First, Do No Harm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friendship, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friendship, Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm with the Band

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

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

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

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

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

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

If Today Were Your Last Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Two Faces of Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Batman's Utility Belt

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

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

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

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

Mommie Dearest

I’m still crushing on Robyn Peterman and her Fashionably Dead series, and I'm loving it. I’m laughing that I found her by accident, thinking she was Robin Hobb. Robin Hobb is definitely on my TBR list, but not till I’m finished with Robyn Peterman, whose protagonist, Astrid, reminds me a bit of MaryJanice Davidson's Queen Betsy, especially given their mutual love of ridiculously expensive shoes. But there is a lot of originality in the Fashionably Dead series, so check it out. This isn't a book review, though, so onto the topic of the day:  mothers from hell, about which I’ve written recently here. The protagonist of the Fashionably Dead series, Astrid, has one and so did I. In Astrid's case, the woman really was from down under, and I don't mean Australia. In my own situation, it only seemed that way. In both cases, however, Astrid and I were doomed to love mothers who just wouldn't, or couldn't love us back.

Unfortunately, the unrequited love of a child for a parent isn't at all affected by the lack of reciprocity. Which sucks butt, as Astrid would say (she's a woman after my own heart with a mouth like a sailor--which she doesn't filter at all. I try to tone it down for these posts, just because I dislike indulging my inner truck driver, as she tends to want the foot when I give her even an inch. But I've digressed, quite a bit). Time to pretend I meant to get off track and tie it all back together. My mother hated my potty mouth, in fact. So of course I indulged it whenever possible around her. Cause I'm mature like that. And also because I knew, deep in my heart of hearts, that no matter what I said or did, nothing was going to make that woman love me. Nothing.

Which, as Astrid notes repeatedly, didn't make me love her any less. Which hurts. A lot. Endlessly, in fact. It bites the big kahuna when the person who brought you into the world doesn't think the act of her creation made the world a better place. Everyone wants to believe that their progeny makes the world a better place. Except my mother. And Astrid's, apparently.

So this mother-who-doesn't-love-her-daughter meme isn't unheard of, I guess. I always figured if it was common enough for someone to write about, and someone else to publish, it couldn’t be a unique phenomenon. Which makes me sad. Cause I can't imagine it. I can't imagine not loving my children, not wanting what's best for them, and not wanting to give them any good thing, thought, or feeling I can muster. I've always felt that as a parent, I made the choice to bring these souls into the world (with their father, of course) and that I owe them for that decision. I know there are parents out there who believe that the gift of life obligates the child to the parent, but I've always thought that was bass akward.

Kids don't ask to be born. And there are way too many parents out there who have children to satisfy some messed up, broken part inside themselves that needs healing and they believe that babies are just the band aid that can fix them. To me, such thinking couldn't be more backward. It's up to us as parents to be the band-aids that soothe the hurts inflicted by the world on our poor innocent children. Kids aren't born to fill our empty spaces. We're supposed to fill theirs.

The worst part of being the child of a parent who doesn't love you back is that the desire for that non-existent love never goes away. Even after they die and you know, absolutely, that it's game over and the possibility of experiencing true maternal love is gone for good, the wanting doesn't leave completely. This is true for Astrid--who killed her mother (it was completely justified), and still Astrid pined for her mother's love and approbation and mourned her death and subsequent suffering in the fires of Hell. I think there is a special part of Hell reserved for parents who abuse the gift that is their children, whether through violence, neglect or rejection. By the same token, I can totally relate to Astrid's not wanting her mother to suffer there. Call me conflicted. 

And confused, and betrayed and resentful, and guilty and ashamed. Because there is no way around wondering what the hell is wrong with me that my own mother didn't love me. And while years of therapy and other forms of help and support, and, most importantly, the love of my amazing husband and my wonderful friends has helped me to realize that it was her and not me, the shadow of those horrendous emotions will always fall over me, kind of like Monica Lewinsky's dress. There is no way to exorcise them entirely. At best such feelings leave scars in the places that were torn and damaged, leaving them hopefully stronger in some ways, but nevertheless visible and potentially disfiguring.

Parents can do so much harm. And so much good. Such a hard job. Such a great job. But one that comes with certain obligations that must be met whether we want to meet them or not. Parenthood is the one decision we can never take back, no matter how it works out.

But I do believe that we mostly reap what we sow. Not always, and not entirely, but more or less. Makes you think, doesn't it?

So while I eschew pity in all ways, I embrace empathy, and I can feel for Astrid. And for me. We've both healed. And learned. But it does make me wish such recovery and education was unnecessary in the world.

More Will Be Revealed

I'm just finishing the last book in Robyn Peterman's Fashionably Dead series. I've flown through the books, eschewing my responsibilities in favor of reading compulsively.  My favorite kind of reading, in fact. This series has everything, God, Satan, the Seven Deadly Sins, Mother Nature and the Angels of Death and Light.  Awesome stuff. And I'm learning new curse words along the way, which is just even more goodness. I'm never happier than when I can cuss like a sailor. I love my potty mouth, what can I say?  Anyhoo, one of the interesting but frustrating aspects of this story is the fact that some of the characters seem to know what's going on but they won't tell the protagonists. It's unbelievably annoying. And not just to me, to the protagonists as well. I had a boyfriend like that once, a Special Forces officer who wouldn't tell me squat about what he did professionally because then he would have to kill me, yada, yada, yada. Pu-lease. But I was quite young and I fell for it and thought he was deeply mysterious. I was wrong. He was deeply shallow and self-centered, actually. I have a nasty habit of imputing more depth and wisdom to the strong silent types than is actually there. I assume still waters run deep when reticence just masks the fact that someone has little to say. My bad. 

I've strayed far from my subject, shockingly. Which is the obscurity of destiny, otherwise known as existential uncertainty. By which I mean, we have no freaking idea how things will work out as we go along. Will it be OK in the end?  If it isn't OK, is it safe to assume it's not the end?  I read that on a greeting card once and I've always liked that idea. Will I get into that college, meet my soul mate, have healthy children, get my dream job, live in my fantasy house and maintain a size four in perpetuity?  Spoiler alert:  I haven't been a size four for a while, more's the pity. 

