You were watching, weren't you?

You knew when the apartment would be empty, and when you'd have time. Time enough to empty the folders and the accordion file.  Time enough to find the key to the strong box so you wouldn't have to try and force it open like you did the front door.

Somehow you knew you'd have enough time to consider all your choices. Or did you have help? Many hands make light work, you know. You left a perfectly good credit card behind...and an unused book of checks. So I guess you're not into identity theft.

But it was identity theft. My identity. My mother's identity. My grandparents' identities.

To you, it was a carat's worth of diamonds shaped like a heart. How much will the pawnbroker give you for my grandfather's 50th anniversary gift to my grandmother?

To you, it was a bulky gold and silver ring with a small diamond in the middle. To my grandfather, it represented 70 years in the Masonic order. To my mother, it represented her hero.

To you, they were tiny rings with shiny red stones. Garnets, by the way, not rubies. And that's rose gold, not copper. And they belonged to my great-great-great grandparents. Matching wedding rings from 1883.

To you, they were just two gold rings with a few diamonds. To me, it was what my father could afford to marry my mother. She's a widow...has been for nearly 20 years. Those rings were supposed to be for my daughter. They weren't blinding in brilliance, but they were beautiful.

My mother has so little. Too young for Medicare, too old to be working the labor intensive job she has that helps her break even every month.

Do you work? Do you steal to feed a habit, or were you desperate to feed your family?

I should tell you - we're not scared. We're angry. I don't think you'll be back because you have no interest in taking the social security information and birth certificate of a dead man...or a perfectly good credit card. You took what you could pocket and pawn. And I hope you do pawn those rings. Because then we stand a chance of getting them back.

I'm not scared of you. Whether it's one of you or three. What I am scared of is that if your pawn broker, the guy who gives you money for rings with no questions asked, will decide a dinky rose gold ring with a garnet isn't worth squat. And you'll toss it in a ditch. Or that 70 years of respect and honor in the form of a ring is sitting on the table next to your crack pipe.

I want to feel sorry for you. But I can't. Not right now.

To you, it's just gold. A few rings in a box. To me, they represented love and family. Irreplaceable.

Hi, writers!  Thanks for the emails/messages.  I am really still breathing and writing - I had some computer issues and time management problems. And THEN I lost my password here and had to do a reset. But...I'll get caught up soon (on a month's worth of entries!).

Elizabeth

Sitting in the damp garden this morning, facing east, watching the sun break over the shadowbox fence, I admired the dew sparkling on the unmown lawn and dripping from iridescent purple balloon flowers.  I noticed strings of spider webs collected in the dwarf arbovitae, and hanging from the poplar...the sun sliding over the filaments.

An odd thought occurred to me.

"It looks like the spiders T.P.'d our backyard."

Twenty-eight years. That's how long I've been battling body image, weight, health, strength, eating habits, numbers on the scale, jeans size, and waistline measurements. I've analyzed their tactics, their manuevers, their statistics trying to find the strategy that will breach their defenses with minimal collateral damage.

I've fallen back to a safe, neutral zone. Retreated, as it were. I am tired of fighting. I told myself that two years ago and I decided I didn't want to fight with myself anymore. Yet I persist. Or maybe insist.

But instead of an all out battle, it's now guerrilla warfare. Waiting until I'm confident, certain of myself, or just not paying attention...then.....they confront me with temptations, rationalizations, frustrations, and depression.

And sometimes, there's a black ops team that sneaks in, blows up something and leaves me to pick up the debris. They have broken toes, twisted knees, messed up my thyroid to the point it had to be put out of its misery, and short circuited my brain.

I have patched, stitched, medicated, adjusted, cried, raged, adjusted again, fought, and most of all, persisted.

As with any war, if it lasts long enough people forget how it started, when it started, or why the war continues. What was the goal again? Fitting into a size 10? Having a 29" waistline? Being the one who does everything best? Capturing admiring glances? Was that before or after having children? Before or after the thyroid crash? Before or after the oral contraceptives and the anti-seizure medication that drained my energy and left me feeling useless and depressed? Did the battle start when my mother took me to a Weight Watchers-type group when I was 14 because she thought I was overweight, when I had never given two thoughts as to the size of anyone's clothes? Did it start during my second year of college when my boyfriend of three years dumped me and I tried to fill the void with food because I couldn't buy alcohol and M&Ms were cheaper than marijuana? Did I start to lose ground when my father died and I couldn't cope with the grieving process, and I sought solace in home cooking?

