If It's Not One Thing, It's Another

Life has gotten in the way. I'm quite behind on my reading and my writing. New job, kids home for the summer, new toys to play with and fix.... It's all good, but it's wreaking havoc with my schedule and my routine. I'm also sad. I hate to be interrupted when reading the next book in Shayne Silver's Nate Temple supernatural thriller series. But life didn't ask me before it kept me away from Beast Master, which is gearing up to be the most compelling book so far, and the message of the story resonates; if it's not one thing, it's another. I know I'm dating myself when I remember Rosanne Rosannadanna, the hilarious character created by the inimitable Gilda Radner on Saturday Night Live. Rosanne was known to go off on tangents and when questioned about the relevance of her comments to the topic at hand, she would state that, "It just goes to show you, if it's not one thing, it's another."  So true. For Gilda, who died too soon, for Nate Temple, whose troubles never seem to end (thankfully), and for the rest of us too.

Nate can't seem to come up for air before another mishap befalls him. In this excursion, he must wrangle the Beast Master who runs a supernatural fight club where contenders don't volunteer and often don't leave the arena alive. On top of that, Nate's fiancée is AWOL and his powers have been constrained. He's a one-armed paperhanger in a house with '70's decor in desperate need of an upgrade. No rest for the weary and he's not even getting weekends off. Life is hard for our hero. He's overworked and underpaid. This is a guy with plenty of resources and advantages at his disposal. And yet, not even Nate can catch a break. If he's in such dire straights, where does that leave the rest of us? …Up Shit Creek without a paddle, jumping out of airplanes without a chute, and dealing with our mothers without Valium (okay, maybe that last one is my personal issue). Actually, it leaves us smack dab in the realm of reality—truth in fantasy strikes again.

While none of us is dealing with supernatural politics and battling various über villains, Nate's fate reflects our own. For all of us, if it's not one thing, it's another. The pipe bursts and the septic system overflows. Or our kid popped one of his brackets off his teeth and needs to get to the orthodontist, STAT. Or the dog is scooting her butt on the floor and needs her glands expressed. Or our co-worker was called away on a family emergency and twelve hour days won't even begin to cover the workload. The car died. The computer exploded with no back up, the fridge is on the fritz, and the air conditioner is out.  My best friend is in crisis at the same time Jehovah's Witnesses ring my doorbell and spy me through the glass so I can't hide.  Calgon, take me away. Or, if a bubble bath is not available, a stiff drink will do in a pinch. Sometimes, it feels like my head is swiveling 360° and that green pea soup is about to spew from my mouth. I warn my loved ones to stand back while I have a breakdown and bemoan my fate. And then I take a step back and try to get some perspective (with more or less success, depending on the day – and the time for a bubble bath… or a drink).

I'm freaking lucky to have family and friends, a job and a car, a computer, a fridge and an air conditioner.  I'm blessed to be a homeowner and a mother to boys and dogs alike. My life is full, full, full -- sometimes overly so, but then I tell myself to suck it up, Buttercup (like Nate, I often talk to myself. And I answer too!).

A full life sure as shit beats the alternative.  There is no life lived to capacity that isn't overflowing with stuff going sideways sometimes. Kids pop brackets, computers explode, cars die. It's the way of the world, the signs of a life well lived.

We could sit at home and eat frozen dinners and watch TV or play video games and if we can make the rent, well, we wouldn't have to worry about too many distractions in our small little world. But to that I say, fuck no. Give me the troubles with the joy, the pizza with the reflux and the democracy with the Donald. ‘You pays your money and you takes your chances.’ And sooner or later, the wheel of fortune spins again, and you're on top again… at least for a while.

But don't get too comfortable. Because remember, if it's not one thing, it's another. That's life. And if you don't believe me, just ask Nate Temple.

Using Our Power for Good

I'm still thinking about Shayne Silvers' Silver Tongue, one of the Nate Temple supernatural thriller series. The book explores some deep themes, as I wrote about last week, and I'm still exploring its depths. In this post, I'd like to discuss reliance on one aspect of our power—whether that be supernatural power or the more mundane like beauty, brains or brawn. It's an interesting issue, and a bad habit to which many of us succumb. As Nate Temple tells us, "When you know you can use your powers to get what you want, you can very easily find that you are using it for every single situation. You need to use your mind, values, morals. Your power isn't the be-all, end-all." From the mouths of fictional characters... easier said than done, Master Temple.  I was a physically unattractive child, all gangly limbs, sharp angles and a nose that earned me the lovely epithet, "Pinocchio."  My childhood was super fun. Not. Anyway, as an ugly duckling, it fell to me to observe the pretty girls, the petite beauties with upturned noses and perfect hair, who knew from an early age how to work their looks to achieve their goals. A bat of an eyelash here, big puppy dog eyes there, a flirtatious grin, a seductive glance. These girls knew exactly what they were doing to capitalize on their assets. I envied them so much it hurt.