The point is, like for Astrid and Dixie in Ms. Peterman's entertaining series, I have no idea what's going on, who I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do, and how it will all work out in the end. I'm hoping someone has a clue and that maybe someday, in some alternate existence, it will all make sense and I will comprehend the bigger picture, the master plan, the reason everything happens if everything, in fact, happens for a reason. I'm hoping more will be revealed, as the saying goes. One of the interesting thought exercises inspired by this series is the question of whether we would behave differently if we knew the outcomes of our actions--and the impacts of those of others. Those in the know in the Fashionably Dead books don't share their knowledge with Astrid or Dixie because they claim it would mess with destiny and free will. So I'm wondering, is this true?  Would knowing how it all turns out change our behavior?  I think that is a Hell to the yeah for sure, don't you?

One of my not-so-secret secrets is that I'm a big believer in divination and channeling. Those who know me well know that I've always been into what is commonly termed the occult, but which is more properly called esoteric teachings and techniques. They mean the same thing, but one sounds a lot better than the other. Kind of like the interjection shit versus shoot. The most compelling reason to seek esoteric knowledge is to be able to garner some insight into the future so we can know what to do and where to go and when to hold on and when to walk away. For example, my husband and I struggled for over three years to get pregnant and have a baby. It was a fairly devastating process, made all the more unbearable because we didn't know if we would be successful. I remember thinking quite clearly that all the needles and meds and surgeries would be so worth it if it all resulted in a baby. But while we were going through it we didn't know whether it would work. And the uncertainly was absolutely brutal. 

If we'd known it was going to work, all of it would have been hard, but doable. If we'd known it wouldn't, we would have stopped and gotten on with our lives. But we didn't know until we did.  We weren't sure until more was revealed. Maybe someone or something up above or out there or somewhere knew how the story ended, but we did not. And not knowing is no fun. 

In the end we had beautiful twin boys. And now we're tortured by the question of how these little hellions will turn out when they grow up. Can we get them to college without law enforcement or early parenthood involved? Will they even go to college?  Will they "launch" successfully, or will they be living in our basement when they are thirty? Will we like their wives?  Or will one of them be a narcissistic sociopath?  One never knows, does one?  Sucks shoot. I mean shit.

Do we have to wait till the show is completely over, aka we're dead, to know whether everything turned out all right? That is not a wonderful prospect either. When will more be revealed?  And here's the kicker question:  what if we knew that things didn't turn out so well?  Would we exit early and spare ourselves months or years of hell?  What if we knew what would happen but had no way to control ourselves so that it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

We probably tell ourselves that if we knew bad things were going to happen, and we had the ability to change our unfortunate fates, we would. But that's a lie we tell ourselves to make us feel better. The hard fact is that we all know very well that eating poorly or too much will lead to all sorts of health problems. We know that smoking will lead to cancer and other chronic illness. We know that a sedentary lifestyle takes years off our lives. And we don't do a damn thing about it.

So, when I think about whether knowing the future or even some aspects of it would change my behavior, the answer is, probably not. Sad but true. It's not like I didn't know the Special Forces relationship would end poorly for all concerned. I did. I stayed anyway, holding on for dear life. Why?  It's called the triumph of hope over experience.  We do it all the time. It's also known as wishful thinking, and it's closely related to its cousins delusion and denial. In fact, it's all one big dysfunctional family. So, it's not clear to me that Astrid's and Dixie's relatives were correct and that obscuring the future or failing to reveal knowledge did anything for our snarky protagonists. But it certainly made for a better story, that's for sure. Probably in real life too.  But I’m sure more will be revealed on that front as well.

Midnight in the Garden of Love and Indifference

So, another deep dive into my psyche compliments of my current psychologist/spiritual director/life coach, Kevin Hearne. As I progress in my journey through Shattered, which I am thoroughly enjoying, he throws in a monologue on the realities of parental love, or lack thereof. Deep shit for sure. And a topic that pushes every button I have. Let's review the lessons he's offering and then examine them one by one. First, he says that there is no power that can force someone to love another. True enough. Second, he says that it is by degrees of love that we wither or bloom... In both the giving and receiving. Lastly, he cautions that we should not torture ourselves with what might have been. These passages actually come in reverse order from what I'm describing, but hopefully Mr. Hearne won't be offended by the liberties I'm taking in analyzing his profound prose.

The first contention (I feel like I'm starting a debate round with my son) is that there is no power that can force someone to love us. To be precise, he says that there is no power that is able to force one to love another, so it would also stand to reason that there is no power that can force us to love someone we don’t. All of this is true in my experience and unutterably sad. I spent the majority of my life trying to make my mother love me, just as Granuaile seeks her father's love in the book, with similarly ineffective results. I had many a therapist explain to me that one cannot get blood from a stone, or words to that effect. But that sure as shit didn't keep me from trying. And from bashing my head against that stone over and over. And, to be precise again, because precision is important, there was plenty of blood that came from that particular stone. Unfortunately, it was all mine. 

At this point in the process, I have come to believe, or perhaps chosen to believe (and I'm not sure it matters, as it is now my reality) that my mother was incapable of loving me. I choose to believe this partially because there is evidence to support this as truth--I was told by a qualified professional that my mother suffered from narcissistic personality disorder--and partially because I have learned over time that I am worthy of love, especially my mother's. As a mother myself, I know that love for our children really is an instinctual tendency, and it must be overcome by nurture, in whatever nasty way that life has of disrupting our natural tendencies toward love and kindness and generosity, although this is the topic for another post. In any case, for my mother, and for me, nurture trumped nature and the woman simply did not love me, and absolutely nothing I ever did or said made the slightest difference at all. I had no power to make her love me, despite my focusing my not-inconsequential efforts toward that end.

