Finding Nemo

I've read about inmates who are paroled after a long incarceration who purposefully commit a crime so that they can return to jail. Freedom is overwhelming. I thought of these poor souls as I was finishing the latest JR Ward offering in the Black Dagger Brotherhood series, The Chosen. You know how much I love me some JR Ward, and I wasn't disappointed—either by the story or the food for thought it provided. This book centers on the forbidden love between Layla, and Xcor. It's a complicated backstory, but suffice to it say that these two give Romeo and Juliet a run for their money and Layla gets her robes in a veritable twist trying to work it all out. And as Layla is transformed by the events of the story, she is called to find herself—to determine who she is underneath her roles and responsibilities. This is a theme I wrote about very recently, and it's one close to my heart. This week, in The Chosen, Layla is stripped of her stint as a modern-day Vestal Virgin, serving the vampire deity and living a life of strict structure and function. Layla's role as a mother is also threatened, and her dreams of becoming a mate are thwarted. She's in a position of total nakedness in front of herself, of complete freedom from all that bounded her and all that defined her.  Layla quickly realizes that with such freedom comes the "obligation of self-discovery." Heavy shit for sure.

Layla realizes that none of us can claim the freedom to choose our paths if we have no idea what our options are. If we live in accordance with the expectations of society, our parents, spouses or employers, then we may or may not be living a life we've chosen for ourselves. We have no way of knowing whether we're simply lemmings following a known or anonymous leader, or independent agents exercising our God-given free will because we've never had to—or wanted to—color outside of the lines.

Personally, I suck at staying in the box and have always preferred to draw more like Picasso than Rembrandt: I'm heavily invested in my identity as rebel with a cause. Anything that smacks of conformity is kryptonite to me.  But, after reading about Layla's plight, I wonder whether I'm a badass like Xcor, or delusional, like Donald Trump?

I think Layla is right—it's not a choice if we have only tried it one way and we are unwilling or unable to do things differently. I've eschewed both the domestic goddess and dedicated career woman tracks, rejecting labels and expectations. I've told myself I took the road less traveled, but maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe it's the road less traveled because all the normal people gave it a wide berth. Maybe labels and expectations can help us find ourselves, but we don’t know that because we've never even tried them on for size.

I've long prided myself on my overactive imagination and my self-perceived ability to do what others can't. I've called myself a pure-bred race horse—high maintenance and high performance. But what if that's just another way of saying I'm a spoiled brat who's prone to histrionics and that people put up with me because it's easier than fighting with the problem child?

Recently, I've wanted to ditch the diva and hunker down in my creative cave with a plan and the discipline to implement it. Turns out no can do. Even when the taskmaster is myself—maybe because the taskmaster has no external accountability—my ability to color inside the lines has failed me completely (assuming I ever had any). I find myself longing for some lines—so that I can define myself in relation to them, just like the prison bars for those jailbirds who can't handle freedom.

In The Chosen, Layla is challenged to identify ways to fill her hours with pursuits that are meaningful to her and for her. It's quite the tall order. So many of us fill our time with either obligations or distractions that when we are finally given the freedom to choose, we have no ability beyond that which we know and with which we are comfortable. Layla wonders if her "adventure of exploration and enlightenment" is a blessing or a burden. I think it's a bit of both. 

A little freedom has been called a dangerous thing. That's likely true. It's more dangerous than total freedom, actually, because a little freedom seduces us into thinking we want more and thus fighting or longing for the same. A lot of freedom is safer for those who wish to control, because most of us will run screaming from the room when confronted with an abundance of choices. It's too overwhelming and leads to paralysis.

Finding ourselves is much more complicated than finding Nemo. Finding Nemo provides a structure and an objective as well as metrics and a built-in system of rewards and punishments. Finding ourselves means tearing up the roadmaps, turning off our GPS, and playing our own personal game of hot and cold. I began to move away from my new career in Natural Health. I felt warmer. I tried to go back to consulting work. That felt colder. I began a novel. Hotter. I stopped working on it. Colder. I got a part-time job offer. Warmer. Maybe. I'll have to get closer to that one before I’m certain.

But that's what it means to be free to find ourselves. I realize we might consider this a young person's pursuit, but I think it's one a thoughtful person returns to again and again over the course of a life well lived. We find ourselves when we are faced with adversity. We do it again when circumstances change. Or we should. In fact, we should be looking for ourselves on the regular if we're doing it right. And finding ourselves, at least on occasion. 

I love JR Ward. It is my fondest wish that someday I will get a chance to speak with her in person to talk about the many deep themes in her work, and the many hours of pleasure her books have provided. Mostly, I want to tell her and the other amazing authors I read and write about how much they've helped me find myself.

The Hole in the Donut

I just finished Blood Debts, the second novel in the Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller series by Shayne Silvers. Our hero, Nate Temple, billionaire wizard, has fallen on hard times and spends a majority of the book getting his ass kicked. Over and over. But, like the Energizer Bunny, Nate just keeps going and going. If nothing else, his persistence is admirable, and he reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from Nelson Mandela that exhorts us to judge not by how many times we fall down, but how many times we get back up. But I digress. Today's rumination involves losing that which defines us and finding out who we are minus our external trappings. Nate loses both his money and his magic in Blood Debts. It was a bad few days for him. He’s left to contemplate who he is without his wealth and his supernatural power. It's an interesting question. In all of the various Twelve Step programs, addicts are encouraged to take a personal moral inventory and then ask their Higher Power to remove their defects of character. There is more than one step involved, and it's an ongoing process, but the relevant aspect here is the acknowledgement in Alcoholics Anonymous, for example, that some people—having given up their character defects—feel like they have abandoned their essential selves. Recovering alcoholics around the world fear becoming the "hole in the donut," giving up so much of what defines them that there is no longer a there there. For the record, Bill Wilson, the founding father of AA, assured his fellow alcoholics that no such eventuality would come to pass from letting go of character defects. But…

What about letting go of the trappings of money and status and power? Or, if one doesn't have much of those, our roles as employees, spouses, parents, friends, etc.? Or maybe our identification with certain traits or characteristics, like intelligence or humor or non-conformity?

I'm struggling mightily with all of this myself right now, and reading about it in the pages of an excellent fantasy novel makes me happy. I adore finding deep truth in fantasy, while exploring depth psychology between the pages of a supernatural thriller turns all sorts of conventions on their heads—in keeping with my delight in, and my identity with, non-conformity.

Nate grapples with the question of who he is as a regular Joe, with no wealth or magic to make him what he thought he was. Turns out—minor spoiler alert—that deep down, underneath it all, Nate is a pretty badass dude—of the righteous variety. And that without the trappings of money and power he discovers what he's made of, and he's good with what he finds, more or less.

Over the past six months or so, as I've transitioned out of one career and failed to reignite a previous one, I've wondered who I am without my work to define me. I've tried on other identities, most importantly that of "writer," but I'm failing pretty miserably with that one too, which has been perplexing, not to mention humbling and demoralizing. Writing fiction is HARD, and I'm increasingly appreciative of the skill and the craft that goes into good books like Mr. Silvers' Temple Chronicles. And I'm also seeing what I'm made of, evaluating my mettle and finding it wanting. I don't write every day, as every single resource I've ever consulted tells me to do, and I can't crack the code on plotting and outlining so that I can write something slightly more sophisticated than an episode of Gilligan's Island.

I've analyzed the plots and story arcs of some of my favorite works and I'm constantly amazed at how these authors set their hooks and close the loops, sometimes many, many books later in a series. And sometimes within the same book. And the part I was anticipating with the most joy?  The world building where I get to be queen and decide which supernatural powers each kind of being has and the rules for teleporting and mind reading, etc.? That part?  Well, it turns out that part is hard as shit.

But I crave sophisticated plots and arcane references—like Nate finding the TARDIS and riding with the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. It's so cool. I want to be cool too. But I've digressed fairly far afield from my main premise: If we can't be who we think we are, as defined by external trappings or roles, then who the hell are we?  Are we the hole in the donut, or does Bill Wilson have something to teach everyone, not just the addicts among us?

And what if we're not the hole in the donut?  What if instead of a whole bunch of nothing, the something that we are turns out to be uninspiring? What if we're not unique or special or badass like Nate? What if we are just another Bozo on the bus, getting through our days, living lives of quiet desperation? 

Sometimes, I wonder who I'd be without this incessant, burning, excruciating drive inside me that always wants more and better. Maybe that is the character defect or external trapping that I need to jettison to ensure my personal happiness and general contentment. But no, I think I'd rather be like Nate Temple, and go down fighting all the way, even if I don't think it's going to end well for me. Because in the end, for me, like Nate (my fictional brother from another mother), I'd rather be dead than complacent, and I'd rather be driven to excellence (even if I fail spectacularly along the way), than content with mediocrity. 

We all make choices in life. And those choices determine our particular variety of donut. And hey, even if it turns out we are the hole in the donut, those little suckers taste pretty good, so maybe all is not lost. In the meantime, I'm going to work on getting up. Again.

The Face of Power

I just finished the first book in another new series and life is good. Obsidian Son is the first offering in the Nate Temple supernatural thriller series by Shayne Silvers (I'd call it urban fantasy, but he's the author, so we'll go with his designation). I'm already a fan and can't wait to see what happens to Nate, billionaire wizard, over the course of the series. And because I'm late to this particular author's party, there are six books and novellas to read. Awesome. Obsidian Son has all the elements that make paranormal fantasy meaningful for me—a cool hero, interesting secondary characters, a plot that moves and, of course, dragons; you've got to have dragons to be among the greats. It also has deep philosophical themes underlying the entertainment, which puts the cherry on the sundae for me and makes this series more than just an afternoon's amusement. There are a couple of complex concepts to explore in the series so far, and the one that hooked me first was about power. The wanting, the having, the need for more and the Spider-Man Mandate—that with great power comes great responsibility, about which I've written before. Not to mention the other side of that coin, the Animal Farm conundrum telling us that power corrupts and that absolute power tends to corrupt absolutely. And its corollary that the lust for power is equally if not more corrosive to a previously good character.