But I noticed something else as the green-eyed monster was devouring me from the inside out. I noticed that because I wasn't so pretty, and therefore somewhat invisible to boys and many adults as well, I was forced to rely on other assets. I didn't have beauty, but I was smart. My intelligence garnered me all sorts of accolades, leading to achievement and success. I slowly realized that if I had to choose, I was much more content with brains over beauty, because I could use my mind to get what I wanted. And I did.  

Athletes rely on their bodies to go where they otherwise couldn't (I'm watching my sons' friends earn admittance to colleges well beyond their intellectual capacity as a result of their skill on a lacrosse field). These boys and girls and men and women are learning that their physicality is the golden ticket and they work it. I totally get it.

But each of us—beauty, brains and brawn—can be more unbalanced than Donald Trump talking about the mayor of London. Speaking from my own experience, I'm usually convinced that everything is “figure-out-able,” as Marie Forleo claims. I can attack any problem with my big brain and it will bow down to my intellectual superiority. Well, maybe not so much. I've gotten into serious trouble by using only the top twelve inches of my body. I forget about my heart, my values, my morals, as Nate Temple warns. This can be a problem and lead to ridiculous and dangerous outcomes.

I can think myself into justifying anything. I'm very persuasive, especially in the confines of my own head: just one more cookie; that street looks kosher; I don't need to study anymore for that exam; just this once. We've all been there, done that, some with better results than others. The biggest problem with only having a hammer, be that beauty, brains or brawn, is that everything looks like a nail. Even if it's a fragile flower. Over reliance on one characteristic or attribute leads to laziness and mediocrity, if not worse.

It also leads to our building up one set of muscles at the expense of all the rest. Imagine what we'd look like if we only did biceps curls at the gym. Or we only did squats. Eventually, we would look weird or even grotesque. Here, like so many other places, balance is the special sauce on the Big Mac of our lives. Without it, we taste like shit.

For me, I had to make the perilous eighteen inch drop from my head to my heart, allowing more than the facts to influence my actions. I also learned rather late, unfortunately, that even a big brain is housed in a decaying body, and if I only paid attention to developing my intellect, the flesh that housed it was going to go the way of all of it.

For those who rely on their looks, well, I'll just mention Cher, Ellen Barkin, Melanie Griffith and Barry Manilow and let you draw your own conclusions. That shit don't last, people, and having your eyes close when you sit down is not attractive. Just say no.

Ditto for the athletes trying to maintain their youth and its attendant strength and endurance. Also ephemeral. And if that is all you have, then you need to plan well. I always feel bad for athletes who claw their way out of poverty with their athleticism, only to burn brightly for a short time with no plan for a future that doesn't include multi-million dollar contracts. Very sad, because like everything else in life, this too shall pass.

And maybe that is the point. Every dog has its day, and all of us have attributes with planned obsolescence. Therefore, it's important to cultivate the characteristics that last, like values and morals. That Nate Temple dude knows from whence he speaks. We should listen. And read. And think. And exercise. And take pride in our appearance even if we're not as beautiful as Venus and Adonis. We should cast our net widely and use all that we have, staying balanced in our approach to life and in pursuit of our goals. It's the way to use our power for good. 