Which leads to contention number two from Dr. Hearne, that it is by degrees of love, given or withheld, that influences whether we go toward the light or away from it. I believe this to be true as well. I have long regarded my mother and her lack of love for me as my shadow teacher. I learned so very much from her about how not to behave and how not to live. As a parent, I've been able to follow a fairly clear path just by thinking, what would my mother do, and then doing the opposite of that. It seems to be working, but check back with me in about ten to fifteen years or so, and I'll let you know if we've succeeded in raising happy, well-adjusted and contributing members of society who still love their parents. Fingers crossed!

My mother and her feelings for me certainly shaped me more than any other single aspect of my life. For years it was all about proving myself to her, trying to earn her attention and respect, all to no avail. Then it was about saying the hell with her, and forging my own path regardless of her judgment on the subject. The only issue with option two was that I continued to have to listen to her criticism and survive her attempts to undermine my confidence at every opportunity. Which detracted from my efforts to create the life I wanted, although I didn't realize it at the time. So while I definitely didn't wither, neither did I bloom as fully as I might have. Which leads to point number three.

Kevin Hearne tells us, through the voice of an Indian deity, no less, that we should avoid torturing ourselves with fantasies of what might have been. He’s right, of course, as this kind of fantasizing is nothing but a time thief, which can only lead to bitterness and anger. But wow, it's hard not to go there sometimes, especially when I'm feeling vulnerable for whatever reason. There is absolutely nothing to be gained from thinking about how different my life would have been if my mother hadn't been a narcissist. Of how things might have felt if my parents had provided anything more than financial support to my brother and me. How different my choices might have been if I'd basked in the glow of knowing that no matter what, I was loved and valued for who I was, just because I am here on this earth and I was born to parents who loved me for me. Nope, not going there at all. 

And here's why, and it's not just because Kevin Hearne thinks it's a good idea, even though it doesn't hurt to be reminded of this truth from time to time as I consume my fantasy. It's because I love who I am, and I appreciate that it is the totality of my past experiences that have gotten me here. I have no idea who I would be if I hadn't been formed in the crucible of my mother's indifference and distain. I might have had a better relationship with my brother, which would be wonderful, but I might not be married to my husband or have the kids I have. I might not have the friendships that I do with women who have known me my whole life and who continue to walk the journey with me now. Or the friends from my more recent past, to whom I was attracted and was attractive to as the person I am today. Who knows who I would be if the past were not how it was. 

So score three for Dr. Hearne, and I'll let him know he can send me the bill for the extremely productive therapy session I received while reading his excellent book. And score another for truth in fantasy, as I continue to find so many rich veins of gold to mine for depth and profundity as I am entertained and diverted from the heavier aspects of life. 

I'm Friends with the Monster

I've just finished the fourth installment of Patricia Briggs' Alpha and Omega series, Dead Heat. I actually like this series even better than her Mercy Thompson series, which I like a whole lot. And it's kind of fun that my sister-in-law lives in the area the Mercy books are located. But that's not the topic at hand. I'm sure you are surprised. Today, I want to talk about the monster within. In the story, Anna, a woman who is transformed into a werewolf forcibly and then horribly abused, works to hide her monster--not the werewolf she now becomes during the full moon, but the one borne of her abuse that dwells secretly inside her. She doesn't let this monster out, and she hides it even from her beloved husband, who is also a werewolf, and the one who saved her from her tormenter. Anna is convinced that if her husband, Charles, "truly understood that she had this twisted and broken part, maybe he could not love her."  I don't know about you, but, wow, could I relate. Actually, I'm lying, I believe I do know about you; I believe that each of us has something within us, maybe buried very deeply, that we fear if people knew about, they wouldn't love us. Maybe we don't consider our inner ugliness to be a full-fledged monster, but then, again, maybe we do. But I think all of us have a part or parts that we are convinced make us unlovable if someone really knew the depth and breath of what was in there. I think we are all mistaken. We are lovable in our entirety.

I know that when the right (or wrong, depending on one's perspective) buttons get pushed, I unleash my inner Hulk, and rip the seams of my outward civility to bellow like a banshee and get so far up in someone's face that we're sharing the same air space-as in breathing each other's breaths. Not a beautiful site unless I’m swapping spit with my hubby. I've been told that no one wants to see that side of me very often. 

And even if I'm working hard to ensure my inner Buddha is overwhelming my inner bitch, the knowledge that she exists colors the way I think about myself and how I present myself to the world. I really don't want people to see that part of me. I don't want anyone to know that I sometimes invoke my inner demons not to exorcise them, but just to snuggle (thank you Darynda Jones). Sometimes, I'm not very nice. Even if it's only inside my own head. Especially when it's just in my head. God forbid anyone else had to listen to that running commentary. No one would ever speak to me again. They'd know, without a shred of doubt, that I am truly certifiable.

And there's the rub. We want to be known, we crave being seen for who we are--in our entirety and not just the pretty parts, but at the same time, its scares the pants off of us. I've written about this before here, but this comment by Anna is a bit different. We all have warts. The question of the day is whether we all have Dr. Jekyl's alter ego renting space in our heads? Maybe not. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it is a matter of degree, not kind. But if this is so, and we are all similarly afflicted, why do we go to such lengths to hide the parts we seem unworthy of public scrutiny?  Why are we so convinced that we are unlovable in all our aspects? Can't our monsters all just get along?  Can they not be taught to play well with others?  Can they at least be acknowledged and taken out occasionally to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on their faces?  Must they be hidden away like yesterday's underwear left on the floor and hastily shoved under the bed when someone comes in the room? If we're all in the same boat, can't we all row together?

Apparently not. Or at least not that I've seen. For me, way back when, I was all about showing my prospective husband the monster within. I wanted him to understand that I was damaged goods in so many ways when he found me and started to love me. I was determined to be clear about what he was getting himself into so that I didn't have to worry, as I had in previous relationships, that he would uncover my secret self and fall out of love. And the thing I love maybe best of all about him is that he is well aware that there's a whole lot of coyote ugly inside me that is part of the deal. He understands that he signed up for the whole package and that I'm not a cafeteria, where he can take what he likes and leave the rest. Thank God. Not sure where I'd be without that. Probably as worried as Anna is in Dead Heat that her monster, the broken, twisted parts, will be exposed and will cost her the love of her husband.

