This week we had one day with the surprise appearance of the sun that we have seen way too little of in the past month. I am always amazed at how much my spirit rises with any amount of sunshine. In late afternoon, the sun had drifted to the west and shone brightly through my glass slider. I expected the usual streaks that appear out of nowhere when the sun illuminates them but I was surprised by a gift I received. There covering my glass was a myriad of handprints, all left as gifts by my grandchildren on Christmas Eve. The only identifiable prints were those at the lowest level, obviously those of the youngest, 13 month old Jacob. The rest were a wonderful melange of the rest of the bunch. On a rare sunny January afternoon I felt surrounded by their love.
I didn't wash the window. I can't see the prints in these ensuing cloudy days but I know that they are there. Just the knowing reminds me I am surrounded by their love and I anticipate the next sunny day when we can visit again.
Those handprints on my window make me wonder how many handprints have I left on the window of others' lives? And how many have they left on mine? Do we only see them when life is sunny? Or if we do see them when it's sunny, do we remember that they are there when the clouds roll into our spirits? Perhaps we need to use a little less Windex and a little more remembering. I need to know those handprints are smudged upon my heart's window. I think we all need to know.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
On Being (or not being) a Dog Person
I am not a dog person. Even as I write those words I feel like I should be cast in a dark shadow with a digitally altered voice as I’m being taken away to a witness-type protection program where I would be assigned a new identity. It would probably need to be in some obscure society that would not ostracize me for my aberrant views.
I want to be a dog person, or at least have wanted to be at various times in my life, some very recently. I think I should be a dog person, after all I live alone and dogs are touted to be both companion and protector. Dog people seem to have something that we non-dog people are missing. They look at their four legged friends with loving devotion that surpasses my understanding. Think about it, who in their right mind finds joy in picking up poop and putting it into a plastic bag, daily – multiple times? Only after rigorous training to get them to do that bodily function outside on a regular basis. I have a friend that has a one year old dog that still refuses to comply. Not to mention chunks of dry wall that have been eaten off the wall, along with area rugs, shoes and electrical cords. When I walk on the boardwalk I feel like the dog people have something that I’m missing. There is an immediate bond that appears to deepen as their furry friends meet one another, smelling and sometimes licking each other in publicly inappropriate places, a practice that seems to make owners smile and bond even more.
Dogs are demanding of both time and finances, beyond replacing the afore mentioned dry wall, area rugs, shoes and electrical cords. Along with time spent on daily care, being away from home for a day requires consideration of time in order to get home to the dog left behind on his or her own. And an extended absence of days or weeks requires getting a doggie motel room at a kennel adding considerable cost to a vacation. Other costs equally flummox me. Doggie haircuts cost more than my human ones and a doctor’s appointment costs far more than my going to a doctor and paying my co-pay. I think they actually cost more than going to the human doctor with no insurance. I’m talking about regular type medical care but add to that the cost of neutering, micro-chipping, etc. I would need to find a job to support my furry little habit. On top of that, there is the cost of puppy kindergarten and more advanced training, along with the myriad of designer supplies available at pet shops and discount stores, such as leashes, collars, and even complete outfits of clothing for most any occasion or holiday. I even saw a dog paraphernalia booth at a recent art fair. Can you believe that someone actually sits around every day making clothing and “stuff” for dogs?
But in confession, I have tried to be a dog person, several times. The first was about seven years ago. Being lonely, I perused the classified ads and found a used dog, one and a half years old, neutered and house broken and only $150. I visited the dog and decided he was just what I needed. But I got him home and I think I found some of the reasons they were willing to tearfully part with this precious little thing and give me such a deal. Among other things that I can’t remember, he would not walk on a leash and habitually ran away from home every chance he got. After finding him and bringing him home a few times, the last time I let the people who found him and wanted him keep him. Even though I was out $150 dollars and feeling like a failure, I breathed a sigh of relief and admitted to myself that I was not a dog person and would never go there again. That resolve lasted about five years until someone at work put out an email, with pictures, that she had a one year old dog to give away to a good home – neutered and housebroken. Pictures should be illegal. I couldn’t resist that fluffy little thing in the photos and went for a visit forgetting there is a reason that people are willing to generously give away such a gem. After my visit, I took him on a test run to visit my grandchildren. After he peed on my car seat, and cowered behind my legs in fear on their front porch and peed on my feet, I took him home and announced I was smitten and wanted to take him to live with me after I returned from my vacation in a week and a half. Before I left I took one more grandchild with me to visit the pooch and when one of his college aged owners picked him up, this housebroken mutt proceeded to pee on her. I decided that while he might be housebroken he obviously had no compunction about urinating any other place he wanted, preferably on human beings. After a few more days of hand wringing and ridden with profound guilt, I took the easy way out emailing the owner that I had changed my mind and breathing a sigh of relief, once again swearing I would never go there again.
