Once Bitten, Twice Shy

I'm so excited to tell you about Lilo Abernathy's new offering in the Bluebell Kildare series, The Light Who Binds. You all know how much I loved The Light Who Shines, and how much food for thought that book inspired. Book 2 is no different, with a great mystery and lots of answers to questions raised in the first book (I have a pet peeve when an author makes us wait for multiple books to advance the story arc--and I love it when we get answers that make sense and lead us to want even more, as Lilo's books do--but back to the subject at hand). Today, I'm evolving my thoughts about hope and fear, which I've written about before, complements of the fabulous Fever series by Karen Marie Moning and Lilo Abernathy. According to Ms. Moning, and I agree with her, hope strengthens, fear kills. Hope is a major theme that Lilo Abernathy explores in her novels and The Light Who Binds has further illuminated the subject for me.  What happens when what we fear is hope?  In my last post on this subject, I cited the poet James Richardson who wrote that a pessimist fears hope while an optimist fears fear. What does it mean to fear hope and what the hell should we do about it? 

In The Light Who Binds, there are a lot of opportunities for hope. Blue hopes that Jack will become deconflicted and admit that he has romantic feelings toward her. Jack hopes that Blue will be able to forgive him when she finds out what he's been keeping from her all this time. Daylight Vampires (the good guys) hope that Blue will turn out to be the savior of their race so that they can avoid being damned to the Plane of Fire. Gifted humans (those with magical abilities) hope that Norms (non-magical humans) will stop persecuting them and learn to live in peace. Blue hopes that she will be able to meet everyone else's hopes. There is a lot of hope being bandied about. But no one is particularly happy about it. 

So it seems I'm going to contradict myself, for those of you keeping score in a less than generous mood. If you are more charitably inclined, I'm going to refine my arguments (of course, few of us are allowed to refine or change our minds these days--if we said something or did something--anything--that was recorded for posterity no matter how long ago, we are now forever being held to that position or belief in perpetuity. God forbid our thinking should be allowed to develop without our being accused of being a total hypocrite—(but I think I've strayed fairly far afield again, sorry). Hope strengthens, fear kills, except when fear of hope is justified and letting go of hope--without falling into despair--is sometimes the thing to do.

Are you baffled yet, 'cause I'm making my own head spin. Let's take this one step at a time. I think what I'm saying is that like love, we can sometimes unclench the fist we've wrapped around our hope and let it fly away. If it comes back, it's ours forever. If it doesn't, it never was. For example, Blue loves Jack. But she's gotten her hopes up so many times, only to have them dashed against the cliffs of Jack's ambivalence and unwillingness to commit his feelings one way or the other, that she is afraid to hope that things might change. Such hope is painful and sets up a roller coaster of feelings that could leave anyone feeling weak and nauseated. But rather than falling into despair, Blue charts a different, more effective course (if efficacy is measured in terms of whether she gets what she wants with the least amount of drama and extremes of emotion). Blue decides, or is somehow able, to accept that circumstances are not what she'd prefer in the moment, and she's not going to invest a lot of energy in future expectations that may not be met, but she will be content to let the potential unfold the way it will. This approach is much like I imagine Zen to be (I'm not much of a Zen girl, although I do aspire to a more balanced and even-keeled existence--except when I prefer to pay the price of ridiculous highs with the counterweight of abysmal lows--I'll keep you posted on how that all works out for me; I know you're waiting with baited breath).

So Blue is neither hopeful nor fearful. And she’s not in despair. She's taking it as it comes. I think I know what that feels like, maybe. I have a brother. He's my only sibling. We were extremely close growing up. We have been estranged for the past twenty years, and had a complete break two years ago when my mother died. For twenty years, I hoped that we could repair our relationship. But every time I reached out to him, it ended badly, with my heart a little more broken by him than it was before. But I refused to let go of my hope that things would improve. I was terrified by that hope; however, because like Pavlov's dog, I had become conditioned to believe that any hope associated with my brother would inevitably lead to excruciating pain shortly thereafter. I'd gotten burned so often I was a hot mess (to paraphrase one of Lilo’s particularly awesome sentences).

How does this story end?  I think I've finally gotten to where Blue hangs out; I accept that the situation is what it is. I have no expectations that the relationship with my brother will improve. On the other hand, if I were convinced that something had fundamentally changed, I could be persuaded to open the door to hope once again and invite it to come in and take a load off.

