Purpose

I was awe struck as I walked into my little appartment last night. I had just climbed out of the shower and was going to settle into bed to read for a while before drifting off to strange and erratic dreams when I heard a noise below. The cats were settling in to bed. The lights outside filtered through the wooden slats covering the window, eluminating the room with a pleasant, faint glow. I couldn't help but to smile, remembering fondly the wonderful memories I've already made in that room with my own friends and lovely little pets.

I climbed down from the loft to fetch myself a bottle of water. I walked through my very own living room and saw the computer on the desk still open to a project for work. I had managed to feel highly successful yesterday in the mid-year meeting and was ready to attack my job with a new sense of purpose and determination. My smile grew for reasons I couldn't yet share. Oliver jumped down from his carpeted tree and nuzzled my bare leg.


I've been in some hard spots, and I've had a really hard time trying to find my place in this world. Even now it's a daily struggle for me, but I know where I'm meant to be. I know what I want to do for my career, and getting there has been a challenge, it's one I'm eager to face every day when I wake up. I look forward to going in to work. Even now that path isn't guaranteed, but I know that I'm well on my way and I have a support system greater than any I've ever known. And yet, as I walked through the appartment last night, I realized something that maybe I had known all along and just hadn't realized.

I have my home. It's the first time I've felt like I belonged somewhere and had my own place in my entire life. I belong here. This is my sanity, my safety, and my savior. My career has just begun and I have great plans for my direction, but I have everything in my life that I've ever really searched for - stability, self-sufficiency and confidence.

This was an eye opening walk through my own place. I found something in the past year I guess I never really lost - my inspiration and my soul. They've just been waiting for me to realize that all I had to do was reach out for them, held captive in the recesses of my own mind. If not for people like my boss, friends and co-workers who have stood by me in this most difficult time, I may never have taken this walk to the kitchen on this warm and humid night in my house coat and slippers and seen the magic of my own home around me. I wouldn't have that glorious appartment. I wouldn't have my two cats, warm and friendly, loving and giving. I wouldn't be where I am in this world, with dreams, desires and determination to not only succeed, but to conquer.

Yes, I am still me. I am that vibrant, energetic little girl I knew growing up. I'm that sassy, somewhat crazy redhead I knew in my teens. I'm that young, ambitious adult I knew in my early 20's who saw the world as nothing but a game to win. I'M BACK, and nothing can stop me this time.

My job has opened new doors to meeting new people and trying new things. I've become more empowered than ever before, and after so many years of searching and never knowning, I've found my niche. I've found where I belong.

I've finally found my purpose.

The Horrible Success

In January of 2007, I planned a dinner party for several people. It was the first I had ever fully planned, and it was my way of saying thanks to the couple who invited us over the week before to share their dinner with them.


At their house, dinner was a buffet style. They had made tacos, and this way everyone could choose what they wanted to put in them. I loaded up my taco with a little of everything, topped it off with salsa and homemade guacamole from avocados I had brought over, and I watched my date do the same. When we sat down to eat, I asked him if he noticed anything was missing.


"No," he replied. "What do you mean?"


Feeling that it was a remarkably unobservant remark for a veteran Police Officer of 13 years, I pointed out the one obvious fact he had failed to notice.


"There's no meat."


"What?!" Incredulous, Pete looked at me, down at his taco, and back at me. I could see him thinking for a second. "You're right!"


"I think they're vegetarians," I said quietly. George and Rachel were still putting together their tacos, so that moment of privacy was the only moment I would be able to point out my simple observation without incurring an uncomfortable silence.


"So," Pete said in a much less tactful way when they sat down near us, "you're vegetarians, huh?"


"Oh," George and Rachel proclaimed. "We forgot to tell you. Yes, we've lived a Vegan lifestyle for the past 3 years now," Rachel explained to us, "but I was a Vegan long before that. It just took me a while to convince George." She kissed him sweetly on the cheek while his mouth was wrapped in a big bite around his taco. He smiled a bit.


"Yeah," he concluded after chewing his bite and clearing his mouth. "I wasn't easy to convince."