We need to be friends with the monsters under our beds and get along with the voices inside of our heads, just like Marshall Mathers tells us to do. Monsters need love too. 

A Life's Work

I just finished Rose Montague's first foray into the world of YA paranormal fantasy, Norma Jean’s School of Witchery, Book I, Jewel.  which I thoroughly enjoyed. There were many elements of the book that I liked and that may very well provide blog fodder in the future, but for today I want to focus on a small piece of the story where Jewel, the heroine who lends her name to the title, reads a book that helps her to understand her magic. In the story, Jewel comments that the book she is reading was written by an author who dedicated his life to the topic at hand. In fact, the book represents his "Life's Work," which is pretty much what it sounds like. Jewel comments that not many people pursue a life's work these days. And that got me to thinking. Uh, oh.

I think Jewel is right (or at least Rose Montague is). I think there are fewer and fewer people who take up a life's work. And I think the reason is manifold. First of all, life is work, and I think many of us are too busy trying to live it and that is the sum total of their Life's Work. And that is OK, at least from my perspective, because for a lot of us, life really is hard. 

On the other hand, for others, we make life harder than it has to be, and then we don't have room for anything else. I know a lot of people, myself included sometimes, who make first-world problems, like choosing which camps to send their kids to or which color tile to choose for the guest bathroom, into major freaking productions. When everything is a big deal requiring major effort, there is very little time or space for a Life's Work among all the other work of life.

And then there is the modern attention problem, again, something I can relate to more than I care to admit. I watch my children as they negotiate two or three screens at a time. Even my husband works with somewhere between three and six screens going at any given time. We all have the attention spans of tsetse flies. How can the ADD generation focus on one subject long enough to make it a Life's Work? We don't even hold jobs for more than two or three years at a time. Mid-life career shifts are common (again, guilty as charged) and choosing a major has become an exercise in serious angst because making one choice, by definition, eliminates alternative options as the realities of opportunity costs set in. And even in this age of uber-specialization, you don't hear a whole lot about life's work these days. Because who really wants to make their Life's Work all about such narrow subjects as animal husbandry in colonial Virginia among farmers with only pigs and chickens. Or cyber hacking into magnet school databases in New York City. Or the ever-popular micro-breweries in Idaho and Wyoming. We've gone so deep we can't climb out of the holes we've dug for ourselves.

So, to review, we're either hopelessly shallow or impossibly deep, thereby making it ever more difficult to focus on meaningful topics for a Life's Work. I'm more than halfway through my life (and that's if I live to a ripe old age) and I find I love the idea of a Life's Work. I want to make a significant contribution to a field of study or learning. I want to have original thoughts that inspire and inform and impact the world. I want to make a difference with my life and I want to leave a legacy of positive change.

But where to focus amongst all the distractions this world has to offer? Clearly, whatever my Life's Work entails it will involve words on a page or screen.  And it will likely involve soapboxes--meaning my standing on one pontificating about how to live well or at least better. More authentically. More true to our true selves. Because you know I believe that is what life is all about. Is my Life's Work this blog?  I don't think so. Is it the book I'm sort of working on (I am working on it, and even writing here and there, but it's still more of a gleam in my eye than a proper book or even a solid beginning)?  Maybe I should switch to fiction, except I seem to have absolutely zero imagination when it comes to that, to my eternal sadness.

And, in the immortal words of Danielle LaPorte, if it hasn't happened by now, perhaps it's not meant to be. That is the thought that scares me most of all.

But, in the other immortal words of one of my all-time heroes, Winston Churchill, "Never, never, never give up."  So I won't. My life isn't over, so there is still time for my Life's Work to unfold.

In the meantime, I will continue to read great paranormal and urban fantasy and write this blog, which brings me so much pleasure. Thanks to Rose Montague and her fellow authors for their Life's Work in entertaining us all.

Sarcasm R Us

For Christmas a few years ago I bought my husband a sweatshirt that said, "National Sarcasm Society: Like We Need Your Support."  He still wears that sweatshirt, despite the fact that it is the color of baby poo (not sure what the manufacturer was thinking there, but perhaps it was something along the lines of, "Yeah, like we need your business" and therefore chose the ugliest color they could come up with). The point of recounting this anecdote is to illustrate that we are one sarcastic family. I think it started with my father-in-law and has been passed down the generations to his son and now his grandsons, who are teenaged sarcastic wits, which is actually somewhat frightening.

Why this focus on sarcasm?  I'm reading Kevin Hearne's seventh offering in the Iron Druid chronicles, Shattered. As always, Mr. Hearne provides numerous amusing passages and turns of phrase for me to highlight and re-read when I need a laugh. So far, my favorites are an exchange between Atticus O'Sullivan's Irish Wolf Hound, Oberon, with whom Atticus can mind speak, and the Iron Druid himself where they are describing another Druid who has been in suspended animation for two thousand years. Atticus describes him as not knowing the language well and having a short fuse. Oberon responds that such a description qualifies him to be an action movie star. Laugh out loud stuff. In another passage, Atticus' apprentice, the newly minted Druid, Granuaile, remarks that, "the garden of sarcasm is watered with impatience, and mine chose that moment to bloom." I love it!

Because it's so true. In our household, we are the most sarcastic when we are impatient with each other (which seems to happen a lot of the time--outsiders might suspect we don't like each other much, but actually the opposite is true and we keep each other laughing). We are also sarcastic just to be funny, or to engage. The sarcasm stems from familiarity and ease with each other and we sometimes have to remember to put a lid on it when we are with others. When we forget to do that we get in trouble for our rapier sharp wit--or was that for our dim wit?   It's definitely one or the other.

I'm from New York, and while my sarcastic streak is not nearly as well developed as that of my husband or even our sons, I can certainly appreciate their particular brand of humor. After all, in New York we have to ask each other, "Do you have the time, or should I just go f**k myself?"  Just kidding!  New Yorkers are the salt of the earth (I've never understood that phrase, which is supposed to be benevolent, but salt can be quite salty-and it can even burn in certain circumstances-- so I guess it does apply to New Yorkers).