The lesson here, I think, is that if we can divorce hope from expectation, then we can hold onto hope--which strengthens--and let go of fear--which kills. When we get to the place where we fear that which strengthens us, we need to look at the nature of our hope and question whether it has morphed into expectation, which is just a short hop from making demands. In my experience, demands are rarely met with joyful compliance on the other end. I try to avoid making demands, as success is usually specious, engendering resentment and resistance that inevitably come back to make us regret the whole endeavor.

Have I come full circle?  Can I still say hope strengthens and fear kills?  And can I also say that maybe hope isn't such a schizophrenic bitch, but that expectation masquerading as hope is?  Does this formula work for you?  Do I need to contemplate this subject some more? Perhaps I'll have to wait for the next books in the Fever and Bluebell Kildare series to say for sure. In the meantime, I'll hope to avoid false hope and to embrace its more authentic expression. I'll eschew fear in all its forms to the best of my ability and have faith that I'll be able to recognize all these variations when I encounter them. I’ll choose the audacity of hope and remember that courage is fear that has said its prayers. 

Moves Like Jagger

I saw the Rolling Stones in concert last night in Raleigh, North Carolina. The tickets and the trip were a 50th birthday gift from my beloved husband, who knows how much I love the Stones and Mick Jagger in particular. And let me just say this right up front: I will be eternally grateful that Mick still has great hair and not an ounce of fat on him. He may not be moving like he did when I was seventeen and saw him for the first time at Madison Square Garden, but then again, neither am I. If I'm in half as good shape as he is when I hit my seventies, I will be a happy girl. But I've digressed before I've even started. Toward the end of the concert, Mick told the audience (which was composed of people as old or older than me, some of whom brought their grown children) that when the Stones played Raleigh for the first time, it was FIFTY YEARS ago. Basically before I was born. And that got me to thinking about the nature of longevity and deification, because the Stones have been treated like gods for a very long time now. The Rolling Stones are one of the few bands that have A) lived this long; B) stayed together; and C) are still performing in packed stadiums to screaming, adoring crowds. To me, they offer a lesson in what it must be like to be one of the immortal alpha males of my beloved fantasy novels. I've written about the burden of immortality before here. My thoughts have evolved as a result of seeing actual humans whose lives approximate, in a small way,  characters such as Karen Marie Moning's Barrons, Thea Harrison's Dragos,  and Nalini Singh's Raphael —if these characters actually existed (I think about them like they are real, but I am aware that they are fictional projections created by brilliant authors—no matter how realistic my fantasies may seem—but I’m wandering off the reservation again, aren’t I?).  These [fictional] creatures have lived for thousands of years, were worshiped as gods, and possessed remarkable powers. Kind of like Mick and the boys—with fewer years behind them, of course. Is it possible to come out the other end of that kind of time, power and consistent adulation with any amount of perspective or humility?  Seems like it wouldn't be, doesn't it?

In Ancient Rome,  general celebrated a military triumph with a procession through Rome, the populace stood on the side of the road cheering uproariously.  Amid all of this glorification, however, there was a guy standing just behind that general, whispering in his ear, "Remember thou art mortal."  Talk about raining on someone's parade! But the wet washcloth routine was carefully designed by the same folks who thought of feathers and vomitoriums--you know, so you can have your cake and eat it too-- to ensure that these military superheroes didn't go off the narcissistic deep end. Mostly, they did anyway (can you say "Caligula?"-even though he was an emperor, I know, but Julius Caesar was pretty full of himself too). One has to ask, could anyone stay sane and even a little humble under such circumstances?

There might be a way--a safety valve, if you will. I'm thinking that even when life comes in the extra-large size, both in terms of length and attributes, it also throws enough curve balls at us so that if we have a modicum of common sense, we are forced, sooner or later, to understand that the vicissitudes of fate do not spare the rich, the powerful or the beautiful. Life bites us in the ass every time. The longer we live, the more opportunity for dentition in the region of our backsides.

