Scarred By Love

At first glance, my demographic can be sized up pretty quickly - middle class, suburban, modest, white woman. Labels have always defined me. But as Kierkegaard said, "once you label me, you negate me." I think that's why I love my tattoo.

My crowd would assume I must have had a roaring drunk moment in my youth, or that I am a loose woman prone to impulsiveness, not giving much thought to permanence.

But my tattoo is not a novelty. It is holy ground. It was etched by one worth dying for; it symbolizes one worth living for. It hails a four year old child, my grandson Parker, who died two years ago from a tragic fall from a two story window.

My son and I were stunned in grief. I needed a way to touch that place; to touch it together with him. We had danced around his profession, a tattoo artist. I had come to accept his artistry and vocational community, but I hadn't yet found a way to embrace it that said, "bless you my son."

A few days after Parker's death, steeped in sorrow, aching the loss of my grandchild and the brokenness of my son, I found the touching place. Stroking the inside of my wrist, I knew I had found the place to meet my son, the place to connect in a combination of ink, tears, and hearts.

He designed it for me; he etched it as we clung together in love and loss, remembering a precious little boy who giggled his way into our lives and left his mark in our souls.

Yes; I am scarred with an eternal stain - the stain of Holy love.

Bless you my son(s).

Starbucks Bible Babe

I don't know what it is that seizes a woman in perfectly rational moments to go from humming along with a contented universe to a hyperventilating, sobbing, tissue-twisting heap of panicked mush.

I'm not talking about hormonal meltdowns. I'm talking about the kind of thing Nora Ephron points out in her book titled, I Feel Bad About My Neck, lamenting her foreign crepe-y-ness, or what Anne Lamott writes about in her Traveling Mercies chapter she titled "The Aunties," referring to her billowing thighs as ever present relations she must come to love. What I'm talking about is the much discussed issue of female self-acceptance and how it's entrenched to an impossible cultural norm shaped by youth and beauty.

Women cannot just "BE." We know this. That's why we exercise, tweeze, manicure, attach, implant, wax, shave, polish, perm, color, cut, blow-dry, moisturize, and labor over whether to buy the skinny jeans or stick with the good ol' standard cut.  We have a cosmetic bag chock full of current products, a drawer of half-used lipsticks, and a shoebox crammed under the bathroom sink of dried-out who knows what as back-ups. We DO NOT throw away makeup, and God forbid we run out of mascara. And this is the modest woman I'm describing. I haven't even begun to mention the women who have it down to an Oprah-science on what push-up bra goes with what sweater and why you need twelve different hair-brushes for the perfect comb-out.

Yes, I know; some women are liberated from such nonsense, are not held hostage to a corporate glamour image minimizing the true beauty of what it means to be "woman." But even so, there's not a woman alive that doesn't say when she glances at herself in the mirror either hmmmm, not bad, or hmmmm, I gotta do something about that. There is some sort of slide-rule of "o.k.-ness" every woman uses and gets from somewhere. From time to time we may have to adjust the standard a bit, but none the less, it's always lurking.

And so it was, one Sunday morning as I put myself together. I was feeling pretty good with what I had to work with that day. After all, I had lost about thirty pounds, had treated myself to few new outfits, and had come to sort of like my recent haircut I had tried to sass up a bit, even though I was having a hard time getting the hang of this gel-goo stuff that's supposed to help with the sass. I gave myself a last pat down as I slipped on my new trendy jacket and had one of those, hmmmm, not bad moments.

And this was an accomplishment to have a hmmmm, not bad moment. Not because I had arrived at some sort of acceptable standard, but because, on the contrary, I was working hard to let go of the standard. I was going to like what I saw, to accept what was, regardless. This was a part of maturity, right? I was no longer a young something or other; I was a baby-boomer. And baby-boomers were starting to droop, spread, and wrinkle. Even when I WAS a young something or other I couldn't live up to the standard, so why the heck should I be tangled up in it now? So on that note, I gave myself a firm nod of approval and strode out the door to meet my family at Starbucks after a little spiritual reinforcement at church. I WAS ok; yes, I was.