Anyway, I love a good sarcastic riposte, at least most of the time. There are instances where the pointy end of the sarcastic sword can sting, or feel like a knife to the belly if the timing is wrong or the fine line between funny and mean gets crossed, which happens on occassion. Especially by our boys, who at fifteen are still learning how to be appropriate in social and relational situations--kind of like Kevin Hearne's two-thousand year old Rip Van Winkle, for whom social mores have changed just a wee bit from what he's used to. He needed to be told that a smile from a pretty girl was not an invitation into her bed and any attempts to interpret it as such could result in the involvement of law enforcement. It's good that times have changed.

Sarcasm also has another unsightly underbelly, as it can be a favorite tool of the passive-aggressive cowards who can't seem to say what they mean and mean what they say. I think we all use humor on occasion to deflect deeper but uncomfortable truths about how we are feeling or what we really want. In such cases, sarcasm is no joke and can be quite destructive. This distinction is something we are trying to teach our kids and it's a tough one. Using humor to hide truth is not the exclusive province of the passive-aggressive among us; we all do it when we say something that comes from a place of authenticity within us and we feel tentative about illuminating our depths. When we don't get the reaction we were hoping for, we retreat into the "I was just kidding" lie and hope no one notices that we were asking for something we really wanted but couldn't bear to have rejected or even questioned.  This is especially true if the desire is deep enough and therefore fragile in its vulnerability.

So, I love sarcasm, especially when it's wielded by a master like Kevin Hearne. And I mostly love it amongst my family members. But it's good to remember the other side of that double-edged sword, and ensure that we're not hurting anyone with our wit. Like I needed to remind you of that!

Acceptance Is Key

I'm just finishing Lisa Shearin's second installment of the SPI Files series, The Dragon Conspiracy. These books are a fun romp through my hometown of New York City, now inhabited by vampires, goblins, elves and dragons (always my favorites), among other mythical creatures. The aspect of this book that captured my thoughts today is the concept of acceptance. Now, I'm a big believer in the serenity prayer. For those of you living under a rock, this prayer asks the Divine to "Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."  It's a good prayer, and an excellent blueprint for living a contented and productive life. In The Dragon Conspiracy, several of the major characters are called to accept their lot in life, including major illness and its concomitant limitations, as well as the idiosyncrasies and concomitant limitations of those with whom we engage.

For me, acceptance actually does require supernatural abilities. Acceptance is difficult. Acceptance can look a lot like acknowledging defeat. Acceptance can look like agreement or acquiescence. Acceptance can feel like conformity. And worst of all, acceptance can feel like collusion with evil, or at least that which is not good. But, because those with a lot of serenity in their auras tout the advantages of this state of being, perhaps it behooves us to explore the concept a bit and determine whether these feelings about acceptance have any actual basis in reality.

Acceptance is a choice we make. It is one that, for me at least, meets with significant resistance even when my conscious mind believes it might be a good idea. Like ceasing to beat one's head against a wall is a good idea. It hurts less that way. But when acceptance looks like throwing in the towel, I find it challenging. I don't like to give up. And I don't like to be bested. By anything. One example of this is with illness or injury. When I was diagnosed with an auto-immune disorder, I was anything but accepting. Hell no, I had zero intention of feeling like an 80-year old woman when I was only half that age. Hell no, I would not accept that my only options were serious medications with hideous side effects. And absolutely hell, no, I would not accept that there was little I could do about it.

Accepting that diagnosis felt like defeat and I was having none of it.  And not accepting my fate as final led down paths that have greatly enriched my life, and I am profoundly grateful for that. But not accepting the limitations that my disorder imposed was not my best idea ever. Acceptance of current limitations within the context of hope for better things to come was an important aspect of my recovery. Not accepting it meant that I was just making everything worse by writing checks that my body couldn't cash (and believe me, I was no top gun!).

Acceptance can also look like agreement. I know I've found myself judging myself and others harshly for not fighting fate and at least going down swinging. I know this is also a value to many--not going down without a fight, and I certainly understand that--Dylan Thomas knew what he was talking about when he exhorted us to fight, fight, fight against the dying of the light. But when to fight and when to retreat, that is the question, never mind existential issues. I don't want to be the one seen to be agreeing with that with which I disagree or reject. And acceptance can certainly look like that on occasion.

And acceptance can also look and feel like one step beyond agreement. Acceptance can be perceived as being in cahoots with the bad thing. I know a lot of people through my work as a naturopath who not only accept their diagnoses, but embrace them like the one who got away. It always disturbs me when I see that and I always make a mental vow to myself that I will never be that way. But it's hard to know another's heart and it may be that what looks like conspiracy to me is the only way someone else can accept their lot and move ahead as best they can with their lives. I struggle not to judge, though, despite understanding that each of us walks our own paths toward truth.

Lack of acceptance also causes all sorts of problems. Just because we don't accept something, like physical or financial realities, doesn't make them any less real. Not accepting that my body just won't do what it did when I was twenty can lead to a myriad of embarrassing and potentially dangerous situations. In my opinion, no middle-aged woman should sport micro-mini skirts, I don't care how great your legs are, and no one my age has the reflexes or recuperative powers we did thirty years ago. So accepting those limitations is probably a good idea. This is not to say that I don't strive to look and feel my best. But it is my best at almost fifty, not my best as compared to my twenty-year-old self.

So we're back to the serenity prayer, and the need for the wisdom to know when to hold them and know when to fold them. It's a tricky proposition for sure. And in the end, it's often no less of a gamble than a good game of five-card draw. As in poker, there is certainly an element of skill and experience involved. But don't forget Lady Luck. First off, she hates being discounted (I share that particular affliction, but that is the subject of another post).  And secondly she'll bite you in the ass every time.

So, I don't know about you, but I'll take all the help I can get in this endeavor. I'm all about Divine intervention in my life and I invite it in whenever I remember to do so. Sometimes I forget to ask for help, and sometimes I'm determined (quite stupidly, in fact), to go it alone. But I crave the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, along with courage and wisdom, so I'll keep my knee pads handy and avail myself early and often.