Before I realized it, the night was nearly over and we were headed home. I couldn't seem to stop myself from speaking when I invited them over for dinner the following week. I'd never cooked a Vegan meal in my life.


I started cooking that Saturday at 9:00 am. It had taken me all week to decide on a menu, and then I discovered that there were so many options that I couldn't decide between them. The final decisions were left to Pete. The dinner party had grown from 4 people to 5 couples, so I knew that no matter the menu, I would have something for everyone. Still, the majority of food was to be Vegan by design.


The first thing I worked on were the appetizers. I chopped the stems and crumbled the bread crumbs for the stuffed mushrooms, wrapped the brie rounds in the Phillo dough with walnuts and Jalapeno Pepper Jelly, and sent Pete to the store for more pears. The baked brie was to be served with apple and pear slices along side a variety of crackers.


Then I got to work on the salad. What Pete's sister described as a "California Salad" is precisely what I made. I started out with the fancy lettuce variety – arugula, baby spinach – the like. Then I tossed on some chopped walnuts (left over from the baked brie) some Feta, also to be used in the lasagna, some sweet yellow peppers, later to be cooked in with the vegetarian lasagna, and some raspberry vinaigrette dressing. It was wonderful! I served this to the guests as soon as they stopped chowing down on the appetizers and chit chatting over the days events, a good half hour after the first couple arrived. They also turned out to be the last couple to arrive. The rest of the group except Rodney (minus the girlfriend) cancelled at the last minute.


Then I made the HAND ROLLED lasagna – two different kinds. I had the traditional meat and tomato, but also the spinach and cheese. It was very good, I'll admit. I had only made it once before. While the guests worked on their salads, the Lasagna was baking in the oven, making the whole house smell wonderful. Noses turned to the air, sniffing wildly as George mopped up the last bit of Raspberry Vinaigrette with a baby spinach leaf.


Next I tossed the ingredients together for my own Cherry Cobbler Cake – a whopping 4 ingredients. This cake is simple, fast, and always a party favorite. I threw that in the oven just as the Lasagna came out and the guests were setting down their salad bowls. Each piece of lasagna came out as a beautiful presentation, and having previous experience as a food server, it was nothing for me to carry three plates at once. Pete carried ours. Ever the polite hostess, I even offered choices.


I had plated two servings of the vegetarian lasagna for George and Rachel, knowing full well from the previous week that they had been Vegan for years. The chances of that changing in less than one week were slim to none.

"Would you like the Spinach lasagna, or the traditional?"


George and Rachel exchanged quick glances. Rachel spoke up first.


"We'll try the traditional."


Agog, I had Pete hand the two plates of traditional lasagna to our guests, while the third I handed to Rodney. The two plates of Spinach lasagna went to Pete and myself. Our confusion was obvious, I guess. George offered an explanation.


"We went to a friend's house on Wednesday. He had been cooking ribs all day long and it had been so long since I had ribs. I said I would take a bite of one just to see how they tasted. All Rachel had to do was taste the BBQ sauce on the ribs and we were both hooked. I suppose I should have told you guys sooner, but it slipped my mind. We're not vegetarians anymore, by the way." His fork cut into his lasagna and he removed a bite sized piece. "Sorry." He emptied the contents into his mouth and his face lit up. "But if I hadn't gone back to meat on Wednesday, I would have now! This is incredible!"


"It is," Rachel agreed after swallowing her first bite. "I've GOT to get this recipe from you! I've never seen Lasagna look like this before. It's so... well, pretty!"


Before everyone finished eating their lasagna, I claimed to have some errand in the kitchen I needed to attend to. The smell of the Cherry Cobbler Cake wafted through the house when I turned off the oven and opened the door to allow it to cool.


The final touch was the Poached Pears. I'd never had poached pears before and I knew it sounded good, so I was curious. I threw together the ingredients in a sauce pot and got it boiling. While waiting, I collected the empty and polished lasagna plates. Had they been any more spotless I would have accused them of licking the plates clean. Then I returned to the kitchen where I peeled, cored, and boiled the pears, but while they were boiling, I garnished the desert plates.