In the world of Nate Temple, power comes in a variety of packages. Nate is a wizard who can manipulate physical energy to arrange reality the way he wants it, more or less. He's also the sole heir to a family company worth many billions of dollars (and really, once you add that many zeros to your bank balance, do the numbers at the front of those zeros really matter?). So, he's got power in the real world and power in the supernatural world. And, most interestingly, all of that power is increasing, with consequences unknown.

Nate is aware of the potentially corrupting influence of power and he fights against it, so far successfully. And while Nate can be immature (which seems to be de rigueur for young wizards), he's basically a good guy trying to do the right thing when the right thing isn't always easy to see. Or do. He’s what we all aspire to.

Not so with Nate's best friend, Peter. Spoiler alert here: if you don't want to know what happens, read no further. But if you don’t mind.... Peter is a Muggle among supernatural entities (called a "Regular" in this series). He is the third in a childhood triumvirate that also includes Nate and Gunnar, a werewolf. Peter has long been the odd man out in this trio, with neither magical nor transformational ability of the howling variety, even though he is one of the rare humans who has been initiated into knowledge of a world beyond the mundane. A realm where supposedly mythological creatures and people with supernatural powers actually exist. He's had a lifetime to watch his closest friends participate in an extraordinary arena from which he’s always excluded. And while Nate and Gunnar were always generous with Peter, unbeknownst to them, Peter was nurturing a deep resentment that would eventually sprout thorns vicious enough to irreparably damage the fabric of their friendship once and for all.

It seems the drive to power can be just as destructive as the wielding of it. Power corrupts when we forget the purpose of power, which should be, but isn't always, to help others and to make the world a better place. Period. That is the only appropriate use of power. I'm not saying it's not OK to enjoy the use or possession of said gift. It is OK, just as it's OK to enjoy a meal whose primary purpose is to nourish. It's cool if the fuel tastes delicious while also being nutritious. And it's fine to enjoy the trappings of power and wealth as long we come out on the side of the angels in the end. 

Similarly, there is nothing wrong, per se, with the pursuit of power. I take no issue with those who seek it, particularly with the express goal of doing good, such as elected and appointed officials, military officers, CEOs and pre-school teachers (I haven't met anyone more powerful than the Superman or Wonder Woman who can successfully corral fifteen screaming four-year-olds and get them to sit quietly and listen to a story). Many of us who had troubled childhoods seek control and nothing says control more than power. It's not the desire or the object of the desire that is inherently evil. Just the means we use to achieve power and the choices we make once we get there. 

Obsidian Son offers a portrait of the two faces of power—one that struggles to enhance life through the exercise of power and one that doesn't give a shit about anyone or anything as long as their lust is satisfied. It's quite the dichotomy and Shayne Silvers delivers a morally nutritious meal that tastes as good as it feels. The good guys rule and the bad guys drool. Or something like that. And along the way we have an opportunity to ponder the practice of power, its pursuit and purpose.  I'll have to add supernatural thrillers to my list of places to find truth in fantasy.  It's a powerful pleasure.

The Reluctant Goddess

I've just finished The Reluctant Goddess, the second book in a delightful trilogy by Karen Ranney.  I found this author via a list of funny vampire books with plucky heroines on Facebook a little while ago and decided to give it a try. Let's hear it for Facebook. This series is a winner. I suspect I've hit a mother load because this author is wonderfully prolific. Yippe!  This series, "The Montgomery Chronicles," tells the story of Marcie Montgomery, a onetime insurance adjuster, who becomes a one-of-a-kind paranormal creature who saves the world, more or less. I don't want to give too much away, as the majority of the plot revolves around Marcie's journey of self-discovery as she embraces her transformation and what it means to be a goddess. Marcie's evolutionary trajectory is entertaining and instructive. At one point, she tells us poignantly that the problem with her life is that there are no roadmaps and she has no idea where she is going or how she is going to get there. At the same time, she doesn't feel any (or much) desire to go back to her old self, but she doesn't know what her new self will look, act or feel like. I can relate, having let go of my old life while struggling to embrace a new one with nary a roadmap in sight. It’s frightening, confusing and anxiety producing. But it’s also filled with endless possibilities for adventure, creativity and the expression of my authentic self. If becoming a goddess were easy, everyone would do it.

I’ve been given a respite from the workaday world. In other words, I’m unemployed—for the first time since I was 15 years old. For the past 35 years, I’ve worked for other people, always contributing to someone else’s dreams or visions. And now, through circumstances largely beyond my control, I have the chance to build my own field of dreams without any guilt or stress. What a gift! And while I absolutely understand how blessed I am to be in this position, I’m almost—but not quite—paralyzed with ambiguity, terror and confusion. At the same time, I am in constant motion with feeling elated, inspired and hopeful. I am living life fully, maybe for the first time ever. Unfortunately, a life lived fully comes with the double-edged sword of feeling all my feelings, good and bad.

In many ways, life is easier when someone tells us what to do or when we behave within the confines of the roles and responsibilities we assume and which structure the rhythms of our lives. When Marcie was an insurance adjuster, she got up every morning and went to work, dated boring men, saw her friends and counted herself lucky to have a job and a social life, such as they were. Once she began her transformation to becoming a goddess, she wasn’t quite sure where she would end up or what she would look like when she got there. Similarly, my life was also defined by the work that I did and the parts that I played. I’ve been a lot of things over the years, including paralegal, private investigator, teacher, nuclear weapons analyst, nutritional consultant, business manager, etc. Now, when people ask me what I do, I’m not quite sure what to say. I’m still in the process of becoming, and I don’t know what I’ll be when I find the wherewithal to break out of the cocoon in which I’ve been experiencing my metamorphosis. Will I be a beautiful butterfly or an ugly moth? The jury is still out. I do know that the uncertainty is killing me. I’m not good with suspense—I sometimes ahead in books if I’m overly nervous about a particular outcome, just to relieve my anxiety. Sadly for me, we can’t do that in life. How will it all turn out? Stay tuned. Personally, I’m on the edge of my seat.

I think this is what it means to be a goddess like Marcie. It means to be the master of my own destiny, to rise or fall on my own merits with no one to blame for failure or credit with success. It seems to me, after reading about Marcie, that being a goddess is to take the road less traveled, making footprints of our own for others to follow, while having few to guide our own path forward. This is not for the fainthearted, let me tell you. It requires finding reservoirs of grit and determination I’m still not sure exist, and taking leap after leap off endless cliffs with nothing but the abyss yawning below. And, just like Marcie, it means exploring the limits of my superpowers, and determining that I are capable of so much more than I thought possible. It’s a heady thing, this goddess business, and not a path I thought to take, but life is like that sometimes.

Thankfully, I can find inspiration and instructions in the pages of my beloved books. In Karen Ranney’s trilogy, Marcie teaches us what it means to be human in the best sense of the word, and what it means to become a goddess, tolerating confusion and discomfort, fear and anxiety along the way. It's difficult, yes, and it may or may not end well, but all told, it’s good to be a goddess, even a reluctant one.

Head of the Class

I was privileged to be an advance reader for Elle Boca's Smells Like Weeia Spirit. I'm delighted to report that the book is now live on Amazon and I urge everyone to read it! This is the third story in the Weeia Marshals series, and Danielle Metreaux has been the lead Marshal in Paris for a while now, keeping the superhuman race safe from each other and secret from the regular humans out there who have no idea that the Weeia exist. Danielle has risen above a difficult upbringing and a tarnished family name. She represents a twist on the traditional rags to riches tale, where she is now keeping company with people who once looked down on her socially and economically. Danni struggles to feel like she fits in, and there are plenty of those who want to keep the struggle alive, but also those who seek to include her as one of their own. As Danni navigates the stratified structure of Weeia society in Paris, she encounters different classes of people and people with different levels of class. It's an interesting subject, class, and one we don't discuss too often here in the New World.  Class, money, and privilege tend to be more interconnected in the United States than they are in European countries, for example. Here, one's class is dependent less on one's birth than on one's ability to earn money. There are few impoverished nobles in America, and lots of successful nouveau riche social climbers. And, to add a layer of complexity to this blend of high society and hoi polloi, we can also talk about what it means to have class, not just belong to one. Because being a part of high society or the ranks of the wealthy doesn't necessarily mean one has any actual class, just as poverty and low birth doesn't prevent one from having loads of it. 

To me, the epitome of class is one of my childhood friends. Since we were little girls, she has gone out of her way to make everyone comfortable around her. She's used to a lifestyle and amenities most of us have never experienced. Some in her situation never see those who make her existence what it is—the housekeepers and the waiters and the support staff at every turn. Not my friend; as long as I can remember, she has been inclusive, treating those who can do nothing for her with the same respect and consideration as the CEOs of the companies with whom she deals. I have never seen her look down her patrician nose at anyone. So, while her privilege secures her spot as an upperclassman, it's her innate class that makes her the lady she is. 

On the other hand, there are lots of folks out there with money and status who consider themselves to be "upper class," but who have no idea what it means to be “classy.” They delight in stepping on the perceived wet backs of others as they ignore those not of their “class.” Fuck that shit. In the end, people can only make us feel as uncomfortable as we let them. When someone looks down their nose at me, it says a lot more about them than about me—about their insecurities and lack of self-worth, and nothing at all about mine. I know first-hand that money buys neither happiness nor class. It can't buy intelligence or health, although it can make these pursuits easier and more likely to succeed. It's hard to be healthy in a food desert or without access to medical care. It's hard to learn when the instruction is suboptimal and the students apathetic or hostile.