Projecting Personas

How do we choose which persona to project onto the world? Some of us choose to be people pleasers, while others choose to be tough guys. As we know, our projected persona is but one aspect of our authentic selves (and often it is a minor aspect rather than a major player). So how do we settle on it in our own minds?  What do our choices say about us? I’m reading book three in the Dragon Kin series.  This one is about Dagmar Reinholdt, otherwise known as “The Beast” and Gwenvael the Handsome, a total tomcat of a dragon. I think their nicknames say it all about their choices—although some might argue that nicknames are often conferred, not selected. Sometimes nicknames are meant to be insulting (I was called four-eyes and Pinocchio in grade school, which was devastating at the time, but then I got contacts and a nose job and had my own swan moment, so it was all good).

So, how do we choose a persona?  For some, our parents choose for us, encouraging us to be kind and unselfish and ambitious.  Or maybe to be athletic or intellectual. Then there are those exceptional parents, who may actually wait to see which character traits and preferences a child comes to inherently, but those parents are few and far between—especially if the child is “exuberant” (read: wild and out-of-control) or “confident” (read:  stubborn and willful). Oftentimes it seems, as parents, we don’t get the children we were hoping for—and yes, I know that every expectant parent ostensibly hopes for a healthy child, but once that is accomplished, the wish list tends to grow exponentially to include intelligence, beauty, poise, popularity, and a winning personality. In other words, most of us want attractive, athletic, smart, and (ultimately) non-celibate versions of the Dalai Lama and/or Mother Theresa.  Don’t lie—you know you are resonating with that!

So, as parents (or as sons and daughters, as the case may be), we project our fantasies of the ideal child (or have them projected all over us) and we are then imprinted at an early age with an image of the ideal, or at least someone else’s version.  At that point, we can go in one of two ways—we can try to adopt the projection as our own, if it fits at all well, and sometimes even if it doesn’t—or we can reject that image and go in another, usually opposite, direction.

My mother wanted me to be a lady and a shining example of 1950s womanhood (think Mrs. Beaver of Cleaver fame).  She tried hard to pound me into that mold.  Unfortunately, there was absolutely no way to square that circle, and as early as kindergarten I had teachers intervening between me and my mother to help negotiate a dress code we could both live with (suffice it to say that my mother wanted a little princess and I was only interested in the attitude, not the clothes).  What an ongoing mess all of that was—with one of the last things my mother ever saying to me was that in her mind, I was a failure as a woman.  Because I work outside the home and avoid cooking and cleaning like the plague. Her definition was fairly limited, for sure.

Nothing I did pleased my mother—so I stopped trying at an early age.  And the persona I chose to present to the world included a big chip on my shoulder and a confrontational, take-no-prisoners attitude that screamed, “I do what I want and I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you think!”  Charming, I know.  But, for my persona, I needed to let you know that your opinions couldn’t touch me or make me do anything I didn’t want to do (clearly, the military was not an option for me). Others with a less traumatic upbringing adopt other kinds of personas—but most of our choices are straight out of central casting:  the Good Wife; the Loving Mother; the Bad Boy; the Tough Guy; the Nice Girl; the Queen Bee; the Man; you get the picture.

If an author of one of my beloved books wrote a character like that (and sometimes they do, although they probably won’t make my top ten list if that is the case), we’d call the writing flat and predictable and give it two thumbs down.

But we give ourselves a free pass when we do that exact same thing.  We project a comfortable (yes, even when it’s ridiculously uncomfortable), predictable (another word for controllable) image on the screen of others’ personalities and then we follow the script accordingly—even when the inner monologue in our brains is completely divergent with the BS coming out of our mouths.  “No problem” could mean “NFW,” but we are too scared to say so.  “I’d love to” could be “I’d rather chew glass,” and “I don’t mind at all,” usually signifies that we are thinking murderous thoughts behind the façade of a simpering smile.

So, why do we do this and how can we stop?  We do it because it’s what we know and therefore it defines our comfort zones.  And it’s really hard to venture out of the boxes we create for ourselves, so we tend not to do it.  Sometimes, we aren’t even aware that we’ve boxed ourselves into our projected personas, so ingrained in our make-believe identities are we.  We need to reflect, contemplate our navels a bit and look inward, Grasshopper.  There are usually clues—like the fact that we don’t want to get out of bed in the morning, or we have IBS, or migraines or chronic fatigue—or some other disorder that may indicate that we aren’t who we want to be.  This is tough stuff. In case you were wondering, and without giving away too much, I can say that Dagmar the Beast and Gwenvael the Handsome end up being much more than just formidable or gorgeous, although they are that, too (our personas usually reflect at least one aspect of our true selves).  And in unveiling their whole selves, to each other and eventually to the world, they spring off the pages in all three dimensions. Because who wants to be Flat Stanley?

The Immortality of Dogs

My dog is dying. His name is Beau and he is supposed to be a miniature dachshund, but he has a bit of a weight problem and he wouldn't make the grade in terms of being best in class, I'll say that much. But he is an awesome dog.  But he is sick. And we have to decide when to let him go.  What a horrible decision to have to make. Every day we get up and have to think about whether today is a good day to die. 

And one of the things I've been thinking about is why I've never read about any characters in paranormal fiction who have pets. Well, that isn't totally true; Sookie Stackhouse had a cat, but the poor thing eventually meets the same sad end as the red-shirted guys on Star Trek. Their deaths always progress the plot line, but you definitely have to feel for the poor suckers. Same with Sookie's cat.

But, as far as I can remember, that is the only pet I can think of.  I'm sure you'll remind me if I've overlooked someone. And supernatural pets like Atticus O'Sullivan's dog, Oberon, and Bluebell Kildare's trusty sidekick, Varg, don't count. 