A Good Man

I'm back to the supernatural world of Nate Temple, and glad to be here with Silver Tongue, the fourth book in Shayne Silvers’ series.  The growing complexity of the series is gratifying and this book tackles some of the most complex issues of all: early in the novel someone asks Nate, "What does being a good man mean to you?"  Nate replies, "It's becoming more unclear as the years go by."  This is deep truth—truth in fantasy. As all outstanding fantasy does, Silver Tongue reflects reality, together with a big dose of analytical exploration. What does it mean to be a good man or a good woman? The question brought me up short. Most of us think ourselves to be "good" people, at least deep down. I doubt my readers are comprised of murderers and rapists, kidnappers or professional thieves. So, we can take that kind of black and white definition off the table (this is not to say that those who commit serious crimes cannot be redeemed, but that is a topic for another post). Less clear is whether our essential goodness is irreparably stained by the more mundane transgressions: white lies; cheating in its various incarnations; and less than grand thefts—of the physical and intellectual variety. Most of us are not wholly innocent of such crimes, but do transgressions like these exclude us from the panoply of goodness? I don’t believe so – and if that is the case, then what constitutes goodness in humanity? And what bars us from its ranks? I'm with Nate in believing that the definition of goodness is becoming less clear as the years pass. When I was younger, being ‘good’ meant working hard, being loyal, practicing kindness and behaving generously. All of those attributes are certainly "good," of course. The issues arise when one of those objectives conflicts with one or more of the others. What does it mean to be good when the legitimate demands of work preclude being kind or generous? We can't give away what we haven't got, and work-life balance is highly skewed for so many of us on the hamster wheel of life. What does being a good person mean to us when we have to choose between spending time with our kids or our friends? Our spouse or our parents? Our family or our community? If we're trying to be good, if that is a value for us, where are the guideposts that tell us which sacrifices are the right ones (our soul for a loved one's life, for example), or which choices are good, better and best? I think, as Nate implies, that as we get older and have some life experience under our belts, what it means to be good changes; as we age, things grow more complicated. And while love songs and sitcoms may lead us to the conclusion that good choices have neon signs to identify them, often the choice that would support our claims to goodness can only be found in the rearview mirror. In the moment, when we make the daily choices that constitute our lives and label us as "good" or "bad," there is much less clarity. Fear, frustration, disappointment and impatience can begin to cloud our judgment about what is good. When we can no longer call ourselves young, we may feel that we've been there, done that, and already given away the t-shirt, along with other remnants of a past no longer relevant to the future. When we think we know the situation or circumstances, or our fear projects onto the future events based on the past, we may make less than good choices. If we close down communication with someone we love because we've been hurt previously and that baggage informs our current relationship, that cannot be a choice for good, although we believe it to be so. If we dismiss a friend in need because they've been where they are before and we're all out of fucks to give, we may make bad choices in the name of doing ourselves good.

The question of goodness is complicated. And I believe it is relative. Yes, there are probably some absolute truths out there, but a major milestone marking the passage of years is that we come to realize that we have no way of seeing the big picture in many instances, and we are in no position to judge. Not even ourselves. Although most of us do. And there is very little mercy to be found in the depths of our own minds, particularly when we have turned our attention to our own actions.

So where do we stand on the question of what it means to be a good person? Well, intentions are important, although not definitive. Outcomes are relevant, although not categorical. A sincere effort to do the best we can with the information we have, trying first to do no harm and second to do some good is probably a decent place to start, but it might not be where we end up. In the final analysis, I recommend reading Silver Tongue and meeting me in the comments section for a longer discussion. I'm good with that.

They Really Like Us!

I tried. I did. I intended to read only the first book, just for a little pick-me-up. And then move on to the rest of my TBR list, which is beginning to virtually rival the Empire State Building in height (only because I read on my Kindle). But I couldn't resist. Once I entered the world of the Elder Races, I was hooked—line and sinker—and moved helplessly on to the next and the next. So, here we are with another post inspired by Thea Harrison's amazing books.   The book in question is Storm's Heart, within which we learn about Niniane, the heir to the Dark Fae throne, and her Wyr mate, the Thunderbird Tiago. This is one kick ass couple and the story of their mating as Niniane ascends the throne amidst assassination attempts and disgruntled subjects is storytelling as art. One of the most interesting passages in the book comes as Niniane contemplates what it will take to be queen and thinks about what her old mentor and protector, Dragos (my favorite dragon), would do. Dragos told Niniane that she had "one great flaw when it came to taking the throne."  "You want to be liked," Dragos had warned her. Wanting to be liked is not a helpful characteristic in a leader. It's not the best quality for the rest of us, either, if we want to live a life of integrity and fulfillment. 

Most of us want to be liked. I believe that many of us are stuck in our high school years, where our lives were defined by who liked us and who didn't. The popular boys and girls ruled the roost, while the geeks and freaks hugged the shadows and tried to avoid notice. It was hell. Then, when we grew up, we were shoved into the same situation at work, at the yoga studio (yep, those who can execute a perfect standing split tend to congregate away from those of us whose legs will never make a 180° angle in this lifetime), and even at our kids' schools.