I retook the hill that was my health in my early thirties and lost 50 pounds but the casualty was my family because I was living to work out instead of working out to have a good, long life.

So I'm sitting in a foxhole, ten years later, looking at the weapons I have available. It's painfully quiet and I'm waiting for the next round of artillery. I'm losing ground again. I've regained 20 pounds over the last four years. The troops are getting tired and need to be rotated out. But is spite of losing ground, I'm managing to hold the territory...all tests and blood work and other intel have come back favorable to excellent.  So is the rest just propaganda?

I have three advisors. Two have said being perimenopausal and on meds that can cause weight gain are going to make losing weight difficult. An uphill battle that requires not only healthy eating (which, by and large, I do) but nearly an hour of cardio 7 days a week...not to mention strength training. But I have a finite amount of time each day, and minimal financial resources. And I won't sell out my family to gain two inches of ground.

What if the war isn't winable? What if it's just obsession? What if legendary warrior Geneen Roth is right - obsession just distracts from truth? Maybe there's a bigger battle to be won, and the last 28 years have been skirmishes.

Once more....into the breach. Lock and load.

My first grader named the trees in our backyard. George, Lily, and Steve - the fast-growing poplars - and Teeny, the slightly stunted but recovering tulip poplar. The first three were planted 5 or 6 years ago when we first moved in to provide some much needed shade in our south-facing yard. Teeny and an ill-fated companion tree were planted the following season.  Teeny seemed to battle a disease of some kind for the first two seasons, but now is making a glorious comeback. The one-foot twig is now nearly 6 feet tall with leaves the size of an adult's hand.

As for George, Lily, and Steve...billed as "fast growers," they didn't disappoint, shooting upward by feet, not inches, every season. The thick green leaves sparkled in the summer sunlight and turned bright gold in the fall, rustling like taffeta in the wind. In just 5 years, they'd reached their maximum height of 20 feet. They are the hot hangout for goldfinches, cardinals, grackles, robins and song sparrows.

But this spring, something was wrong with George. Over a third of his branches were dead. And though we hadn't noticed initially, he hadn't grown as much as Lily and Steve the previous season. He'd been healthy enough to produce buds on those dead branches, and the twigs that supported them were still pliable, but the larger branch feeding them was dry. Dead.

We debated whether to wait till fall or take care of it now, but we knew George had to come down.

The idea made me ill. I felt like I was betraying some sacred trust. I thought about how, for five years, I'd walked around our backyard, giving the trees pep talks  - encouraging the leaves to pop, telling them how beautiful their fall foliage looked, thanking them for the much needed shade.

As I walked around George, seeking a reason or hope for redemption, I noticed holes bored into the trunk, sap running down like blood from bullet wounds.  George was bleeding.

In a way, it didn't matter if it was the bugs or a fungus.  It was like having cancer and pneumonia. One of them was going to be fatal.

Over the weekend, George came down.  We'd explained to our first grader that George was sick and we didn't want Steve and Lily to catch what he had. But she did ask her dad to leave a stump so she would have a place to sit.

George's branches will have a second life as a trellis for our vigorous pink New Dawn climbing rose. And there may be enough branches left to build a rustic arbor for the clematis I got for Mother's Day. My friend Craig at AmazinglyRustic.com, a genius with a lathe, is loaning us a chainsaw to finish the work on the largest part of the trunk and in exchange, we're giving him some of George's best, which may have new life as pens, yo-yos, bowls, or boxes in Craig's workshop.

Below the top of the stump, new poplar shoots are pushing up. Time will tell. This could be the beginning of George Junior.

"You block your dream when you allow your fear to grow bigger than your faith." ~Mary Manin Morrissey

Am I the only one who, rather than feeling energized by helpful writing magazines, blogs and articles, actually feels defeated?