Why don't characters in paranormal and urban fantasy have pets?  Well, first of all, many of them are pets, of the shapeshifting variety. I would imagine it's hard to keep a dog or cat when your other body is a wolf or a coyote or a cougar, as in Patricia Briggs novels or Faith Hunter's works. Maybe it would feel too much like keeping a friend on a leash. I know that in our collective newfound fascination with the BDSM lifestyle, we are all aware that there are those among us who enjoy leading their friends and lovers around by the nose, literally, and housing them in cages, but most of us only like to be titillated by that sort of second hand description, not live it. So too among the supernatural, so that having a pet, for the shapeshifting crowd, would probably just seem weird.

But another reason, I'm sure, for the dearth of dog and cat companions among the paranormal creatures of my beloved books, is the very difficulty I'm having now when faced with the reality of our animals' short lives, at least as compared to ours. It seems so unfair that creatures who love us so unconditionally, and for whom our love is so uncomplicated, should pass from our lives in what seems like the blink of an eye. I grew up desperately wanting a puppy, but my parents wouldn't let me get one. And I knew I would marry my husband well before he proposed when he made my dreams come true and presented me with a fur ball with a red bow who was my first-ever dog, and the animal love of my life, a golden cocker spaniel named Belle (because she was so beautiful and she was a Christmas gift). When Belle died eight years ago I was inconsolable. Her memory can still stir deep feelings within me, that's how much I loved her and how bereft I felt when she died.

And the way I figure it, for immortals or the extremely long-lived creatures of my beloved books, why would they subject themselves to that kind of grief, over and over again? It's bad enough for them that mortals are given only a relatively short few decades on this plane of existence. Pity the poor immortals who become attached to their mortal lovers and companions who must then suffer their deaths. Kind of like pets for us.  The short lifespan of a human being is difficult enough for immortals to tolerate, forget about the eye-blink of life that actual animals enjoy upon this earth.

And in trying to make a decision about my beloved pup and when to let him go to the big dog park in the sky, I understand why immortals eschew the love of animals. It would be too painful for them to become attached. Even though the love of an animal is such a pure joy to experience. So I feel sorry for the poor immortals, even as I feel sorry for myself and my family as we move ever closer to the time to say goodbye. Because even in the depth of my grief and the sure knowledge of the pain that will accompany the inevitable letting go of my dog, I am grateful for the love and acceptance and happiness he's offered to me and my family so freely and effortlessly. I'm grateful for having him in our lives. And when the time comes, so much sooner than I would like, I'll surrender him to the earth and the sky and the universe and hope to see him someday on the other side. And I'll continue to pity the poor paranormal creatures who have no idea what they are missing. 

The Betrayer

[Note:  I wrote this post almost a year ago when I was in the throes of grief from a very difficult time for me.  I’m happy to report that things are much better now.] My latest fantasy adventure centers on a character called “The Betrayer.”  The book is Katie Macallister’s third installment of her Dark Ones series called Sex, Lies and Vampires.  It is quite entertaining, as were the first two in the lineup.  This one has a slight twist from its predecessors—instead of the vampire trying to convince his one and only (the “Beloved”) that she should cleave to him for eternity, in this story, it is the Beloved who pushes for the Joining (a kind of eternal marriage for the Dark One and his Beloved), against the protestations of her vampire lover.

The aspect of the book that has captured my attention is this concept of the Betrayer (the Dark One, Adrian) being redeemed.  Poor Adrian is in thrall to a Demon Lord, who, as you might guess from his title, is not a nice guy.  This not-very-nice Demon Lord has forced Adrian to do many things over the centuries until Adrian is reviled and ostracized among his kind.  Moreover, Adrian has some fairly deep self-hatred and despair going on, so he’s not the most cheery vampire ever portrayed in fantasy fiction.  Be that as it may, Adrian’s Beloved, Nell, is convinced her love can redeem Adrian and that maybe her supernatural skills can lift the curse binding him to the Demon Lord.  Given the inevitability of an HEA this kind of book, my money was on Nell from the get-go.

Back to how all this relates to me (cause that’s what it’s all about, never mind that hokey pokey shit).  Reading about the Betrayer has sparked some thoughts about the nature of betrayal generally, and what betrayal means in a love relationship specifically.  As it often is in fiction, a situation or event is exaggerated to make sure the reader gets the point. Adrian’s betrayal involves the rather grandiose transgression of providing a steady stream of vampire sacrifices to satisfy the unholy appetites of his Demon Lord.  This is admittedly on the far end of the moral bankruptcy scale.  In human terms, such actions would be akin to a spouse stepping out of a marriage to get his thrills and chills in the arms of another. I think we can all agree that such behavior constitutes betrayal from any perspective.

But what if the nature of the betrayal is less extreme than sexual or romantic dalliance?  What if the Betrayer earns his (or her) appellation though acts singular—or repeated—that don’t cross the line into indisputable immorality? What if the betrayal that transforms the beloved into the betrayer involves disappointed expectations or needs?  What then?  Is the betrayer redeemable or doomed to eternal exclusion and isolation?

What am I talking about here?  Well, I’ll tell you: I consider it a sign of disrespect and maybe even passive/aggressive acting out when my husband doesn’t pick up after himself and maintain our shared living space in some semblance of order (not to the level of my OCD-influenced standards, but somewhere to the right of dirty underwear and socks left to mold in piles on the floor and dishes left to wash themselves in the sink).  I really didn’t think it was that much to ask, given the fact that he is well aware—because I’ve told him at least 100,000 times—that physical clutter and actual filth makes me palpably anxious (see above comment on OCD tendencies).  And, while it took several sessions of couples’ counseling to help him understand the seriousness and depth of my needs, he eventually got with the program.  More or less.

But what happens when my needs are less concrete—but even more elemental to my overall well-being and he can’t—or won’t—meet them?  What do I do with that?  This situation is perfectly reflected in my current novel, so the issue is front and center in my psyche at this moment.  Adrian is convinced that Nell can unmake the Demon Lord’s curse, but Nell is afraid to tap into her abilities because of the potential cost (frying her brain circuits) and the probability (in her mind) of failure. So she begins by refusing to do it, but of course she comes around in the end.