Personally, I learned a long time ago to abandon any hope of being widely liked. My give-a-shit meter has never been particularly sensitive and I've never suffered fools well. Not to mention I have resting bitch face, so when you put all of that together, no one who doesn't know me thinks I'm cute and cuddly. Nope, they think I’m a nasty woman and I'm fine with that. It means fewer people trying to start up a conversation on airplanes or in line. Works for me. Because I know I'm not easily liked (it takes a certain amount of discernment to warm to me, which is perfect for my misanthropic tendencies), I don't care and I don't try. Which also happens to make me a good leader and a strong decision maker. I'm okay making unpopular choices. I'm willing to risk confrontation and others' unhappiness to do the right thing. Or the thing that's right for me, although not necessarily for others. 

But I'm the exception, not the rule. Most folks say "yes" when they'd rather say "no."  They say and do things to please others rather than risk disapprobation and unpopularity. I understand. I'm sure if I'd ever been more universally liked, I would behave the same way. I watch as others volunteer to be class mom and team mom and plan the after-work social and assume extra shifts because someone else is having a bad day. I watch as people do and say outrageous things so that others will see them as generous, as a team player. As nice.

It's good to be nice. It's better to be happy. How many self-help sites and books try to teach us that "No" is a complete sentence? How many of us take on tasks and obligations because we don't want to upset, disappoint or otherwise ruffle anyone else's feathers? We inconvenience ourselves so that others will be spared. We smile and we add just one more thing to our plate. We go against our better judgment and offer to bring the chili to the potluck, even if we don't own a crock-pot. We can go get one. Because then we will be liked. Then we will be a part of the whole.

Except it doesn't work that way. The more we do so that others will like us and approve of us, the more the hole in our soul grows. Far from becoming complete, we deplete our resources and steal time and attention from those who should rightfully expect it, like our spouses and our children, so that someone else can spend time with their family. That shit is just fucked up. 

Living like this breeds exhaustion, burn out and resentment. It’s living a lie. We're too "nice" to refuse to take on one more thing. We're too addicted to being liked to stand up for ourselves and say NFW. And we find that while others may like us, we don't like ourselves too much. Sounds like a problem to me. 

Life is not a popularity contest, reality TV notwithstanding. The truth is that not everyone is going to like us. And we are going to disappoint some people and piss others off. That's okay. The trick is to make sure the person we are disappointing isn't ourselves or a loved one.

I'm not suggesting we imitate the Lord of the Flies. We don't need to revert to life being nasty, brutish and short. But we do need to get and keep our priorities straight. It doesn't matter if we are part of the popular crowd, or how high we climb on the social ladder, as long as we are taking care of ourselves and our loved ones on whichever rung we land.

Niniane learns this lesson early in her story. She realizes that she's not going to make all of the people happy all of the time. Instead, she learned to be strategic instead of sycophantic, fair instead of well-meaning, and effective instead of milquetoast. If she can do it, so can I and so can you. And those who count will still really, really like us.  

A Mother's Love

I know I write about mothers frequently. Mostly, I write about bad mothers because that was my own early experience -- and because the bad or absent mommy is such a reliable trope in fiction – like the classics from the Brothers Grimm to that misogynistic asshole, Walt Disney, and the multitude of dead mothers his stories portray. I get it. As Tolstoy explains, all happy families resemble one another, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Trials and tribulations make for a good story. If it's a paranormal romance, of course, the perils of Pauline give way to a well-constructed happily ever after, so it all works out … eventually. So, back to motherhood. I had a mother. I am a mother. The two experiences are, thankfully, vastly different. Today, I'm going to look to one of my very favorite books to illuminate these issues. Yes, I'm between books and revisited Thea Harrison's Dragon Bound, just because I wanted a guaranteed good time and this book always delivers. Moreover, Dragon Bound touched significantly on the role of (good) mothers in forming us, protecting us and preparing us to leave the nest, so it was apropos over Mother's Day weekend. Mothers give us a legacy of genetics (in the case of biological mothers), of philosophy, as well as a conscious and unconscious transmission of a worldview, our place in it, and the myriad 'should’s" and "should not’s" that color our perspectives for the rest of our lives, whether we accept or reject what we've been taught. In Dragon Bound, the love of Pia's mother is her salvation -- and that which holds her back, which is so often the case.