The desert plates were garnished with Raspberry Syrup and Chocolate Syrup swirled in one corner around an orange slice and a raw apple slice. The cake went in another corner, the poached pear next to that. A single scoop of Vanilla Ice Cream finished the presentation, and it came out looking like a miniature work of art. When the desert was served, I got the biggest compliment of the evening.


"This is the best desert I've had in so many years," Rachael proclaimed.


"Everything has been so wonderful!" Pete said.


"Wow, Amanda – you've outdone yourself here. Wonderful." Rodney thanked me.


"I'm so full I feel like I cant swallow any more, and yet I cant stop eating!" George cut a slice of pear off with his spoon and tasted it gingerly. "Oh Wow," he said in a hushed tone. "This is the best desert I've ever tasted." George smiled up at me and then looked at Rachel. "Why don't you ever cook like this?"



Rachel's face fell in embarrassment and she refused to look at me for the rest of the night. She didn't say much after that, and it was clear that she was extremely hurt by what George had said. While I was openly embarrassed for her, inwardly I was stunned that my food had garnished such a compliment.


It was a crowning achievement; a great and horrible success, and an overall wonderful moment for me while also being a most humiliating moment for Rachel. If only the 8 people invited had showed up rather than just the three that did, maybe the comment would have been lost in random conversation.

There were certainly PLENTY of leftovers. To this day I've not made another batch of Vegetarian lasagna though. I know I probably wouldn't eat it if I did. It was good- very good. I just got rather burned out on it.


George and Rachel never came over again, and we never were invited to their house for dinner after that. We rarely saw them at all, and the few times we did, it was clear that Rachel still had rather hurt feelings. She hardly spoke to me.


Part of me wonders if she thought my purpose was to out-do her taco dinner we had at their house, but I know that wasn't the point at all. My only purpose was to make something I would enjoy making and that people would enjoy eating. I wanted to be creative and I saw my moment to try something new.


It was, in the end, a horribly successful dinner party that I'll never forget. I've got money on the fact that Rachel won't forget it anytime soon, either. I still feel bad for that one.

Rodney, Myself and George.

The Matters of Love

"The only thing in love that matters are the first moments of arousal and intense pleasure that follows."

-Anonymous Friend.

I got this very interesting thought in my emails a couple of years ago from someone I respect, admire, and trust. It's given me much to think about.

The first feelings of love are those that overwhelm us and blind us to all of our other senses. The fight or flight instinct is gone in those first few moments. Casanova was said to have many lovers, but only one love. Romeo and Juliet looked at one another across the room, and it was love at first sight. They forgot for a moment all of the family rivalry issues between their namesakes. Did things loose their spark or passionate energy after those first few moments? For Casanova, perhaps that was the case, for no woman could ask a man such as him to be faithful. For Romeo and Juliet, perhaps that was true as well, for they lasted not long after that first encounter. The love and passion they felt for one another consumed them until death, however.

What of it for me then?

I am the exception to many rules, as Ive said before. I believe that the first moments of arousal and that intense pleasure that follows are very important to a relationship, and if the relationship is a good, healthy one, this very moment can happen often, sometimes several times in a single day. The two fall into each others arms, consumed by their passion for one another, and completely loose themselves in the moment.

I imagine that's the way it will be when I can finally have an unbridled amount of time with the one I find myself thinking about night and day. He fills my mind and heart night and day, and consumes more of my senses than I ever thought a single person could. What would those first moments of freedom together be like if there was no place we needed to go, nothing we needed to do? Would we be consumed by that sexual adrenaline for merely an hour? Would we feel just as much passion if not lying naked on the top of rumpled covers together? Is it possible to feel that same passion, longing, and devotion if only sitting on a couch together watching a sappy old movie? How about if we were holding hands as we walked along a dirt path in the green hills on a cool spring morning?

I know I would feel that way about my mate as we walked along in a crowded shopping mall around Christmas time, barely able to hear one another over the children shouting at the first signs of the fat man in the Santa costume. Would he feel the same way? From everything I know I desire in life, he most certainly would. THAT is how I will know that he is the one I've looked so long and hard to find.

