Being My Authentic Self

Okay, so picture this – I’m sitting at my little writing station inside Wanda, my 23-foot RV - home. In the background my boy Michael – Buble, that is – is singing “Cry Me A River”, one of the many songs on his Crazy Love CD that brings out the feisty side of me. Additionally, the heroine of my latest literary endeavor – Lydia, or Red as her friends and lovers refer to her – also loves Michael and always comes out to play when I put this CD on. Can you wear a groove in a CD? Anyway, tonight I’m about to dive into my novel again and cavort with Lydia, but before I do I have a big announcement to make. Dump Ta Dum Dumb - I’ve decided to be my true self.

So, this week I came to a pretty big decision about how I would live my life. The essence of it is to be true to myself. Interestingly enough, that was what my high school graduation card from my parents said to do in life. I’m just now getting there.

I’ve been struggling with this for a couple of years now. I know who I am, but I often fail to let others see it. Even in this blog, I’ve intentionally avoided subjects that I knew would reveal the true me. I was exuberantly happy with the election of Barack Obama, but you’d never know it by reading my blog. I think is abominable that this rich and vibrant country can’t see its way clear to providing health care to its entire population. I could go on and on, but you get the idea – I’m a liberal – a big one!

What is writing a blog about if not to state your position, unless of course, you’re blogging about recipes or fashion? But even then, I’ll bet the writer lets the reader know which she prefers – strawberries or raspberries, Gucci or Prada.

So, I’ve spouted off about life – its ups and downs, its lessons, etc. but all behind a safe façade. What was that all about? Well, truth be told, I’ve rarely in my life shown people who I am. Perhaps more disappointingly, I’ve rarely stood up for what I believe. That’s all changed this past week. I drew a line in the sand – and I’m thrilled.

So, in making a pact with myself this weekend, I’ve decided to write about things that really matter – to me – and to get involved!

Come Monday, I’ll begin the search for a political group to join and an arts association where I can contribute my time.

Come Monday, I will object when something I am faced with is contrary to my beliefs.

Come Monday, I will begin to live as my authentic self. Fifty-eight years coming, but that’s alright. I’m here now.

Living At the Edge of Ruin

It’s too long a story to detail my descent from a person with assets to one without. However, suffice it to say that September 11, 2001 had much to do with it.

For several years now, I’ve chosen substance in my life over quantity. That sounds so high-falootin’ but that’s the truth. I chose to pursue my dream of writing for a living at greatly reduced income and then, when I moved to Sacramento, I chose to find a job of less prestige and position so that I could be free after hours to concentrate on my writing. I assumed that less money and less title would equal less responsibility. Silly me.

One of my greatest awakenings these past couple of years is the awareness that this is a ridiculous assumption. How did I forget the responsibility that was heaped on me when I just starting out? How could I look around at my co-workers all those years and miss the stress and strain of all they did in comparison to the pay they received? And I worked in an office. What about the low pay and lack of respect given teachers who raise our children, police officers who protect us from ourselves, food service workers who feed us and our families; the list goes on and on. In many ways, it's much easier to be the boss than the worker.

While I’m certainly not being paid poverty wages and there are so many out there that make thousands less than me, I find myself living from paycheck to paycheck. I have for four years. How tired I am of deciding if I have enough money to see a movie this paycheck or if I can afford to eat out somewhere besides the economical local Chinese restaurant. It is truly a stressor to rarely have enough money to treat myself.

I am aware that so many others are so much worse off than I. Truly I am, especially after events like the Haitian earthquake. That does not change the fact that I’ve had my fill of living this way. Getting ahead is nearly impossible under the status quo.

So, like so many others, I will spend the months ahead of me trying to find a way to better myself. To raise the money to travel, the golden ring of life for me. To build a nest egg for those emergencies which arise far too regularly for comfort. To back away from the edge of ruin.

Hopefully, I’ll be able to hold on to substance in my life while seeking just a bit more quantity. Wish me luck.

Exploring My Heritage

This weekend I spent time with my mother reading through diaries kept by my great-grandfather, great-grandmother, great aunt and grandfather. I also had a chance to look through wills, pages of household bookkeeping, military records and more.

My great-grandfather fought in both the Boxer Rebellion and the Spanish-American War. A couple of his diaries detailed entries from his time in the Phillipines; another recorded the death and burial arrangements of my great-grandmother. In the same journal, he put down for posterity who had been bequeathed her diaries. They were split among two sisters and her children. That is how important these little books were to this side of my family.

I watched my mother’s face as she found entries about her and her parents, especially when she found a very special sentence, “Baby walks.” It meant something special to her. As it should.

These people took time to record the daily weather, how their health was faring, car servicing, train rides, parties, wash day, how much was spent on clothing and groceries, etc. I was astounded to find a record of grocery shopping split into two areas - $.96 for groceries and $.15 for meat. I can’t recall the year of this particular diary, but they spanned 1898 to 1940, with several years missing.

Although this side of the family is German and there’s not much emotion in the writings, I could clearly sense my great-grandfather’s grief as he recorded the death and final arrangements for his wife. I found my great-aunt Esther, in her youth, a bit more effusive. Every once in awhile, she added an exclamation mark, referred to having a good time or happiness to see a friend. There is one diary of a three month-trip back east (they lived in Burlingame) and I plan on reading through the whole thing the next time I visit my folks.