And I was still ok, nooked into a cozy Starbucks corner sipping my latte, chatting it up, when out of the corner of my eye I spied the most drop-dead gorgeous, flat-out, suck your breath away blonde step into Starbucks. She looked like she belonged on the arm of Hugh Hefner, her long platinum tresses wafting in the breeze as she opened the door, her sun-kissed face full of pout and whisper. She was tall and willowy, and her rabbit-fur boots with dangling puff-balls only accentuated dancer's legs clad in leather jeans so tight you could not miss one inch of what the good Lord gave her. Her matching fur vest, stretched over a taut pink tee, in no way could disguise boobs way out to God knows where. As soon as she glided across the threshold it was like some kind of ancient hypnotic curse exercised its power - "when in the presence of this kind of beauty, you SHALL behold and be in awe." Every eye turned in her direction as she walked up to the counter, and with each step you could feel every woman's esteem collapse like a wilted balloon.

It was like being on the inside of a barometer, the air pressure, measured in strokes of confidence, dropping with each female internal self-check. You could feel it as one woman ran her fingers across her bangs to puff them up a bit; as another subtly shifted her weight from one dimply hip to another in her chair; as another sucked in her belly and straightened her back....as we all remembered our last vision of ourselves in the mirror that morning. Hard as I tried I could not, along with everyone else, keep my eyes focused elsewhere for more than 16 seconds without checking her out again. And, with each sneak-peek I felt myself chafe.

I watched her reach into her back pocket and there, hugging the curve of her midriff, teasing just above her toned butt cheek was a rose-wrapped Harley Davidson tattoo; I rolled my eyes. Well of course, I slathered; why not? A buxom, blonde, biker-babe astride a hunkin' piece of growling metal. Every man's dream. As she walked over to a table smack-dab in the middle of the room, I had her pegged with each flounce of her dangling rabbit-fur puff-balls: biker-babe; bunny-biker-babe; Playboy-bunny-biker-babe; ditzy-Playboy-bunny-biker-babe. I was deeply mired in character assassination and a lavish righting of justice when she sat down, arranged her coffee and cookie, leaned over her suede bag and pulled out, of all things, a rhinestone and pink fur-covered BIBLE. She plopped it open on the table and out popped a matching bookmark; a sparkly, furry, pink puff-ball swinging back and forth on its ribbon over the table edge like a final punctuation.

This was too much. Now I was steamed. I mean, give me a break, God; and by now I was having a direct, ticked-off conversation with the Almighty. You have to understand; I like God. In fact I have come to love God and God-stuff, but it has taken me a long time to see how much God loves me, and a whole lot longer to love myself. Now, here was the impossible standard glaring at me, mocking me in all its pink puff-ball power, teasing me with, of all things, a biblical seal, a bling-encrusted biblical seal. I felt betrayed. How could You, God? How could You rub it in my face?

And that's when I could feel the Nora Ephron, Anne Lamott thing happen; could feel age like water rising; could feel every wad of cellulite, every jot of underarm flab, every eye wrinkle scream it was NOT a laugh line but a full blown crow's foot. Grace and mercy seemed to ebb away; panic clawed up my spine. Oh god, I knew there was no point in defying age, but I had hoped there could be a way to disentangle this impossible standard from the act of aging. I couldn't believe how fragile and snarled up I still was; I was going to choke on this from here to eternity. Good Lord, where was a paper bag? I needed oxygen; I was about to keel. I got up from my nook and headed to the Ladies Room. Part of me wanted to slink my way along the room's edge and part of me wanted to march across the middle, pass straight through enemy territory so close I could smell those Harley roses. By the time I reached the restroom I knew I needed a face-off, or a therapist.

Washing my hands in the sink, I fussed. I fussed with my attitude; I fussed with my hair; I fussed with how ridiculous all this was and fretted about how in the world was I going to rid myself of this preening-shackle, when a flash of florescent green caught my eye in the mirror. Looking closer, I could see that something was hanging from the armpit of my new trendy jacket that had validated me that morning, made me feel oh so adorable. Lifting my arm, groping around with my hand I could feel the sharp stabs of cardboard and a strand of nylon thread; I ripped it free. Oh god, it was the sales tag, flashing in multi-stickered discounted neon! It had been flapping and bobbing all morning as I had walked into church, waved to friends across the parking lot, gave hugs, reached for coffee.....forged across the Starbucks' bunny abyss.

I stared at myself in the mirror. It was hopeless. I was hopeless. No matter how hard I might pretend it wasn't so, or tried to keep up, the impossible standard would always be there eluding me; it was not going away, and I would always have sales tags dangling from my underarms.

I stood there letting that sink in.

And as I did, I started to laugh - a luscious, flat-out I'm either going crazy or I'm-being-set-free howl like a prayer; a chortle of gratitude; a wondrous hurrah. How it is that truth can slice a moment and split it open, I'll never know, but somehow it does.