In the story, Pia's mother was primarily concerned with securing Pia's survival, knowing that she would be a target if her secrets were revealed. To protect her, her mother trained Pia early on, educating her about the dangers of the world and equipping her with walls and safeguards against that which might harm her. Pia's mother had the best of intentions and clearly loved her daughter beyond all measure. But sometimes, in an effort to shield our children from the ugliness of reality, we make the mistake of attempting to prepare the path for the child instead of preparing the child for the path.. And, in so doing, ironically enough, ensure that our progeny will stumble on that path, despite our best preparation. 

As in all the finest fantasy, the depictions of Pia's mythical mother are achingly real. I, too, have worked hard to inculcate the necessary safeguards into the minds and hearts of my sons so that their suffering on this mortal coil will be minimal. But I know that my work will likely help in some ways and hurt in others. Sometimes, the farther we run from pain the faster it finds us. This truly sucks – in both truth and fantasy.

Like Pia's unnamed mother, I've tried to teach my kids to be successful in our world. I've taught them right from wrong and I've also worked to make sure they understand that not everyone plays by the same rules. People are mean sometimes. And as much as I would like to think it's not true, my kids—wait for it—don't always behave wonderfully either. What to do in a situation where our children's problems are overwhelmingly self-inflicted? Clearly, let them suffer the consequences of their actions. And then stroke their hair when they lay their heads in our lap looking for comfort when they find the consequences particularly uncomfortable. Such a fine, fine line. So hard to walk without stumbling ourselves.

I'm pretty sure my mother would have bubble wrapped me and kept me at home throughout my childhood if she'd had the option. And while I understand the impulse, it's one I've resisted over and over. Sometimes, when we make our kids too safe, as Pia's mother tried to do, we cut them off from experiences that would help them stretch and grow and achieve their wildest dreams. If we teach them to be completely risk averse, we also teach them to limit their expectations.

We want our kids to play safely. But playing it safe is not a strategy for a life lived fully, at least in my humble opinion.  Fate favors the bold! And being bold means sometimes falling flat on our faces. Or our asses. Not sure which is worse. But I want to encourage my kids to take chances while shielding them from harm. Oxymoronic, I know. But I can't help myself. I’m a mother.

The thing about parenting is this:  it's a dance. We do our best and hope that our kids will ignore our advice when they should, and take it to heart when it’ll help. Which means that we hope they will be smarter than we were. Most of us want our children to be more successful—however we and they define it—than we are. And we all hope that every decision we make as parents will benefit our progeny. But we, like them, pays our money and takes our chances.

If I can be half as good a mother as Pia's—or even as Pia herself turns out to be -- then I will be content.

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

I've got to begin by being a fan girl for just a few minutes. Guess who I got to meet last week at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention?  Charlaine Harris! Darynda Jones! Molly Harper! And Robyn Peterman! And they were all lovely and wonderful and gracious and totally cool. And funny! They were all exactly who you would expect them to be. Interestingly, all these authors write in the first person, and while they are all different than the characters they've created, of course, their actual voices are remarkably reminiscent of their book voices. Nowhere was this more evident than with the inimitable Robyn Peterman. It must be hard for these authors to have rabid fans come up and tell them how much we love them and how much we enjoy their books. I know they appreciate it, but it must be weird to be accosted total strangers who act like they know you.  But I do feel like I know these women. And I do love them. Especially Robyn Peterman. She is the bomb. And, the convention happened to coincide with the release of her latest Fashionably Dead book, Fashionably Fanged, and while I didn't have a lot of time to read last week, I've been catching up since I got back, and it's just as full of awesome sauce as the rest of this laugh-out-loud series. As with all of her hilarious books, Robyn Peterman's latest offering is funny with an undertone of seriousness. As Ms. Peterman said at the conference, comedy isn't funny unless it also includes pathos. I need my laughs with a side of tears, please. In this case, our heroine, Venus, is a kick ass Vampyre warrior who is part of the monarch's inner circle. She is also a former slave whose entire family was tortured and killed by a sadistic landowner. This horrible human being got his just desserts when Venus, after becoming a Vampyre, terminated him with extreme prejudice. Since then, Venus has been searching for his wife, Claudia, who stood by and watched as Venus' loved ones were slaughtered. Except when Venus finds Claudia, who is also a Vampyre now, all is not what it seemed and forgiveness is the watchword of the day. Venus had already gotten in some practice with forgiveness, as she had also been called to forgive her mate, Gareth, for being a manwhore and for not claiming her earlier. I found myself admiring Venus. She seemed able to let go of anger and truly embrace the adage that forgiveness is letting go of all hope of having a better past. Me, not so much. 