The most remarkable thing about reading of my relatives’ lives is the realization that I haven’t done a very good job recording my own life for my kids and theirs. I, the writer, have been neglectful. How joyful would it have been for them to read about themselves as babies? All I can do now is write from a historical perspective, which I do once in a while.

I’ve taught classes on writing your own life story, which I heartily recommend, but even better would be putting in the time it takes to record a few words daily on the wonders of our own lives, which unfortunately rarely feel wondrous to us at the time of living them.

Just a word of thanks to those who went before – it made a difference to me – and someday there will be others who chance upon them and realize that life was so much different then and yet so much the same.

Doing The Right Thing

I’m always amazed that people who have the stated intention of living their lives well or preach morals relentlessly are so easily swayed towards dicey behavior when there’s money or position involved. Of course, position usually equates to money somewhere along the line.

Recently I’ve been exposed to situations that require my stepping up to the plate and declaring that I won’t do something I know to be wrong. It bugs the crap out of me that I even have to go there. These folks know they are doing something wrong, but they force me into being the “hall monitor”, no pun intended.

I’m not claiming to be perfectly ethical, but I really try to be vigilant and live up to the expectations of others and myself. I believe in returning the check or change or benefit to which I’m not entitled. When I’m put in the position of representing someone else, I take that responsibility seriously. If I’m relied upon to make a decision in the best interest of a client, friend or family member I make that decision, in spite of how it might affect me. Because it’s the right thing to do.

I think most people do the same things. That’s why I’m always a little blown away when someone I know chooses not to. It changes my opinion of them and I lose the ability to trust.

How can we expect our children, politicians, neighbors, co-workers and friends to have any respect for us if we waiver - especially for a buck or two or even two million. Wrong is wrong regardless of the profit at stake.

Right?

Another Year Older

My birthday is New Year’s Day, so I just turned another year older. The last couple of months leading up to the attainment of my 58th year were fraught with awareness that I am definitely on the downhill side of the slope.

It wasn’t pretty. I had a good many moments of feeling as if there wasn’t time left to achieve my life goals – which are actually pretty simple; get at least one book published and see the world.

Something knocked me out of it. I’m not sure what it was, but I thank the Universe for it. Since the rounding of the corner into 2010, I find I’m energized and ready to fight the fight.

Getting published is hard work, but I’ve got a tough skin. Before I gained an agent when I was screenwriting, I had collected 127 rejection letters. But I kept plugging away and finally made some headway. Ultimately, that didn’t turn out to be what I really wanted (of course, I would have happily jumped on board the Hollywood fame train if I’d been offered a ride.) I tired of never writing description; of writing so concisely that my own vision couldn’t really be seen, even by me.

I’ve struggled, giving up making a pretty decent living to become a reporter and then an editor for a small community newspaper, neither of which pay well. I turned out my second novel a year ago and sent part of it out to an agent, who rejected it but advised me not to give up; instead try to find someone who would love it as much as I did. I reread it and decided that it wasn’t one story, but two and needed to be separated and each story re-written.

I knew I had to take a break from that project and happily one night I was struck by creative lightning and given a story and the incredibly fun character in the novel on which I’m now working to finish. Yippee!

I had a couple of months where my character, Lydia, left me and I was in a fog of indecision and fluttered through all kinds of creative ideas – something, anything to feel connected to my muse. I got exactly one picture frame made – and believe me, it was nothing special.

With great joy I welcomed Lydia back one night, when I put a Michael Buble CD on and she came rushing to me. She really digs Michael. What can I say?

As for seeing the world, I’ve decided I will take a trip by myself this year, somewhere out of the country, to whichever part of the world offers an incredible deal. I will squirrel away a fund so that I can leap at the opportunity when it arises.

So, that’s it. A brand new decade awaits. Yippee!

Chaos Is a Beautiful Thing

I have been maddened lately by some people’s distain, no, abhorrence for chaos. Their feeble attempts to reign in one of the primary states, even forces, of nature make me want to cry for them.

Let me be more explicit. There are those who, in every day life, try to bring order to events or situations that are by their very nature chaotic; a party, for instance. The more strict a schedule or plan a party is kept to, the more probable no one will want to attend the next one held by the Party Commandant.

Fun is usually a by-product of spontaneity - unscheduled and unplanned - an appreciation of what “is” wherever or whenever the “is” occurs. It could be the surprise of a favorite song suddenly being played on the radio and responding with a sing-along and car dancing. Maybe fun springs out of a box of donuts when the raspberry filling spills down the front of your shirt and instead of freaking out about it, you notice that it looks a lot like blood and stumble down the halls at work pretending like you’ve just been shot. Of course, that’s a bit grim, but admit it, there are those you work with that would definitely call that fun.

Chaos is also the mother of creativity. A story line, a new architectural design, a fashion trend - all of these things flow directly from the whirling of thoughts and mental pictures; like noticing that the messy clothes on the floor of your teenager’s room have put two fantastically original colors and textures together. I thank the Universe regularly for the splotches of life it throws at me and the opportunity it gives me to mix and match until I have a new character and direction for my stories.

So, instead of spending all our time scheduling every minute of the day, labeling every packet or drawer or folder, how about we spend 10 minutes celebrating the power of pandemonium.