I may not exactly understand how it is that a woman gets bogged down into quicksands of self-defeat, gets snared into marshlands sucking at her soul, but I do know what it is that gets her back, that delivers her up. It is the poetry of God. It is the cosmic, raucous throw-your-head-back laugh that knows, despite it all, the bottom line is always the beauty of mercy, the beauty of love. It is to face down irony with a flush of grace and acceptance. In the mirror God had me; trumped me in the poetry of a price tag.

I patted my moist cheeks dry, touched up my lipstick, rearranged my bangs and took a deep breath. Yes, those were lovely crow's feet; yes, I know - I was not a bunny-ized version of Starbuck's babe-ness, I was a version of my own beauty and truth.

And with that, I took one last, gentle took in the mirror, smiled and said..... Amen, as I turned and walked back into the world of babe-ness, triumphant in my moment of love and grace and mercy.....oh yes, lots and lots of mercy.

Trying Out A New Look

Kinda like getting a new hair style.............every once in a while, you just have to. This wasn't my favorite template, but it was in the COOL category and I could still read the lettering without my glasses. Interesting juxtaposition - COOL and granny glasses...........ah, well.

Tsunami Pumpkins

Halloween has just passed. And with it boogey-men, spooks, and un-accounted for fears. Odd, how fear so easily takes on a persona; can become a full-fledged life in its own.

Such was the case the other night when I went to plug in my back porch Halloween decoration. I have an adorable, Wal-mart Special plastic pumpkin-head, shaped and carved to look like Winnie-the Pooh in all his delightful, cherubic, innocent grin. And it was gone. Not a single shred of evidence of it's demise. Nothing else was disturbed. Nothing amiss. Just that Winnie had vanished.

And I felt spooked. I was irritated, yes. Why would anyone want to take such a sweet thing? Had to be a prank. And that's what ticked me off. This Pooh had sentimental value. It gave me a way to connect to my grandchildren who used to enjoy it on my old porch; the porch where we'd sit and play with match-box cars, watch fireworks on the 4th, water my flowers and drop pebbles down the grate. This pumpkin wasn't just decor. It cradled memories; it evoked childish joy and innocence. Not having it; losing it; that it was STOLEN, angered me.

But it also frightened me. That someone either that previous night when I was sleeping or during that day when I was out walking, would poke around my back porch and sneak off with my Pooh, was pretty gutsy. My bedroom window is right above where Pooh sat. Trifling around after bed-time right under my nose and me not be aware, was troubling. Or, even more so - to boldly, in broad daylight remove Winnie and walk away like nothing in the world, had to indicate some kind of low-life, scum-bag, deviant, derelict, no-good, blood-dripping, knife-toting criminal that probably just escaped from prison and whose face is tacked up in black and white at the post office. Never mind that such a monster walking away with a Winnie-the-Pooh pumpkin-head tucked under his arm didn't quite jive. You never know what those perverts take pleasure in. At least, that's how I was feeling. Vulnerable; scared; on edge.

This is Cannon Beach. There is no crime in Cannon Beach, I told myself. Well, yes, there is NOW, I argued back. The only thing about Cannon Beach that has made me feel vulnerable is, Tsunami awareness. I have felt completely free to walk about town, the beach, the trails; to not look over my shoulder in darkened areas. I've taken comfort when the police chief cruises through the village and residential blocks......about six times a day. In Cannon Beach I have never felt on-guard against crime. It never crossed my mind. But at times I HAVE been on guard, Tsunami-guard......well, more like Tsunami red-code-alert.

When I walk remote areas of the beach, I scan for an escape route should the Big One come. I've versed myself on where I'll high-tail it from my house; taken note of where the power lines are should they crash over and lay exposed blocking a route. I've studied the Tsunami map, and I know I have to get my Tsunami back-pack put together. All of this information has made me aware, yes. But at times it has made me more than aware. Some times, it just plain freaks me out.

The freak-out time is usually bed-time. And the boogey-man starts in.........

....now, Carol. Where's the flashlight? You know, dear; just in case. And, where'd you put your contact lens case? Do you think you'll have enough time to grab them on the run? And if you do, where will you put them? Are you gonna carry them around in your hand while you're trying to grab for your Tsunami back-pack, which by the way you haven't prepared yet, while you're trying to hold on to the flashlight? Well, you could stick the lens case in your pocket. My pocket? Where the heck am I going to have pockets? My pajamas don't have pockets! God, I'm gonna have to get pj's with pockets. Shoes. Where are your shoes? Did you put some by the bed? What about socks? Do you think you'll have time for socks? I wonder how big the Big One is? Will I be fast enough? I wonder if I could climb that big spruce out back?.......