I'm not suggesting that money isn't advantageous or that a pedigree doesn't open doors. Although being the true American that I am, I don't really understand class and pedigree, nor do I have much respect for them. Who gives a shit that one's ancestors came over on the Mayflower?  That has nothing to do with who their descendants turn out to be. And I know there are certain clubs and groups that pull each other's puds and circle the wagons lest the bloodlines be diluted by the great unwashed, but I've never understood why anyone would want to belong to those elitist institutions in the first place.

Class and social status are just a continuation of the tyranny of the so-called popular kids in school. The Queen Bees and the Wannabes. I figured out early that the best way to win that game was to refuse to play. Exit the game board and find another playground. In high school while the popular girls were being passed around within a tiny bubble of self-aggrandizing beautiful people, I was having the experience of a lifetime with an older boyfriend who introduced me to the world. Now, granted, it was a pretty twisted relationship, but dysfunction is not limited to May-December romances; I'm watching my teenaged sons and their friends doing the dance and there's not much that’s functional there at all.

Anyhoo, back to self-defining, exclusionary groups that make themselves feel grander by trying to make others feel small. Who would want to join that club? Not me. And definitely not anyone who is comfortable with who they are and what they believe in. Of course, this is not to say that rich, privileged, pedigreed people can't be warm, wonderful and wise, like my friend. There is nothing precluding them from being comfortable in their own skin. And when they are, they are as gracious and welcoming as anyone else who has found their place in the world. More so, in fact, if they are self-aware enough to understand their good fortune in being born into wealth and privilege, which creates opportunities that not everyone enjoys. Those folks find joy in sharing their good fortune and creating opportunities for others. They define class, in every sense of the word.

It's good to watch Danni grow and evolve. It reminds me that I can evolve as well, particularly in the realm of being as classy as I can, irrespective of my station or financial status. In this way, we can all go to the head of the class if we so choose.

I Think, Therefore I Am

I just finished Silence Fallen by Patricia Briggs. This was by far the best of the Mercy Thompson books, which is always a delight as a series gets older. No calling it in here.  Ms. Briggs expands the world and the cast of characters to Europe and fills in a lot of the backstory, which is always fun. And because Mercy spends the vast majority of this story either on the run or in captivity, it allows the other characters to step up and show us what they've got. And again, because Mercy spends a lot of time as a prisoner, I get some food for thought and an opportunity to think about thinking. While she's hanging out in a magically spelled cage, Mercy observes that philosophy must have been started by prisoners. She figured that with nothing else to do but think, these ancient jailbirds were able to develop a system for thinking about thinking and explore their love of wisdom—hence philosophy. It's an interesting thought. I'm not a prisoner, thankfully, but I see the point that Mercy is trying to make. With all the responsibilities and activities in our lives to distract us, it can be almost impossible to think effectively, much less willingly. We have no time or mental bandwidth to engage in productive or speculative thought. But there is a way that doesn’t involve incarceration to find the hours and headspace to engage in deep thought:  vacation! Vacation offers the time and space to unwind and unburden allowing our minds to cogitate. Which leads, of course, to our favorite philosopher's signature saying, "Cogito ergo sum."  Let's think about this for a moment, shall we?

I'm on vacation. Glorious, relaxing, life affirming vacation with the hubs and without the rug rats. Who are hardly rolling around on the floor these days, but are, instead, aging their parents prematurely as they do what all teenagers do. Even good boys like ours. So we've escaped for a few precious days to relax, rejuvenate and recharge. And in doing all of these things, I've made time to think, to philosophize and consider whether Descartes was correct.

Does my being depend on my thinking? There is certainly a school of thought (ha ha) that elevates the mind above all else and crowns thinking king, and it exists largely in the western canon of philosophy and literature. But there is a competing theory that challenges Descartes' formula. It's one promulgated by yogis and monks in orange robes the world over, as well as others, I'm sure. This philosophy stipulates that the point of life, the endgame, if you will, is to realize that we are not, in fact, our thoughts. That our thoughts, rather than being that which define our being, are that which detract from accessing our being. It seems that these are mutually exclusive ways of looking at the world, but perhaps, if we think long enough, we can reconcile these dueling definitions of essential self.

According to the more eastern approach, the purpose of life is to quiet our thoughts so as to move beyond them to our essence, which is not our thoughts, but that which makes us who we are. The goal is to watch our thoughts, as images that flit across a private screen, or to listen to the monologue of a vaguely interesting, but clearly delusional person. As we become the witness instead of the judge or defendant in this courtroom drama, we begin to see that our thoughts are ephemeral and inconsequential to life and to self. That delving deeper below our thinking mind is where we will discover Truth, of the absolute variety.

But, as Hamlet so eloquently put it, therein lies the rub (to be perfectly accurate he said, "There's the rub."). The beauty—and joy—of thinking is that it confirms our individuality, our sense of our own specialness. In turn, our own sense of specialness resides in our egos. The yogis and the monks and even our priests and rabbis tell us that we must overcome our egos in order to find paradise or enlightenment in the next life or simply to avoid suffering in this one. In this theory, it is in the territory beyond thought that we find union, the merging of our essence with that of the Universe and the divine, the understanding that we are all one in our essence and that we are not separate. You know, the good stuff that we are promised, just beyond the bend.

But a little separation is good for the soul, or at least for those parts of ourselves that must live in the world. We need the in-between space to co-create ourselves. "We" become "I" so that sometime later in the future, perhaps, we can become "we" again. It's an interesting process; first we are born and must, for reasons of healthy development, attach appropriately and properly to our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Then, in adolescence, we individuate and emerge from our chrysalis as—individuals. In our 20s, if we're both lucky and good, we succeed in figuring out who we are, or co-creating ourselves, depending on our beliefs in this area, so that by the time we get to our prime, we're operating out of a firm foundation of self confidence and a strong self identity.

Then, if we're on the Carl Jung or Jesus Christ life plan, we're supposed to spend the second half of our lives, from about 35 forward, giving ourselves away—self emptying—contributing to the greater good and to our fellows. Phew! It's exhausting, all this living. But wait!  There's more!

There is the task of self-forgetting. After we've done all this thinking and philosophizing, whether in jail or on vacation (and I know which one I'm choosing), and self creating and contributing, we're supposed to let all of that go (according to the yogis and the monks—the eastern mind, rather than its western counterpart). We're supposed to dissolve the ego and find the Truth—that all of this thinking was designed to take us to the place beyond thought, where we can take our place in the cosmos among the stardust, and, knowing our work here is done, step off the stage. A surcease of thinking and of being.

So, where does that leave us? Who the fuck knows? Lost in thought?  Lost in space?  Meditating to relieve ourselves from thinking?  I'm not sure. I will think about it.

Limiting Beliefs

I've moved on in my reading, but I can't stop thinking about Feversong by Karen Marie Moning. In the beginning of the story, Mac has been imprisoned in her own mind, cut off from control of her body, and despairing of ever finding a way out. Mac believes she is trapped, and, therefore, she is. As the story progresses, however, Mac quickly discovers that the only things actually keeping her prisoner are her own beliefs. She thus realizes a truth so exquisite, so overwhelming, I can write it, but I can't quite wrap my mind around it, much the same way that Mac struggles with the concept—and here it is: belief is reality. There. I've said it. But what does it mean? For me and for reality in general? In the book, Mac is in a box that doesn't exist but that she believes inescapable. In the fantasy story, belief is reality and it's the keystone of all existence.  Is this truth in fantasy?  I think so. In the story, Mac asks, "What's the surest way to be victimized? Believe yourself a victim. To win?  Believe yourself a champion."  All true. And so simple. But if it's so simple why are there so many victims in the world? If it's just a matter of our beliefs, of our thoughts, then why are there so few winners?  

I have a coffee mug that says, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?"  I've always been drawn to that quote, one of the square magnets and greeting cards that have spawned a cottage industry of tote bags and ashtrays and the ubiquitous coffee mugs. And I've given the concept a great deal of thought (and yes, I am inspired to deep thoughts not just by vampire porn but coffee cups and tee shirts too). The quote invokes the question that Mac asks by implication: what are the limiting beliefs that hold us back from doing what we want to do? What do we believe we will fail in the attempt and therefore neglect to try? 

For me, the superficial answers to this question involve physical gifts I know I will never possess. An early-to-develop optical astigmatism ensured poor hand-eye coordination and thus a pitiful performance on tennis and golf courses, not to mention in softball, field hockey and volleyball. I knew I would fail (after the first disastrous early attempts), so I never went out for such pursuits. I was also quite confident in my lack of musical skill, particularly of the vocal variety, although my singing voice was not to be eclipsed in its similarity to cats in heat by my dexterity on the piano or guitar. No, I had absolutely no innate talent for any of these activities and demurred from additional attempts lest I further humiliate myself. 

And while I can accept the futility of chasing dreams of winning Wimbledon, what about limiting beliefs of a more intellectual bent?  Could I will myself to become adept at physics or astronomy?  I don't believe I could. Only because I tried. And failed. So while I can believe myself to be Stephen Hawking to my heart's content, it's not going to have any significant impact on my calculations concerning the moons of Jupiter. I can believe I wouldn't fail at any number of endeavors, including maintaining a clean diet (fail!), exercising on a regular basis (major fail!) and establishing and following a productive daily routine (epic fail!!). I believe that I should be able to do these things, but as far as I can tell, my beliefs have not changed my reality. 

And what about our fearless leader, The Donald? We're being assured by his sycophantic mouthpieces that whatever the Donald believes is ground truth and that by his belief these fantasies are made manifest. And these ridiculous and dangerous delusions are endless fodder for late night comedy and social media commentary. So we know that, at least in some respects, this “belief equals reality” formula is poppycock. Or hogwash. Or horseshit. Choose your favorite animal adjective, my friends, it all means the same thing: untrue.

