Ode to the Word Goddesses

A Trio of Word Goddesses – Cheryl – Lidia – Pam

Mercy! I’m dancing, in my office in front of my laptop, crying. Like, the good kind. I have just watched this masterpiece, https://pamhouston.net/events, a Pam Houston book event in 2019 for her memoir, Deep Creek. I stumbled upon it when I sought out a bit of memoir validation after my Big Moment in which I felt supported and heard, yet the novelists got the Big Break.

“Why the fuck should we care about some fictitious character?” Cheryl Strayed says when defending the genre for the bashing it gets as we share our secrets and intimate stories. The ones we are told not to tell, and if told, could help those feeling isolated. Thanks, Lidia Yuknavitch. I know my fan-girling is on full display while I am pulling myself up to this table, but it feels okay. I nod in knowing that my story, too, is about how I “show generosity to my parent while holding him account.” (more Cheryl, thank you.) Pam reminds us of our other parents, the rivers, and mountains, and the ocean, which claimed me from afar and dragged me West, answering a call from beyond and within me.

“Who would I have been?” Lidia asks. And I nod, and cry, baptized by these goddesses I have read, and listened to, and joined in moments of connection in a writers workshop. But not quite like this. Not to answer my need – right now – to trust the truth path, the one that makes us see ourselves so clearly it gives others permission. Making us truth-tellers for a living.

I was undone when Lidia read, “If you live long enough, you quit chasing things that hurt you.” Oh, Pam. And if you’re lucky, you start following the things that heal, which you have, like a pioneer. When Pam talks about being a mentor, I know she is breathing the same air as my fairy-goddaughter, Garnet, on Vashon Island, who I met when she was the beautiful embodiment of grief and strength. It warms my heart to imagine you at adjacent tables at Cafe Luna.

I nod when Lidia says we are birthing new men, grateful for mine, and all of ours who see us. Especially the ones who come from us. My heart skips a beat when Cheryl says Pam sent a note that she “Loves this fucking book” after reading a draft of Wild, and makes me believe a champion for my book is alive and waiting to read it.

Until then, I will keep going back to the well, keep making it better, putting it in the hands of those who have come before me. Who know truth.

If you are a writer – WATCH THIS. If you are a woman – WATCH THIS. If you are a human – WATCH THIS.

Thank you for your beautiful book, Pam. But this night? I wanted a time machine to be in this room with the three of you. Thank you all. ❤

https://pamhouston.net/events

The Colors Of New Motherhood (excerpt from Out of The Ordinary)

I haven’t spent much time at all with my grown son since Covid-19 hit, and while we talk nearly every day I missed his physical presence, the familiar profile I watched change from infant, to child, to man. We have lived in different parts of the country for a decade, mostly a fact that doesn’t bother me. Until I saw him up close and felt the minutes tick by swiftly until we had to part again.

But we certainly didn’t start out that way.

When he was born, his presence was nearly zipped into my skin, barely a sliver of light between me and his ever immediate needs. I was alone for weeks on end, something I would not wish on any new mother. This is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Out Of The Ordinary. . . .

The choices we make to marry and have children are colored by the people we choose to have them with. In my case, instead of the abundant Crayola 64-count box of crayons I lusted for in my childhood, the one with teal blue and burnt sienna and the built-in sharpener, my life was filled in by the value pack of ten basic primary colors, a limited palette with which to paint my life as a new wife and mother. Choosing to marry Jimmy felt less vibrant than I had imagined married life to be. But then, I hadn’t really imagined it that much.

The vision of my life as a 64-color masterpiece didn’t always include a child, either. The love I felt for my newborn son was diluted by frustration with the amount of care he needed that I alone had to provide. New mothers aren’t supposed to be alone with their babies for days on end, week after week, with such a narrow prism with which to view the world. Yet, there we were just me and Zac.

My naps on the couch between reruns of Mary Tyler Moore and Cheers left me like a zombie during my endless cycle of laundry, dishes, and caring for my baby’s every need. That first month felt like one long, exhausting day.

Yet, alongside my numbing fatigue were moments with my baby that carried an almost holy quality. In the bubble of our endless hours together, I memorized every inch of him, all his expressions, each cry. An invisible thread tethered us in a way I knew could not be broken. Eventually, a rhythm to our life emerged, shrinking my resentment to a manageable size. As a result, my previously exciting single life faded as my infant son’s burgeoning one became my reason for being.

