Chicken Bones

Dealing with Stress

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 00:44:00 +0000

I'm not the only one. Job, family, house, writing, exercise -- they are all important. But I know I'm not the only one who feels that something has to slip through the cracks most days in order to finish the immediate tasks that cry out to be done.
Can I afford to quit a stressful, but well-paying job in order to follow my writing dream? And how will I recognize the guidance that tells me to do it or not do it? Is there another opportunity out their for me?
The muscles across my back crisscross with the tension. Right now I just want someone to take care of me.

My Many Lives

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 00:46:00 +0000

When I left the small town in Illinois where I grew up, I lost touch with most of my friends from high school. My family moved away as well, and I went to college, then to Chicago and a new life.
while some people live a life of smooth continuity, with family and friends in more or less the same place, my life has been one of stops and starts and transitions. My siblings and children are scattered all over the country, from Pennsylvania to Alaska to North Carolina to California. I have lived in four states and spent seven years in Costa Rica. I have friends from all the phases of my life. I find it funny sometimes that I have such a variety of friends and acquaintances that I have made along the way. How would my poet friends from New Jersey get along with my cousin who still lives and works on his family farm? Would my former students from Maryland have anything to say to their Costa Rican counterparts? But somehow all these people are connected through --- me!
Recently through the magic of technology I have reconnected with many old friends. And this network of humanity says more about me than it does about them. I love the mix of people that I know -- their differences and similarities, their opinions and thoughts. Crazy as my life sometimes seems to more sedentary people, I like it this way.

Amelia and Shirley

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 02:15:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 23:56:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 12:40:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 13:52:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 13:20:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 13:58:00 +0000

"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

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 14:28:00 +0000

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.

Three Weeks

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 14:53:00 +0000

Photo of my mom with her great-grandson last spring.

It's been three weeks now, and I miss my mom terribly. I keep thinking of things that I want to tell her. "I had lunch with Linda yesterday." "I saw the movie about Julia Child."
When I was growing up in Illinois, I always got off the school bus bursting with stories of the day that I had to tell Mom right away. As the oldest of four, I had stiff competition for Mom's attention, especially at the end of the school day. Mom often told me, "Wait until the younger ones get their talking done, then I can listen to you."
But I couldn't wait. I had to tell Mom NOW! I had to talk -- to tell her what was important to me, because that was who I was and who I was becoming as a person.
We spent so much time together the last few months of her life, but in many ways that makes it even more difficult. For the first time in our lives, we would live just fifteen minutes away from each other. But as a good friend once said, "We had plans, but God had other plans."

Storms and Sunny Days

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 13:59:00 +0000

I love summer storms -- the darkness of the sky, the rain, the water rushing in the stream behind my house. I love the lushness of the landscape after a good rain. When I lived in Costa Rica, I loved the rainy season best. In the tropics, the sun shines in the morning, and everyone goes out early to finish their shopping and work before the afternoon rain. Construction workers are at their sites by 6 a.m. Students are at school by 7.
The rain begins sometime in the afternoon. It could be one o'clock or four o'clock; it could be a downpour or a light drizzle, but the rain will come, wash everything clean, and make the world rich with life.
What we call storms in life are not the same. Life storms do change us, wash us clean and make us new. But they are not without their pain. We cannot take a nap and allow the storms in life to wash over us.
My mother became ill while visiting me in April, and passed to the next life on July 21. She improved amazingly after the orginial crisis that put her in the hospital for 2 1/2 weeks, and a rehabilitation center for another 3 weeks. She made the decision to move into a senior living facility not far from my home, and lived there for only a month.
We had returned to her home of more than thirty years in Illinois, to begin sorting out the possessions of the years, and to retrieve her two cats and bring them with us to her new home.
The end came quickly early one morning. My California brother had just left, and I was waiting for the Alaska brother with his two daughters to arrive to help with cleaning the house. When Mom called to me that she could not breathe, and gasped that she needed to go to the hospital, the paramedics arrived in just seven minutes. They did what they were trained to do, but she was gone.
I spent the fist few hours, as I waited for my brother to arrive, cleaning my mom's house.

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:32:00 +0000

Why do people read mysteries? It's like solving a puzzle, and you don't know until the end if your solution is correct, or if it is something else entirely!

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 14:29:00 +0000

Bio, photos, and dedication sent off for The Gate House. The cover looks great. I can't wait to hold my book in my hands!

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 11:29:00 +0000

My other brother and my daughter are here now. Off to the hospital to see Mom.

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 21:43:00 +0000

Flight delayed. Don't know until when. Maybe a short time. Don't know.

Fun

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 19:55:00 +0000

I had fun today. I mean I really had fun. I played with my grandson on the playground equipment near my daughter's house. Luckily, Tomas and I and my mom were the only people there, so I had the freedom to join him on the slide, climb the ladders, and make "food" with dry leaves. We turned the wheels and were co-pilots on his "airplane." We climbed the miniature climbing wall and jumped on the swinging bridge. What fun!
I discovered a joy I have not felt in a long time. The sunshine warmed the chilly spring air as we used our muscles to climb, run, pull, and jump. His laughter and appreciation of my company added to the fun, but I couldn't help wondering -- why don't they build jungle gyms for adults? Not climbing walls, or "serious" exercise equipment, where we think about which muscle group we need to use for maximum effect, but some place to climb and jump just for the fun of it.
I resolve today to have more fun, and to do more things just to feel the exhileration of being alive.
Then we came home and ate lunch on lawn chairs in the driveway.
Thank you, Tomas!

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 01:32:00 +0000

Full of apple pie. Oh, well. I walked today.

