the-ground aspect of being turned—so she doesn’t remember who turned her). She observes, objectively, that she wasn't really sure of her identity during her human existence, having been raised by a single mother who kept the identity of her father an uncomfortable truth that was best avoided. So poor Libby comes to her reborn life as a vampire who doesn't know her sire, after having been a daughter who didn't know her father. Libby feels untethered and diffuse, with limited knowledge of her origins that, in turn, make it difficult to contemplate a future.

In reading about Libby, it occurs to me that for many, if not most of us, the ability to know ourselves is contingent on knowing where we came from.  But it's harder to know from whence we came in certain circumstances, and the not knowing makes finding ourselves that much harder to do.

I have a close friend who is really into genealogy. She has traced the origins of her family back to Jamestown, William the Conqueror and Charlemagne. Pretty cool stuff. She has binders full of documentation proving her ancestry, and she, her mother and her daughter enjoy the connection to their greats and great-greats and beyond. I envy her. I'm the daughter of immigrants whose parents all died before I was born. I can't trace my family tree beyond the names of my grandparents, none of whom I ever knew. One grandfather died in the early 20th century in Russia, while the rest died a long time ago here in the States. I'm pretty sure I come from peasant stock all around; no conquerors or kings in my family history. 

But, then, I don't really know. What I do know is that if I were looking for places to belong, the Jamestown Society, the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the British aristocracy are not places I would look. The children of my wonderful sister-in-law are in the same boat, having been adopted from China. They have no idea where they come from genealogically or genetically.  Like our protagonist, Libby, my niece and nephew must leave their genetic history blank in high school biology class because they don’t know anything about their DNA donors.

I know that my sister-in-law works hard to give her kids a sense of community in many ways, partially as an antidote to not knowing anything about their biological families. My sister-in-law is involved in her kids’ school communities, they are all active in their church, and they belong to a group that honors the Chinese heritage of the children. It is very sensitive and insightful of my sister-in-law to make sure her kids are well grounded, to offset the lack of 411 on their origins.

I've had many people ask me if I am interested in going to Russia to explore my heritage. But the truth is, I wouldn't know where to start. I'm not even sure exactly where my father's family was from; he never liked to talk about it, so I never pressed. He's long gone, together with every close relative he had besides me and my brother. So, no information there. My maiden, Uchitel, name means "teacher" in Russian. I've often fantasized that my ancestors we're teachers and philosophers, and maybe that's where I get my didactic tendencies. But my desire to belong to a greater community of which I'm a hereditary member will likely be unfulfilled. Because I don't know where I come from I don't know all there is to know about who I am. 

So I've had to make my own way forward without the benefit of clear vision in the rearview mirror. I think it would be cool to know my family crest, or even to have a family that has a crest. But even with my similar lack of knowledge about my origins, I try to make better decisions than Libby did—no hire-a-sire for me (I also avoided the dial-a-moyl when we circumcised our sons, unlike one of my friends). I’ve had to find myself without a roadmap, so to speak.  And I’ve done a pretty good job, I think, although it’s taken me longer than it might have if I’d known where to look in the first place. And, in the end, we all must determine for ourselves who we want to be, regardless of from whence we came. Identity is a tricky business, and it is the work of a lifetime to figure it out or to create an identity that fits like a second skin. If we want to be comfortable in those skins, we must choose who we are with care. It may be easier if we know our ancestry, our genealogical tables, the patterns of our DNA, etc.  But those same facts, if known, can sometimes constrain us, so who knows whether it’s better to know?  I don’t know that, but I do know—now—who I am.  I trust that Libby will also figure it out by the time I get to the end of the novel.

I Walk Alone

It's been a bad week. As I wrote about here, I lost one of my beloved dogs recently, and I’ve been in mourning since. I haven't been sleeping well, so I’m dragging myself through my days and blinking my eyes forcefully to keep the stinging tears at bay. I know this too shall pass, and a part of me is satisfied that this state is a fitting tribute to my precious puppy…  and then I just miss my beloved Beau and the blinking gets worse.