Covid Creative

During this crazy time of the global pandemic, I have used up more than my fair share of time posting on Facebook about staying home and wearing a mask (please do!), commiserating about not going out and missing travel, and chiming in about the need for us to have a fair society for all and preserve our fragile democracy.

If I let it, it would become a full-time job.

While maintaining my coaching practice, hosting a radio show, and overall self-care are ongoing pursuits, the thing I am most proud of during the COVID 19 crisis is finishing my memoir.

How did I have the time for that?

Well, I put my butt in the chair and kept at it. I forced myself to turn away from the distractions of news and social media, even for a short time. I did a little every day. The thing about creative endeavors is they happen in bits and pieces, in stolen moments, and when you have the time and the muse on your time, in a flow of hours that transport you to another place entirely, so that when you look up and are surprised to notice the light has faded, you haven’t eaten, and it’s been hours since you left the chair you are sitting in. Those are the moments I cherish the most. The transcendence of creativity.

I was talking with an author friend yesterday about the high you get when you are in that zone, the reward of following a thread with a pen, or a paintbrush, or a gardening spade. The bliss of creating from our memory, or imagination, or a tiny seed of thought or flower, is a precious, precious gift. For it is the thing that delivers our gifts into the world.

This time of pause that has us up in arms, weary of the caution, and inconvenience, but it is also a gift to the Earth and our spirits. Many of us are grieving the loss of loved ones, the loss of freedom, the hardship this virus has inflicted on humanity. Creativity can help us heal. If you haven’t already, perhaps this is a time when you can pick up an old project and continue it, or complete it, or if you don’t have something underway, begin it. 

This time is ripe with possibility. Let’s seize it.

I won.

The hard thing about writing is actually allowing others to read your words.

I know, the whole point should be to have readers, right? Well, yes. But hitting the Send button to submit to a contest, editor, or anyone you don’t know very well is daunting. I know I can send my BFF anything and she will read it and say nice things. But putting my words in front of smart people, in a competition against other smart people, tends to freak me out.

But I do it.

Luckily, I found the folks at wow-womenonwriting.com, a phenomenal bunch who truly care about writers. Each quarter they devote a lot of time and energy to provide fiction and non-fiction contests. They accept up to 300 pieces in each category. The winners receive an opportunity to be published on the site, and the lucky top three win cash. But more importantly, the winners have an opportunity to find new readers for their work.

My first submission to them was this piece of writing I have worked over many times, an essay that begins my book (the first draft of which I finished last week! Finally.) My piece was returned with wonderful comments from their rockstar non-fiction editor, Chelsey Clammer (well worth the nominal critique fee), and an offer to try again with a few tweaks. I took every one of her suggestions to heart and resubmitted.

This time, I won. First Prize.

The moral of the story is that fresh eyes by a pro can be transformative if you are willing to take their advice. Also, that all writing is rewriting.

As I get underway on the second draft of my memoir, I will continue to look for ways to share pieces of my story with my future readers. Stay tuned.

Read my essay here: WOW! Women On Writing Q1 Non-fiction 2018 Essay Contest  (scroll down past my bio)

MIA . . .

Time has a funny way of slipping away when you turn your attention elsewhere. When I returned home from the BlogHer conference last year I decided it was time to get serious about finishing my memoir.

I mean, like, finish it.

This meant making weekly dates with myself to get pages written, and working diligently with a professional to make me turn them in. Much like when I help writers finish their books. In fact, exactly like that. So for the past year, I have been writing. And writing and writing and writing. (But not here.)

My manuscript just reached 94,004 words, which is three pages shy of 300. With only a few more chapters to go, I can see the end of this story. Holy shit, I’m almost there. After all the years, the tears, and the sitting on my ass, I am almost done.

With the first draft.

Wait, what? You mean I get to do this a few more times? Until I really get it right? Until I capture the essence of the characters on the page, leading the reader into a Divine dance with their own memories? Until I tell my whole truth without pissing anyone off (much)?

Yes.

Yippee! No, really. I am very excited to get to the next phase for it means the book will have grown legs, and may one day walk into the world. I just can’t imagine writing anything else until I’m done.

So please excuse me for the long absence, and for not posting here much while I have my head down finishing my book. I’m immersed in the story of a black sheep’s search for love and herself. Hopefully, one day you will be, too.

 

Putting your voice in the room

I just returned from Orlando and the #BlogHer17 conference. I’d like to say I am a mover and shaker who has accumulated thousands of followers on Instagram and Twitter, but the truth is I got an Instagram account just before going, a handful of posts to my name and a Twitter following of under 300; a woefully underachieving blogger compared to my colleagues, most of them half my age.