I'm not saying life isn't grand. For me, right now, it certainly is. I am savoring the sweetness of being in love, being on vacation, having adventures and extraordinary experiences (my husband and I have agreed that the best gifts at this point in our lives are activities not stuff). But the point of this appreciation is that it isn't always like this. Life is often hard, even for the likes of Mick Jagger, who is certainly living an extraordinary existence by any measure. But even Mick is not immune to suffering; he lost his partner to suicide not too long ago, which had to bring him up short. For the likes of Barrons, Dragos and Raphael, the reversals of fortune multiplied in direct proportion to the number of years on this plane. As I've written about before, the deathwatch list for them must be interminable. Such realities keep us humble.  Mostly.

But, as we know from reading misses Moning, Harrison and Singh, not all immortal powerhouses got the humility memo. Many just lose their marbles and become sociopathic nightmares. But hey, that happens to us mortals, too, especially the ones who are lulled into a specious sense of self-importance because they have achieved some measure of success, fame, or influence. They forget that we are given our gifts to use for the higher good, not to inspire the likes of Carly Simon to write songs about our outsized vanity.

I'm thinking the Romans got it right, although maybe not about the group bulimia thing. Remembering thou art mortal, even when it's not true, like for my paranormal alpha gods, is good advice. It's good advice me, and it's good advice for Mick Jagger too, because while he has held up remarkably well, his strut is a little more subdued and his voice has a little less projection than it once did.  He’s got to be feeling the burden of his years, and the inexorable march of time makes everyone humble, even the giants.  Still, I'd give a lot to have the moves like Jagger, for however long his longevity lasts.

Mixing It Up

I'm still enjoying Jennifer Ashley's Shifters Unbound series. The characters are well developed, the world building is interesting, the plots move along nicely and the sex is hot. What more can I ask?  Not much, I'll tell you. In Ms. Ashley's world, there are several varieties of shifters, including Feline (cats), Lupine (wolves) and Ursine (bears). Each variety is a souped-up combination of species found in the wild, so each type of shifter already represents a mix. Then, when the shifters are brought in from the wild, they begin to mix with each other and with humans. Talk about your blended families.  This mixology got me thinking about the difficulties that ensue when people from different countries, cultures, religions, races, and ethnicities get together and try to make a go of marriage or committed relationships. I remember my mother warning me about the challenges of interfaith marriage (I don't think she could have contemplated an interracial marriage).  She told me that marriage is hard and requires a lot of work. She said that coming from different religions just makes it harder. I think I was five when we had this conversation. 

Fast-forward about twenty-five years, and the gist of what she was talking about began to make sense. My husband and I had a little Green Acres action going on (I know I'm dating myself with this reference to sitcoms from the seventies, but you already know how old I am). I grew up on Park Avenue in Manhattan. My husband grew up in rural Washington State, in a locale whose claim to fame was that it was first in line to get ashed when Mt. St. Helens erupted. My apartment building had a larger population than his hometown. Suffice to say that we had some differences in our experiences, our approach to life, our respective cultures, religions, you name it. And yet, while we had almost nothing in common on paper, we had everything in common that counted. Still do, in fact.

This phenomenon of mates who come together not in spite of their differences but because of them is a common trope in paranormal fantasy. In Jennifer Ashley's world, it's relationships between Felines and Lupines, but also between shifters and humans. In many of my amazing paranormal fantasy books, humans mate with all sorts of paranormal creatures and the supernaturals mate inside and outside of their own kinds. Interestingly, in many of these series, Ms. Ashley’s included, interspecies marriage is illegal (also in the Sookie Stackhouse series, where vampires and humans are not allowed to marry). I’m sure this is a commentary on what was the law of the land, but is no longer.  I wonder, given the Supreme Court’s landmark decision, whether this new reality will be reflected in my beloved fantasy books.  I bet it will.  But I digress.  Again.