Yes, when I'm tired, maybe worried about other things, Tsunami awareness can become a Jekyl-Hyde monster. And now, it seemed, I had another Cannon Beach spook to worry about. A porch interloper. This robber of innocence. The memorabilia thief. I don't want to be on a red-code-crime-alert in my village, on my street, in my house. I don't want this petty incident to become a monster too, one that requires a mental smack down every time my imagination goes berserk. So, I gave myself a little talking to...

....this is life, Carol. Ah, yes, sorrowfully not so innocent, but it's not an imminent monster out to devour you. Deal with the reality. Do the things you need to be sensible. But live. Oh God, yes. Live.

So, yesterday morning I'm taking the garbage out back, and lo and behold, there's my Pooh pumpkin. It's laying in the yard over by the corner of the house next to the porch, flipped on its side with its electric cord all strung out near the bushes. I was delighted. Certainly about having my keepsake back, but I felt a certain cosmic glee....maybe the culprit had a flash of conscious, a sense of noble humanity and brotherhood, and brought my joy, and why, yes even, my sense of safety back!

As I turned to go inside with Pooh tucked safely within my arms, my neighbor called out to me.

"Hey, Carol. Did you see the elk this morning? They've been poking around the last few days."

"Aww. No, I missed them," I answered.

"Yah," he answered back. "They were right on your back porch. Coolest thing. I'm surprised you didn't hear or see them."

Elk. Burglar elk. Toying with a plastic pumpkin. These majestic, yet goofy looking creatures had been nosing Pooh around my back yard with their velvety, huge muzzles. I made a decision as I headed back indoors. I cannot let spooks create nether-worlds in my existence. A simple caution does not have to become a fearsome monster.

So I made a decision about that other Cannon Beach trepidation too. I will put my Tsunami back-pack together, store it in my coat closet by the front door for easy access, but it will be a citadel, my fortification, a guardian, NOT a boogey-man.

....but I still may think about pajamas with pockets.

NaNoWriMo; WhyNot?

I've just done a dumb thing.

Some dumb things are inspired. Some are courageous even. And then some are just plain out-of-my-league ridiculous. My gut feeling is that signing up at the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) website is going to fall somewhere in the last category. In my romantic, idealistic vision of writing-glory, I am savoring the notion that courageous inspiration is what seized me. But as I reckon with what I've done, I think reckless abandon is more the case.

You see, NaNoWriMo is a zany website encouraging writers to sign up for the ultimate motivational boost - a deadline. And this deadline is the mother of all deadlines: to write a complete 50,000 word novel in 30 days. (And believe me, this can be done. The current best seller, Water for Elephants, is a NaNoWriMo accomplishment.) What makes this challenge even more grappling is that November is the designated month. Which, of course, includes a major holiday revolving around family, travel, food-prepping, visiting, and all kinds of out of the usual scheduling and routine. In other words, it's a deadline goal that will require the most diligent discipline. It will take a commitment of producing, at the least, 1666 words a day. That's six to seven pages!

I honestly don't know what in the world I was thinking.

Even though the website reassures me that a 50,000 word draft within 30 days will be a rough, rough draft looking a lot like, well, as they said, crap (and this was supremely encouraging), the point is two-fold. One, it's the discipline thing; getting a handle on the just-do-it struggle. In fact, while perusing the website forums designed for communal support and guidance, I felt a smug camaraderie. Why, for heaven's sake - procrastination seems to be everybody's issue. And point two, because the daily word count demand is so high, self-editing cannot happen; you just have to keep pounding out the words. What that leaves is pure creative abandon. In other words, because editing and creativity occur in opposite sides of the brain, it's a vehicle that forces an unleashing of creative energy, a method to uncork the stopper. I like the way one of my new writing friends puts it -"just unleash the puppy and see where it goes."

The idea of a self-competitive deadline set within a community of like idiots is rather compelling. It sounds like a fun way to launch myself over a long standing, self-imposed barrier. And the metaphors of unleashing puppies and uncorking plugged up creativity speak to me. I am a hog-tied writer. I want so badly to shake the bottle and blow the cork. So, for about a month I have toyed with NaNoWriMo. I would peek at their site; then I would linger; then I would start mapping out characters and plot lines in my mind; until one day in an abstractly, mindless impulse, I signed in.

And then I did the math.