No, I think more than the first moments of arousal and intense pleasure are important to me. I believe its the very sense of knowing that the person you love is also your best friend. Its knowing that even blinded by age, deafened by time, and crippled by long existence, the one you love will still love you passionately.

Have you ever seen the movie "The Notebook"? That's how I envision it to be the last moments in life,... and in love.

Guitar Girl - The Story of Terry Ray Day

It had been such a long day. The drive home had made it seem even longer, winding my way through traffic for more than an hour. I pulled my car up to the house and gathered my things to climb out. My quickly wilting hand picked rose was in one hand, my keys, phone, purse, and little blue pine tree berries in another.

About the time I closed my car door with my hip, the sound reached me. I closed my eyes and listened as I heard someone up the street play the guitar with a gentle touch to a soft melody. Somewhere in the distance, a kid called for his mom to read him a bedtime story. The birds sang the day away. People went inside turning out their porch lights as they went. The man and the music played on in the most beautiful melody I’ve heard in such a painfully long time. It’s amazing, all the memories that can come from just a simple sound.

Daddy learned to play the guitar while I lived in Arkansas as a kid. I use to play with his guitar if ever he left it where I could reach it. I remember him playing "Home on the Range" so sweetly. I don’t think I really paid attention to the sounds of a guitar before he played for me. Ever since then, the sound has always brought back memories of my childhood, of my father playing guitar for his children.

A friend in Arkansas named Jeff tried to teach me to play guitar. Stevie RayVaughn blasted through my speakers for the first time when my roommate gave me a CD of his. I was dancing to the Guitar solo in "Freebird" by Lynard Skynard with Eric in Arkansas shortly after meeting my dear lifelong friend Robert. Another friend, Terry, played for me the first time I went to his house. The Guitar is a powerful instrument. It can take you back in time in mere seconds, transporting you to a world that no longer exists but in memories.

Terry – what an interesting character he was. Terry Ray Day was his name. When I first met Terry, he was the very most popular guy in school. He had one particular spot in the hallway where he always sat with his friends. He had long, rebellious red hair and vivid green eyes. When he stood up, he towered over me at about six foot four inches, and was still only in the 11th grade. Everyone in school knew who Terry was.

Even back in High School I loved to walk a lot. There wasn’t a while lot other than art that could keep me in my seat. At lunch I would roam the halls, usually alone since I didn’t have many friends. One day I wandered into Terry’s neighborhood. I felt really self-concious as I walked in front this popular guy and all of his friends. I felt the eyes of his friends looking me over and judging me, as was usual for me in those days. I was a social outcast in most circles, and this one wasn’t an exception. Some of them would laugh and joke to themselves and eachother.

"Hey look, it’s Nerd Girl."

"Shut up," Terry spoke over them. Shocked, I looked straight down at my feet, awaiting the verbal assault that was sure to follow, aimed at me. He was the coolest kid in school – surely he would want to out do the guys who worshiped him. I walked faster.

"Dude, she’s a nerd. We all call her Nerd Girl in Chemistry."

"Shut up," Terry repeated. "What’s your name," he asked me.

"Amanda," I replied without looking up.

"Well, Amanda, why don’t you come over here and sit with us a while. You know, kinda prove these idiots wrong," he thumbed at his posse of assorted jackasses. A few of them looked like they really didn’t like the idea of Nerd Girl sitting there, while others looked like vultures about to swoop in for the finish. All Terry had to do was give the guys an odd look, and they wiped the looks off their faces and cleared a spot for me to sit next to Terry.

I wound my way through the small crowd and had a seat, turning brighter red as I went. I didn’t know what I thought I was doing – the most unpopular girl in school was sitting with the very most popular guy? There were certain protocols that were to be followed. I was ignoring all of them. It was well known that Terry didn’t have a girlfriend, and hand’t had one in over a year. When asked why, he just responded that he hand’t found a girl that could hold his interest for long enough.