Back to mixed marriages and all the questions they engender. To begin, what will they raise the kids?  Jennifer Ashley handles this question with aplomb, saying that if two kinds of shifters make a baby, the "cub" becomes the dominant form of shifter. In most of these books, however, interspecies breeding is rare, so when it happens, it’s usually an event that progresses a book plot. In some series, it's not possible for disparate species to make babies, so problem solved. In the real world, it’s a little less cut and dried when questions about how to honor and respect the heritage, history and customs of various cultures, beliefs and traditions need to be negotiated. For interfaith unions, there is the "December Dilemma." Do we celebrate Christmas, Hanukah or both?  Passover, Easter or both?  Or, do we do nothing and let the young ‘uns figure it out for themselves? How do we keep from confusing the children? Or ourselves? What about keeping multiple languages alive for the next generation?  Or teaching multiple history lessons at home?  Not to mention the faux pas we make when we don't fully understand or assimilate our mate's social mores or vocabulary into our everyday lives (have you ever heard a Gentile try to pronoun common Yiddish words and phrases?  Oy vey).  The whole thing is exhausting. And it can certainly lead to discord.

In my own household, even after more than two decades together, my husband is still dismayed when I pop the last bite of food in my mouth and there is none left for him. I assumed if he wanted some, he would have taken some off my plate. He expected me to offer. On the other hand, he’s consistently incredulous that I haven't yet learned that interrupting him to anticipate the end of his sentences is not an expression of my interest and love, which it is for me. For him, it's just rude and annoying. Go figure.

And then there is the issue that no matter how much we love each other and no matter now much we learn about each other, there are still aspects of ourselves that our partners may appreciate, but will never truly relate to. My husband is still slightly horrified by my misspent youth in 1980s New York City, while I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that he lived in such a homogenous town he had to travel at least an hour before he might encounter someone with skin darker than his, or someone who didn't worship Jesus. Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn't it?  

And sometimes, no matter how much we love our mates, we need to be with our peeps. You know, the ones who get us, not just because they love us, but because they lived our reality.  We may not even know these folks a long time but we feel an instant connection with someone and then bonded over similar geographic or cultural backgrounds. I love it when meet someone of my own species, New Yorkus Privilegus . It’s nice not to have to explain things sometimes,

So, paranormal fantasy authors gets it right when they explore the challenges and humor associated with dating and mating outside one's own tribe. The rewards are many, the least of which is avoiding having a family tree with no branches, but which also include expanding our horizons and perspectives and creating something unique and precious together. As always, we must ask ourselves, is the cake worth the bake?  If the love is strong and both partners have the courage of commitment, then yes, yes it is. If one or the other participant is weak, it may not work out so well. In the end, mixing it up may not be for everyone, but it’s amazing that everyone may now have the right to decide what works for each of them.

The Coin of the Realm

I'm still listening to the Black Dagger Brotherhood and once again, I was struck by the wisdom of JR Ward.  I'm listening to Lover Enshrined, Phury's book. Phury, IMHO, is one of the greatest characters ever written. He is so complex and so well developed I am sure he exists somewhere out in the world. Except he's a vampire and a member of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, so maybe not. But despite being a badass who lives in a mansion existing at the pinnacle of the social pile, Phury has had a difficult life. And those difficulties have left scars that no amount of health, wealth, friends, family or status can smooth over. Phury is a hot mess, and, in Lover Enshrined, we become privy to his devolution and descent into the abyss of addiction and self-destruction.

The way JR Ward describes the reasons behind Phury's addiction and the inevitable progression of his disease makes me think she has some experience in this arena. So do I, but that will be a topic for another post. What captured my attention today is a line where Phury is thinking about his existence and believes that, "life was a coin that had disaster on one side and waiting for disaster on the other."  I could relate.

Suffice to say that when Phury talks about life being either disaster or waiting for disaster, he knows what he's talking about. All children who live with addiction and neglect take on a certain measure of waiting for the other shoe to drop. But living under the sword of Damocles is a very difficult and draining way to live. All that waiting and worrying and peering upward or over our shoulders screws with a person's head.

I should know. For much of my life, I spent my time in the same useless place—living in disaster or waiting for it to hit. Such a way of life sucks the joy out of every moment. Because I couldn't be in the moment when I was distracted by my own misery or the certainty that misery was just around the corner. For a a lot of my childhood, I was justified in my wariness. Life with my mother was no party, I can assure you. But eventually I grew up and interacted with the source of my insanity only when I chose to do so. As an adult, my mother didn't control my thoughts, words or deeds. Except she did. She had taught me to expect bad things to happen, and to paraphrase Henry Ford, whether you think something bad will happen or you don't, you're probably right. 