Unbelievably amnesia set in about a year later when in one of those moments, again I picked up the Grand Haven Tribune and flipped to the Pets section of the classified. There was a 10 month old poodle and something cute and fluffy mixed, neutered, micro-chipped, house broken and free to a good home and I was off and running again on my quest to become a dog person. This even after my daughter fulfilled a promise I exacted from her last time to tell me “NO”. A 15 minute visitation later and being assured that other potential adopters were waiting breathlessly in the wings, I scheduled a pick up time for the following day, giving the current owners time to say their goodbyes. I wish I could remember the dog’s name but I think I blank the names from my mind in an effort to erase some of my guilt. I do remember it was something that I felt needed to be changed to something that better fit the dog and me.
The fluffy little bundle came home with me, along with his crate, leashes, toys, food, dishes and a little bell that hung on the door knob to be rung when he wanted to go outside. And ring it he did, constantly. I’m not sure what did it, but reality set in quickly along with the continual bouncing and begging to be outside. Less than 48 hours later when a non-dog friend asked me about my puppy, I broke down crying with the words, “I don’t think I’m a dog person”. After she hugged me and assured me I was not a terrible person I knew I had to undo what I had done. The only right thing was to call the previous owners who had already asked for visitation privileges and thus would have known if I had done the cowardly thing and given him to someone else. I was so thankful when she insisted it was okay to bring him back, I once again dissolved into tears which grew into great gulping sobs by the time I handed him over at her door. The tears were from shame at returning the dog, but also from a sense of failure at not being a dog person.
Yes, I still read the pet section of the classifieds, almost daily. Sometimes I yearn. Only once has my daughter had to utter the requested “NO” to me. Hopefully I won’t find the “perfect” puppy again when I’m in “one of those moods”. I either need to strengthen my resolve or have a tattoo applied to the center of my forehead that says “I am not a dog person”. Then maybe a dog person would rethink giving me their “free to a good home”.
I want to be a dog person, or at least have wanted to be at various times in my life, some very recently. I think I should be a dog person, after all I live alone and dogs are touted to be both companion and protector. Dog people seem to have something that we non-dog people are missing. They look at their four legged friends with loving devotion that surpasses my understanding. Think about it, who in their right mind finds joy in picking up poop and putting it into a plastic bag, daily – multiple times? Only after rigorous training to get them to do that bodily function outside on a regular basis. I have a friend that has a one year old dog that still refuses to comply. Not to mention chunks of dry wall that have been eaten off the wall, along with area rugs, shoes and electrical cords. When I walk on the boardwalk I feel like the dog people have something that I’m missing. There is an immediate bond that appears to deepen as their furry friends meet one another, smelling and sometimes licking each other in publicly inappropriate places, a practice that seems to make owners smile and bond even more.
Dogs are demanding of both time and finances, beyond replacing the afore mentioned dry wall, area rugs, shoes and electrical cords. Along with time spent on daily care, being away from home for a day requires consideration of time in order to get home to the dog left behind on his or her own. And an extended absence of days or weeks requires getting a doggie motel room at a kennel adding considerable cost to a vacation. Other costs equally flummox me. Doggie haircuts cost more than my human ones and a doctor’s appointment costs far more than my going to a doctor and paying my co-pay. I think they actually cost more than going to the human doctor with no insurance. I’m talking about regular type medical care but add to that the cost of neutering, micro-chipping, etc. I would need to find a job to support my furry little habit. On top of that, there is the cost of puppy kindergarten and more advanced training, along with the myriad of designer supplies available at pet shops and discount stores, such as leashes, collars, and even complete outfits of clothing for most any occasion or holiday. I even saw a dog paraphernalia booth at a recent art fair. Can you believe that someone actually sits around every day making clothing and “stuff” for dogs?