I am a writer. And the fine judges of the Voices of The Year submissions deemed me a good enough writer to be selected for my piece, Two Roofs One Home. So even though I was just returning from Europe 48 hours earlier, I got on a red-eye and flew to Orlando to stand among my fellow honorees.

It was awesome. They even put our words on easels in the lobby, larger than life. I was humbled by the honor.

Having been to women’s conferences in the past, I knew somewhat what to expect – lots of chatter, excitement, and primping while absorbing all the information and inspiration the keynotes provided. Part learning environment, part estrogen fest, I remembered fondly the eWomen Network conferences of years past. Only this one was different, this one encompassed a wide variety of influential women, with half of them (at least) being millennials. Each one of us at a different stage in our blogging careers, some seasoned with thousands of followers, some just sticking their toe in the water, wanting to begin putting their voice in the room.

One woman I met stepped timidly to the mic and said she was afraid to put her voice out there. She is accomplished in her career and has much to say about what she reads online. She wants to set some things straight. We all offered her support and I spoke with her afterward about helping her get started. She introduced me to her beautiful daughter and we spent the next few hours hanging out together. This is what makes these events so worthwhile. Connection with incredible women who you know you will stay in touch with. I know she will reach many with her wisdom.

All this would not have happened had I not had my piece rejected first by the New York Times Modern Love column. After working long and hard on it I decided I would submit it to other places, one being the BlogHer VOTY. You never know what can happen when you put yourself out there.

So do it. Take a risk and put your voice in the room, like Elizabeth did, like I did. You have nothing to lose and so much to gain. Be willing to be rejected and keep telling your truth. Amazing things can happen.

 

 

My journey to Lucca is woven with love

When my great-grandmother Zelinda was born in the Tuscan walled city of Lucca, Italy in the later part of the 19th century, I’m sure she never imagined that her youngest daughter Bruna’s granddaughter would travel from America to the place of her birth and fall in love with it.

As I walk the streets of this ancient city I feel a deep gnosis of belonging and a connection to my Nonna. This is my second visit in three years, and the return is quite sweet. The winding cobblestone streets feel familiar under my feet as Mark and I stroll past churches that have stood for centuries, and along narrow thoroughfares lined with shops filled with Italian leather and wine. Our favorite shopkeeper, Vladimiro, has moved his shop to a piazza in the center of the city. We found it easily, and upon arrival his face lit up as he greeted us, remembering the couple from San Francisco.

“Where’s your hair?” he said to Mark, whose trademark gray locks were tucked in a ponytail to combat the humidity. They embraced with large smiles and then he turned his attention to me offering the customary European kiss on each cheek. Swoon. Vladimir reminds me a lot of Robert Downey, Jr. except with an Italian accent. Dio mio.

His shop is Zazzi, a small boutique that makes handwoven scarves on a loom that sits in the center. It is as charming as he is. The walls are lined with the most magnificent display of the finest scarves I’ve ever seen, each draped over a clear loop and assorted by color. As a scarf whore, I lusted over the sensual fabrics immediately upon my first visit a few years ago and knew this was not a passing fancy but the stuff of True Love. I happily parted with a couple hundred bucks to take one home with me. The silky cream confection is loosely woven with translucent sequins dotted throughout and it is the most expensive, and treasured, piece of clothing I own.

The weaver was mesmerizing as she worked on a similar piece as mine but in black. Her hands were steady as she expertly threw the shuttle back and forth, creating an even tension between warp and weft threads of cashmere delicately laced with shimmering sequins. Her contentment in the repetitious work of this ancient craft was as stunning as the work itself.

What makes this even more meaningful is that in 1899 my Nonna listed on her immigration papers at Ellis Island “weaver” as her profession. Her entry to the US was with her three young children (there would be five more, the last one being my grandmother who was born after her brother died as an infant). They traveled in steerage to meet her husband in Chicago and begin a new life. Several years later he would journey back to Italy and die on the boat, leaving her alone with seven children to raise. She took in sewing and the boys left school to work as much as they could to take care of the family. Insisting the children speak English, she embraced her American life as I embrace my Italian heritage. So much so that I adopted her birthplace as my name.

We chatted with Vladimir for nearly half an hour, listening to his excitement over the addition of handwoven leather handbags to his collection and having his designs in a boutique in San Francisco and at fashion week in New York. We promised to see him again before we continue on to Venice and my cousin’s wedding on the Riviera, insisting he look us up on his next trip to California.