But on the other other hand, Mac (or her creator, Karen Moning) is only repeating an oft-quoted Buddhist idea, popularized by Mahatma Gandhi that thoughts become things. I looked it up, of course, and there are various iterations of the quote, but they are all along the same lines, as follows:

Watch your beliefs, for they become your thoughts.

Watch your thoughts for they become your words.

Watch your words, for they become your actions.

Watch your actions for they become your habits.

Watch your habits for they become your character.

Watch your character for it becomes your destiny.

And while we are spouting other people's quotes, let's add Henry Ford to the mix and bring to mind his take on these same ideas: "Whether you think you can or you think you can't— you're right."  I think herein lies the Rosetta Stone to resolve the apparent paradox of Gandhi and Ford being right while simultaneously making Donald Trump and his minions wrong (and how convenient is that for supporting my own very strident world views?).

Our beliefs affect us, but not necessarily others or the world around us. We have control over the way we view ourselves and over our actions—and, therefore, ultimately, over our own characters but no one else's. We can believe ourselves to be victim or victor, and, in truth, no one can take those beliefs away from us without our consent.  But no beliefs, no matter how strongly held, can make the sun rise in the west or set in the east. No belief can make verifiable truth a lie or fake news true. It just doesn't work that way.

Moreover, while the idea of beliefs impacting our own personal realities is simple, it is by no means easy. It's simple to believe ourselves victors and not victims, but the difficulty of this simple task explains the rarified nature of its accomplishment. I understand that much of what holds me back, whether from becoming a published paranormal fantasy author or an accomplished yogi, my two most fervent and fevered dreams, are only the limiting beliefs that keep me imprisoned in paralysis in much the same way that the Book kept Mac imprisoned in her own mind. Neither construct is real. But breaking free of our self-inflicted bonds is easier said than done. But I will keep fighting my own limiting beliefs and working to answer the question I read each day on my coffee mug. I'll ask you the same question and invite you to answer it for yourself and perhaps share it in the comments section. What would we do if we knew we could not fail?

Coincidence? I Think Not

I just whipped through Darynda Jones' newest Charley Davidson adventure, Eleventh Grave in Moonlight. It was just what the doctor ordered to soothe my battered body and spirit. I've caught every conceivable virus out there and must admit to succumbing to depression and despair that I wasn't able to rub more than two months of health together at a stretch. But with Charley and Reyes and the team there to cheer me up, life was better than it otherwise would have been. And, as often happens while I read my beloved fantasy, I was struck by a concept, this one articulated by the inimitable Charley Davidson, Grim Reaper, god and all around bad-ass as I described her here. Upon solving a case, Charley ascribed the path to the solution as being strewn with blind luck and coincidence. But then she noted that given the way her life was unfolding, she believed less and less in coincidence. I'm with her. There are no coincidences.  This is a tricky topic. It's been said that, "Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous."  I've always loved that idea; the hand of fate moving the pieces on the chessboard, or placing the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle so that everything falls into place, creating a beautiful overall picture. It's amazing when we happen to be in the right place at the right time to take advantage of an opportunity or to get something we've always wanted.

When my husband and I went to Paris a few years ago, Michael wanted to eat at a famous restaurant. But the trip had been last minute and we didn't have reservations. We decided to walk over and just try to have a drink and maybe an amuse bouche at the bar. Turns out, for one hour a week, this restaurant opened up to the public on a first come, first serve basis, and we hit that hour on the nose with the precision of blind luck and coincidence. We had the meal of a lifetime and it was the crown jewel of the trip, especially for my foodie husband. Another time we casually drove up to one of the busiest state parks in Washington, asking for a campsite. We were informed that they'd been booked for months. As we were talking to the Park Ranger thinking we were going to have to spend the night in our car, he took a call. It was a cancelation, and we got a spot. That was where my then-boyfriend, now-husband and I first agreed that we both wanted marriage and children and a lifetime together, under the magnificent vista of the Milky Way on the shores of Lake Chelan. The rest, as they say, is history. 

But there's another, more ominous side to this coin. If there are no coincidences, what do we say to someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time?  What do we say to the victim of the drunk driver who happened to be crossing that intersection at just that particular moment and not five seconds later, which would have avoided the accident? What do we say to someone diagnosed with an incurable degenerative neurological disease, struck down in the prime of life?  Hey, it's just a coincidence that you caught the bum's rush? Too bad, so sad. I don't think so. 

And if we think of coincidences as generally more lucky than not, what do we do with the fact that the harder we work, the luckier we get?  Do we work to orchestrate or invite coincidences into our lives?  If we put ourselves in the path of opportunity, will we be the grateful recipients of increasing instances of happy happenstance? Do we do-create our existences to the point that coincidences are merely the physical manifestation of the strength of our will?

For me, I think I come down somewhere in the middle. I'm a big believer that we co-create our reality with fate, or the Universe, or God, or whomever is out there that's bigger than I am— and who has more of a clue about what the hell is going on than my paltry imagination can grasp. I freely admit to those of you who view faith as the crutch of wishful thinkers that that so-called crutch is the bedrock of my existence. So if I'm a mental cripple in others' minds, that's their problem, not mine. For me, coincidences are God's way of getting our attention, gently guiding us on the path, and an effective mode of communication. 

I've noticed over and over again that life shows up exactly where it's supposed to, and that fuels my faith. Even when things seem negative or disappointing—like getting dumped or cut from a team, or losing a house we've bid—I've often observed that the loss was the necessary condition to create an even bigger win—the partner of our dreams, an incredible job opportunity, a better abode. Sometimes, the coincidence of running into an old acquaintance, or seeing a particular advertisement at just the right time or generally being somewhere or doing something we otherwise wouldn't is the exact catalyst the Universe needed to get us to the next station stop on the train of life.

Coincidences can act as cairns, signposts along the way, letting us know we are on the right path. A chance encounter might be the wake up call we needed to make a course correction. Or, an unlikely event, seen as pure accident, might be the message we needed to help us make a difficult decision or rethink a choice we've already made.

I feel bad for those who brush off the benefits of coincidence as the spastic eruptions of Universal chaos. Mindless and meaningless. I don't believe that for a hot second.  I'm with Charley Davidson, bad-ass extraordinaire, who, like me, is rich recipient of coincidence after coincidence that continue to place us in the right time and location to enjoy the gifts of a benevolent Universe. Perhaps not every occurrence is benign, but there is enough joy and good that happens to keep me hobbling along on the crutches of faith, confident that I'm being supported by someone or something that has my back, with a gentle hand guiding me along the path if I'm but willing to pay attention to blind luck and coincidence.

Something from Nothing

"Here, where there's nothing, I have something, and it's enough:  choice. I will choose anything over fear."      MacKayla Lane In Karen Marie Moning's Feversong, Mac has been imprisoned in her own mind, unable to control her body. The description reminded me of my late father, who battled ALS and ended up with an active mind trapped in a useless body. Horrifying.  A fate worse than death, I imagine. And in the midst of this hell on earth, MacKayla, unlike my father, found it in herself to choose hope, life and love over fear. My father wasn't able to make that choice, which I understood, but it devastated me. On the other hand, Mac lives in a world of magic and fantasy, while us mere mortals, including my beloved father, are stuck in reality. Given that, I wonder, as always, whether there are any truths with which fantasy can illumine reality. I suspect so.  

At first, when Mac is tricked and trapped by the evil book residing within her, she panics. Relatable. I can't even find the wherewithal to go into a float chamber, which proponents swear is supremely relaxing. The whole sensory-deprivation thing makes my skin crawl. If I could feel my skin in such a place. Mac is lost in the ultimate sensory deprivation chamber, entirely cut off from her body while being left to imagine the demonic activities being perpetrated by her body parts. It's like our high school nemesis stealing our digital identity and going on a hateful rampage for which everyone holds us responsible. That would truly suck. And if the monster using our body—or our identity—was committing atrocities of the biblical sort, including deceit, death, destruction even cannibalism, and there wasn't a blessed thing we could do about it. I would probably lose my shit and descend into the eternal darkness of insanity and absolute surrender. I can't believe I wouldn't succumb to terror and unspeakable fear. Ya know, if some pod person stole my body and ran around in it. It could happen.  If I lived in Stepford, Connecticut, for example.

But what if our situation was less extreme? Because we all know that paranormal fantasy authors take circumstances and draw them in high relief so that readers can learn from their characters' mistakes—and also their successes. In this case, Mac falls briefly into despair, but quickly shakes that shit off and takes stock. She remembers the guiding principle of the Fever world, "Hope strengthens, fear kills," and she understands that no one, and no situation, can take away our ability to choose. The easier choice is often fear. The right choice is always love.

I've read the Fever series a number of times, although I've only read the latest, Feversong, once, thus far. In this last installment, Mac is subjected to the ultimate test:  can she choose hope over fear when it absolutely appears that all hope is lost? The answer, as expected, is yes, but its predictability in no way diminishes its power. 

There, in the confines of her mind, with access to nothing but her thoughts, Mac decides to choose anything over fear.  At first, the choice is beyond difficult. She goes where most of us have been, at one point or another: fear threatens to obliterate her and she craves obliteration if for no other reason than to stop the horror. But she decides that she "will not cede the crumbs of [her] existence to mindless panic."  Admirable.

I suspect that Karen Marie Moning is a devotee of Marianne Williamson, the spiritual teacher who popularized A Course in Miracles, the central tenet of which is that absolutely everything in life comes down to a choice between fear and love. Sound familiar? I've read Marianne Williamson's classic, A Return to Love, and I've also tried to navigate the murkier waters of ACIM. But I didn't really understand most of it until I read the Fever series. I believe we learn best through story and examples. And the Fever books are among my most cherished and effective teachers.