In my world, the analogous circumstance is that I need my husband to meet my needs for emotional connection on a deep level as I grieve the deaths of my mother, my mentor and two others who were like a mother and father to me growing up, all within the space of a few months.  Each of these deaths was expected and congruent with the circle of life.  They were all old and sick and it was a blessing for them to release their spirits from their physical tethers.  Good for them, but it leaves the rest of us behind to put our lives back together in a place our loved ones no longer physically occupy.  It’s a process that is, at heart, a solitary pursuit. But it’s also a journey in which the felt presence of those we love can keep us connected in a positive way to the here and now.

To walk this path with another is to deepen the intimacy between two individuals and create a shared experience that binds the two together more securely.  In such a dance, it’s the one grieving who must lead. It is the task of the witness to be present and aware and provide a physical and emotional anchor to help ground the one who mourns in the world of life and of love.

But what happens when the efforts of the witness fall short, through ignorance or inherent limitations or even a subconscious desire to withhold what comfort can be provided because of perceived hurts or other such emotional payback?

I feel betrayed by the one who’s supposed to love me the most.  And I wonder what to do with these feelings and whether the betrayer can be redeemed by my love and whether I can be redeemed by his.  In the book, Nell overcomes her self-limitation to help her vampire husband restore his soul, defeat the Demon Lord and live happily ever after.

I’m not sure what my HEA looks like here.  I predict that I will rise above this hurt, which I have to assume is inadvertent (or I wouldn’t be married to this man) and we will go on and be happy in all the myriad ways we are, because he is, in truth, a wonderful person.  But the potential—and reality—for true emotional intimacy will have taken a hit for sure, and my inclination and ability to turn to him for emotional support during the tough times will be stifled.  And that will constitute a betrayal of my own. 

Force Multiplier

I'm just about finished with the third book in Elle Boca's Unelmoija fantasy series, The Spiritshifter. The series chronicles the adventures of Amy McKnight, her family and friends, who belong to a secret race of superhuman beings known as the Weeia. I don't want to give away too much of the plot (this is one reason I don't write book reviews--too hard without spoilers to write a good analysis, in my view, and then I'd ruin the experience for others). I recommend the series with its original premise and world and likable characters who generate my empathy and support-- I've found myself rooting for them the whole way. And without giving away any surprises, I want to talk about an interesting ability that one of the characters develops--an amplification ability wherein this character is able to stimulate the development of others' latent powers, magnifying nascent abilities and helping people to be, essentially, all that they can be. Who needs the army, anyway?

This plot twist got me thinking about how cool it would be if there were some truth in this fantasy. What if there was such a thing as an amplifier in real life?  What would that look like?  What character traits might I be interested in amplifying?  Would this be a selective amplification?  Could I amplify the parts of myself I like and turn down the volume on the parts that are not quite ready for prime time? And even if the volume control didn't work in the direction of decreasing the decibel level, could the increase button only apply to those aspects I enjoy about myself?

Could be tricky, but might be worth a stroll down this particular rabbit hole. What would I choose to amplify?  That is fairly easy, I think. I recently completed most of the exercises in my new favorite personal development book, The Desire Map (and yes, I'm constantly in search of ever-more personal development, but no, The Desire Map is not some pornographic cartography book on how to find the elusive "G spot"). Anyhoo, back to the topic at hand, The Desire Map, by the brilliant Danielle LaPorte, is about how to identify and achieve goals with soul. The concept behind the book, with which I whole-heartedly agree, is that desire is the most powerful, creative force in the universe, and that tapping into that power is not only available to each and every one of us, but it is also the most empowering thing we can do for ourselves. The books instructs us to identify our core desired feelings, which is actually a lot harder than it sounds. It's one of the things I worked on during my retreat a few weeks ago.

So it is a no-brainer that I'd want to amplify my core desired feelings. Danielle suggests we pick five. Mine were as follows:  mindful; soulful; resourceful (in every sense of that word); spirited (as in filled with spirit); and in Divine communion. So, if I'm ordering off the amplification menu, I'd like a heaping plateful of being full--full of mind, soul, spirit, resources and God. I'd like as much of that as I can get, thank you very much. Crank up the volume till you can hear it four lanes away from where my car radio is playing. I want maximum power on my sub-woofer so it’s all about that bass. You know what I'm talking about, right?

And while I'm at it, playing my tunes of fullness at maximum volume, let's add grateful, heart-full, truthful, peaceful and full of kindness, generosity and good will toward all. Because, honestly, that's really what I want. If I can amplify my positive characteristics and abilities like Ms. Boca's characters, I want to be as full of the good stuff as possible. If the down volume button is in good working order, let's dial down pettiness, schadenfreude, envy, jealousy, self-righteousness, controlling and manipulative tendencies, not to mention fear, resentment, and general discontent. Wouldn't that be something? I can hardly imagine it, though I suspect it would be miraculous to experience.  

Which leads me to ask, logically, whether any of this magical amplification and commensurate sound dampening is possible in the real world, and if so, how can we achieve it? As you may have cottoned to by this point, I do, in fact, believe that the kind of amplification described in the Unelmoija books is possible in the real world. How to do it, you may wonder.  The same way you can get to Carnegie Hall: practice, practice, practice.  Life gives us so many opportunities to practice being full of the good stuff and loving toward all.  And because practice makes perfect, the fact that we sometimes fall short of the mark is no excuse not to pick ourselves up and practice some more, perfection being an ideal not actually achievable in the real world. We must avoid the massive pothole on the road of life called perfectionism, lest it derails us on our journeys as we become mired in the tar pits of perfectionism. Just don’t go there. Turn down the amplification volume on perfectionism and turn it up on persistence in getting back on the horse after we’ve been thrown off that damn beast.

So thank you to Elle Boca whose books are a fun romp through an interesting world filled with [mostly] nice people. I love the idea of amplifying my good traits and I love the idea that there might be others out there who can help me amplify the good stuff in my life.  And the idea I love best of all is the one where I act as the amplifier for others around me, and help them turn up the volume on the fullness of their lives.