I feel blessed to have made friends with this place, with these people. I will return again and again to my namesake city to enjoy the beauty and charm of Tuscany. And perhaps one day I may treat myself to another of Zazzi’s luscious creations.

Because I really want to take home that black one.

 

 

 

On Being The Black Sheep

Several years ago I brought my boyfriend home to meet my family. We all went to dinner at Tom’s, an iconic restaurant that had hosted a half-century of our important celebrations: my parents’ engagement, my 10th birthday, my wedding reception, and eventually Dad’s memorial luncheon. Gathered around the table were my father and his boyfriend, and their BFF, my mother; my sister and her girlfriend; my tattooed son and his tongue-pierced date; and us, the California hippies. Somehow, Mark and I were the oddballs, we were the weirdoes. The ones who were teased for asking for veggies to add to the iceberg lettuce with a cherry tomato they called a salad. The ones with long hair in middle-age who engage in conversations that dare to dive deeper than, “How about those Cubs?”

Being the black sheep of the family isn’t something one aspires to, it is a mantle that is bestowed upon you once it’s noticed that you are one of the rare ones with wooly fleece much darker than the rest of your flock.

By the time I was in high school I had a fairly hearty rebellion going on and already knew my life was going to be extraordinary. I wasn’t sure yet what the extra was that would be added to my ordinary Midwest suburban existence, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge to find out. Dropping out of high school to manage my boyfriend’s band, I took the GED on a bet for a bag of weed and scored 6 points higher than my pal; I won the bet, walking away with the prize and a great story, my ebony coat shining.

I ran off to California a few years later, sight unseen, to make a new life. My family, unable to imagine leaving the flock like that, did their best to understand. Landing in San Francisco, I found other black sheep who shared tales of departure from their own white flocks. Finally, a place where I fit in.

My travels took me around the world on a rock tour which landed me in the South, married to a good lookin’ redneck hillbilly who loved my exotic, dark coat, but couldn’t quite keep up with my need for good grammar. I returned to the flock of my youth to raise my young son; most of the time counting the days until I could leave.

While my son has a somewhat mottled fleece, for the most part, he has happily assimilated into the flock. When he lets his freak flag fly it’s because no one has suggested he shouldn’t, he has no contrasting siblings to compare himself to. My sister is lily white compared to me, fairly conservative and private. I wear my life on my sleeve, letting my black wool grow full and lush, proud of my perversity. This makes her uncomfortable. Once she half-jokingly warned me before a BBQ that I better not do “the life coach thing” with the family.

“We don’t like to go deep,  Lis, we’re all pretty shallow. So, don’t go asking anyone what their passion is, just talk about the weather or the Cubs. If not, we’ll have to send you out to a meditation bench in the backyard.”

I broke her rules, of course, and quizzed my cousin, a VP of Finance for Pepsi, about her job satisfaction.

“I hate it,” she admitted, “And the sad part is that I don’t even know what I would do instead. I’m afraid to give this up to find out, and I pray when my daughter grows up she’ll pursue what she loves instead of money.”

Ah. Pursuing your passion is not for the faint of heart, and may mean breaking from the flock. Fifteen years ago I did the scary thing after a corporate layoff and pursued a meaningful career, a choice that made my family wary. In the end, my waywardness has led me to a calling that allows me to help brave souls dye their fleece whatever color they want. Seeing them thrive is part of my compensation; part of my legacy is to see them live theirs.

I also found my way back to California, where I belong.

It’s funny, once you find where you’re supposed to be, going back to where you came from is easy. As long as it’s temporary. I love visiting my flock these days, which I do more frequently now that Mom is getting older. We do deliciously ordinary things like play Rumikub and listen to LiteFM, singing along to the songs of my youth when I felt awkward and couldn’t wait to grow up. We’re good as long as I don’t talk about anything deep.

My son has a place of his own now and he floats in and out of the flock. I see his black wool coming in more fully as mine turns gray. Staying with him is the best part of my visits, observing what he has kept of the things he learned from living with me, and noticing how he lives differently.

I was there the night the Cubs finally won the World Series, whooping it up with Zac and his friends, drinking champagne. It was exciting to be part of the flock that night and to celebrate history with the dyed-in-the-wool fans who couldn’t imagine anything more extraordinary.

Why I write . . .

I must have been about 11 or 12 when I started writing in a diary.  Each page was gilded with gold edges and there was a tiny lock and key that secured the tab that wrapped around them, creating a private sanctuary for my deepest thoughts.  Dear Diary, I would write in my large loopy script, and I’d be off and running about my day, my world, my life.