Often, in my most desperate moments, I fall into the perception that I have no choices. I'm sure you know what I mean:  we share our problems with a friend or counselor and they make a suggestion, or even several suggestions. And we shoot down each and every option as unrealistic or stupid or otherwise wholly undesirable. Soon, our friend slinks away, or the counselor fires us, understanding, perhaps more than we do, that nothing is going to penetrate the cocoon of negativity in which we've enveloped ourselves. We are determined to have no choices. By which determination, of course, we've made our choice. We've chosen fear, in whichever guise it's hiding—as hatred, or ignorance, or close mindedness, or extreme negativity. But any way we slice it, we've chosen the opposite of hope, life and love. Marianne would be appalled. As would Mac and KMM.

And what of ourselves?   Are we, too, disappointed and disgusted with our pansy-ass decisions? Probably, but we're so preoccupied with fear, we don't have time to hate ourselves. Or maybe we do, and that just adds to the viscous cycle of fear and loathing, in Las Vegas or anywhere else for that matter.

When I’m down I often ask myself, what would Mac do? Or Barrons? Or Dani/Jada? I figure I could do worse than make something out of nothing, even if it's the choice to meet whatever fate has in store with awareness, presence and a sense of hope above all. If I can do that, if I do that, then I've mastered the course, and validated the inordinate amount of time I spend with my nose between the pages of my favorite books.

Born Again

I'm not much for religious zealotry, nor for indiscriminately sharing my spiritual status with the world at large. That's one reason I'm not a big fan of those who describe themselves as "born again Christians."  On the other hand, I'm all for being born again. Having been born into a dysfunctional family of origin, I couldn't wait to be born again into a family I chose—my friends, my husband and my children (I didn't get to choose my children, but I'd like to think I have had something to do with them being more functional than non). Moreover, I'm also a big believer in reinventing myself professionally and personally, so the phenomenon of being born again is highly relevant to my life.  Why am I contemplating the joys and pitfalls of rebirth?  It's because I've been heavily immersed in the Fever world of Karen Marie Moning. I've stayed up late and ignored my family and friends to read this 600-page peon to the benefits of reinvention and rebirth. There is not a single character in this series that does not evolve to such an extent that they are different in kind, not just degree.  It makes me wonder about the life of an author who can write about these metamorphoses with such intimate knowledge that she must be a reincarnation of Kafka himself.

In the "final" book of the series, Feversong, KMM ties up a lot of loose ends and gives us a somewhat satisfactory finale to a journey that has lasted more than eleven years. I had issues with some of the bows she tied, but that is inevitable with such a sweeping saga. But it was surely epic, as all of her characters try to be. And, in keeping with great literary fiction (and boy am I tired of the supercilious circle-jerk mentality of those who define "literary fiction"), each and every one of KMM's characters evolves in interesting and unexpected ways. So much so, in fact, that none of them is who they were at the beginning of the series. Which leads me, albeit in a serpentine manner, back to the theme of being reborn.

According to one of the major characters in the series, Ryodan, adaptability is survivability. And I think this is true. The ability to adapt to changing circumstances and to thrive regardless of external contingencies is the hallmark of longevity and success in this life. Those of us who can bend around the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix tend to be the ones still standing after the storm. The ability to face reality and to avoid distraction, dissembling and disenchantment are the ones who take center stage and tend to rule the world. They are the men and women others want to become or control.

The ability to reinvent oneself as the world turns and our existence evolves is the trump card of life, if you'll allow me a reference to a man who is a Trump but hardly anything like his namesake. If we stay in the same situation, if we fail to grow and evolve, we might as well let someone bury us, because we'll have died without the benefit of anyone telling us to lie down and be done with it already. As Karen Marie Moning says elsewhere in Feversong and along the same lines, status is stagnancy, change is velocity and Fate is a sniper that prefers a motionless target to a dancing one. Personally, I don't ever want to be that unmoving target.

What does it mean to reinvent oneself? I think it's something like the death and rebirth that Barrons and Ryordan go through. A painful, messy process that takes time and effort. It's not much fun. But it beats the alternatives.  And unlike Ryordan and Barrons, us mere mortals have no real idea whether we're going to come out the other side whole, with our higher selves intact and operational. It's a crapshoot, at best, a Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid run at worst. And each time we do it, each time we reinvent ourselves and come through the metaphorical birth canal, we leave pieces of our old selves behind, which requires some sort of grieving process that must occur simultaneously with the birthing  process. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Although hopefully, most of us won't need to suffer the fate of Job.

There is no rebirth without death. Just ask Jesus. And the death part is pretty gnarly. The birth part isn't so comfortable either. And yet it's the only way. We must embrace the discomfort, the uncertainty, the doubt and the fear. Otherwise, we stagnate. And stagnation is death—shot through the heart with only ourselves to blame. Sucks to be us sometimes.

I'm inspired, always, by Karen Marie Moning's characters who can seem more real to me than my own flesh and blood. Each of them in their own way takes life by the horns and rides that mechanical bull for all they are worth. They embody the aphorism that it's not how many times we fall down that defines us, but how many times we get back up. 

The endless possibilities that we face when it's time to shed one skin for a new one can be daunting. It's a Faustian choice in some ways between the devil we know and the angel who could be lying through its teeth. Do we take door number one or three? Should we embrace the unknown with a belly laugh like Dani, or grit our teeth and so what we must to avoid stagnation, like Barrons? Or, do we succumb to the siren song of comfort and avoidance of conflict and live small, safe lives?

For me, even if it means certain misery and only possible joy, I will opt for rebirth every time. I'm a fucking born again human. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, may creep in its petty pace, but I choose to eschew the slo-mo Joes  and jump instead into the slipstream of life. It's the only place to live life to the fullest and to embrace the grand adventure.

It's Where My Demons Hide

All of us have demons. No matter what we call ‘em, none of us is immune to the Seven Deadly Sins. Most of us strive to do and be our best. We valiantly struggle against our inner demons. Though sometimes, as I’ve written about previously, we snuggle with the devils we know. This theme of our inner beasts and the internal conflicts they trigger is explored in depth by many paranormal fantasy books. After all, what better way to examine our animalistic natures than to write and read about weres or warriors possessed by sins, or superhuman men who can transform into feral beasts?  Controlling or overcoming the beast within is a significant trope of the genre.

Karen Marie Moning is among the masters of her craft, and the theme of learning to live with our inner demons is central to all the books in the Fever world. Each of their main characters wrestles with various versions of inner conflict made manifest:  Mac has the evil Book that is part of her "essential self;" the Nine, including Barrons and Ryordan, are magical beasts in their altered forms; and Dani has her colder, more sociopathic alter, Jada, with whom to contend. Each of these characters has pieces of themselves that kill without qualms and survive at all costs – damn the collateral damage. And the manner in which each of them confronts and assimilates their own inner demons is that which makes each character so real and so memorable.

Mac starts off as Barbie, a southern belle without an inkling about the psychotic book that lies dormant in her depths. She flits through life, thin, dumb and happy, thinking her greatest flaws are superficiality and a touch of selfishness. When her demon is revealed in all its glory, Barbie – now Mac --- is thrown. But she bounces back demonstrating a level of resilience that her past did not suggest, but which stands her in good stead as she learns to confront her inner psycho. In Feverborn, the penultimate book of the series, Mac spends her time beginning to explore her inner landscape trying to determine exactly what is actually there. She starts to overcome her paralytic fear of what's going on inside her own head and determine what it means to access all the parts of herself. She wants her demon to play nicely with the rest of her.

But maybe demons don’t play nicely. Maybe it is the nature of demons to be feral and unpleasant and—well, demonic. Regardless of their likability, we must learn to love our demons. And not in the way of cozying up to them and enjoying the destruction and chaos they leave in their wake, but in the sense that we must acknowledge and embrace the totality of ourselves if we are to succeed. Integration is the goal. Just as Jung.

The ultimate example of an integrated entity is Jericho Barrons. Barrons loves his beast. In fact, he loves it so much it's hard for him to transform back to being a man after he shifts into his animal form. And no one is more successful than Barrons. Therefore, Ms. Moning seems to be arguing that by embracing the entirety of his being, Barrons is fully at peace and not fighting himself. He neither struggles nor snuggles. He simply accepts all aspects of himself and is unimaginably powerful as a result. He knows who he is and what he wants. His clarity of vision is what gives him the what it takes to achieve his goals. All of them. He is power distilled to its essence, and this power is a direct result of his ultimate integration—despite his two distinct forms.

The Dani/Jada character hasn't quite accomplished authentic integration. She is still fighting the parts of herself she perceives to be weak or undesirable for one reason or another. And while she may or may not be a true split personality, her rejection of parts of her essential self are the underlying cause of any actual weaknesses she may posess. I've been down this path as well, seeking to eradicate the parts of myself that weren't working for me. The eradication project didn't work for me either.

The message of Feverborn is clear: acceptance and integration of our demons is the path to power. It is the path to self-control, of the healthy, effective variety, rather than the locked down, stressed out kind that we see so much of in our world. Maybe it's not a matter of fighting our demons, but rather making room for them within us. 

There is a story I hear often in my various yoga classes. A grandfather tells his grandson about epic battle being fought within each of us between a ‘good wolf’ and an ‘evil one’ who compete with each other for mastery of our spirits. When the grandson asks, "Which wolf wins?" the grandfather replies, "The one we feed."  I embraced this tale until I started to think about the wisdom found in Feverborn. I no longer I like the idea of an ongoing war inside me for mastery of my soul.  It is distracting and enervating to continually referee the constant internal fight.