Now I can talk six to seven pages of words any old day. Why, I can think six to seven pages of words a minute, easy. But to write six pages a day.....well, let me put it this way....to write one, 250 word page of text takes me about an hour. Yes, an hour. So, we're talking six pages? That's right; we're talking six hours. No way on God's green earth. Once I had the math, I went back to the website and found lots of discussion about some kind of 750 word count test. It seems that the average time it takes for these NaNoWriMo participants to write 750 words, which is three pages, is oh, say......around........forty to sixty minutes.

I'm done. Every ounce of smug camaraderie just slid right on down like oil. Now, my plot-line felt stupid; my characters, while I like them, became too complicated and were too many; my confusion about point of view (first person? third person?) loomed like Kilimanjaro. Every potential area for self-doubt loudly and grandly announced itself.

And then I found the NaNoWriMo Rebel forum. Yes, ....writing rebels. Hmmmm.....

It seems there are these NaNoWriMos that, for one work-life reason or another, set a different goal for themselves. Many have been previous participants; some are new. While this group cannot claim the "official" victory title of "Winner" at the end of the month, they are still part of the community, and they still consider themselves winners if they complete their own set goal. They still benefit from the experience; they're just a bit out of the box.

Ahh.....I found my group.

So, I've reset my goal to 22,500 words, which works out to three pages a day. For me, this is both, a disciplined stretch, and a reachable goal. Three pages, every day, is a challenge. This will be work; but it is something that is not beyond my skill (as long as I know I have the luscious liberty to produce, crap). I have one week to re-group. In my panicked, self-defeat mode I jumped around between story-lines and characters so much that I am confused and have no idea which way I'm going. But that's ok. The main thing is, I'm just going to let this puppy off the leash, and see where it goes!


NaNoWriMo website: http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Last Choice

NOTE: This entry is fiction. It's the result of a writing assignment from the Tolovana Arts Colony writing group I've linked into - an exercise titled "If this were your last day, how would you spend it?"

It is NOT autobiographical. However, as a novice fiction writer I am drilled to "write what I know." So, though I draw from life as I know it, and while this is not a real incident nor are these characters real people, I have to admit if you know my life, some things are, I apologize...so very familiar. I like how a classmate and new friend puts it (citing Joyce Carol Oates) - "I'll tell you my truth, but it will come out as fiction."

At some point, I hope to become skilled enough in fiction that nothing I write is recognizable; except what is universally human. And there we are. All in the same camp.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


She knew this was her day.

Yes, there'd be more days ahead, but they would become clouded, vaporous. This was her day that she chose for herself, while she still could. Choice had become her most sacred companion. This friendship with self-design had become...how could she explain it? Delicious. Yes; that was it - sumptuous; delectable; sensuous even. This time there was no default; no fall-back plan-B arranged around appeasement, the safe-guarding of others' needs at all costs. This was about pure, unadulterated self-comfort. And it was luscious.

Like the melty, chocolaty, marshmallow-gooey graham cracker mess sticking to her grandchildren's fingers as they leaned into the campfire, setting their smore-ish concoctions ablaze. They were cherubic, those fingers. She wanted to lick them, to keep forever in her mouth the taste of babies, toddler-hood story time, rocking and singing together in the big gold chair, racing through the play-ground monkey-bars playing tag-you're-it, squeezes and giggles and wrap-their-scrawny-little-arms-around-her-neck hugs that stole her breath and heart.

"Mom. How you doin'? Are you warm enough?" Mark reached over and tucked the blanket tighter around her.

He looked at her, his eyes soft, but straight on. He always made sure they connected. Even at times when it would've been easier not to, he did. She looked up at him and once again they smiled at each other deeply, as if to reassure each others' soul; to reassure their own.

"I'm doing great, honey."

She leaned back in her chair digging her toes deeper into the sand and gazed up at the Dipper. Earlier Venus had been the show, had hung brilliant and solitary, dancing for the longest time between light and dark; between indigo and tangerine, sky and horizon, chasing the sun, changing partners, but now, rollicking among the crystalline chorus-line - a part of an incandescent anthem. She understood this Venus-dance; she was coming to know this song. She took a deep breath and inhaled the notes.

And there they were: the campfire; the sea; the sand; her children and grandchildren, their voices as aroma penetrating her senses clean through to her cells. Their laughter now, around the campfire - a love potion.