But in confession, I have tried to be a dog person, several times. The first was about seven years ago. Being lonely, I perused the classified ads and found a used dog, one and a half years old, neutered and house broken and only $150. I visited the dog and decided he was just what I needed. But I got him home and I think I found some of the reasons they were willing to tearfully part with this precious little thing and give me such a deal. Among other things that I can’t remember, he would not walk on a leash and habitually ran away from home every chance he got. After finding him and bringing him home a few times, the last time I let the people who found him and wanted him keep him. Even though I was out $150 dollars and feeling like a failure, I breathed a sigh of relief and admitted to myself that I was not a dog person and would never go there again. That resolve lasted about five years until someone at work put out an email, with pictures, that she had a one year old dog to give away to a good home – neutered and housebroken. Pictures should be illegal. I couldn’t resist that fluffy little thing in the photos and went for a visit forgetting there is a reason that people are willing to generously give away such a gem. After my visit, I took him on a test run to visit my grandchildren. After he peed on my car seat, and cowered behind my legs in fear on their front porch and peed on my feet, I took him home and announced I was smitten and wanted to take him to live with me after I returned from my vacation in a week and a half. Before I left I took one more grandchild with me to visit the pooch and when one of his college aged owners picked him up, this housebroken mutt proceeded to pee on her. I decided that while he might be housebroken he obviously had no compunction about urinating any other place he wanted, preferably on human beings. After a few more days of hand wringing and ridden with profound guilt, I took the easy way out emailing the owner that I had changed my mind and breathing a sigh of relief, once again swearing I would never go there again.
Unbelievably amnesia set in about a year later when in one of those moments, again I picked up the Grand Haven Tribune and flipped to the Pets section of the classified. There was a 10 month old poodle and something cute and fluffy mixed, neutered, micro-chipped, house broken and free to a good home and I was off and running again on my quest to become a dog person. This even after my daughter fulfilled a promise I exacted from her last time to tell me “NO”. A 15 minute visitation later and being assured that other potential adopters were waiting breathlessly in the wings, I scheduled a pick up time for the following day, giving the current owners time to say their goodbyes. I wish I could remember the dog’s name but I think I blank the names from my mind in an effort to erase some of my guilt. I do remember it was something that I felt needed to be changed to something that better fit the dog and me.
The fluffy little bundle came home with me, along with his crate, leashes, toys, food, dishes and a little bell that hung on the door knob to be rung when he wanted to go outside. And ring it he did, constantly. I’m not sure what did it, but reality set in quickly along with the continual bouncing and begging to be outside. Less than 48 hours later when a non-dog friend asked me about my puppy, I broke down crying with the words, “I don’t think I’m a dog person”. After she hugged me and assured me I was not a terrible person I knew I had to undo what I had done. The only right thing was to call the previous owners who had already asked for visitation privileges and thus would have known if I had done the cowardly thing and given him to someone else. I was so thankful when she insisted it was okay to bring him back, I once again dissolved into tears which grew into great gulping sobs by the time I handed him over at her door. The tears were from shame at returning the dog, but also from a sense of failure at not being a dog person.
Yes, I still read the pet section of the classifieds, almost daily. Sometimes I yearn. Only once has my daughter had to utter the requested “NO” to me. Hopefully I won’t find the “perfect” puppy again when I’m in “one of those moods”. I either need to strengthen my resolve or have a tattoo applied to the center of my forehead that says “I am not a dog person”. Then maybe a dog person would rethink giving me their “free to a good home”.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
A Friend Who Taught Me How to Live - And How to Die
Genanne was one of those friends that was a delight to experience. We always greeted each other with a hug, a kiss, an “I love you”, and a “Let’s get together”. Her smiles, hugs and kisses were like manna to my soul. Unfortunately “Let’s get together” are words more often spoken than acted upon. Such was that case with me and Genanne.
We really got to know one another in a class called “Art for the Spirit” taught by her daughter-in-law Susan. It was a wonder-filled class beginning with candlelight and the reading aloud of a children’s book with great illustrations. Once that got the creative juices flowing, we were turned loose to explore any medium of art we chose. While several tended to do more “color in the lines” type of things, Genanne and I gravitated together to become like children and do anything and everything, the messier the better. One of our favorites was finger painting. It was during that class that our bond was formed, a bond that surpassed all of the forgotten “let’s get togethers”.
Our friendship expanded in a women’s group, a drumming class and at a weekend retreat. We got together outside of these groups occasionally, always sharing stories of the “loves of our lives”, our children and grandchildren. No matter how much time and distance stood between us, the strands of love persevered. There was always going to be a next time to go out together, another year to go on a trip together, another time to just “be” together.
