The Grease Cup

Dave and I were talking the other day about the grease cup that we used to keep in the back of the refrigerator. On the outside it may have said Prego or Alpo or Campbell's Soup, but on the inside it was a congealed mixture of hamburger fat and bacon grease. If it had been there long enough, awaiting further contributions, it sported a fuzzy blue coat of mold on top. In a perverted sort of way I guess it represented health: whatever fats had solidified in the cup had not been consumed. Why didn't we dispose of them down the drain while they were still in their liquid form? Because over time the fats clog up pipes—even ones much bigger than human arteries.

Until we were talking about it, I hadn't realized how long it had been since I kept a grease cup in the fridge. Probably not since my meat-and-potatoes-crazed first husband was alive. That would make it more than eleven years now. These days our diet is much more lean.

That isn't the only change that's occurred in the past decade, of course. At the time of their father's suicide my sons called me "Mommy" and held my hand to cross the street; now they are both in college, making their own way in the world. Acting on what I felt to be a true calling, I've written two novels. Over and over. I've started an editing business. I have healed enough to write a memoir about moving on after Ron's death, inspiring me to transcend my anger enough to dare to remember that I was once crazy in love with him. Eleven years ago I thought a 2-mile walk a few times per week was quite the accomplishment; now I walk over 3 miles most days, even in this frigid weather (I'm going for my walk as soon as the thermometer rises above 17). I anted up and remarried, gambling that my unfulfilled relationship dreams might still come true—and won the pot. I traveled abroad for the first time, and looked back to wonder how on earth it was I lived in Bechtelsville PA for a quarter of a century.

I may not have moved, but I have not been stagnant. The grease cup memory reminds me that my life has been in constant forward motion. My life may not be perfect, but I am making better, more healthful choices. That progress can be hard to see on a daily basis; the liquid nature of "the present" won't allow contextual evaluation. Stepping back and looking at a larger chunk of years, though, is like putting the grease cup in the fridge—it's easier to see what's accumulated once your accomplishments have solidified with time. 

I'll have to come up with a new metaphor for examining my next decade, though. The grease cup, like many of my poorer and thankfully outgrown lifestyle choices, is something I'm glad to leave behind.

What to give up this New Year

That's it, I am spread too thin. As I look out over the stretch of time the New Year affords, I think I need to give something up.

My writing? This is a huge time-guzzler and brings in little money, so its worth must be reconsidered, with my husband poised to retire in two months. And in this economy, why bother, anyway? Publishers are further consolidating, bookstores are either closing or dumping inventory, conferences are finding it harder than ever to attract editors and agents seeking new projects. Even established mid-list authors are struggling to get books published. It would seem the world does not, at present, need any "new" published authors. And who needs all that rejection? 

On the other hand, I haven't changed—I'm still a deeply introspective person who needs to shape words and ideas on paper to make meaning of life, and a creative who gets all fired up doing so. Plus, when I'm not dedicated to my writing, I gain weight, as if the scale is indicating that my whole life is weighing on me too heavily. And if I keep writing I might even create an advantage: if the tough economy discourages writers more faint of heart from pursuing publication, and I keep getting better and better during this dry spell, and continue to network and build my audience through public readings, I'll be poised to reap the rewards when things pick up again. And hey—if submissions go down, agents and editors will remember my name more easily!

Hmm...

My editing? Sometimes it seems the editing projects I take on usurp the creative energy I need in reserve for my own writing. Do I want my clients' projects to see publication more than I do my own? I have to admit, sometimes the notion excites me just as much. Should it? 

Yet I have never felt in competition with other writers, because my philosophy is one of abundance: those who are truly called to writing, and are willing to perfect their work to the best of their ability, will see publication. I am perfectly suited to being an editor: I'm a natural teacher, I'm critical and analytical by nature, I enjoy playing the role of cheerleader to developing talent, and I love to read deeply. Each manilla envelope that arrives feels like a gift. 

Hmm...

My volunteerism? I was drawn to membership at my current church because of the way their special music program enhanced the worship service—a program that ended with our former pastor's exit, since his wife led it. 

Now I book the special music, creating performance opportunities for the incredibly talented high school musicians in the Boyertown area, and allowing me to keep up with their progress. I support our pie-baking fundraisers so that I can roll out dough elbow to elbow with vibrant senior citizens who share the most amazing stories. My work with the Greater Lehigh Valley Writer's Group and the Philadelphia Writers Conference has given me valuable contacts that enhance both my writing and editing lives, as well as cherished friendships. I run a monthly book group so I can share my love of reading and support the publishing industry [see our book club's micro reviews, a new feature, at right]. Why would I give any of that up?