Instead of making one wolf gorge and the other starve, perhaps I could suggest a more equitable arrangement?  Thanks to Ms. Moning I’m now thinking that we should allow our inner wolves to share our food and spirits, as they are both a part of what makes us who we are. Maybe they don't have to fight. For now, I'm going to try to feed everyone in my crowded head and make sure no more demons are hiding under the stairs or anywhere else inside me. Acceptance and integrations will be my watchwords as I stop to consider, “What Would Barrons Do?”  

Survive and Thrive

I'm taking my annual pilgrimage to the shrine of Karen Marie Moning's Fever world. This may be the last such pilgrimage, as Feversong promises to be the final book in a brilliant series filled with so much wisdom and so many life lessons that I'm not sure how I will live without it. I will hold out hope that Ms. Moning has left a loophole through which she will create new stories in the Fever world, perhaps with new characters. I'm not sure because although the book came out two weeks ago, I'm doing my usual anticipation and savor dance with the latest offering, reading its predecessors and reminding myself of the events and developments that led up to the first page of the new book. This time, I started only two books back with Burned, followed by Feverborn, before I plan to dive into Feversong, which I would prefer to read on vacation, when I can devote hours and hours to swimming in the deep pool of KMM's extraordinary imagination. Today I'm contemplating a major theme in the Fever books—survival. At any cost. Which leads me to wonder whether I agree with Ms. Moning on this point:  is survival at any cost worth it? It's always seemed to me that unless we are thriving, life hardly seems worth living. And when I'm not thriving, it always seems tempting to give up.

According to Jericho Barrons (in Burned), there are two types of people, those who survive no matter the cost, and those who are walking victims. I'm on the fence about Barrons’ theory. I don't fancy myself a walking victim, but neither do I think that survival is worth any cost. In the story, for example, Mac kills an innocent human bystander while defeating one of her Fae enemies. She is distraught over her crime against humanity, while Barrons feels no remorse on her behalf. Mac lived through the incident. She survived. So, by definition, whatever she did was worth the cost in his mind. Mac is more ambivalent and I share her equivocation.

It's hard to put myself in the same situation, of course, but it's certainly a Faustian bargain. My life for someone else's—someone who wasn't necessarily hurting me, but who accidentally got in the way of someone who was. I know what the ethicists would say: it's never okay to trade one life for another. Catholic theology teaches that it is immoral to trade one life even for thousands or millions. Not sure I agree with that.  I'd like to think that I would give up my life to save a city, or a world, as Mac decides she will before the decision is beyond her grasp.

What if the cost of survival means becoming fragmented? Either literally, as Dani does in the story, losing herself to her “alter,” or figuratively, as we sometimes do when we live through something bad and come out in pieces. According to Dani, the key to life is to stop living in the past; "Dude, you survived it. Move on."  Not sure I agree with that viewpoint either.  I think it's how we move on that determines the success of our future endeavors. 

So, where does that leave me?  I think I'm in the camp that believes that survival isn't everything and that there are some things worse than death. But let's think this through. We have the adage that where there is life, there is hope. Plus the idea that self-destruction is wrong according to most religious beliefs as it assumes a power best left to one that sees a bigger picture than we do. If we subscribe to those truths, then there is no cost too high for survival. But does that account for having to do "evil" things to ensure that we wake up breathing tomorrow? I guess the answer is situational. If it's a question of my life or one who threatens me or mine, I'll take my life over theirs.

But what about when we're not clawing and scraping our way to a pacemaker-perfect heartbeat? What about when survival is more about finding the wherewithal to get up day after day when we are in pain—physical or emotional? In the Fever world, there are at least two characters that are helped out of their misery. Their lives of torture were deemed hopeless enough that Barrons was willing to commit the ultimate sin and help them to die. Apparently, even for Barrons, there is a price for survival that is too high.

I'm not sure this rambling walk through the Fever world has illuminated my final thoughts on this issue. I hope that the book I look forward to starting soon will provide some closure. On many levels.

Anchors Aweigh

I just finished a fun-filled romp through the somewhat disturbed imagination of John Hartness. I like John Hartness. I've never met the man, but he is an enthusiastic contributor to Facebook and a prolific writer, so I feel like I know him somewhat. He got fed up with the world of independent publishers and decided to do something beyond bitching; he started his own publishing house. You've got to love that. And he's got a good eye as a publisher: I very much enjoyed Of Lips and Tongue, which I wrote about here, and Changeling's Fall, which inspired another blog. And he writes cool as shit protagonists, including Jimmy Black and Bubba the Monster Hunter. My favorite of Hartness' heroes is Quincy Harker, son of Mina and Jonathan Harker of Dracula fame, and his latest adventure is entitled Heaven Can Wait. Quincy is an enhanced human with tendencies toward supernatural manifestations (he's a sorcerer/mage/wizard type)—meaning he's fast, strong and can conjure great energy balls of fire on par with Harry Dresden. Quincy hunts and fights demons and if it's Tuesday, he must be saving the world from becoming the dominion of the devil. Were that my ‘To Do’ list was as exciting. In this story, Q is trying to prevent the dissolution of the barriers that separate Heaven and Hell, and avoid the destruction of the earth as collateral damage. He's all over that action. In his efforts to save the day, Quincy attempts a little astral projection, leaving his body in the care of his fiancée and using her as an anchor, and their telepathic link as a tether back to his physical existence. He asks her to "tug" on their mental link occasionally, just to make sure they're still connected and that he can find his way home. It's an interesting metaphor: using the ones we love as anchors to our existence in reality and our feelings for them as the connection that binds us to ourselves. 

As I was reading the passage that described this communication and binding system, I was reminded of the many hours I spent in various playgrounds during my children's early childhood. I have twin sons and they were active boys. We needed to do something with their unbridled energy, and playgrounds were the perfect arena for them to expend their exuberance and exhaust themselves. So, every day I would very consciously "run them" and encourage my little men to tire themselves out. And every day they would burst upon the scene in the playground like they owned the place and run around Ike maniacs on crack. And I would watch them like the paranoid New Yorker that I am, never taking my eyes off them lest some perverted kidnapping serial killer snatch them. And yes, my behavior was extreme and likely disturbed. But it was the boys' behavior that was more telling.  While they devoted themselves with complete abandon, their eyes would lift from time to time, meeting mine, making sure I was still there, "tugging" on our link so they would know that they could always find their way home. Periodically, they would rush headlong over to me for a quick hug or kiss or just a touch of my leg or my hand—enough to prove that their eyes were not deceiving them, and I was there in the flesh, which meant that they could race off again to play with absolute security, knowing their anchor hadn't slipped, and that they wouldn't be abandoned or lost.

And it's not just children who act this way. Like Quincy and his love, Rebecca, committed couples do this all the time. I often go about my business over the course of the day, content in my activities, when I pause and shoot off a quick text to my husband, tugging on our tether, waiting for his emoji response or a few short words that let me know he is there and that we are still connected. He does the same, especially when he's away from his home office and we're more physically distant from each other than usual. I've had people comment that we communicate more than seems "normal" (and what the hell does that mean anyway?), or at least more often than couples who are well beyond the honeymoon phase, but I'm delighted that our bond is so strong and so connected. We don't need to exchange tomes of information. Just a small tug. 

I do this with my close friends as well. Back in the Dark Ages before cell phones and texting, my friends used to give me a hard time because I was known for calling and saying something to the effect that I was calling to tell them that I didn't have time to talk, but I wanted to let them know I was thinking of them. These days I just send a text. It's my way of pulling on the tethers that bound me to the reality of my life. 

So, while I cannot project my astral body to other planes of existence by tethering my essence through a extrasensory mental connection, I can and do emulate the great Quincy Harker in a more mundane way. Once again, we find truth in fantasy within the pages of my beloved books, where mythical creatures lead paranormal existences in alternate universes that look a lot like our realm, only more magical. 

I Get By with a Little Help from My Friends

All of you know that I cannot image life without my friends. Knowing my peeps are out there in the world helps me to face each day with courage and confidence; I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am not alone and need never face adversity or joy without someone with whom to share it. The reality of that certainty is literally life changing and I count my blessings each and every morning and evening and never take my good fortune for granted. I've joked that my best friends (and I include my beloved husband on this list) would fly halfway around the world to give me a tissue if I sneezed. Why am I regaling you with stories of my fabulous friends?  Because I just finished reading Rose Montague's last installment of the J'Amigos Trilogy, Jill. At the center of this series is the friendship between the three J'Amigos—Jade, Jane and Jill. One is a vampire, one is a faerie queen and the last is a little bit of everything. They come together against difficulty and danger and become fast friends along the way. What is remarkable about this trio is the level of commitment and support they offer each other. Taken over the course of the three books, their friendship evolves as an inspiration and a blueprint for foundational relationships that all of us should be lucky enough to follow.

The question of how to be a friend stymies many folks. We can take a page from the three J'Amigos and highlight that being a true friend means showing up when we're needed. Even when it's inconvenient. Or even potentially dangerous.  Friends don't let friends go through Hell by themselves. Or even to the Underneath, where Jill has been banished, and from which there is no escape. With friends, all things are possible -- even Houdini-esque exits from places where Camus would be comfortable.

Many of us feel this way about our families—we shut up and show up because they are blood and we're obligated. But it feels different when it's a friend in need. Friends are the family we choose. We choose to be tethered to our friends and to show up for them even when it’s inconvenient. We get bigger kudos for showing up for our friends than we do for our family in some ways, when in reality it should be the opposite, if merit were measured in terms of the perceived weight of the burden. Helping my friends feels like a privilege. Helping my family can sometimes feel heavier.

I was with my mother extensively during her last six months. She made multiple trips to the hospital for falls, heart trouble, pneumonia, etc. She was a mess that I was stuck cleaning up. I didn't even like my mother, but I felt it was my responsibility as her daughter to be there for her. After all, if honoring our mothers and fathers were easy, they wouldn't have made it a commandment. So, I carried out all of my filial duties. And it was no fun at all—not that death and dying are ever much fun, of course.