Terry began asking me questions. At first I was very quiet with my answers, terrified of what the general reaction of the crowd around us would be. I felt like I was being interrogated at first. Slowly I came to realize he was genuinely interested, and finally, I forgot the crowd completely.

"Where are you from?"
"Everywhere," I blushed.
"Where were you born?"
"Germany," I blushed harder.
"You’re German?"
"No," I hung my head.
"No? Why were you born there?"
"My Dad was in the military."
"Really? Cool! Where all have you lived then?"

As I rattled off the places I had been, the crowd faded out of my mind, though to them I was suddenly the center of attention. Terry asked me what each place was like, since most of the group had never been out side of the Utah borders. Everyone leaned in close when I started talking about California. Pretty soon everyone was asking me questions, and I was no longer Nerd Girl to them. Suddenly I was almost cool.

"Was it hot?"
"Did it ever snow?"
"How long were you there?"
"Ever go to Hollywood?"
"What’s L.A. like?"
"Have you been to Disney Land?"
"Ever seen any famous people?"
"Were you ever on T.V?"

The bell suddenly rang and we all went our separate ways to class, but a new aire surrounded me in the halls at school the rest of the day. People whispered, but didn’t giggle anymore. Something had happened.

"That’s the girl Terry Day wanted to sit with him," I overheard once and smiled to myself. "She lived in California," I heard another say. "I bet she knows a movie star."

"Amanda," Terry called out when he saw me the next day, "we saved you a spot." Sure enough, he didn’t have to give any funny looks. Everyone cleared a path to a spot right next to Terry, who had saved it specifically hoping I would show up. I waded through the crowd, for once being able to smile at the faces there, that welcoming sea of their anticipation smiling back. After all, I still had questions to answer. Mom taught me that making people wait was rude.

I went back to the group every day at lunchtime for a long time after that. People didn’t laugh at me in the halls anymore, I didn’t get spit balls in my hair in class anymore. I even started to care about my clothes and the style of my hair a bit more too. After a few weeks, Terry reached out and held my hand one day. A few glances were all we got. That day Terry walked me to class and kissed me before I went in. There was another shift in whispers, and people didn’t mind sitting next to me, or even having to work with me on projects after that.

One day, Terry invited me to his house after school. He was the first really genuine person I had known for some time, and I trusted Terry. It was not misplaced. That afternoon, after sitting on his porch swing and eating ice creams while staring down the view at Riverdale’s main road, he pulled out his guitar and played a while.

Terry played what was popular at the time; a Metalica song, Megadeath, ACDC, and others. He completely surprised me when he began playing a Classical piece I knew. It was beautiful! He played one after another, some I had never heard before. I loved it! It suddenly dawned on me… long hair, rebellious look, and classical music? He was once an outcast, just like me.

It wasn’t too much longer after that the world and life forced us into opposite directions, but Terry Ray Day made a lasting impact on my life with words and music that I’m certainly not soon to forget. I stood outside that night, listening to the guitar with my eyes closed, hearing Terry’s heart tell me that someone out there understood me. After such a horrible week, after feeling like I would never be OK again, I was miraculously reminded by the wilting rose, the four pine berries, and anonymous guitar music, that I wasn’t alone after all.

That was the last night I ever walked back through the door of that home I hated to the people I couldn’t stand.

I broke free the next day... but that's another story all together.

My Time Machine

"I jumped into my time machine and suddenly…"

That was one of the sentences Mr. Lee wrote up on the chalkboard one day. Our job was to finish the sentence and accompany it with three paragraphs. Mine ended up being more than six pages long that day. Most of my classmates were struggling to come up with more than a paragraph, but I couldn’t seem to find the right ending to my story. It grew and grew! When the time was up, Mr. Lee asked for all of the work to be turned in.

“What if it’s not done yet,” I asked him, holding up my five pages proudly.

“How much more are you going to write?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not done yet.”

“Let me see,” he said, holding out his hand. I gave him my pages and stood proudly, the nerd that I was, before my class. “This will do for now, and if you want to write more once I give it back to you, that’s fine.”