We can waste our whole lives waiting for Godot, or disaster. I thought I had made progress with this particular problem, only to be reminded of how insidious the lessons we learn as children can be. As you know (cause I've talked about it ad nauseum), I turned 50 three weeks ago and planned a party. Yay me. In fact, and again, as you are all more than aware to the point of being thoroughly sick of it, I had prepared long and hard for this milestone, physically, emotionally and spiritually. I was feeling good—dare I say, even joyful. I was embracing my new status as a card-carrying member of AARP and reveling in the blessings of age while trying—more or less successfully—to stave off the worst of the inevitable melting thighs and jiggling arms. Life was good. I had stopped waiting for disaster. 

So, of course, that's when it came. A few days before my big party, one of our dogs bit my husband on the nose (this was my husband's fault for putting his face near the dog's mouth—he's a great dog, in fact). Well, to make a long story short enough to prevent your eyes from glazing over, the dog bite became horribly infected and was not responding to any antibiotics. This was not good. In fact, it was disastrous. I hadn't taken my umbrella. So it rained. 

I was angry. I was disappointed. I felt betrayed by the Universe. I had actually let go of waiting for the other shoe to fall and had some faith that I could be unreservedly happy—for just a little while at least—and my world came crashing down around my ears with portents of becoming a young widow and facing single parenthood (yes, I totally went there).

And as I pondered the coin that is my life and railed against the gods for dangling joy in front of my face, only to have it snatched away like some sadistic asshole teasing a dog with a bone he'll never have, someone told me a story that shifted my whole perspective. It's a Zen story about the tigers and the strawberry. Essentially, some poor shmuck ends up being chased by tigers over a cliff. He catches himself on a branch protruding from the side of the mountain, but realizes he won't be able to hold on for long. When he looks down, he sees a long drop and another tiger waiting at the bottom of the cliff. But he also notices a perfect, plump, ripe strawberry growing out of the side of the mountain. He reaches out and plucks the strawberry, savoring its sweet taste.

This is a powerful story about living in the moment and wresting everything we can from life by being present to the reality of our lives as it is RIGHT NOW. In the moment, my husband wasn't dead, or in the hospital, or disabled, or battling a protracted illness. In the moment, I didn't have to cancel my party or our upcoming vacation or life as I knew it. In the moment, my friends all came to celebrate with me and show their love, and I was able to receive all of it. In the moment, though, I wasn't completely there—because I was so distracted by the tigers, I couldn't fully appreciate the sweetness of the strawberry. I was Phury and his blasted coin of disaster.

I don't think I'll be spoiling anyone's experience by saying that Phury eventually overcomes his affinity for disaster and finds his own personal HEA, which for him involves hitting rock bottom and then overcoming his addiction, finding true love and fulfilling his destiny. Phury trades his coin of disaster in for a different currency—one of hope and faith and peace. I need to find a new ATM. 

The Lullaby of Letting Go

There's an adage I love that says that nothing I've ever let go of didn't have claw marks on it. There's another that tells us that we must let go or be dragged  (anyone who's water skied knows that one). Why is to so very hard to let go, once we've got ahold of something, whether it's a person, a job, an idea or philosophy, a situation, stuff, etc.?  Why do we hold on well past the expiration date of relationships gone bad, situations that have begun to stink with decay and possessions that have turned the tables and now possess us, rather than the other way around? In the fifth installment of the Black Dagger Brotherhood, Lover Unbound, there’s one of those scenes that is so real, it's like a splash of cold water to the face. To the point where I felt the need to check my makeup to ensure I didn't have raccoon eyes from the drip. Sometimes, I completely forget I'm reading paranormal fantasy. So even though the scene in question involves a dead woman deciding whether to leave Limbo and ascend to heaven by letting go of her earthly love, the emotions were so raw and so real, I felt like I was that character, struggling with how to let go the ties that bind her to her love, knowing that she needed to do it, but having no idea how.

How many of you have been there?  God knows I have, more times than I care to count. Because even if the will is there, or at least the intellectual understanding that the time has come to pry our fingers loose, sometimes the letting go just doesn't happen. This is where misery comes to visit—sometimes for a long time.