Contrast this with showing up for my friend when she was going through cancer treatments. Also no fun. Except it was. We made it fun. And a truly horrible situation was a bit less horrible because we were together. She knew she could count on me. And I was grateful for the opportunity to be there for her. Or another time when a different friend was going through a messy divorce and my ability to fly across the continent to see her and let her know she wasn't alone was life-affirming at a very dark time. Again, my primary feeling was overwhelming gratitude that I could be there.  There is nobility in showing up for an amigo that is rarely there in fulfilling familial obligations.

And when my friends have shown up for me? Priceless. My friends made the difference between total despair coupled with overwhelming grief and a feeling that life was still worth living.  Albert Schweitzer said that sometimes our own flames go out and are rekindled by another so that we may burn brightly again. He advises us to be grateful to those who light our fires. It's good advice.

For me, and apparently for Jade, Jane and Jill as well, having good friends means being a good friend. These are, or should be, very mutual relationships, filled with give and take, push and pull and mutual support.  This does not mean keeping score or bailing when things get a bit one-sided. Over the course of a lifetime friendship, the see-saw is going to tilt one way or the other, sometimes for a period of time. Life happens.  And sometimes things get strained. But like the J’Amigos we go one holding each other up regardless because that’s what friends do. Or should. So thank you to Rose Montague for illustrating the art of friendship and showing us all how to be a friend and have a friend.

Transformative Healing

I recently finished the second novel in Faith Hunter's new Soulwood series, Curse on the Land. I loved it. Nell Ingram is a complex character full of strength and vulnerability and I'm thrilled to be riding along with her as she heals from multiple wounds, both physical and emotional. And, as she evolves, Nell comes to learn that healing changes a person, which seems intuitive. Less intuitive, and more interesting, however, is the second part of her observation, that the agent of healing is also transformed through helping another to come back from trauma.  Given that this is paranormal fantasy, Nell is healed by a tree, not a person. And the changes wrought on her body include roots growing in her stomach, and the tree becoming attached to her in a magical way. So perhaps we in the real world don't have much in common with Nell in a literal way, but as in so many of my beloved books, the metaphorical truths are strong and deep. In the real world, we are scarred by life and wounded by the people we encounter—sometimes less, sometimes more. And these scars are the physical and emotional reminders of the lives we’ve led. But instead of focusing on those and that which wounds us, I want to consider those who help us. What happens to the healers? What is the relationship between two people, one of whom is the recipient seeking wholeness and the healer trying to provide it, or at least encourage it?

I've been on both sides of this particular exchange and I vastly prefer to heal than to be healed. Go figure. And as someone who goes out of my way to help others for the purely selfish reason that it makes me feel incredibly good—and contributory and generous and worthwhile—I know that helping others to heal has profoundly transformed my psyche and my soul. 

Now, I'm not claiming to be Dr. Kildare (although I definitely had a major thing for Richard Chamberlain way back in the day). Nor am I a medical professional or lawyer or research scientist. I'm just a human living among others, many, if not most of whom are in pain. Including me. And there is a lot we can do to heal each other—which is certainly apropos, given the current situation in our world.

I understand that doctors are taught to maintain emotional distance from their patients. And I get why that is necessary. But I don't totally buy it (repeat disclaimer here:  I'm not a doctor). I don't see how any human in the healing arts can become so inured to both human suffering and recovery as to be unmoved—one way or the other—from those they heal, or try to heal. I also understand how being a doctor is currently more about paperwork and CYA than making like Hippocrates. But still. It's gotta get to them.

And what about the rest of us?  There is no feeling like a heartfelt "Thank you!" coming from someone whose day got better because we effected positive change. Maybe we held an elevator for someone rushing to make it, or we were serenely patient while the new check out woman at Whole Foods struggled to find the right number to input for our Honey Crisp apples.  Or maybe we helped a friend's son write a better resume, or brought a colleague coffee just because. Or we consciously found something to nice to say to everyone we encountered in our day.  It may not be brain surgery, but it’s good.

What we don't know, perhaps, is how profoundly healing these small acts of kindness can be. For me, receiving positive comments when I was younger was my first inkling that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't the total loser my mother taught me I was. It's possible that someone else who has become so distrustful of humanity because of damaging early experiences can be healed even a millimeter by the small positivity that we can offer up to them.

Because it turns out that it truly is better to give than to receive, to heal than to be healed. It's almost addictive. And if we do enough healing of others, we end up healing ourselves. We become transformed by giving. We create a connection with those we've healed and those who heal us. Just like Nell and her tree.

I challenge you to close your eyes and think of three people whose help healed you in some way. If you're lucky, it was a parent, or a sibling or a mate. Perhaps it is your own children, although it is more about the fact of their existence and our own actions with them that is the most transformative about the kids in our lives. Don't we always feel a true bond with those that helped to heal us? Don't we feel bonded to those whose lives we've touched in a positive way? I do. I think you do too. 

In, Curse on the Land, we learn the extent of the mutual transformation that occurred as a result of Nell’s healing in the first book. It's a metaphor for reality, another in a long list of truths in fantasy that it has been my pleasure and my privilege to identify and promote. In fact, the reading and the writing heals something in my own soul. It is my hope that my insights might, in turn, transform the stories that I write about for others who read them. Then the circle will be closed and the mutual transformation complete. 

Love and Other Imperfections

"Isn't it wonderful not to have to be perfect to be loved?" These words are uttered by one of the characters in the latest addition to the Black Dagger Brotherhood series by JR Ward (technically, the series).  It's no surprise to me that JR Ward always has profound things to say, and, if you read my blog but not her books, you might want to consider the wisdom of Jessica Bird (JR's real name) when expanding your TBR pile. I read that line and was stopped in my tracks. In the story, Mary drops this pearl after her mate, Rhage, has lost control of himself and behaved rather poorly. Instead of berating Rhage, or looking at him askance, Mary lets him know that it's OK to be imperfect, and that she expects no more from him and loves him anyway.  With one small question, Mary makes it OK for Rhage to be human (even though he's a vampire who turns into a dragon, but that's not my point). Wouldn't it be transformative if we all felt that way about those we loved and if those we loved felt that way about us? Of course it would be. And if we're very, very lucky, we get some of that. That unconditional love. That love that doesn't give up, and doesn't crap out, and doesn't abandon us when we fall short of the mark of perfection. But even if we are lucky enough to experience that kind of love, most of us don't believe we're worthy of it. And here's a news flash:  if we don't think we deserve it, we are highly unlikely to be able to give it. Love, like charity, starts at home.

I'm talking about the love we give and the love we get. I don't want to speak for anyone else, so I'll confine my observations to myself. As you know, my childhood was less than ideal. I became convinced pretty early in life that my parents' love was predicated on my being a good girl. My father was unequipped to deal with a demanding child and my mother was unwilling. So love quickly became equated with compliant behavior. Right up until the moment when I figured out that no matter what I did, it wouldn't satisfy my narcissistic mother, and, therefore, there was no room at that particular inn for me. At which point I was behaved nicely around my father, and completely contrary towards my mother. I would say I regretted my truly awful behavior with mommy dearest, except I don't.

But what I do regret is what I learned about love at my damaged mother's knee. I learned that I wasn't worthy of love, that I was so imperfect, so clearly broken, that no one would ever love me. It took a tragically long time to learn new truths. Occasionally, when my defenses are weak and my guard is down, I go right back to being that broken little girl whose mother didn't believe in loving me in all my perfect imperfections. Which is just sad.

What is also sad is that I had a model for imperfectly perfect love, but I wasn't self aware enough to recognize it at the time. Even though I didn't consciously understand it while I was growing up, the effects of unconditional love were working their magic on me. While my mother was busy doing her best to ruin me for life, I was busy being saved. My salvation were my friends—those very same amazing, remarkable, phenomenal women who I've known since I was a small child—who remain the bedrock of my existence. They loved me. Through it all, and I do mean all, through this day and, I know absolutely, till we're dead and probably beyond. Because of them I survived my childhood and adolescence and grew up enough to be able to thrive as an adult.

It really wasn't until I met my husband that I understood that love is always imperfect, and I was able to fully appreciate—in retrospect and from then on— the rare gift of my early friendships. What my husband taught me, consciously and explicitly, is that we love imperfectly, and we are loved imperfectly. Both the subject and the object of love are, by definition, imperfect. And that is perfectly all right and totally perfect.

It is ridiculous to believe that we are only lovable if we are perfect. But so many of us do:  we do our best to make ourselves attractive to potential mates, taking our cues from the media about how we should look and how we should act. We put our best face forward and hide our less attractive aspects, both physical and emotional. We pretend to like things we don't—to this day, my husband feels cheated because he claims I purported to enjoy cooking while we were dating and abandoned the kitchen after we were married (this is not totally accurate, but he has a point). And we tolerate things in others in the beginning of relationships that earn our censure once the honeymoon is over (like ignoring perpetually open cupboards and raised toilet seats until after the wedding when such behaviors inspire epic rages—or maybe that's just me).

And this applies to friends as well as romantic partners. We meet a new person with whom we have some chemistry and common interests and viewpoints. We start to hang out and we become friends. And, as time goes on, we realize that they might not be all they seemed, and maybe they're a little strange, or maybe they have some habits we find off-putting. At which point the question becomes, can we accept others even as we ask them to accept us? I hope the answer is yes, but I'm not sure that's always the case.

