Amelia and Shirley

My husband and I saw the movie Amelia tonight, about Amelia Earhart. It was a wonderful film, and I came home with an admiration for her bravery and sense of adventure. She lived her dreams, in a time when women didn't do that very often. She valued her sense of freedom more than anything on earth, and her loss is still felt today.
When I arrived home and checked my email, I found a message from an old friend from high school with whom I have recently connected. He wrote to tell me that another friend, a woman I knew throughout elementary and high school, had passed away from cancer. Shirley was a home town girl, the polar opposite of Amelia Earhart. She went to school, married, had children, worked as a teacher, and died within no more than a hundred mile radius of the small Illinois town where I grew up. But I think Shirley lived her dream, too, although I have not been in contact with her for years. But I remember a very intelligent teenage friend who knew what she wanted. She was happiest with the security of family and close friends.
I am neither an Amelia nor a Shirley. But I have to say I lean a little more toward the Amelia side. I have never flown a plane -- at least, not yet. But I am always up for a new adventure, always ready to try something new. I crave freedom, love a challenge, although I go more for intellectual than physical challenges.
But this isn't about me tonight -- it's about Amelia and Shirley, two women I am thinking about tonight, who both gave their best to the world in their lives.

On My To Read List: Tuatha and the Seven Sisters Moon

Author website: http://www.dvonthaer.com/SalemEdition.html

Tuatha and the Seven Sisters Moon

Book Description:

Julius Caesar wrote of the Celts: "The Celts were fearless warriors because they wish to inculcate this as one of their leading tenets, that souls do not become extinct, but pass after death from one body to another..."

Seven Sisters. The infamous collection of stars align with the full moon on Hallo’een, alighting the sky for a destiny that’s waited centuries. Dru, a gifted, but tormented witch living alone on the coast of Ireland wakes to find Ty, her long-time love, mysteriously disappeared. In Paris, Katerina, an oppressed but talented dancer bravely takes the stage in one final performance before escaping a life of tyranny, looking for a freedom she’d only known in dreams. Aodh, The Dagda, a man made of ancient legends, has slumbered for two millennia. Tonight, when the moon is full and the stars are aligned, he rises from his temporary grave to find the world is not as he remembers. His people, his family, his tribe have vanquished, along with the majority of his considerable power.

Chance takes him to Dru, and together they set out to find the key to reopening his world, whilst forming a bond of friendship neither has ever previously known. During their search, Dru learns Ty was no mortal man, but a god with a prophecy to fulfill. Ty died before fulfilling that prophecy, setting off a chain of events that would forever alter the future. Devastated, Dru abandons Aodh and the life that should have already been hers, and finds herself in the company of the worst sort. She begins a sordid affair with Kas, a daemon whose insatiable lust for power is only outdone by his lust for Dru.

Separated from the only friend he knows, Aodh is left to search the world alone for answers. He meets the young and beautiful dancer, Katerina, and is instantly smitten with her grace and purity. He stays near her, pretending to be mortal, gaining her friendship. But on Katerina’s birthday, just as Aodh is ready to concede to a life of mortality, Katerina is ripped from him by Kas. Aodh’s ideas on remaining mortal are no more; he has to unlock the secrets to his world that will open a trove of unimaginable power to save the two women he loves, before time is no longer in his favour, and he loses everything.

Purchase Tuatha and the Seven Sisters Moon on September 25th 2009 and receive a free bookmark that matches the beautiful limited edition cover.

Teaching - A Love/Hate Relationship

I love teaching my creative writing class this year. I have a wonderful group of eleventh and twelfth graders, some of whom sincerely enjoy writing, others who are "along for the ride" because they need an elective credit. But now at the end of the second week of school, they are all playing along with my creative games, and seem to be enjoying them. It gives me a chance to talk about writing, and encourage other people to write.
Writing to me is not just a way to someday make enough money to quit teaching (although that would be nice), it is therapy, a creative outlet, a way to fill time when I am alone, a way to allow my imagination full rein. And all I need is a notebook and a pen.
I have kept a journal for almost twenty years, which amazes my students, and amazes me sometimes too. And although I don't look back at them often enough, the act of writing has been immensely valuable to me over the years. It is this "act of writing" that I am trying to instill in my students.
Now comes the "hate" part. I don't use the word "hate" very often, but I HATE grading the mountains of homework and classwork from my three ninth grade English classes. After spending several hours of my precious Saturday yesterday grading papers and entering the grades into the computer, I went for a walk -- a fail-proof way to come up with creative ideas.
I have a plan. I won't bore the non-teacher readers with the details, and I rather want to give it a try before I share my ideas anyway. But I am taking back my time. The hours I spend grading papers is not equivalent to how good a teacher I am, or how excellent an education my students receive.