Resources abound for characterization, storytelling, self-editing and revising, how to find an agent, and more. So much so that sometimes I feel like I'm navigating a gauntlet of hard-sell merchants in a bazaar.

"Here's ten tips for..."

"Six simple steps to successful..."

"Five mistakes no writer should make..."

"Three agents in search of new writers...

"100 best web sites for..."

"The hottest genres today..."

Maybe this is because I see stories everywhere. Essays. Fiction. Poems. In the weather, the animals that inhabit my backyard, the lady in the Lexus talking on her cell phone who nearly ran me over in the crosswalk this afternoon, a random photo of a sunset over a castle in Scotland. They all have stories under the surface, like a koi in a pond.

One of my musical heroes, Jason Mraz, recently posted a Note on Facebook about Commitment, closely followed by another Note about The Journey.

He said Commitment shouldn't be swayed by what other people think. If you're committed to cleaning up the environment, then whether or not the people in your neighborhood join you isn't important. You are committed, and you will take steps to clean up the environment.  If you're committed to being an artist, and you let other people's reactions - or whether or not you make money from your creativity - determine your progress, then you are too attached to the outcome and not committed to the process or the journey.

The journey is an element of the follow-up post.  He spoke about not being a "try-hard"...being so focused on the destination that you forget to appreciate the journey.

Since I began writing with the intent to publish, I was keenly aware of recommendations to not just pick a genre because it's popular and write for it.  Romances are popular - they make up a huge percentage of book sales every year.  And I have a romance partially written.  I love the story and the characters and I have this strange need to make sure they live happily ever after.  I am a huge science fiction and fantasy fan - tv, movies, and books - but I know I don't have the patience right now to craft a GOOD sci fi book. And I may just be a fan of the genre and not an author...and I'm okay with that.

My most recent project is a young adult paranormal novel. But there are cautionary articles about YA readers being able to spot a lame attempt a mile away. And I start analyzing the story:  is it too naive?  Is it not "cutting-edge" enough?  My characters are rather "unplugged" -- they aren't chronically texting, three of the four don't even drive. Does that make them too 20th century instead of 21st century?  Will anyone even care?

PLUS I have short stories, essays, memoir, poetry....and I do really just dabble in the poetry.  Sometimes I feel like a nut and sometimes I don't, y'know?

And I read back at my early entries here....and I want to be true to that feeling I had a year ago, when Rev. Davies made the suggestion about a book of meditations and healing stories. We are working on one at church, and I'm serving as the editor.

I want to write.  But I can't ignore the medical bills on the table, and the random act of roadwork that led to two new tires on my husband's car, and the very empty cupboards.  I need to earn a living.  Which I do by editing OTHER people's writing.

Don't get me wrong - I enjoy doing it. And it's a good learning experience for me on several fronts.  But I find myself inwardly a little hostile that I'm becoming attached to earning and holding up my end of the bargain at home...and that as much as I want to commit to just telling the stories that are in me to tell...the needs in front me have to take priority...because the means for dealing with them is already there. There are absolutely no guarantees with my writing.

At this point I'm so far removed from needing "Ten Tips for Wooing an Agent" that it's disspiriting. And I feel like the so-called helpful resources are Popular Kids, and I'm in the AV Club.

Dear Lord,
Give me a few friends
who will love me for what I am,
and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope...
And though I come not within sight
of the castle of my dreams,
teach me to be thankful for life,
and for time's olden memories
that are good and sweet.
And may the evening's twilight
find me gentle still.

------

I wish I could say I wrote this, but, alas, no. ;-)

Based on 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8, Psalms 130 and 131, I wrote this for our most recent Service of Healing and Wholeness.

It's amazing - we can always see the hand of God at work in our services. A family drove four hours from Indiana to attend the service and seek intercessory prayer for three of their members: a woman on her fourth battle with cancer, a young man with degenerative arthritis, and a boy with migraines.  They put themselves at the feet of Jesus, looking for the mercy of God, in the hands of people they've never met before in their lives.

Something transpires at every one of these services that brings tears to my eyes and appreciate the Divine Love that ties us together.

----------

Father God, Brother Jesus, thank You for being in our midst today and for reminding us about the power of Love.