Hmm...

My exercise/journaling/healthy cooking? Granted, these take longer and longer as I get older. My metabolism is harder to rev, at 52 early arthritis has slowed my handwriting, and "creative distraction" (not all my writing is done at the computer) contributes to more dropped items, both from my grocery list and in my kitchen. 

But I certainly can't afford to give these up! Without a healthy mind/body/spirit, I have less to contribute to life in every way.

So do I give up...

Life as I know it? I often daydream of getting a job in corporate America. Not because I think a woman stands a chance of corporate initiation at age 52, or because I could for one moment survive in that catty, often demeaning environment, where true creative challenge and doing one's very best are valued less than bottom-line driven subservience and doing "good enough," but because I think it would be so cool to have someone say "I think your time is worth $65K per year plus benefits" (the kind of offer my advanced degree should engender, according to my younger son). I haven't had such a job since I walked out of a health club franchise in 1981, after learning I was the only idiot who actually believed in health and physical fitness—the owner and his managers used the business as a front for dealing drugs. Since then I have owned two sole proprietorships, running them from my home office, and not one dime has come in that I haven't earned through my own marketing efforts. 

But while the self-discipline can wear on me, I do enjoy the flexibility of being self-employed, which allows me to honor both my biorhythms and creative whimsy, and until two years ago allowed me to raise my children the way I saw fit (the memory of which reminds me of what it really meant to be "stretched thin").

You may think I've decided nothing can go—but you'd be wrong. For this one year, I'm going to try something new: I'm going to give up questioning whether the life I've built is the right one for me. I resolve to daydream about my writing projects and marketing efforts, not corporate America. I plan to revel in the way my life as it is currently constructed allows me to give of my talents, earn money and express myself—and once and for all, forgive myself for downsizing my material needs to accommodate that. My guess is, if I give up all that questioning, I'll have a lot more energy for the rich palette of activities that bring such meaning and joy to my life.

Stroke by stroke

I've been waiting to share this fun photo until winter, when readers might feel far removed from the way a sweltering summer sun inspires the desire to cool off in a spring-fed lake. That's me in the photo, swimming the length of Trout Lake, in northern New York. My husband Dave is trailing behind in a canoe with a life preserver—you know, just in case. Off to the left is a loon that both of us saw at the same time. Dave was thrilled that it swam close enough to photograph—the wide-angle view here distorts the distance, it was only about 20 feet away. As you might be able to see by the look on my face, I was a bit less thrilled. After diving beneath the surface, loons can use their large webbed feet and streamlined bodies to propel themselves quickly underwater. You never know where they've gotten to until they bob back to the surface. This is how they hunt for their dinner of fish. Or toes? I was not too eager to see what that spear-shaped beak felt like!

This was the second time I'd swum the 1.6-mile length of Trout Lake. The first was five years ago, when I was 47. Distance swimming might sound like an odd thing to take up late in life. Truth is, I would not have been able to do it before then. 

I remember when I was a teenager and my father rowed the half-mile width of the lake while my three sisters and I swam behind the boat. At the time I was physically active in dance, cheerleading, waterskiing and snow skiing, and should have had every reason to believe I could do it. Much to my shame, however, I couldn't keep up. My Dad had to help me climb into the boat to ride the rest of the way. I dripped onto its floor in defeat; my sisters got the glory. Now, decades later, I can swim more than three times as far. Believe me, it's not because I've applied the last 35 years of my life to practice. I am no better of a swimmer now than I was in my youth. It's not more fierce competitiveness, either—as you can see from the photograph, no sisters. It's just me and the loon.

So how is it that I can do in my 50s what I couldn't physically achieve in my athletic prime? The answer has more to do with patience and self-confidence than heart beats per minute. After surviving my first husband's suicide and slogging through the healing process, I just figured I could do it. I finally understood the way the accumulative nature of effort applies to all disciplines: if I kept my arms moving and my legs kicking, and continue to breathe in and out, I will eventually reach my destination. The metaphor works for any long process, whether renovating a house, writing a novel, or doing grief work.

You'll get there, stroke by stroke.

I like "one stroke at a time" better than "one step at a time" because water molecules have more heft than air; not only am I moving forward, I am physically creating a path for myself by applying my muscles and willpower to part a medium that resists me. I seek change by pushing aside self-pity and denial and any other obstacles standing between me and a joyous reunion with my authentic path in life. Swimming is taxing but so is change; productive change is never achieved without a significant application of effort. In swimming as in healing as in writing, I am using the very medium through which I must move to help me move through it. The water through which I swim buoys me as my legs and arms press against it; the very experiences my grief work requires me to face will help demystify all that frightens me and weighs me down; the words and sentences and paragraphs of my writing will contribute enough meaning and structure to hold me up. 