I am thankful that so many people have shared their stories of departed pets and the intense emotions associated with those deaths. Thank you for the reminder that I am not alone in my grief and the need to adjust to new circumstances. It's comforting to know I am in the company of those who have walked in my current set of shoes. 

s is often my practice when I am sad or depressed, I revisited an old favorite, the Southern Vampire series by Charlaine Harris. This is the series that hooked me in this genre, and I will be forever grateful. There is a passage in the first book, Dead Until Dark, which caught my attention this time around. Sookie is thinking about the many issues related to her telepathy - and to the fact she is dating a vampire. She would like to discuss her problems with a friend, but feels that no one is equipped to handle her difficulties because they are so far beyond the pale of everyone she knows. She's right. And I can relate; it’s equally alienating when I feel alone with my problems and concerns.  

There is a fine line between erroneously believing oneself to be terminally unique and an authentic expression of despair that others have never walked in our particular pair of Jimmy Choos. It's one thing for a friend to commiserate over a bad breakup, or, in my case, the death of a beloved pet. It is quite another when we are alone in a position of authority or responsibility and there is no one with whom to share the burden of our own specific pain – when not everyone has walked in our current set of footwear.

For me, it was excruciating to grow up as the child of a narcissist in the age before the Internet. No one would believe the depth of my mother's insanity. Except my brother, who had to squeeze into the same pair of awful shoes I was forced to wear.  It's why we were so close as children. My friends got glimpses of her craziness, but not the full extent of her particular brand of cray-cray. At first even my husband thought I was exaggerating. It took many years and many arguments where I felt he had taken her side against me before he finally, fully believed that to try to stay neutral in the war with my mother was to hand victory to her on a silver platter.

Sometimes, no matter how much we sympathize, we just can't really know what’s it’s like to walk in another’s shoes.  It’s why we are taught not to judge.  But it’s also why we sometimes feel so isolated with our issues.  We feel like we’re the only ones who know what we are going through.  And in truth, we are, as we are absolutely incomparable and special and this moment cannot be identical for any two people. So there is some truth to our existential sequestration.  But we all share the human condition, and the aphorism that there is nothing new under the sun.  So while no one has walked in our shoes with our feet, it’s true, we all have feet and most of us have shoes. And while I'm a fan of professional therapy, a paid therapist cannot take the place of being understood by someone who loves us for free—it’s somewhat like the difference between a lover and a hooker—physically similar but emotionally…so very far apart.

This is the beauty and the blessing of my various friends. Depending on my specific problem du jour, I can reach out to one or more of them to listen and understand.  Mostly, my friends truly get it, and in so doing it relieve me of the loneliness of feeling like a freak—abandoned in my weirdness, solitary in my singularity. This is also the role of spirituality—the idea that where humanity may fail us, that which is greater than ourselves (however we each define that) will not. Apparently, the Universe has more shoes than Imelda Marcos, and can always identify with whatever it is we’re going through. In any case, we should all make like Winston Churchill and remember that if we are going through Hell, we shouldn’t stop to admire the scenery.

But despite this great self-talk, and the outlet that is this blog, I still feel terminally unique on occasion, and therefore completely alone. This is likely the result of a touch of my own hereditary narcissism, because, after all, the apple rarely falls far from the tree. But then I remember that I'm half my father's daughter as well, and the co-creator of my own destiny, so I can't be all that bad, and maybe I’m a lot like everyone else in feeling that I’m all by myself sometimes. Just like our fingerprints and our DNA, there are things about all of us that are just ours, so it's possible that occasionally we walk will without any human companionship of the emotional and spiritual variety. And then we’re lonely. At those times we can remember the legions of others in various Jimmy Choo designs and know that we belong to the sisterhood of sore feet and the brotherhood of bad shoes wherever we all tread.

It's Good To Be A Guest

I'm a city girl, through and through, Manhattan born and bred. But last weekend, I had an opportunity to experience life in what I have previously (and inappropriately) termed "fly-over" country. I spent the weekend in Northern Mississippi. Which of course inspired me to reread the Southern Vampire series by Charlaine Harris, and to contemplate the concept of hospitality and what it means to be a guest. Coincidentally (or not, as this is my life we're talking about), the first entry in the Argeneau Vampire series also deals with the issues related to the correct way to treat guests. Apparently, there's a lot more to it beyond telling those who visit to "make themselves at home." Of course I knew that, but these books and my recent visit have really brought the point home, so to speak.

n Dead Until Dark, Sookie Stackhouse and her grandmother, Adele, are poor but proper.  When they plan to entertain, the house gets cleaned from top to bottom and the best dishes, linen and flatware are taken out for use.  In the south, only the best will do for guests. Moreover, there is an unwritten code of generosity that underscores the hospitality—no matter how much or how little one has, it is shared with guests.