I can't be the only one who tells myself that I'm going to be ruthless about spring cleaning and that I’m going to throw or give away all the stuff I haven't used in a year, only to have a pathetically small pile at the end of the day. Because, you know, I might fit into that fabulous little black dress that is definitely too little for me these days sometime in the unspecified future. And I know I'm not the only one who used to make deals with myself, and also my friends, that if he put me down one more time, I was going to tell him it's over, only to find myself making excuses so that I didn’t have to make good on my promises to let go. 

The truth is I'm not very good at letting go, but in my defense I don't actually understand the mechanics of the whole experience. Luckily, I have JR Ward to teach me life lessons that she puts in the mouths of ghosts and vampires. Ms. Ward tells us that letting go means accepting what cannot be changed without any hope or expectation. Letting go, according to JR Ward, means acceptance without bargaining or trying to control outcomes. It means accepting that love doesn't necessarily conquer all, life isn't always fair, and the good guys don't always win. These are tough truths to swallow, even when they are sugar-coated in some of my very favorite fantasy stories. 

Letting go is hard. No two ways about it and no getting around it except for through it. I hate that. It’s getting to the place where we can look at reality with the scales fallen off our eyes and accept what is in front of us to see without thinking there is any escape from reality. Getting to a place where we can let go is a process. For me, it's an expression of grace, something I cannot will myself to do, that comes when it comes, on someone's timeline not my own.

If I were a Vulcan, it would probably be easier. I could apply my not-inconsequential intellectual skills to completing a cost/benefit analysis on should I stay or should I go now. And then do whatever logic dictates is the best choice. Because if I go there will be trouble, and if I stay it will be double. Go, it is. Except it doesn't work quite as cleanly as The Clash would have us believe. It's not always a matter of the mind, but rather a total eclipse of the heart (OK—no more song lyric references—I've been watching too much Lip Sync Battle, apparently). We get attached and stay attached. Like barnacles on the bottom of a boat. We need to be scraped away from that which no longer serves us, painful and messy as that can be.

But the payoff is Divine.  The payoff is serenity. The payoff for letting go is peace.  It is the most beautiful lullaby I’ve ever heard, lulling me to a place of deep surrender and harmony.  The price is high, but the reward is worth it.

It’s sad but true that everything I let go of has claw marks on it.  Even though I know that it’s something I need to do and that I will feel glorious when I actually manage to do it.   On the other hand, acceptance and letting go are not for the faint-hearted. This is the stuff of epics, don't kid yourself. Take it one day at a time and ask for help. I certainly do. In fact, I'm going to finish this post and go back to my current life coach, JR Ward, and get all the help I can get. That lady knows from whence she speaks. She's as real as they come, imbuing all her fantasy with ground truth. I'm holding onto that. 

The Burden of Beauty

I've spent my whole life wanting to be beautiful and not making it. In my mother's world, the one where I spent my formative years, being beautiful was all that really counted—followed closely by being rich, which being beautiful would inevitably achieve. In the world according to my mother, it was never too early to start planning for plastic surgery (she dragged me to have my nose fixed when I was 15), watching my figure like a hawk (which resulted in my developing a major eating disorder), and happily shelling out ridiculous sums of money for couture clothing while balking at buying me a computer for school. The bitch of it  (besides her) was that I never did live up to her standards of beauty and I was therefore always a disappointment to her.  So imagine my surprise as I'm reading the eighth installment of Darynda Jones' entertaining Charley Davidson series, Eighth Grave After Dark, when Ms. Jones introduces the idea that beauty can be a burden, something that is undesirable and even annoying (to be fair, this may not have been the first time she introduced the idea, but maybe the first time I was able to hear it). In the series, Charley, a supernatural being of great power, cleverly disguised as a rather flighty private investigator, falls in love with the ultimate bad boy (about whom I've written here), the son of Satan, a man of impossible beauty named Reyes Farrow. Reyes is smoking hot. As in literally—he burns with the fires of Hell. But he's also figuratively sizzling, with temperatures approaching asphalt in Death Valley in July. Men want to be him. Women want to be with him.

The way Darynda Jones describes him, Reyes can't go to the restroom without throngs of women throwing their thongs at him. Ladies lose IQ points as well as their ability to speak coherently when Reyes walks into the room. And he can cook!  Not to mention his sexual prowess. Sounds like a fairy story, right? Right. But the interesting part of this cautionary tale involves the fact that for Reyes, his beauty is definitely a liability rather than an advantage. He has no interest in the female interest he generates, because he only has eyes for one woman—the one he came to earth to claim, Charley. He doesn't even glance at other women, not even in the "I may be happily married but I'm not dead" sense of the word. And when there is no possibility of these women's attentions being returned, it's like finding out your secret crush is gay. Huge bummer—for the women, that is.