Swimming, my focus alternates above and below the surface, separating that which is easily seen from that which is hidden. I fear that which is hidden; after all, there are those legends of the Trout Lake monster... but then up pops a beautiful loon. Turns out he wishes me no harm, but simply wants to join the blue sky and ever-green pines and my patient, understanding husband in witnessing my journey.

Grief work isn't a sprint. You won't achieve the same effect if you close your eyes, hold your breath, and make a mad splash to "the other side." I laughed when I found out the Olympic athletes were swimming a mile in 14 minutes; I swim twice as slowly. But with one purposeful stroke at a time, at my own pace and with my eyes open to note the changing scenery along the way, I could eventually turn around and see that I'd gained distance from my starting point, and could appreciate it with new perspective. Its details, once so sharp they could bite, had blurred. Renewed to my task I turned toward the future, reaching for the other side, knowing in my heart that I am capable of reaching my destination...but now wondering if maybe I should slow down a bit, because the journey is so incredibly beautiful.

I think about this picture now as the days grow short. I must walk in frigid weather instead of swim, and when I come home, the cursor blinks at me from a still-empty page. The words are fractious and refuse to be tamed. Yet I know I can do this, stroke by stroke, because my achievements sing to me. I have swum the lake! Not once, but twice, and will no doubt do it again. I will do it to once again experience the grace that comes from facing adversity, the grace that whispers in my ear: "Keep swimming, we're almost there." 

Borrowed Joy, Daily Hope

Ever since I was old enough to reach the mailbox I have always loved checking the mail. It's a little Christmas every day: whose special message awaits inside those envelopes? Since the advent of e-mail, personal mail seems a thing of the past—I'm lucky to get a handwritten signature on a computer generated Christmas card— yet hope endures. Anticipation burbles within me each day as I walk down to the end of my long drive to see what the postman has brought.  

The other day, sandwiched between our bills, a new manuscript to be edited (always a treat!), and the typical influx of holiday catalogs, was an unexpected gift: a 9 x 12 white envelope from the University of Mississippi, addressed to a young woman named Alexis. This was a mistake—her address placed her just over the hill from me, about two miles by road. I had put the envelope back in the box and was raising the flag when red words at the bottom corner of the envelope caught my attention. Important Documents Enclosed: Letter of Admission, Housing Application...

I remembered waiting for my own sons' letters of acceptance to colleges a few short years ago. And before that, awaiting their SAT scores. Awaiting word from my own college applications 34 years ago, and before that hoping that re-taking my SAT had raised my score. But this is only November, I thought, and most schools don't notify until early spring. Mississippi might be one of those schools that markets themselves by sending out fake acceptance letters saying, "Dear High School Senior: This could be you!"

I couldn't help myself. It was just a flat white envelope, after all. Not that I had done anything like this before in my entire life, I pulled it back out of the box, pressed the envelope to the first page beneath, and held it at a slight angle so I could see through it better. 

"Dear Alexis," it began.

Personalized!

"We are pleased to be able to inform you..."

Ooh—it's good news!

"...that your application of admission to the University of Mississippi..."

Oh my gosh, she really applied...

"... has been accepted."

Woohoo! WE ARE IN!!!

I couldn't put that letter back in the box. If it ended up there once, where might it land the next time? How long would this exciting news be delayed?

I ran up the hill to the house and grabbed the phone book. Unfortunately Alexis had a common last name for this area and there were four columns I had to cross-reference for her address. In my excitement, I missed it the first time and had to go through them all again. My heart pounded as I made the call. A girl answered.

I was still panting from my run up the hill. (Note to self: get back to walking regularly.) "Hello, Alexis?"

"Lexie isn't here, she's at work." 

"May I speak with her mother, please?"

"Yeah." The phone clunked down. "MOMMY!!!"

It took the mother several minutes to get to the phone. I kept hearing an odd whacking sound in the background. I heard the woman interrogate her young daughter thoroughly about who it is and what they wanted. I almost hung up.

But it turned out Alexis' mother was thrilled I had called. "No, don't put it back in the mail. We've been waiting for this. Tell me how to get to your house and I'll be over as soon as I get my younger daughter out of her tap shoes."