When I finally gave my story back, Mr. Lee had written on the front in red ink, normally a bad sign. I guess that was the only color he had that day.

“When you are finished, please turn it in again. I would like to read what happens. A+”

I glowed. He had liked my writing! That was the first real encouragement I had ever gotten for my writing. Even now, I post blog after blog, and it’s often several days or weeks before someone comments on my writing. No criticism, no remarks, no praise, no words. I get a few kudos here and there, and I appreciate it, but it’s the original praise that keeps me writing. Mr. Lee liked my writing, so it had to be worth something.

When finally I finished that story and was ready for a new chapter, I turned in the twenty-five pages. He began reading them right away! When he turned those back in, he wanted to know what happened to the Dinosaur and the Neanderthal. I told him as soon as I got done with the next chapter, I would turn that one in too.

I read through my own story, as I often do with my own work, after he gave it back to me. He had little red marks here and there indicating paragraphs, spelling and grammar mistakes I had made, as any true teacher would. He even gave me extra credit. At the end of the story, he wrote a special note just for me on the last page.

“You have a great talent. Keep it up and you will be famous.”

Ever since then I wanted to be a writer.

Mr. Lee may have been the first person to really encourage me to write - but all of you reading these words right now (yes, you too) are the ones who keep the dream alive.

Why I Write

oday I was astounded that I had more than 50 views on my blog before lunchtime. I set forth a goal, telling everyone that if I had over 100 views on my blog in a single day, I would post two more today as a treat. Well, we accomplished that by 10:54pm, with 107 views. By midnight, I estimate somewhere around 130 views, clearly a hundred more than an average day. For all the hard work and effort that went into this, I've decided to write two blogs AFTER this one. Perhaps by the end of this one you will understand why.

I was told in a private tweet earlier today by a first time reader of my blog that I was a very interesting woman. When I asked what it was that made me so interesting, the response was "it's interesting reading someone's story and like that, you're putting it all out there." It started my thinking process. I wondered for a flash of an instant why it is I write and "put it all out there" for everyone to see.

I have some friends who believe I should do video blogs. I've thought about it, but I hesitate only because I know that writing permits me the time to think carefully about my words, how they form and how they paint a picture. It affords me the opportunity to be far more descriptive than I would be on camera. Yes, I have a presence on camera - and maybe one of these days I'll do a video reading, but just to tell a story on a video, I find I say the typical space fillers far too often. I can't get through three sentences without using "um" or "ahh" a couple of times.

But why would I need to choose between writing and video blogging? What is so important that I want to tell the world?

When people tell us that we should live like we mean it, spend what we have, because we can't take it with us - they're right. We don't take our homes or money or cars with us when we die. Ladies don't take their shoes or handbags. Men don't take their fishing boats or entertainment systems. We don't even take our names with us. They're handed on to other children. I'm certainly not the only Amanda I've ever known.

In the end, our stories are the only things we take with us. If they aren't shared with others, what good has it done us to survive the trials and tribulations we must endure throughout our lifetimes? Is there a possibility that others can learn from the lessons we've had to figure out the hard way?

I guess in a way it's a selfish reason I have for writing. I don't want the stories I have to die with me when my time on Earth is done. Then again, it's completely unselfish. I've known several people I can name off hand who say my stories and determination have inspired them to strive for a better life. One time someone contacted me on Myspace to tell me that something I had written had changed their mind on the fatal mistake of committing suicide. Another long time friend confessed to me that they had been trapped in a horrible relationship with someone they no longer loved but didn't have the strength to get out of it for fear of not ever finding something better. That person has since moved on and seems happier than ever with their decisions. It's always a struggle starting over, but it's all worth it for the chance to be happy in life. He found that guidance through me somehow - through my stories.

These are our lives we are taking for granted. They were meant to be lived and enjoyed. They were meant to be filled with experiences and memories that will last forever. How waisted is the life spent in misery!!