By my teens, aside from writing about boys, I shared with my diary how upset I was over my parent’s divorce; the moments I missed my dad and the ones where I didn’t want to see him ever again. Like most teen-aged girls, I was a hormonal stew just bubbling with all the flavors of my adolescence; a need for self-expression, understanding and attention, to name a few. Finding out Dad was gay during that time boiled me right over the top.

Writing my feelings of betrayal and confusion provided a relief unlike any other. My parents were coping with their new lives, and didn’t realize I might need to talk to someone about how it felt to hold a secret that was bigger than my understanding of it. My shame went onto those pages in my diary, a container to hold the loathing I felt towards my father who dared to be so different from everyone else’s.

As I sought out counselors on my own, I learned the power of my feelings, and my words, and put more of them on paper. Filling dozens of journals over the years has been my therapy, helping me to sort out the flood of thoughts in my head. Each entry creating a snapshot of a moment in time that allows me to remember vividly the tears, or the victory, or the embarrassment of the captured event when I have some distance from it.

Eventually, I became brave enough to share my words with others. I wrote slice of life essays on everything from motherhood to life purpose, rarely going into any depth about my family of origin. Dad loved my writing and it was the one thing I did that I knew he was proud of, although writing anything about him was tricky as he loved to debate our versions of how an incident unfolded. Arguing to defend my truth against his was too hard.

Then he died.

Like a capped well that has been opened and allowed to see daylight, my father’s death unsealed in me a deep reservoir of memories, assumptions and beliefs that I had held tightly inside for decades. Aside from a few rants to my mother, or even directly at Dad, my feelings about being his daughter had been kept in a dark, hidden place. Sure, I could talk about what I thought of having a gay dad, but how it felt? That was another thing entirely.

Rich with raw emotion, the journal entries since that time have become essays, and I’ve felt emboldened by my desire to speak out loud about this family secret. When the Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality I knew, on that day, that my relationship with my gay father would be the thread that ran through my book, a story that had been growing in me since I was a girl. I sought out other Rainbow Kids and found Laura and the Gay Dad Project, adding my voice to the growing chorus of gay families.

It feels safe to tell my story now, so I write for all those who struggle with family secrets, but even more so for those who struggle with accepting themselves and the people who brought them into the world. For when we have acceptance we can find peace.

My hope is that others will find solace in the truth of my struggle for acceptance of my parents, and the choices they made. And maybe, just maybe, my son accepts me and the ones I’ve made, too.

 

Love Trumps Hate

The day after the Women’s March on Saturday, an event I was extremely proud and humbled to be a part of, I went to see Hidden Figures, the story of the incredible African-American women of NASA who helped put men in space. It truly humbled me further. I sat squirming in my chair, so uncomfortable to see the racial prejudice that black people endured in my own lifetime. It’s not like I didn’t know this, but seeing the incredible injustice of segregation was staggering to me. I am glad to be reminded.

The women portrayed in the film, Katherine G. Johnson, Dorothy Vaughan and Mary Jackson, were extraordinary American individuals whose gifts and commitment were responsible for one of our finest hours of the times. Not only as women but women of color, they represented the dawn of a new era of inclusion by white men of those not like themselves. Their reluctance to include us is portrayed in the film with consideration of their own needs at the helm of this inclusion, not as a desire to offer an opportunity to women or people of color. This is important because it amplifies that these women could do what they could not. Their brilliance was the key to the success of that program.

At 97 years old, Katherine was awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Obama for her contribution, an amazing testimony to how far we have come. Seeing a room full of white men making decisions for women just yesterday shows how fragile that progress can be.

My participation in the Women’s March was driven by love, acceptance, and freedom, wishing not to protest against our new administration but to raise my voice for those freedoms we have already won that must be kept in place. There is no room for hate in this process. For Love trumps hate.

As I continue my support of these efforts by taking action where I can, I see that I need to turn my attention to the work I am here to do, to follow the lead of Katherine and Mary and Dorothy and deliver my own gifts. I have spent way too much time here debating with those who feel our March was silly or unnecessary, who don’t see the world as I do, and it is chipping away at the time I have to sharpen my own pencil and put my head down to work. I have a book to finish.

We all need to see Hidden Figures and rejoice in the beauty of our diversity, our talent as a nation, as a people. To remember how far we have come and work to keep those freedoms we have fought for so diligently. And then sharpen our own pencils and get to work.