I experienced this kind of hospitality when I lived in Israel. I was privileged to visit many homes, some prosperous, but the majority humble. And no matter where I went, I was offered tea and something to eat, and in ways large and small I was made to feel not only welcome, but that my presence in the abode was a distinct honor, regardless of whether they'd met me before or knew me from Eve. Didn't matter—I was treated to the best chair, the best place at the table, and the best morsels of food.  If my visit was expected, it was clear that an effort had been made to create a beautiful table for my pleasure, and that the everyday accouterments were replaced with the special fare saved for guests. Which, of course, made me feel special.

It was the same in Northern Mississippi. Our hosts were the parents of one of my close friends, and they had clearly gone all out for us. When we arrived the table was laid out with gorgeous dishes, fine silver, and a resplendent buffet, to sate our hunger after our journey. Fresh flowers graced the fireplace in our room, and an assortment of toiletries were provided lest we had forgotten something essential. What a far cry from my own (Northern) ‘etiquette’ of pointing my visitors to the linen closet and instructing them to find whatever they needed.

In so many different ways, our hosts’ actions let us know that great effort had been expended to ensure our every conceivable need was met even before we were conscious of it. Normally, this level of attention and generosity makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable—beholden – like I'd put people out, been a burden, owed a debt I didn't necessarily initiate borrowing. It's different in the South. Despite the obvious effort that had gone into preparing for our stay, and the energy required to host us at such a level of hospitality, my friend’s parents never made it appear as a burden. To the contrary, they made us feel like it was their privilege and pleasure to entertain us in their home. Neat trick. Wish I knew how they did it.

In truth, it seems like a skill specific to Southerners, like our hosts, Sookie and her grandmother. Or maybe the skill  belongs to a more gracious era, like Marguerite Argeneau in Lynsay Sands’ entertaining vampire series. I also think that authentic gentility stems from a genuine pleasure in being a host—being proud of one's home and heritage and the desire to share them both with others. I think for me, all of this falls into my severe domestic goddess deficit, about which I’ve written before, and my complete inability to cook, clean, decorate or garden. Makes it harder to be a gracious host.

But it is good to be the guest of someone who knows how to do it up right. I felt like the most important person in the world, and that I'd made these people's day by showing up to their home, sleeping in their beds and eating their food. I felt valued and wanted. And how lovely is that?  I was the gal who warranted breaking out the good china, the one who inspired fresh flowers to be cut from the garden, and for the best linen to be ironed and used on the table. I was offered the best wine in the house, and someone made a run to get me coffee when they discovered that there wasn't any because I love my morning Joe.

I’m home now, eating takeout on our everyday china with a paper napkin. But it's nice to know that I don't have to travel back in time to party with the Argeneau Vampires or to Bon Temps, Louisiana to experience true hospitality and gracious living. It’s reassuring to discover that such gallantry exists  outside of Martha Stewart's magazine.  Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be able to up my etiquette game to the level I found in Northern Mississippi right here in little old Annapolis.

Who Wants to Live Forever?

Back in March, I wrote about my beloved Beau, a slightly (or maybe more than slightly) overweight "miniature" dachshund who was sick. We were lucky enough to have many more months with him, months stolen from the Grim Reaper, where he was healthy and happy and eating lots of bacon. But this morning he turned his face away from the bacon I offered, and this afternoon we let him go to the big dog run in the sky. And as he passed from this world into the next, I contemplated the concept of immortality and I asked myself the same question posed by the late, great Freddie Mercury, "Who wants to live forever?" And the answer is, I'm not sure. I'm not sure I want to live forever if everyone and everything I love will die before I do. I may well have to throw my lot in with Sookie Stackhouse and opt out of immortality.

y husband and I were together as we talked to our wonderful, compassionate vet and played God, deciding that today was the day for Beau to meet his Maker. What a terrible decision to have to make. He might have lasted days longer or even weeks (my husband is reading over my shoulder and shaking his head--there were no weeks or even days to be had, he is saying). My mind is filled with what ifs related to things we could have or should have done. But most of me knows we did everything we could. And I'm thinking of spending decades or even centuries burying my pets and my friends and my family and wondering whether that would ever be worth it. And I'm asking myself whether we really want to live or is it just that we don't want to die?