Home Again and Still a Writer

After a lovely and inspiring week at a writers' retreat in Wales, I am trying to hold on to my writer's soul. Who couldn't be a writer with the rugged mountains of northern Wales as a backdrop, and sheep grazing in a nearby pasture for added interest? I didn't have to cook since fantabulous meals were prepared for us. The atmosphere of the workshops was so gentle that I felt no pressure to share my writing, which allowed me to comfortably share.
I even sold a few of my books!
Now I am back in Pennsylvania, trying to sell a car (whose battery is dead at the moment), and prepare for a new school year. Tomorrow I will see the first day faces of my students in 9th grade English, creative writing, and Spanish I. And I forgot to clean the litter boxes yesterday. (I know -- TMI.)
I scheduled today as a writing day -- well, most of it. After about an hour of work, my husband came to tell me he thought we ought to go out and try to start the car. "Now?" I said. "Well, yes," he replied. "Give me twenty minutes," I countered.
So my writing day is interrupted. But I did speak up for the twenty minutes.
It will take a while to train my husband, and myself, that my writing is a priority.
The last day of the retreat, our facilitator said, "How are you going to change your life?"
I am making my writing a priority.

Packing and Keeping the Nervous Stomach at Bay

I think I inherited a touch of anxiety from my mother, much as I hate to admit it.
I have spent most of my adult life trying to be different from my mother. I felt sometimes that, because I was her oldest child and daughter, that she expected me to be like her in most ways. I, on the other hand, wanted to be myself, and that meant to be the polar opposite to her.
She was shy and hesitant around new people; I tried to be bold and confident. She put herself down because she didn't go to college; I flaunted my education like a new hairdo. She liked to stop during the day and take a nap; I was always working and doing. I would come home from my job as a teacher and immediately jump into cleaning the kitchen, cooking, or maybe going out for a run.
But a daughter is a daughter. I am shy in many situations, until I feel comfortable enough to be bold. I compare myself to other people, and too often wonder why I as not as good as -- a best-selling author, a charismatic speaker, or a serene acupuncturist. Why am I not as sure of myself, as myself, as those people are? Never mind that I have no idea how they might feel about themselves.
My mother also suffered from anxiety during much of her life. She had difficulty making changes in her life; she worried about her children to the extent of retro-active worrying. In other words, if she found out one of us had done something that might have put us at some small risk, she commented later, "If I had known you were doing that, I would have worried."
Although in later years she loved to travel, there was a time when she only traveled because my dad wanted to take trips after they retired.
I love to travel. I love everything about it. I love the sights, sounds and smells of places that are different. I love foreign languages; I love trying new food.
But I get butterflies in my stomach preparing for a trip, and I have put a lot of time and effort learning to visualize peace and calm in every situation.
I am my mother's child as well as myself. And isn't that the point of raising children? We want them to be the best of ourselves as well as their own best.
I have the opportunity to learn and grow, and isn't that what it is all about?

Feeling Desperate

"All men live lives of quiet desperation." Henry David Thoreau

I don't know if that is true or not for all men, and women, but I think most of us have our desperate moments. I first read that quote many years ago when I was dealing with a family tragedy. And I think those times of difficulty are when we encounter desperation.

My mother has been gone for three weeks now. Most of the time I feel positive, reasonably happy, and am getting on with my life. But the moments come, especially late in the day, when I feel unbearable sadness, and then the questions come. Was I a good enough daughter? Could I have been more patient? Did I give enough? I want to move on and be happy, but at the same time, moving on takes me away from Mom.

Or does it?

I will always to connected to my mother and my father, who died almost ten years ago. They were loving, beautiful parents, who loved each other very much. I know in my heart that they are happy to be together again now in the next world.
I also know that I will get through this. I am their child. I have their strength and faith.

My Mother the Editor

My mom should have been an editor or an English teacher. She was acutely aware of the correctness of language, and loved to point out grammatical and usage errors in newspaper articles and in the speech of TV personalities.
This was great when I was a child in school. I never worried about errors in my English assignments if she had checked my homework. But as I grew older and began to take my writing more seriously, it began to be a problem.
If I gave my mom an early draft of a short story, instead of giving me feedback on the sense of the story, the characters, the way the story flowed, I more often received comments such as, "Don't you think a semi-colon would be better here instead of a comma?"
After receiving several comments like this I would finally ask her, "But did you like it?" And she would answer, "Oh, yes. I loved it."
It was just one of the many ways that my mom and I approached life from different perspectives, although we both wanted to reach the same goal.
Mom looked at the surface, at what was visible, and made sure that what was apparent to the outside world was correct and acceptable. Once that was done, she could go about her own private business of working on the inner life, which would likely as not have fallen into place by way of her loving hand.
I use a messier technique. The manuscript I am currently working on is in two gigantic chunks that somehow have to be melded together into one story. I wrote it in bits and pieces, some as short as a sentence or two. I need to get the continuity in shape before I worry about commas. As in life, I tend to make a mess of things trying to get it right, and figure out later how I will present myself to the world.
Somehow, each of these approaches worked for each of us, but not without some conflict between us along the way.
But maybe that is something my mom, and all moms, do for their children. She helped me tidy up my messes.