I have learned through times of being abused, abandoned, kidnapped, loved, adored and honored, never to take a single moment for granted. I have stories to share with anyone who will listen - and you proved to me yesterday that not only are you listening, but you're sharing! There could be few gifts in this world greater than the gift of being appreciated for my words of adventure, wisdom, stupidity and silliness. It's a great accomplishment to me when someone tells me that my stories have inspired them, or that they look forward to my next installment.

So, I guess that's why I write.

I write because people appreciate it.

I write because it helps me to cope with issues.

I write because it helps others to cope with drama.

I write because YOU enjoy it.

I write because you tell me it inspires you.

I write because of you.

Thank you - each of you - for caring enough to come back day after day.

This blog, and indeed all of my blogs, are for you.

.

LA Weather Report

As with all things in life, there are drawbacks and positives to warm and cold weather. I prefer to see things in a positive light, however.

Yesterday the weather was perfect - sunny and warm, I drove home at 5pm with the top down on my bright red 1995 Honda Del Sol. The slight breeze in my hair, the wind on my face, I felt warm and comfortable in short sleeves. Here it is March, when the rest of the world is huddling close to their fireplaces to keep warm, and I'm driving home with the top down.

On the days like yesterday I know there is no possibility of going to bed early, though I also knew that was exactly what I needed. I had been up far too late the night before, knowing full well that I had to wake up at 6am to go to work. Going on about 3 hours of sleep, having the top down on my drive home was merely a trick to keep myself awake for the hour drive. Even that failed to work in the end. I nearly fell asleep as I pulled into my own street.

I have only one window in my tiny, upstairs apartment. Nothing separates my bed in the loft from the hot roof of the building but about 2 inches of painted white wood and 2 feet of air. When I climb up into the loft, I have to sit on the edge of the bed and roll onto it's soft surface. I have to be careful not to sit bolt upright in the middle of the night for fear of knocking myself unconscious with a support beam across the ceiling. So, on the very warm days such as yesterday was, I could easily gauge the temperature in my bedroom as being up near 100 degrees, while downstairs was much nearer to 78.

This morning the weather report was something else entirely. People here in Southern California are bundled up in sweaters and coats. They are cranking up the heaters in their cars with the remote buttons as they watch the wind tousle the trees from the safety of their warm homes. I've come to the conclusion that Californians are a spoiled people. While they "suffer" at 58 degrees this morning with a slight marine mist blowing in from the clear ocean views surrounding us, the people in a small town between Glasgow and Edinburgh are freezing away, watching the snow as they walk to the grocery store.

It's a crisp, breath taking 37 degrees over there right now. People are huddled up with their families in front of those fireplaces. The girls are learning to braid by practicing on one anothers hair and positioning flowers here and there amongst the strands. The small boy is sitting in his room reading a good book, warm and safe under the covers his mother so carefully flattened over his bed when he left for school this morning. His father, a big man known the town over as John, wanders into his son's room and speaks to him in a lyrical tune of a voice most Americans wouldn't understand. Then, he picks his boy up, tosses him over his shoulder, and carries him down to the dinner table. The boy giggles the entire way. His sister squeals when she sees the sport and begs to join in, beating her Daddy on the arm as any protective big sister would. The children take their father to the ground, giggling and squealing the whole way. He plays with them like a big Labrador retriever as his lovely flaxen haired bride watches on from the kitchen doorway, smiling to herself.

"Now John, you be easy on them," she says from the doorway.

"Now Louise," he scolds "If you'd like to stick up for them, you can't very well do it from there, can you?!" He grins a wide, mischievous smile at her, and she knows that if she doesn't disappear around the doorway, she would be next! Just as she ducks around the side, he jumps to his feet and begins chasing her through the house, threatening to tickle her until she pees her pants. She squeals louder than her children and heads straight for the stairs, swinging wildly behind her as she goes, hoping to make contact with his head or chest as he snarls.


I remember with fondness, those days I would play on the floor with my own father as my Mom would scold him from the kitchen for playing too rough with us. Dad didn't do it very often, but sometimes he would chase Mom round and round from the kitchen to the living room. Finally they would end up in a balled pile on top of the couch. They would kiss and my brother and I would both "Eww" ourselves out of the room.