I struggle with forgiveness. Not with the petty stuff;  I'm usually more than willing to overlook that. I'm also not one to hold a grudge, and if someone is sorry and asks for forgiveness, I don't think I've ever denied such a request. Unfortunately, not all of those who have wronged me (or who I think have wronged me) have sought absolution from me. The part I find most challenging about forgiveness is letting go of past actions and moving on when the perpetrator of crimes against me doesn't see that they did anything wrong and/or they keep doing it.

I have three people on my hard to forgive list. They are all related to me, unsurprisingly. Family is where the heart is and where the knife through the heart resides as well. No one can hurt us like those we love, because we are the most vulnerable to those to whom we've given our hearts—or those who claimed them because we can't choose our parents.

You all know about my mother. Narcissistic nightmare. Enough said. I've worked hard to forgive her. To understand that she was damaged and sick and all that stuff. I also understand that my holding onto whatever shit I'm still clutching isn't doing her any harm at all. She's six feet under, and she can't change a damn thing. She was a horrible mother and she scarred me for life. But I want to forgive her. I want to finally, completely and absolutely release all the anger and grief and frustration that she inspired in me. I am not stupid, and I do realize that I will never have the childhood I always wanted and that I will never have a mother who loved me—in any recognizable semblance of that emotion.  What's done is done and let the dead bury the dead—whatever that means. I'm over it. Finally. Thankfully. 

I'm also having a hard time forgiving my brother—my mother's ultimate victim.  He is a disaster and I know exactly how and why he ended up the way he did and why he's done the terrible things he's done. But I can't feel all warm and fuzzy toward him. I don't wish him ill, but neither can I be a part of his life anymore. Continuing to subject myself to his abuse would be masochistic and suicidal and I am neither.

So where do I go with all of this? Like Venus, I can't change my past. But unlike her, neither can I just cozy up to those who hurt me and say, "All is forgiven, let's sing  Kumbaya." My mother has been gone almost four years, and the absence of additional offense has helped mellow my feelings for her. I can't change my past and I won't give her any more of my present or my future. Done. My brother?  Well, he continues to be a heartbreaker, but I think I would forgive him if he asked and if our future relationship diverged from our past. But he has no interest in that. Can I forgive him?  Yes—for the past. Unfortunately, he continues to behave badly in the present and it's difficult to ignore that reality, so the forgiveness needs to be an ongoing activity with him.

And who is the last, most challenging person on my list of those who need my pardon? Me, that's who. I find it almost impossible to forgive myself for my myriad trespasses. All the tasks I failed to perform. The food I eat when I shouldn't. The exercise I don't do. The gossip I don't avoid. The bitching and whining I indulge in far too often.  Every day there are things for which I castigate myself and then continue to self-flagellate well beyond any reasonable expiration date. It's almost impossible to let that shit go, and of course it's by far the most toxic.

And then, ironically, I need to forgive myself for not forgiving myself. And I don't and the cycle continues. Vicious and pointless yet seemingly unending. Sucks to be me. But I'm guessing I'm not alone in all this self-condemnation. For many of us, no one is harder on us than we are. And maybe all that crushing judgement that we heap upon ourselves slides off our own plates and onto those of others we condemn and then fail to forgive. Wow. I'm going deep and dark. Too much pathos and not enough humor. Better get back to Venus and the porno grannies—although I'm going to save those old bats for another post—but don't forget about them, they rock.

Where will I leave this?  Unresolved.  We ask God to forgive us our trespasses, and God knows, I'm not God or anything close to him/her/it. So I will continue to struggle with forgiveness. And I will continue to enjoy reading about these important themes in wonderful books by wonderful authors like Robyn Peterman. And in case I haven't mentioned it lately, writers are my rock stars and Robyn Peterman is the Big Dipper. 