Unconditional love is hard. And it's also a bit confusing. Unconditional love dictates that we will love someone no matter what. It doesn't mean accepting unacceptable behavior, or condoning immoral or illegal actions, however. If my husband cheated on me  (I don't believe he ever would, thankfully—but for the sake of argument...), I would still love him. But I am not sure I could still be his wife. If one of my children committed a serious crime, I would definitely still love him, but I would also turn him over to the authorities, in all likelihood. Same for one of my friends. Real love isn't a switch that gets turned on and off. And it's much more than a feeling (Boston was right). Loving imperfect beings requires a decision and a commitment.  Even when we're not feeling it. 

So once again, JR Ward writes truth in fantasy. And sometimes it takes turning into a ten-foot tall Godzilla-like creature and being forgiven any transgressions while we weren't ourselves to feel like we are loved no matter what. Luckily, most of us are only human, and not shape-shifting vampires, and those who love us only have to put up with our human imperfections. 

The Motion of the Ocean

I'm still thinking about Magically Delicious by Robyn Peterman (although I've moved on to Blood Vow by JR Ward, so stay tuned for posts from that deep well). As we talked about in my last post, our protagonist, Zelda, has been charged with restoring the magical balance of her town in West Virginia, which has been disrupted by a pervasive sense of evil that no one can pin down. It turns out that the source of the evil is a magical substance that nullifies paranormal powers. When Zelda discovers the creator of this substance she is understandably miffed, and convinced that the creator, Marge, is as evil as her creation. But Marge takes issue with this condemnation, explaining that no substance or tool is inherently bad, because it's all about the application. As an example, she cites the development of nuclear energy. Now, I'm going to have to digress here a bit, because the snarky fact checker who lives in my brain is compelled to point out that her analogy is incorrect. I think what Ms. Peterman is saying is that nuclear energy was developed for peaceful applications and to provide clean and inexpensive power to a world in need. And that this benevolent concept was corrupted by evil people who made war, not love. As this concept is the central tenet of the book, I've got to take issue with that tenet … and thus I will continue this digression…..

Nuclear weapons were actually developed before nuclear energy. The US initiated the Manhattan Project in response to Nazi Germany's heavy water experiments. At the behest of Albert Einstein (yep, old Albert convinced FDR to build the bomb). Anyhoo, nuclear energy was developed as a peaceful application of weapons of mass destruction, not the other way around. Look it up.

And so ends my digression. Now, back to our regularly scheduled post….. Assuming Ms. Peterman was historically accurate in her analogy (and really, how many paranormal romance readers care one way or the other?), her argument is tantamount to the axiom, "Guns don't kill people, people kill people."  Which is true as far as it goes, of course, but is seriously flawed in all sorts of ways.

In my view, human nature dictates that if something can be used for ill it will be –and only that it might be used for good. The concept of nuclear power gave us Hiroshima and also lots of clean energy (as long as no tsunamis hit the reactor, and then all aspirations to cleanliness and safety go out the window).  Guns can provide food and protection, in the right circumstances and situations. But all too often, guns are the mechanism for death and destruction. So where is the balance?

As you may have guessed from any number of my posts, my political and social leanings take a sharp left after arriving at center. I'm a proponent of gun control and truly do not understand how even common sense restrictions cannot be passed by various state or national legislative bodies. Yes, I understand that guns don't point and shoot by themselves, but more guns equal more opportunity for accidents and impulsive expressions of lethal violence.

So, while I don't like Ms. Peterson's analogy, I don't disagree that she may be onto something. We all know the saying, "It's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean that counts."  And, once again, that is true as far as it goes, but it probably doesn't go far enough. The question of how we use something is complicated. Even more difficult to grapple with is the Aladdin problem: once the genie is out of the bottle, it's almost impossible to put back in. Given that, doesn’t it make sense to avoid rubbing the stupid bottle in the first place?  Is it best to leave that bad boy trapped and cramped for the greater good?  I don't know. Is it even possible that we humans, knowing something is possible, would eschew the potential? Not hardly. We are a curious species, even cognizant of the attendant danger to our feline friends. 

We are also a species that is compelled to ‘keep up with the Kardashians’. If someone else has something, we want it too, which is why there are so many damned nuclear weapons in the world. Not to mention guns. And, again, volume breeds vulnerability. In these kinds of cases, more is definitely not merrier. More weapons mean more death. More lethal weapons mean a lot more death. It’s a pretty straightforward equation.

But I'm also an intellectual and I believe in the free flow of ideas. So quelling knowledge or exploration or problem solving or any other kind of creativity is totally anathema to me. Thus, I guess after all this, and despite any historical inaccuracies she may have promulgated, I am coming down on the side of Marge. That genie has got to be free – just like the rest of us. To make our choices (there they are again) for good or evil, and to live with the consequences. And if that is what we have to do, we also have to believe, as Marge did when she hid herself away to await more like-minded company, that Martin Luther King, Jr. was right, and that, "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice."  Bend, baby, bend. 

In the Balance

I love Robyn Peterman’s books and just whipped through her latest, Magically Delicious. The protagonist, Zelda, is like most of Robyn Peterman's leading ladies—paranormal with a side of Prada. In this case, Zelda is a powerful witch who has a gift for healing shifters. And she's married to the king of the shifters, so she's got that going for her. In addition to her other duties, Zelda is the heir apparent to the head witch, the Baba Yaga, a role she doesn't relish. Zelda is also tasked with maintaining the magical balance in her small West Virginia town. This responsibility proves to be the most difficult of all to discharge. Balance is a bitch. Kind of like Anna Wintour in Chanel, or Prada, for that matter. I know it's true because Dr. Seuss tells me so. In Oh, The Places You'll Go! He exhorts us, "So be sure where you step, step with care and great tact.  And remember that life's a great balancing act."  And while Theodor Geisel may believe that our chances of success are pretty high (98 3/4% guaranteed), I'm not so sure. There are so many things to balance. There is work/life balance, family/friends balance, balance between and among our children, between effort and ease (which I've written about before), and even in how much time and space we offer to all the various things about which we think.  So many balls to keep in the air.

Forests have been decimated in the name of figuring out how to achieve the right work/life balance. I have a personal theory about that (I know, you're shocked, shocked that I have a theory about it). The problem appears much worse on the east coast than anywhere else in the US. In places like New York and Washington, DC, it's a badge of honor to work 80 or more hours a week. People define themselves by how much they work—not necessarily how much they accomplish. My first job out of graduate school was for a government contractor where the contract I worked on required four hours of "uncompensated overtime" per week. And each week my boss would publish the memo of shame, listing each employee and how many hours of uncompensated overtime they had worked. Slackers were ostracized and workaholics were superstars. As Robyn Peterman would say, “it was all kinds of wrong.”

The pressure to be the first one into the office and the last to leave was intense. And fucked up. Luckily, I opted out of that plan early in my career. I rarely worked more than 40 hours in a week, and even that was a challenge. In fact, my bosses used to laugh that it was hard for me to rub 40 hours together in a week. But that was all right. I got my work done and then some. I just didn't need to give up every other aspect of my life to do it. 

It's hard to find a work/life balance under such circumstances. My husband decided that such a balance was so important to him (and our family) that he designed his second career around working from home and being around to raise our kids in a more meaningful way than many fathers do. He was there when they got home from school, picked them up from the bus stop, helped them with their homework. More recently, he's been able to attend all of their football, basketball and lacrosse games. It's been wonderful for our boys and a joy for him. But achieving such balance is difficult and pretty rare from my perspective.

And what about those friends who get a boyfriend or a husband and we never see them again? Luckily, I don't have friends like that, but I know others who do, and it always makes me sad. But that's another difficult balance to achieve: sisters versus misters. Personally, I learned that lesson when I was 15, and some asshat named Thor tried to play me off against one of my best friends. We both found out about what he was trying to do and we both told him to fuck off. It's never been an issue again, thankfully. I've been able to maintain my female friendships through marriage and kids and careers and life. In fact, without them, I'm not sure how I would have gotten through any of it. 

But that leads to the question of how to balance all of those aspects at the same time. Not to mention maintaining our health. I ended up sacrificing my health on the altar of balance years ago when my kids were younger and I was working full time and spending almost three hours a day commuting between my two worlds. Crazy days. And they cost me. It's taken years to regain my health after that experience and it was a hard lesson to learn about balance and how to achieve it. And, as I contemplate going back to work in Washington, DC, I'm quite nervous about how I will apply all of these hard-learned lessons to a new situation. Will I do a better job with balance this time around?  I certainly hope so, as I don't think I can put my body through another round of the kind of abuse I generated the first time.

The truth is that I have no magic wand that produces more hours in the day. And time, as we know, is the Great Egalitarian. We get the same amount to do with what we will. Which leads to my favorite topic of all—how to make good choices. Because, on balance, making good choices is how we achieve good balance in our lives. Go to the gym, or go to McDonalds? Watch TV, or work on my novel? Spend time with my kids or go out to dinner with my husband?  While these may seem like no-brainers (except for the husband/kid question, which would easily resolved by eating out as a family), they aren't. Sometimes, the desire to watch TV (or check out Facebook or vegetate on the couch, etc.) is quite compelling. Even when the better choice is obvious.

Often, the best choice is less apparent. And that's where we get into trouble. The issue is with the discretionary hour—where to spend it?  When we are beset by the demands of work, husband, children, friends, exercise, healthy eating, sleep, hobbies, etc., it is difficult to know where to spend that hour and there isn't such a thing as a best choice. Something gets sacrificed. And sometimes those sacrifices lead us toward losing our souls, because we become so imbalanced that we've fallen over and we just can't get up. Been there, done that, got the nervous breakdown, fuck the t-shirt. 

So yes, my favorite philosopher got it right. Life is a great balancing act. And we have to keep balancing everything all the time until we lay down the burden and the privilege of making choices day in and day out, hoping to maintain balance in our lives. And we can be grateful that most of us only need to worry about our own balance, not the magical balance of all of Assjacket, WV, like Zelda and her cohort. It can always be worse, right?