I took the letter to the end of the driveway and paced until the minivan pulled up, as excited as if the university had flown me in to personally offer a full scholarship. I smiled, shook the mother's hand through the driver's side window, and handed over the letter. I asked where else Alexis had applied.

"University of Virginia and Penn State." As we spoke, the chubby girl in the back seat fought for a moment in the spotlight by lowering her electric window and trying to climb out of the car. Her mother told her to stay put.

"Alexis likes the south, then?"

"Not exactly. She wants to be a forensic scientist, and these schools have the best programs, according to our research. Mississippi is the last to accept her, and her number one choice. I don't know how I'll wait until she gets home."

Without saying a word I reached into the car, pressed the envelope to the page beneath, and tilted it just so before her—and watched my joy spread to a new face. 

Maybe I was so excited because, as a writer, I spend way too much time alone. Maybe it was the fact that the preponderance of my personal mail of late, due to a new flurry of submissions, has been rejection—but Alexis' news buoyed me through the rest of the day. Earlier that day I had never heard of her; now I'd met her mother and her chubby tap-dancing kid sister and I knew she lived just over the hill and worked at the local Wal-Mart. But most importantly, I had been allowed access to her dreams.

Because I have a good memory for emotional highlights I can almost always access remembered joy. And when my own dreams seem so far away that I have trouble sustaining hope, Alexis reminds me that I can latch on to someone else's as they enter one of the pure moments of unadulterated hope life offers us. Like marriage. Birth. Baptism. Graduation. Publication. College acceptance.

I believe that what I put out into the world will come back to me—and who knows, it might just arrive in my mailbox. From now on I'll always think of Alexis as I check my daily mail. The excitement it holds may not even be for me—but hope for one of us is hope for us all.

Do the Right Thing

Every now and then we are blessed with the awareness that we are stepping into our own small moment in history. That happened to me today, when for the first time I went to the polls with my entire family—among us both Republican and Democrat—unified in our intent to vote for Barack Obama.

Should he win, of course, we have taken a role on a much larger world stage. But as a mom trying to raise responsible citizens in the shadow of their father's alcoholism and suicide, it was a notable moment in our family history when today my two sons voted in their first presidential election by my side. These are the same little guys who ran their Matchbox cars down our dog's back and kept cool on Pennsylvania's wickedly humid summer days while belly-flopping in a plastic pool out in the side yard. Now they are 19 and 21, voting for president. Where has the time gone?

Marty is living at home while on co-op through Drexel University and Jackson drove home from Princeton, NJ last night after work so he could vote first thing this morning and get back to Westminster Choir College for class—despite my best efforts, he missed the absentee deadline. For once, however, missing a deadline was fine with me! Somehow it makes me feel more secure, knowing the great lengths (like a four-hour round trip in a car with a front bumper held on with Gorilla tape) people will go to to vote Obama.

Overheard at the polls this morning, as one man in line recognized another coming out of the booth: "Hey man, I hope you did the right thing."

A loaded question. I was pondering it when my husband Dave spoke up for all to hear:

"He did the right thing. He came out to vote."

Integration Puzzle

Might we not say to the confused voices which sometimes arise from the depths of our being: Ladies, be so kind as to speak only four at a time?

~Anne-Sophie Swetchine

Reading from my yet-to-be-published novel The Girl Who Fell from the Sky at The Speckled Hen in Reading, PA last week was so much fun. The event was put together by Sue Lange with other Pennwriters Area 6 members including Liz Clarke, Pam Garlick, and Carol Haile. Yes, the food was great, yes, the room was packed to overflowing, and yes, I got a wonderful response from both friends and strangers. But beyond that, as I looked out into the audience to begin reading—and I had a long moment here, as a woman struggled to pry her four year-old daughter from the room against her will—the most amazing feeling washed over me. Of course this sensation wasn't random. While we can't always predict their arrival or intensity, feelings aren't buckets of water rigged by some prankster to wash over an unsuspecting stooge. Feelings have sources deep within our psyches that can usually be made available to those who seek them.

First came an awareness: Like many writers, I am not one woman. This was apparent to me in high school as I threw myself into gymnastics, cheerleading, dance, high school musicals, chorus, Russian club, student council, and a short and misguided stint in intramural basketball. I was painfully aware of the fact during my six attempts at choosing a college major that would lead to an outwardly desired career path, and even more so during subsequent years spent subconsciously avoiding said career path working low-paying jobs (in 1982 I was the highest-educated head waitress the Hotel Macungie ever had). Until my 40s, I never realized that as a writer, I can honor all my lives—on the page. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter, a stepmother, a neighbor, a co-author, a workshop leader, a book group leader, a former equestrian, a church member, an editor, a walking partner, and former dance critic. This kind of self-concept is the opposite of simple. On any given day, a little piece of me fits into a lot of other puzzles. Some days I feel spread so thin and yanked in so many directions my head starts to spin. But I love my multi-faceted life; it keeps all of my creative cylinders firing.