Follow the Leader

I'm almost finished with Grimm, the next book in Shayne Silvers’ Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller series. It's exciting. A lot of bad things happen to our protagonist, billionaire wizard Nate Temple. How he gets out of these messes is still to be revealed and I was hard pressed to put the book down and write this blog. But deadlines are deadlines and here we are. Today I'd like to explore the concept of leadership, what it means, what it requires and its various manifestations. And like Joseph Campbell's hero, when the call comes, many refuse at first. But destiny rarely takes "no" for an answer, and eventually, we answer the call or get kicked to the curb. Nate is a reluctant hero, but when it becomes obvious that he cannot avoid his fate, he steps up to become the leader we hoped he would be at the start of the series. You know I love protagonists who evolve in meaningful ways, who grow up despite desires to the contrary, and who end up ‘adulting’ with the best of them. Nate is such a character. He rises to the occasion to protect his friends and loved ones with little thought or care about the cost to himself.

When I was younger, influenced by a patriarchal society and a mother for whom mature males were the apotheosis of authority figures, I thought all legitimate leaders were old white men. As my horizons expanded, my ideas of leadership morphed to include men and women of all ages and races. Leaders, I came to believe, were serious folks who were appropriately somber when seeking any sort of following. 

I was wrong about leaders and many other notions I've entertained over the years. With respect to leadership, I've learned that there are many styles and approaches, some serious and others more light hearted. And while places like the military and business schools claim that leadership can be taught, I've never found that to be true. I believe leaders are born, not made. And while not all leaders will find opportunities to exploit their talents, there are many in positions of leadership who can fake it all they want, but they will never make it.

Leadership is something you have or you don't. Nate Temple has it. The ability to inspire others to follow him, willingly and enthusiastically. Those who follow know instinctively that their leader will put the cause or the mission, whatever it is—for good or ill—ahead of his or her own needs and desires. A real leader thinks of him or herself as a servant, not a master. Even in the Master Temple's case. In this book, he lives up to his title in the most ironic sense of the word.

And therein lies the rub. Many bad leaders believe that they have been elevated because they are better than those who serve them. Nothing could be further from the truth. A real leader never asks anyone to do something they would not do willingly. A real leader distributes scarce supplies to others instead of keeping them. A real leader fights at the front of their troops, not from the rear. Real leaders are willing to sacrifice themselves for those they lead, both literally and figuratively.

Leadership is sometimes about explicit charisma, but not always. Many leaders are physically gifted as well, with height or beauty or just an aura of power. But this is not always the case, as with spiritual leaders, who are often self-effacing, or unlikely leaders, such as those who rise out of adversity during oppression or war, like Nelson Mandela.

I think there are many of us who fancy ourselves leaders. Perhaps I should only speak for myself here, because I know I think of myself as a leader of men (and women), if only on a small scale. And maybe that is a distinction as well:  leaders both large and limited. I don't see myself as president or as a military general, but I know that I am more likely to be at the head of the pack than at the back. Moreover, I don't follow so well, which places me firmly in the category of chief, not Indian. 

But wouldn't most of us rather ride in the front of the roller coaster?  Or maybe I'm just projecting my own desires on the rest of humanity and assuming everyone is just like me—I am painfully aware that this is far from true. Because the cold reality is that the vast majority of humans live to follow. They follow charlatans and false prophets as easily and often as true leaders because they would rather not have to think for themselves or engage in the often messy business of figuring it out as they go along. Most of humanity takes the road more traveled, by definition. 

Not that I'm judgmental or anything. Of course I am. I am more than willing to follow a worthy leader, but I don't have much respect for those who fall for facile answers and appeals to fear (a certain president comes to mind). I have no empathy for sheep. Or those who feel victimized by their own lack of fortitude. But I digress. We were talking about leaders, real and imagined. I prefer the real kind. Even when they are fictional, as in the case of Nate Temple. Once again, I'm finding truth in fantasy in all the best places. 

Finding Nemo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hole in the Donut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Face of Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Reluctant Goddess

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

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

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

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

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

Head of the Class

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Think, Therefore I Am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Limiting Beliefs

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watch your beliefs, for they become your thoughts.

Watch your thoughts for they become your words.

Watch your words, for they become your actions.

Watch your actions for they become your habits.

Watch your habits for they become your character.

Watch your character for it becomes your destiny.

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

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

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

Coincidence? I Think Not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something from Nothing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Born Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Where My Demons Hide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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