I love my paranormal fantasy, as all of you know well. And I've often wished my husband were more like Dragos, or Jean Claude or Vampire Bill or Eric Northman (I was on team Bill for the first few readings through the Southern Vampire series, until I decided that Sookie was better off with Eric, who was the better vampire, but that is a debate for another post). And I've often wished I could escape the ravages of time and look and feel youthful forever. But that is not the reality in which we live, and, in truth, it's not clear how fabulous that would be. If I were the only immortal living among mortals, life would be very lonely, and my heartbreaking day today would be one of many similar days. I'm not sure even an immortal heart could take it without cracking wide open.

I'm beginning to think that the deep freeze that is characteristic of long-lived paranormal creatures is a necessary defense mechanism to inure themselves to the realities of loss. How much better to lock up my heart than to suffer the heartbreak of loss over and over again? As I advance in age, the parade of the dead swells in membership: my father and my mother; my mentor; and my secondary set of parents (the father and mother of my friends who parented me in the absence of my own). And now my second dog has gone the way of all flesh, which is ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

And why must the flesh fade from this world? I've speculated before that without the possibility of loss, the having would become meaningless. When Beau got sick last year, we knew that every day was borrowed from a library that doesn't accept late returns. When our book is due, there is no option not to bring it back. And so, when I scolded my husband for offering our dying dog special treats and people food, he responded by announcing that he would be damned if Beau's last meal was kibble. It was steak and bacon all the way. When we don't know when our last meal will be, every repast becomes significant.

Because the end came all too soon and then there were two where there were  previously three (we are dog lovers in our family--the more the merrier). And there is a gaping hole in our lives--in the bed where Beau slept with us, and on his usual spot in my husband's home office, by the fire, and at my feet during mealtime, when a certain someone would paw gently, but insistently, at my leg, asking silently, but clearly, for some of my food. I rarely had the heart to refuse him over the past year, knowing as I did that every day was a gift and wanting to make it good for him.

Which, of course, begs the question of why we don't always live like one of my favorite Nickelback songs, If Today Was Your Last Day?  I think I would eat way too much chocolate if I lived like that. On the other hand, I would likely suffer fools even less well than I currently do, and I would give up on exercise altogether. I might not do any housework, or send in the paperwork to get the insurance money for my wrecked car or worry about my unpaid bills. I would definitely give that extra hug, or make sure to get to that email or text to my good friend that I've been meaning to write.

It's our expiration date that makes life precious and poignant. It's knowing that days like today will happen that give our lives urgency and our love wings. Without the specter of death, life is cheap and procrastination is de rigeur. Why not wait?  Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in its petty pace, but without death to paint our palettes in shades of grey, who gives a shit?

Death makes life worth living. Shadows let us appreciate the light. And we can only know the fullness of an open heart when it is wrung dry and arid through the desiccation  of despair. Grief breeds value and appreciation. No wonder the long-lived go insane over time-- they either lose their connection to their emotions or they are overwhelmed by them. Terrible way to go in either case.

So I will cry and I will mourn. But I will also prostrate myself in gratitude that my heart can be so full, in tribute to my much loved pet.  And I will celebrate the time we had together and our willingness to do right by him and release him from his tether to the mundane so his soul can be free to fly back home. He leaves a bereaved family behind, as he departs for parts unknown but familiar to the spirit. Goodbye, Beau. Rest in peace.

Don't Fear the Reaper

I’m reading a book about a vampire with a blood phobia, which is amusing, as I recently wrote about commitment phobias here.  A Quick Bite, by Lynsay Sands, is a ton of fun and there are many additional books in the series—hallelujah! Other favorite authors, including Karen Marie Moning and Lilo J. Abernathy, have also written about fear. So, I've decided the Universe is asking me to look at fear in general and my fear in particular, which may or may not interest you, but which will give you a little insight into the way my brain works (I'm all about the burning bush). There was a time when I was afraid of everything. It was paralyzing. I was raised by a fearful mother, who passed her fear on to me. My mother taught me to be afraid of strangers, which I guess is understandable in New York City.  She also taught me to be afraid of nature, what little there is in NYC (I love nature; provided I’m safety protected from the realities of actual nature—like bugs and dirt and stuff). She taught me to be afraid of men, my body and other people's motives. She taught me to fear rejection. I was taught to fear people in authority, dark corners, what others really thought of me and what they said behind my back. I was taught to fear travel to distant places and trying new foods, styles and experiences. In the beginning, I learned well. As a child, I was so shy and fearful that I wouldn't come out from underneath the dining table when we had guests to dinner. Today, the child I was would have been shipped off for psychological testing and therapy, lots of therapy.  I was not normal (one could argue that this is still true, I know.)