On one occasion, our Art for the Spirit group met at a state park. During a time of taking a contemplative walk, I came upon a glorious area called the Red Pine Forest. The atmosphere glowed red from the trees and the ground was soft as a mattress from fallen needles. It was an experience that drew me to tears and I hurried back to find someone to share it with me. Genanne and Susan, walked back with me and I wasn’t disappointed in their reaction to my wonderful little find. But Genanne showed me a greater depth to appreciating this display of nature. She not only enjoyed the forest, she became it. I watched in awe as she hugged a tree for a long time and then lay down on the soft ground as a peaceful angel of the forest. Right then I knew I wanted to be more like my friend Genanne.
Life circumstances at some point got in the way of our connection but, while I missed her, it never felt like a problem because there would always be another time to get together. Even when I heard that Genanne had pancreatic cancer, I still didn’t think of that time as being a precious, fleeting commodity. Perhaps my fear even got in the way of our connection because I didn’t want to admit that she might not be around for always. I think I tried to justify my lack of contact by telling myself I was honoring her spending time with her family but I’m not sure I was being honest with myself.
As the cancer progressed and I realized we weren’t going to be able to grow old together as friends, I wanted to spend time with Genanne. I wanted she and I to have as much time together as possible. I needed to get beyond that fear of death that rises up when you are losing someone you care about. It was just after Christmas when we spent several hours alone together at her condo. We finger painted, dressed up in her theatre prop beads and scarves, put flowers in our hair and danced. Even in her drug induced state, she was all the best of the woman I loved. As we sat in the dark, with just the lingering lights of Christmas, Genanne talked about her impending move to the Hospice House and for the first, and only, time told me she was afraid. We just sat holding hands and holding that fear in our hearts together.
The next week Genanne moved to an apartment at the Hospice House and invited me to lunch. As we sat and enjoyed what was to be the first of our weekly Wednesday lunches, we vowed to keep this date no matter what. When I left that day to go back to work, my friend held me long in a hug and said, “Please don’t stop coming”. I think she was as afraid of being left alone as she was of dying, perhaps more so. I went back to the office and arranged my schedule so that on Wednesday I was always free to spend a couple of hours with Genanne. At that point I could think of nothing more important for Genanne. I don’t think I realized how important it would be to me.
Those Wednesday lunches were life changing for me. We talked about the future even though knowing it was growing ever more shortened. We planned to drive to her Upper Peninsula cabin at a time that the doctors were telling her wouldn’t exist. We laughed until tears flowed as she described the box she had chosen for her ashes. She told me she was so happy I “got her”. When she wanted to go one more time to the women’s group at church with dinner out beforehand, I said I would love to be her escort. She chose a restaurant that required her to walk down a flight of stairs. When she assured me she could do it, I instructed her that if she fell, she was supposed to tuck and roll and I would pick her up at the bottom and we would act as if nothing had happened. Again we dissolved in tears if laughter.
One of Genanne’s goals in her too-short life was to go to the cabin with her family one more time. It meant that we would miss the first Wednesday lunch in three months. So that we could be together in spirit, I gave her a stone that I had carried with me for many years. She promised to carry it in her pocket and we kissed each other goodbye after what was to be our last lunch date.
Genanne came back from the cabin having fulfilled what was an important last dream and held on until she could say goodbye to her other two sons. Her life was complete, and even though she would have loved to spend many more years with her beloved family, she was ready to let go of this life that she so confidently claimed held no regrets.
It was a Monday afternoon when Susan told me that death was imminent in case I wanted to see Genanne. I struggled with going immediately but something in me told me to wait for our regular Wednesday date. It felt only right. I did go to the Hospice House at noon on Wednesday and said my goodbyes to my beloved friend. I hugged her, kissed her, told her I loved her and told her we would “get together sometime”. Though she was in a state that one might think she didn’t hear, I know she did. She opened one eye slightly and I told her I knew she loved me too. Genanne died the next day.
We laughed together. We cried together. Genanne taught me how to live – and how to die. I can’t explain it but I know I learned it in my heart and in my soul. I wish everyone on earth could have known her and learned what I did but my hope is that at least some of the people I care about will learn the lesson from me, by the way I live my life and the way I live my death. Goodbye sweet friend. Let’s get together sometime.
dlk
We really got to know one another in a class called “Art for the Spirit” taught by her daughter-in-law Susan. It was a wonder-filled class beginning with candlelight and the reading aloud of a children’s book with great illustrations. Once that got the creative juices flowing, we were turned loose to explore any medium of art we chose. While several tended to do more “color in the lines” type of things, Genanne and I gravitated together to become like children and do anything and everything, the messier the better. One of our favorites was finger painting. It was during that class that our bond was formed, a bond that surpassed all of the forgotten “let’s get togethers”.