As I have no real idea what it would be like to be so beautiful that men fall over themselves when they behold my visage, I'll have to use my imagination and consider what a day in the life of Angelina Jolie must be like. It seems like the problem with beauty is that it's hard to see beyond it. I mean, you've got to feel sorry for Brad Pitt—yes, he gets to have sex with Angelina Jolie, but no one really takes his acting as seriously as he'd like because he's just too pretty to be talented. I think folks assume that when God gives out the goodies, it would be too unfair to heap too much goodness in any one place. In fact, female actors who hope to garner Academy Awards have to go ugly—think Halle Berry in Monster's Ball or Charlize Theron in Monster—are we sensing a theme here?

Beauty can also be a crutch, a shortcut someone uses to avoid working too hard or expending too much effort beyond making sure hair and makeup are looking fresh and crisp. Humans are attracted to beauty, defined by our lizard brains as symmetry, because being balanced apparently signals strong genetic stock, suitable for breeding and passing along our DNA to the next generation. So beautiful people get stuff the rest of us don't.

I remember during my misspent youth that my friends and I would go to the New York clubs like Area and Studio 54 and try to get in.  And some guy would be standing above the multitudes, looking down and choosing who can come in and who would get kicked to the curb, stranded on the sidewalk because they weren't good looking enough to warrant entry. I had one friend (she's still my friend) who would come to visit from LA and inevitably, when she was with me, we'd get picked to go in. I was always grateful, but also wistful that I didn't have that kind of mojo. 

I have another friend who dislikes getting any sort of compliment or comment on her appearance because she feels that by focusing on her physicality, others are dissing her spirit. I'm not sure I agree with her, but it's an interesting point. I do agree that there is far too much focus on our physical appearance and not enough on our characters and our personalities. Not to mention my personal favorite, our intelligence in all its aspects—academic, emotional, cultural, street smarts, common sense, etc. How we look has no bearing on any of that, except that a good brain can sometimes provide work-arounds for less-than-beautiful areas of our physical selves (a good sense of style and knowledge of hair products are key here).

So, all in all, it's hard to say whether beauty is a gift or a curse or both. I think the most difficult aspect of beauty must be the prospect of losing it. Beauty fades. Character endures. Sometimes, as in my mother's case, the wilting of her rose over time meant her useful life was over (in her mind). It was very sad to watch her wither and withdraw into herself, as she perceived her looks to diminish and finally disappear altogether (in fact, she was more beautiful as a mature woman than she'd been as a young woman, but she never saw that, sadly).

So, I think my mother was dead wrong, and there is so much more to life than what we look like. I aspire to be beautiful to my husband, but behind that, I can't see that it makes much difference. I like to take care and pride in my appearance, but that reflects my sense of self respect and self worth more than a need or desire to be attractive to others. And, as I never achieved true beauty in this lifetime, I'll thank Ms. Jones for the object lesson on the pitfalls of being Brad Pitt. Or Reyes Farrow. And I'll be grateful for the perspective and truth I continue to find in my beloved fantasy books. 

The Politics of Prejudice

I'm enjoying a new author, Jennifer Ashley, and the first book of her Shifters Unbound series, Pride Mates. It's light and airy, mostly, and the perfect antidote to the marvelous but depressingly heavy Robin Hobb trilogy I just finished. But even when an author colors inside the lines of the paranormal fantasy genre, as Ms. Ashley does (and this is not at all a criticism, I read these books with a certain expectation of knowing what to expect), there is a depth to the best of the genre that transcends the stereotypes of strong, independent women, hot alpha males, hotter sex, and inevitable HEAs. In this case, Ms. Ashley writes about beautiful people, who happen also to change into feline and lupine alter egos (or alter bodies, really), and the decidedly not beautiful consequences of prejudice that attend their ability to transform. Ms. Ashley is not the first to explore the ugly underbelly of human hatred and the small mindedness of judgment before the fact attendant to the “other” in our society. Charlaine Harris explores the consequences of racial discrimination against the newly revealed vampires living among humans and what happens when vampires "come out of the coffin."  The inimitable Laurell Hamilton writes movingly about the prejudice experienced by those unfortunates who have been stricken with lycanthropy (the disease that causes a human to shift into a beast), and who now have no option but to let their animal natures out to play, and maybe to kill. Patricia Briggs expounds on the systematic internment of the Fae into mandatory reservations and the consequences of that decision by the federal government against an element of the population. Lilo Abernathy investigates, as a central theme of her Bluebell Kildare series, the civil unrest that occurs as a result of the antipathy between "norms," or non-magical humans, and their Gifted counterparts.