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 19:34:00 +0000

The luxury of a week off to spend with family and refocus. Even better when it's in the warm spring of North Carolina.

And so . . .

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 29 Dec 2008 15:06:00 +0000

In my opinion . . .
too many similes and metaphors can distract a reader from a good story.

When I read fiction, I like to be caught up in a good yarn, whether it is mystery, romance, or a story that could be about my next door neighbor.

I like imagery; a good image can make the words on the page vivid and create a picture in the reader's mind. Some images, however, can be distracting, and cause the reader to stop and wonder what the writer is trying to do.

One of my favorites is a reference to the Washington Monument as the "creamy spike." In the years that I lived in the Washington, DC area, we never failed to refer to that landmark as the "creamy spike" when we saw it.

A prize, yet to be determined, to anyone who identifies the book in which this reference appears.

Another favorite, from a novel whose name I don't recall, but I do remember something of the basic plot, refers to someone who handles things with unnecessary strength as like a "gladiator pitting cherries." Those two images, the gladiator and the cherry pitting action, clash in my mind. The image contributes nothing to the understanding of the story. It simply made me stop and wonder what the author was trying to say.

There will be a prize to whoever finds this reference as well. Although I don't remember the title of the book, I would recognize it.

Day Job

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 19:16:00 +0000

I can't believe I haven't written anything since October. The last time was the day before I started a well-paying but stressful and time-consuming teaching job.
Yes, I want to pay off my bills. Yes, I want to save money. Yes, I want money to travel, buy an i-Pod and just a few of the trappings of modern life.
But ninth graders are demanding little beasts. And school districts struggling to raise test scores and live up to the "standards" of No Child Left Behind put even more depressiing demands on the creative spirit.
I spend most of my time enforcing rules. I am a police officer/prison guard. Maybe it will get better, or maybe I will move.
For now I have ten more glorious days of holiday break. I have time to get my creative life in order, and spend some time staring at the sky and trying to make sense out of my life.

Watching Bird Watching

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:45:00 +0000

I'm not a bird watcher, but I occasionally hang out with this species of human out of deference to my husband.
Bird watchers can be found sitting on an outcripping of rick, all facing the same direction, binoculars applied to their faces -- waiting. There may be almost as many varieties of bird watchers as there are of the feathered creatures they watch.
There are the solitaries, usually male, who come equipped with tripod, high powered binoculars, and sophisticated camera equipment. There are the older couples, often carrying a few extra pounds because bird watching, once you reach your destination, is essentially a sedentary activity. They frequently wear brimmed has as protection from those nasty ultraviolet rays. There are families, encouraging children to be patient, keep their eyes open, and appreciate where they are and what they see. And in many popular locations, you will find young interns assisting the park naturalists in identifying that moving speck high above.
I've got no problem with birds, and I heartily support preservation of natural areas and the wildlife who inhabit them. My problem is that I have a poor memory.
I forget, from one time to the next, when I accompany my husband on one of these bird watching ventures, that there is a lot of sitting still involved, and that the seat is usually a rock.
I go out all prepared for a hike, thinking I will be getting some good exercise, and am therefore entitled to eat a couple of extra handfuls of trail mix, knowing that I will burn it off during the day.
To his credit over the years, my husband has recognized that I am not, and will never be, a bird watcher. He will leave me sitting on my rock with my notebook for a short time, but he will return (assuming nothing dramatic like of flock of eagles is overhead) and hike with me. He saves the serious bird watching for when I am out of town.
I have learned to identify several of the more spectacular species of birds, and once watched a peregrine falcon sit on Shakespeare's head in Central Park eating a mouse. Mostly, however, I enjoy watching the bird watchers.

I'm Still Waiting!

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 14:33:00 +0000

The Gate House will be out soon -- soon! Last minute editing! Who has the manuscript?
But in the meantime other exciting things are happening in my life! Next week I leave for Italy for ten days -- just for fun, just because -- because life is an adventure!
And when I return I start a new teaching job at Lankenau High School in Philadelphia. This will do wonders for my financial situation, and it looks like an ideal teaching situation. Thank you to the power of Divine Assistance!

Waiting Mode

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 14:39:00 +0000

I am in "waiting mode" now -- waiting for something to happen. I am waiting for the cold I caught in North Carolina to go away. I am waiting to hear that The Gate House is finally released. I have been telling the world "It's coming soon! It's coming soon!" for what seems like years -- definitely months.
Should I pester my publisher again, or not? What does "soon" mean, anyway?

Changing Plans

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 14:29:00 +0000

So my plans for lunch with a friend have been changed once again, giving me a day to write.
I am on a quest to find my best daily schedule. I love getting up, having my coffee and meditation time, checking my email and FaceBook. But that's a slow start to the day.
So today I tried exercise first. I went out for about a thirty-five minute walk and then came back and did some strength training in the basement. Good start to exercise, but then I really needed a shower. It was after ten by the time I sat down at the computer.
Maybe I will alternate. Exercise first one day and write the next.
My ideal day would be a nap, but my cats take care of that task for me.

Crisis!

noreply@blogger.com (KH) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 15:07:00 +0000

My laptop is in the local computer ICU! We were working together, happy in each other's company, when the poor thing suddenly collapsed! No amount of CPR (computer personal resuscitation) could revive it. It is now in the hands of the experts, or so we hope. A preliminary exam turned up now software problems, so it now must be sent on for "further tests."
I have much of my work saved elsewhere, but there are pieces of writing and other bits of ephemera that have been hanging around on that computer and nowhere else.
It is an opportunity to take stock of my writing and my projects and decide what is really worthwhile, just in case those items are gone for good.
It's an opportunity to start fresh, and I do love new beginnings!