Our friendship expanded in a women’s group, a drumming class and at a weekend retreat. We got together outside of these groups occasionally, always sharing stories of the “loves of our lives”, our children and grandchildren. No matter how much time and distance stood between us, the strands of love persevered. There was always going to be a next time to go out together, another year to go on a trip together, another time to just “be” together.
On one occasion, our Art for the Spirit group met at a state park. During a time of taking a contemplative walk, I came upon a glorious area called the Red Pine Forest. The atmosphere glowed red from the trees and the ground was soft as a mattress from fallen needles. It was an experience that drew me to tears and I hurried back to find someone to share it with me. Genanne and Susan, walked back with me and I wasn’t disappointed in their reaction to my wonderful little find. But Genanne showed me a greater depth to appreciating this display of nature. She not only enjoyed the forest, she became it. I watched in awe as she hugged a tree for a long time and then lay down on the soft ground as a peaceful angel of the forest. Right then I knew I wanted to be more like my friend Genanne.
Life circumstances at some point got in the way of our connection but, while I missed her, it never felt like a problem because there would always be another time to get together. Even when I heard that Genanne had pancreatic cancer, I still didn’t think of that time as being a precious, fleeting commodity. Perhaps my fear even got in the way of our connection because I didn’t want to admit that she might not be around for always. I think I tried to justify my lack of contact by telling myself I was honoring her spending time with her family but I’m not sure I was being honest with myself.
As the cancer progressed and I realized we weren’t going to be able to grow old together as friends, I wanted to spend time with Genanne. I wanted she and I to have as much time together as possible. I needed to get beyond that fear of death that rises up when you are losing someone you care about. It was just after Christmas when we spent several hours alone together at her condo. We finger painted, dressed up in her theatre prop beads and scarves, put flowers in our hair and danced. Even in her drug induced state, she was all the best of the woman I loved. As we sat in the dark, with just the lingering lights of Christmas, Genanne talked about her impending move to the Hospice House and for the first, and only, time told me she was afraid. We just sat holding hands and holding that fear in our hearts together.
The next week Genanne moved to an apartment at the Hospice House and invited me to lunch. As we sat and enjoyed what was to be the first of our weekly Wednesday lunches, we vowed to keep this date no matter what. When I left that day to go back to work, my friend held me long in a hug and said, “Please don’t stop coming”. I think she was as afraid of being left alone as she was of dying, perhaps more so. I went back to the office and arranged my schedule so that on Wednesday I was always free to spend a couple of hours with Genanne. At that point I could think of nothing more important for Genanne. I don’t think I realized how important it would be to me.
Those Wednesday lunches were life changing for me. We talked about the future even though knowing it was growing ever more shortened. We planned to drive to her Upper Peninsula cabin at a time that the doctors were telling her wouldn’t exist. We laughed until tears flowed as she described the box she had chosen for her ashes. She told me she was so happy I “got her”. When she wanted to go one more time to the women’s group at church with dinner out beforehand, I said I would love to be her escort. She chose a restaurant that required her to walk down a flight of stairs. When she assured me she could do it, I instructed her that if she fell, she was supposed to tuck and roll and I would pick her up at the bottom and we would act as if nothing had happened. Again we dissolved in tears if laughter.
One of Genanne’s goals in her too-short life was to go to the cabin with her family one more time. It meant that we would miss the first Wednesday lunch in three months. So that we could be together in spirit, I gave her a stone that I had carried with me for many years. She promised to carry it in her pocket and we kissed each other goodbye after what was to be our last lunch date.
Genanne came back from the cabin having fulfilled what was an important last dream and held on until she could say goodbye to her other two sons. Her life was complete, and even though she would have loved to spend many more years with her beloved family, she was ready to let go of this life that she so confidently claimed held no regrets.