Love calms and quiets the soul...and when all is well with the soul, paths become clearer, joy becomes greater.  From Love comes great strength.  It bears all things.

When we arrive at a place where "this is too much" or "I can't do this" begins to weigh on us, help us remember the acts of love, kindness and mercy we have witnessed. May we leave a little space in our hearts where one drop of Love can always find its way in -- like sun through snow -- to renew our strength.  Leave us open to the possibilities of a life lived not just with purpose, but with Love.  Thank You for keeping us in Your care.

Amen

Seventeen days of screwed up sleep schedules to watch the 2010 Olympics in Vancouver...it was worth it.  My daughters are 6 and 13, and from the Opening Ceremonies to the Closing Ceremonies, they were full of questions, comments, enthusiasm, not just for Team USA but Team World.

My oldest especially recognized that those athletes worked hard for many years and suffered injuries and setbacks and bad days to get to the Olympics. She was fascinated by the teamwork of the bobsledders, and awestruck by Shaun White, Torah Bright, Gretchen Bleiler and the rest of the half-pipe commandos.

"See, mom!  That's why I want to get a snowboard!"

Really?  This is news to me. It was an eye-opener.  I didn't think she had an interest in anything involving cold and snow.

I didn't say anything about it being dangerous, or requiring a lot of practice, or the fact that we live in one of the flattest areas of Ohio. And, amazingly, I'm not opposed to her trying it. If she wants to snowboard, we can work out something. It might involve moving to Vail, but we'll see. ;-)

She also enjoyed matching the flags to the nations in attendance, asking where they were located on the globe, and why there were so many or so few...and we had a lively discussion about the Visa commercial featuring the story of the Jamaican bobsled team. Watching the Olympics, and seeing a parade of nations before one's eyes, reminds us of how many human beings with dreams are out there...and who made sacrifices to get them there.

My 6 year old would ask every night at dinner, "Can we watch the Olympics tonight?" Unless figure skating was on...then she'd say, "I want to watch the Olympics tonight. It's figure skating!" Ice dancing was her favorite (lots of sparkly clothes! Except for the Russian aboriginal costumes, which she declared "weird"), although she did stay up with me till midnight to see the men's finals. She was bitterly disappointed to realize, one morning, that she'd fallen asleep and missed the last six women's figure skaters....the medal contenders.

But she did see snippets of the short programs. She asked me, "Why is she crying?" It was Joannie Rochette of Canada...and I explained that her mother had died shortly after arriving in Vancouver, and that she was feeling very sad but also was very nervous about being at the Olympics, so it must be difficult for her. My empathetic child shed a few tears...and I did too.  And I shed a few more when Joannie earned the bronze medal. It can't replace what she's lost, but it was a testament to her strength -- if they awarded titanium medals for determination, Joannie Rochette would have earned one.

My youngest's other favorite sentence was, "Is that Lindsay?"  Overnight, she became Lindsay Vonn's biggest fan. And thought "skeleton" was a funny name for sledding. And both girls got hooked on bobsled...cheering for The Night Train on its final run...and were surprised that we have an actual curling club in residence about 40 miles away. And short track speed skating was "must see TV" for all of us.

It was two-plus weeks of family time...probably the most we've had at one stretch in quite a while. It brought my reclusive teenager out of her lair, and my first grader realized there's more to the world than talking cartoon dogs and the 20 square mile area where we spend most of our time. It opened up conversations, not just about the Games themselves, but about countries, cultures, and sports.

As much as I looked forward to resuming a normal sleep schedule, I wasn't eager to see the end of the Olympics.  I fell in love with Vancouver and would love to take a vacation there, any time. I looked at the world through the eyes of two kids without cynicism, who have cultural curiosity and not cultural bias.  I looked at the skiiers, and the lugers, and the skaters, and the biathletes through the eyes of a parent or a spouse...imagining what it must have taken for them to get to that "moment in time." There were good sports and bad sports (and, yes, we talked about that too).  Fortunately there were few of the latter.  Most competitors had mutual respect and even admiration for others in the same events, and were fans of others...skiiers watching the curlers, ice dancers cheering on hockey teams. They weren't Canadian, American, Slovenian, German, or Scandinavian....they were Olympian.

Go World.