What I wouldn't give to have that waiting for me when I went home tonight. I hate being tickled, but I would gladly give up the freedom of NOT being tickled in order to have the man I love being the one chasing me in the first place. He'd catch me half way up the stairs, we would fall in a heap, and he would make me laugh until I hurt. Finally, he would gently kiss me. He'd look deep into my eyes, and me into his, and I would know that I finally had my happy ending. Then - the cat would bite me on the toe as he so often does, wanting to play along.

116 days.

Relating to my Writing

Every now and then I get a chance to meet someone or speak to someone who tells me that my writing has in some way inspired them or that they could relate to it in some way. I never know where these things are going to come from next, and the one I got today was from a surprising source – a new employee.

It’s no secret that I love to write. A friend told me a story last night of something she had gone through over the past year or so, and as she spoke my mind whirled with visions of pages in a book. I could clearly define each chapter in my mind and told her at the end of the story that we should collaborate. It would be a wonderful romantic comedy with a dramatic twist or two in it. She inspired me – which for some reason hasn’t been easy to do these days. I've been very distracted by something going on in my own life, including writing a new book about two people who fell in love against all odds. It has a very happy ending to it. Still, it seems like everything I write lately in a public forum is about or pertains to love or a mysterious number of days until something big happens.

So imagine my surprise today when, in random conversation with a new employee, I started spouting off a poem I’ve not heard or said in many years.


Why is love like a sandy beach
Not to far but hard to reach?
Hard to reach and hard to hold
Hard to keep your heart a whole.

Bad luck comes to those who stand
Gripping tightly to slipping sand.
Good luck comes to those who wait
And hold out their hands in a childlike state.

They wait there
So patient and kind
Never aware
Of the treasures they find.

A broken shell
Cracked and old
Isn’t to pretty
And rather cold

But turn it over,
That broken thing,
And listen to
The ocean sing!

So why is love
So like the beach?
Not far away,
But so hard to reach?

Don’t hold too tightly
To things so dear,
If it’s mean to be,
There's no need to fear!


At the end, he asked me who wrote it. I could tell from the look on his face that he had expected to hear a name he would recognize; Dickenson, Frost, Stevenson… but I would NEVER compare my own work to any of them. His eyes nearly popped out of his head when I told him that I was only 13 years old when I wrote that poem.

I had found yet another someone who appreciated my writing!! I explained the story of the book I wrote, how it was swept away in the uHaul in the Summer with everything else I owned, and how I had random samples online. Intrigued, he wanted to hear more.

The pieces I chose were dark and worrisome, I will admit. I find that I'm often at my best when in a morose or dark mood. I chose another poem titled Silhouette of Margaret, which I wrote in a fit of boredom one day in 2006, and the “Other Perspective” piece I did from another point of view over the end of a relationship. In both cases, he was drawn in. He identified with the negativity in the Other Perspective, and explained how it was a roller coaster when I was reading Silhouette of Margaret, emotional highs and lows, always wanting to know what happened next. I never thought so much of that one, but I have known a few people to really enjoy it. I think that’s why I chose it.

After the “Other Perspective” piece, he felt the need to talk to me. He confided in me and I took some pride in that. He had identified enough with my writing to feel comfortable telling me about his home life. I knew that, if my words never touched another soul from here on out, my work was done. Someone in the world felt like they weren’t so alone anymore. That’s all it’s ever been about for me.

There have been times that I have felt so alone and so empty that all I really had were my stories and writing. I wanted so much to tell others what I was going through so that if they ever experienced anything similar, they would know that they were never alone.

I’ve been lucky enough to reach a few people. It’s the greatest gift I could be given. I reached yet another today. Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to reach another tomorrow. Perhaps the day after, too. Maybe even the day after that. But I reached one today. That's enough for now.

UPDATE

A sincere thanks from a friend of mine who read this... This honestly brought tears to my eyes. I hope my friend doesn't mind, but I wanted to share...

"You have touched me with your writing, shown me that with courage you can move on with life through difficult times, and face a future brighter than ever expected. Thank you"