hen, I hit puberty.  ‘Things’ shifted. A lot. I shed the skin of the nervous Nellie I had been and emerged as a more confident teenager. In fact, the transition was sufficiently profound that my academic aptitude scores (who remembers the ERBs?!) changed so radically, the school was convinced there was a mistake and I was retested. Twice. I think the reason behind my percentile jump was that I finally figured out that the only thing I really needed to fear was my mother.

I was definitely still scared of my mom back in those days. I was almost 18 years old before I finally asked the $64,000 question:  “What could she actually do to me?”  When I realized the answer was, "Not much, without risking shame and embarrassment for her," my world tilted on its axis— positively. But I became more confident in my cognitive capabilities, which translated into more general confidence. As I grew more accomplished academically and intellectually, I became less fearful; for me, knowledge and analytical skills translated into power and control, which helped me feel less afraid.

But I was still an insecure wreck when it came to men and romance. Insecurity is just another word for fear. I was afraid men wouldn't like me once they really knew me.  So I hid my authentic self.  I was afraid men wouldn't find me attractive if they saw me without makeup. So I never went without.  I was afraid that if I didn't flaunt my body, no one would want it. I remember one particularly awful episode when I spent an entire night calling around looking for my boyfriend at the time, only to discover he'd spent the night with another woman. When I finally got him on the phone, at 4:00 AM, after his other girlfriend picked up and handed him the phone —"Oh, sure. He's right next to me; let me give him the phone…"— I apologized for bothering him because I was so scared he'd leave me.

I'm happy to report that I'm not that bad anymore. Fear is still my companion - I used Find My Phone last night to locate my husband, who is traveling, because he hadn't texted after dinner and I was afraid he was dead. I know, I know, silly—he thought so too, but my sainted husband is quite used to my paranoia about his safety. But mostly— mostly—I can face my fears and put them to rest. I don't let fear run my life (how I wish I could go back in time and give that no-good, cheating rat bastard a piece of my mind—except I just found out that he died last month, so that won't work).

Today, I can act as if I’m not afraid. I fly. I endure boats. I tell people things they need to hear even if I'm terrified they will shun me as a result. I no longer fear discomfort. I don't love it, but I can tolerate it. Because it turns out that many of the things we fear are mostly just unpleasant, and we like to avoid discomfort. But life is full of unpleasant realities, and facing these unpleasantries (including dirt and bugs in the wilds of my own back yard) is what makes life worth living.

Facing our fears and doing it anyway, whatever ‘it’ is, is the secret sauce of life. It can be letting go of a bad relationship (like the rat bastard), or a bad job, or a friendship that no longer serves. Fear of letting go is a big one, I've found. Almost as big as fear of holding on. 

So I appreciate the opportunity to see how the other half—the paranormal one—lives and deals with fear. I'll continue to enjoy Lissianna Argeneau in A Quick Bite, and wait to see how she overcomes her fear of blood (‘cause I suspect she does). And I'll continue to think about how I can face fear and prevent it from running— or ruining— my life as it did for my poor, misguided, fearful ‘Mommie Dearest’. The good news is, she's not afraid anymore, and neither am I.  I get to enjoy life at the table rather than under it.

Timing Is Everything

I’m in between books right now and it’s agonizing. I finished the new Thea Harrison novella, Dragos Goes to Washington (sublime), and the next installment of Rose Montague’s Norma Jean's School of Witchery (fun). And then …  the purgatory of no books to read.  I've written about this malady before once or twice, and it just doesn't get any easier. If fact, if anything, the whole experience gets more frightening and depressing each time. Frightening because I've read that many more books and I’m afraid I'm about to run out, and depressing because if I ever do exhaust the universe of good, fun, compelling paranormal fantasy, what will become of me? I'll be forced to fall back on my previously preferred genres:  mysteries; police procedurals; and international intrigue. But because I spent so many years ploughing through those categories, I feel like those wells are dry too. I've got to stop going down this rabbit hole before I become utterly despondent. If you have any suggestions, for God's sake, please pass them along. 