In each of these cases, the author explores the universal human need to identify a group, "them," for the sole purpose of more clearly defining "us." What a shame and a waste. But we humans do it again and again. That which is not "us" is, by definition, "them." Those who are "them" are, by extension and necessity, evil or, at a minimum, worse than "us." They are who we use to make us look and feel better about ourselves.

Are we hard-wired to hate? It seems so. Hatred of the other, which I've written about before, gives us unity, camaraderie, and a sense of shared purpose. It makes us feel like we belong—but it is a perversion of fellowship and community, not an authentic expression of fellowship. This phenomenon of human existence also serves to help some of us feel superior to others. We do this in a bizarre and seemingly nonsensical way (as if prejudice could ever have any basis in logic or reality, which makes makes sense in a twisted way, if you know what I mean).

In all of these distasteful scenarios, and quite explicitly in the world of Shifters Unbound, the non-human, supernatural beings are considered less than human. These are not beings with full rights because they are not considered full persons. They, like American slaves, along with Jews, gypsies and homosexuals in Nazi Germany before them, are fractional people, so that more than one is needed to make a whole. What a concept. Personally, I have trouble wrapping my mind around it, which is a good thing and I won't expend too much effort trying. It's not clear to me how someone or more than one someone, can look at a living, breathing entity in front of them who has two eyes, ears, arms and legs just like they do, whose faces form smiles and frowns and whose voices speak truth and beauty just like theirs do, and see them as less than human.

As you know, I love the world of paranormal fiction because it allows authors to explore ideas and philosophies in an exaggerated way to make their points. In Jennifer Ashley's world, shifters are herded into ghettos called Shiftertowns in different cities. These are analogous to internment and refugee camps or Native American reservations. After all, we need to keep them contained and accountable. If they are all forced to live in one place, we'll know where to find them, won't we? And then we’ll be able to control them, and isn't that what this little exercise in fear and prejudice is all about?  This way of thinking is very warped, but seems to be prevalent, nonetheless. In Pride Mates, not only are shifters forced to live in Shiftertowns, they are also forced to wear magical collars that supposedly keep their beasts in check. Talk about taking control to the next level. 

And, while the shifters (or any disenfranchised population) is corralled into ghettos and forced to wear symbols of their status, their captors (those would be the humans) like to practice deprivation. In Pride Mates, shifters aren't allowed access to cable TV or high-speed internet (controlling access to information, presumably), and they are not allowed to hold any job where they might come into physical contact with human (gee—not even as manicurists?).  This deprivation is partly preventive, because it ensures that the dominated population can never become too rich or too powerful, but it’s also punative—a punishment for being less than—as if those who are denigrated in this way have any choice in the matter. And while deprivation might serve to keep the population down, physically and psychologically, it is also, as we’ve seen time and again, a recipe for fomenting discontent and rebellion. Stupid is as stupid does.  Again, I’m talking about the humans in this scenario.

Because, of course, all of this says a great deal more about “us” than it does about “them.”  Anyone who would subjugate a population just because it’s different or because they can doesn’t actually deserve to be called human, at least in my book. People who enslave, or imprison or degrade others to prop themselves up are the beasts, the savages, the ones unworthy of the status of personhood.  That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to live or to do as they want—as long as what they want doesn’t involve putting and keeping others down. So, along with my light and airy read, my paranormal fantasy also provokes deep and meaningful thoughts.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Look at Me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Catalysts and Sacrifices

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marking the Mid-Century

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Freaks and Geeks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours, Mine and Ours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Queens Rule

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Power of Purpose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plain Talking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Magic of Mothers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Escape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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