It was a Monday afternoon when Susan told me that death was imminent in case I wanted to see Genanne. I struggled with going immediately but something in me told me to wait for our regular Wednesday date. It felt only right. I did go to the Hospice House at noon on Wednesday and said my goodbyes to my beloved friend. I hugged her, kissed her, told her I loved her and told her we would “get together sometime”. Though she was in a state that one might think she didn’t hear, I know she did. She opened one eye slightly and I told her I knew she loved me too. Genanne died the next day.
We laughed together. We cried together. Genanne taught me how to live – and how to die. I can’t explain it but I know I learned it in my heart and in my soul. I wish everyone on earth could have known her and learned what I did but my hope is that at least some of the people I care about will learn the lesson from me, by the way I live my life and the way I live my death. Goodbye sweet friend. Let’s get together sometime.
dlk
New Year's Resolutions
It is that time of year again when I feel guilt about making resolutions that my history tells me I will not keep and guilt about not making any at all. During this take down the tree and vacuum time, it seems there is more to be swept up than left-over needles. All the stores advertise file cabinets, folders and other trappings for getting one's life in order. So it only makes sense that I would make resolutions, putting all the things I want to change about myself into neat little file folders on the top of my to-do pile.
I struggle with the word "resolution". It has the connotation of rigidity, of finding something about myself that causes me negativity and guilt and through grit and determination, excising it from my life and/or my being. I cringe about failing at it, at adding one more failure to my resume of self-worth. Even though I read, and the TV programs tell me, that the majority of people fail at keeping resolutions I struggle to not make it a personal failure. Resolutions feel constricting, a claustrophobic box full of hard surfaces and sharp corners. No wonder one would want out of them in as short a time as possible.
This year I have decided to eliminate the word "resolution" from my vocabulary and instead focus on New Year's "intention". Intention is a much softer, friendlier word, directed in a forward motion rather than an act of going backward to see what I have screwed up and feel compelled to change. While there are many things about myself I would like to change, I will instead move in the direction of living with intention. I don't know quite where that will take me but I think I kind of like that not knowing. In a week, I may feel differently.
In the meantime, without doing the normal resolution planning, I have discovered this week that my creativity has marched right up to the front of the line. I signed up for a weekend writing retreat on the beautiful shores of Lake Michigan;I enrolled in a three week "try me" watercolor class;and I started this blog. It will be interesting to see if all those other unmentionable and unattained resolutions from years past will take notice, pick up their instruments and join in the parade.
dlk
I struggle with the word "resolution". It has the connotation of rigidity, of finding something about myself that causes me negativity and guilt and through grit and determination, excising it from my life and/or my being. I cringe about failing at it, at adding one more failure to my resume of self-worth. Even though I read, and the TV programs tell me, that the majority of people fail at keeping resolutions I struggle to not make it a personal failure. Resolutions feel constricting, a claustrophobic box full of hard surfaces and sharp corners. No wonder one would want out of them in as short a time as possible.
This year I have decided to eliminate the word "resolution" from my vocabulary and instead focus on New Year's "intention". Intention is a much softer, friendlier word, directed in a forward motion rather than an act of going backward to see what I have screwed up and feel compelled to change. While there are many things about myself I would like to change, I will instead move in the direction of living with intention. I don't know quite where that will take me but I think I kind of like that not knowing. In a week, I may feel differently.
In the meantime, without doing the normal resolution planning, I have discovered this week that my creativity has marched right up to the front of the line. I signed up for a weekend writing retreat on the beautiful shores of Lake Michigan;I enrolled in a three week "try me" watercolor class;and I started this blog. It will be interesting to see if all those other unmentionable and unattained resolutions from years past will take notice, pick up their instruments and join in the parade.
dlk
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Can You Believe It?
Today I had a phone chat (2hrs, 8min & 48sec) with my sister Karen. By the way I almost detest talking on the phone but love talking to Karen. As we had our "end of one year-beginning of another" conversation, I talked about wanting to get back in the groove of writing. Note I am not using the word "resolution" - more on that later. Karen asked if I wanted to write for personal pleasure or publishing pleasure and I told her I want both. As an intermediate step between just the joy of writing and making the New York Times bestseller list, she suggested I set up a blog. Trying not to make my ignorance too obvious I resisted asking Karen what language she was speaking. Actually I had some idea of what a blog is but didn't know it was something that just anyone could do, certainly not me. But in a "beginning of a new year" spirit, I checked out some others and then went to the website she suggested. Being sure I was less capable than what my dear sister seemed to assume, I set about creating a blog (very strange word indeed!) and was astounded to see how easy it is. So here I am. Can you believe it?!?!?
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