There is a faint light at the end of the tunnel, however. In desperation, I revisited a book I'd read, or started to read, in the past. I remember buying and beginning it. I also remember that it just couldn't hold my attention at the time. But I visited the usual suspects in my reliable book-finder sites like Maryse’s Book Blog and I Love Vampire Novels, and didn't come up with much I hadn't read and re-read. But then an author and her series I had explored and rejected before floated to the top of my consciousness. I did my due diligence, reading reviews and summaries. And I decided to give the series a second shot. I'm glad I did. Because what I "discovered" was something I already knew:  timing is everything.  

The Argeneau Vampire series by Lynsay Sands is on almost all the top ten best vampire series lists. It's always mentioned as being fun and funny, lighthearted and exceptionally entertaining. So I bought the first book in the series, A Quick Bite, and dug in expectantly. Except that at that time, I was disappointed. I remember that I read the same early pages over and over and just couldn't get into it. I tried, I really did. But then I gave up and went on to greener pastures. And now I'm back, getting on the horse that threw me. And, what do you know, there's a reason that's a cliché. It's important to get back in the saddle—lest we miss out on a great experience because of negative, past associations.

Timing is everything. Have you ever had the experience of reading a book that changed your life because you read it at a critical juncture, only to revisit it later and say, "WTF? Was I on something at the time?" (Always a possibility for me during my misspent youth). I felt that way about Atlas Shrugged. I remember going into my Literature Humanities class in college waxing poetic about the brilliance of Ayn Rand and how I had totally drunk the Kool Aid about her philosophy and economic theories. And my professor let me rant a while and then calmly asked, "But why do you think she’s so brilliant?"  So I upped the decibel level of my voice and again engaged in rant mode. To which he replied, "Yes, Anne, I understand what you are saying. Saying it louder doesn't make it persuasive." I felt about as high as an ant with dwarfism.  But I'll never forget the lesson—and now when I make an argument or posit a theory, I back it up till it won't back up any more. I also learned that 19-year-olds can be very passionate and dramatic for no good reason. When I reread the book many years later, I couldn't understand why it affected me so. Yes, it was good and interesting and raised thought-provoking ideas. But it wasn't nearly as profound as I recalled. Timing.

I read Bright Lights, Big City when it came out in 1984, and wondered how Jay McInerney had crawled into my life and into my head and extracted my thoughts and experiences and put it in a book. "All messed up and no place to go."  That was me, all right. I loved it. I read it three times successively. I recommended it to my friends. But when I went back to re-read it many years later, it left me cold. I wasn't in that place any more and I wasn't that person anymore. So the book didn't speak to me in the same way, thankfully.

When my twin boys were born almost 16 years ago, I read to them compulsively. I was determined that they would love books and learning as much as I did. I read to those children every single day for almost 11 years. And now they don't like to read. Almost killed me. But they are amazing kids and I love them within an inch of their lives. Even though we don't share my obsession with books. But I digress.  My point (I swear there is one) is that having children means we get to rediscover delightful children’s books and enjoy them from an adult perspective.  My burning passion for Dr. Seuss was born from reading him as an adult—to my kids.  I’ve pretty much memorized Oh, the Places You’ll Go, and Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? is an all-time favorite (and don’t get me started on If I Ran the Circus!). Appreciating these books as a grown-up has opened a new world of thoughts and ideas and a beautiful philosophy of life that I wish to live up to—and that I hope my children will absorb through the osmosis of my reading to them— and which may become manifest when the angst of the teenage years are behind them. I’m still hopeful despite my boys current non-reading ways – maybe their ‘book-loving’ time hasn’t arrived yet?

Timing is everything. With books and with life.  As the Tarot teaches us, "As above, so below", I think is also true for the truth and fantasy found in reality and in my beloved fiction: as in books, so in life. I knew this.  But I had forgotten.  Many thanks, Ms. Sands for the reminder – and the series. So happy to remember that timing is everything.