Then, an observation: The night of my reading, representatives from all of my various splinter lives were either with me in the room or with me in spirit to share in the first public reading of the project into which I've poured all that creative combustion for the past five years. For those 15 minutes, they offered pieces of themselves to me: they fit into my puzzle.

Oh, that feeling: I am no stranger to public speaking, and I have read several of my essays and short stories aloud to audiences of one sort or another. None of my previous experiences compared, though, to the feeling I had at The Speckled Hen on Tuesday as I shared part of my story with people from so many different aspects of my life. Familiar faces tilted up toward me in expectation, their bodies tipped ever so slightly forward as if offering themselves to the story. I felt a wave of glorious integration wash through me as I shared with them a project born of my passion and intellect, experience and imagination. That strangers connected with the material as well was motivation enough to keep slogging down the road to publication.

I re-read this entry and think perhaps I am making too much of it. Evidence of two more pieces of me—critic and child. But today I 'm going to let the child have her say. Part of being a writer is to recognize a "moment," and that's what I had on Tuesday. I know I'll be drinking from this replenished well of affirmation for quite some time, drawing from it inspiration and renewed determination to share my work.

Emergency anniversary

Eleven years ago today my first husband and the father of my children, Ron, committed suicide after a day-long stand-off that turned the trees and bushes and outbuildings on our pastoral gentleman's farm into hiding places for specially trained police dressed in camouflage and toting rifles with sniper scopes. It is choosing to move on after this event that inspired both the title of this blog and the memoir I am currently writing.

The memoir writing has resulted in some unexpected closure concerning Ron that was so powerful that despite the "stage being set" to recall his death (the October days shorter, the nights cooler, the fall sun growing more golden—all those details that subconsciously say, "It happened at this time of year, brace yourself") I honestly hadn't thought about it—until Thursday night, while following an ambulance to the hospital ER. It carried my husband Dave, critically ill with septic shock and blood pressure of only 65/48. There's something about those flashing lights that grabs you by the throat and won't let you go: Emergency. Emergency. Drop everything. Surrender: Life is not going to go the way you planned. It was that echo of trauma that brought the suicide anniversary to the fore.

I remember thinking on the way to the hospital: I can't do this. People say that all the time, right? Yet I have never figured out how to skid along the surface of an experience, let alone turn my back on it. Perhaps because of its very mysteries life sucks me deep into its unpredictable folds, where I must literally "feel" my way. "I can't do this" was a way of honoring my feelings at the moment—I didn't want to be frightened so deeply—but I knew as soon as the words formed in my mind that a truer expression would be, "I can't avoid this." Such is the risk of love, a risk for which I willingly re-enlisted, for my mature self loves Dave as deeply as my younger self loved Ron.

Today I am completely alone in the same house where the stand-off occurred. My children, who were both here that day, have moved on with their lives: one son is at college, the other is at the co-op job his college arranged. Once surrounded on this farm by chickens, horses, goats, and numerous domesticated animals, I no longer have even a dog or a cat to comfort or distract me. I will join Dave later at the hospital, where he is out of intensive care and holding his own. The emergency, it would seem, is over. And in its wake is a feeling I recall: jangled nerves still scanning for previously undetected clues of imminent danger. The heavy exhaustion of an adrenaline hangover. An inner peace that's hard to reckon with, given the circumstances; perhaps a side effect of swiping one's pre-planned activities to the side to live in the moment.

I am suddenly aware that I have witnessed Dave's own stand-off. But where Ron drowned himself in consciousness-numbing booze until the only thing standing between him and death was a short muscular action applied to a trigger, Dave fought to retain his consciousness, even as the odds and his own vital statistics stacked against him. His heart, strengthened by love and determination and attention to what he eats and some thirty years of running, prevailed. It was my privilege to witness Dave's struggle to survive. While Ron's death had many lessons for us, Dave's stand-off is a better story. Next year and in years to come, as the October days shorten and the nights cool and the fall sun grows more golden, I'm sure I will take time to remember Ron. But I no longer suspect that his death will take center stage. Thanks to Dave's brave fight, and my willingness to go with him wherever the dark night led us, the stage will now be set to honor life.