"Mom, remember the time...," Leigh was laughing so hard she couldn't finish. Her luxurious doe-eyes, those eyes that seemed to behold and reflect wisdom, that could shimmer mischief, that could ooze love right back onto itself, were now crinkled in tears and whimsy. Leigh was pulling her youngest son, Samuel, onto her lap, wrapping her arms around him and burying her laughter into the nape of Samuel's neck.

She could smell that neck with Leigh.

"You guys were so mean," said Scott. "Giving me head-swishies in the toilet. I was a little kid! Freakin' scared me to death."

He drooped his eyes, pouted his lips way out and despite his tattoos and dangling cigarette, managed to look every inch the innocent. But he couldn't stifle glee; couldn't hinge a mirth rescued from flames, re-born from angst, and throwing his head back he cackled from such a deep and lavish place that everyone around the campfire was captured with him; even the little ones joined in, their giggles like harmonized tinkling bells. His laugh was contagious, just like his spirit.

"Aww; come on little brother...we weren't really mean. That's just, you know, sibling protocol," said Mark, his laugh deep and long, like a sigh that had waited a long time, and now reveled in its release and goodness. He saluted Scott with his beer.

Scott raised his, which sent all the grown-ups into motion.

"Here's to us," said Leigh, raising her wine glass.

"To us," they chorused.

Yes, she thought, to us.

There were a lot choices they had all made through the years. Choices that made them who they were. Some choices came from places that drove them; drove them to survive; to just make it through. Some came from recoil; some were scripted; and some, yes by God, some were freely decided - rationally, deliberately, selected in grace.

Her daughter-in-law leaned over and whispered to her,

"This is so fun. I'm glad you planned it."

"Yes. Me too, sweetie."

She felt her scarf start to slip off her head, felt the chill actually, and reached up to adjust herself against the night. Her fingers brushed the scar in her naked scalp, but she refused their usual impulse to linger. She knew its line by heart. No need. Not now. No.

The fire popped. Its glow warming the remaining strands of night. They were all there, around the campfire - warming the night with her.

"Gramma?"

"Yes, darlin'."

"My fingers sticky."

She looked at them.

"Ohhhh, yes they are!" she said, as she cupped Samuel's hand, licking his fingers, savoring the gooey messiness of love, sending him into squeals of laughter as he wriggled away.

"Nah, nah. Can't catch me Gramma!"

"Oh yes I can! You better run, Samuel. Gramma's gonna catch you and eat those tasty little fingers right up!"

And she leapt out of her chair, chasing Samuel beside the dune.

Yes. While there was still a dusky campfire light.

Yes. While the sea hummed; while the sky glittered.

Yes.

To us.

Yes.

Finding the Sweet Spot

I have a favorite spot in my kitchen, an area where I end up. It's the place where I saute, where I watch the evening news, where I gaze out the window, where I often stand and eat my meals. I call it the sweet spot.

This summer two of my dearest friends (I call them "the girls") came out from New Jersey to visit. They gave me a writing journal - a purple-ish, floral, ribbon-tied book with an elegant pen. I dubbed it "Musings from the Sweet Spot," and propped it within easy reach on the counter between my radio and wine rack. But I haven't had any particular musings to jot down while occupying that space. I tend to hear my muse as I walk the beach -

.....until the other day.

Lately I have been re-figuring my days, trying to get a sense of how to shape my daily life since my job(s) have been gradually pared down from three to one, from three-quarter-time to half-time, to quarter-time, to no time. The summer economy at the coast has whittled away my employment; has shaken loose my self-created structure - my sense of order and purpose to each day. I have enough post-divorce support to manage for a while, I am not panic-struck, but I am uncomfortable with this "non-productive" freedom. I find myself needing to qualify; to quantify; to fill this space responsibly.

So, at the Sweet Spot I am contemplating - how should I re-do my resume....I need to start net-working....gotta make sure I keep up with the local bi-monthly classifieds....how's this gonna work, Carol.....

.....when I hear Love, in the tenderest tone say, "You have been spurning Me."

And I am struck - with awe at the gentleness; dumbfounded by the statement; curious of the meaning. I know this voice; instantly. I know this Lover; this One who woos me in the sunsets; cradles me in the soft sand, enfolding me in dunes like a warm blanket. I know this One, and I cry out - "Spurning You? Oh, I am so sorry! How have I been spurning You?"

Now, it's hard to explain how a nanosecond can contain chapters of meaning; how instantaneously scenes flash into cognitive view, connect to deep desires, and make sense. Some call it revelation. For there it all was - in Love's reply:

....."I love meeting you in The Writing; I love to hear your voice."

And there it was - in the flash of unspoken desires, oh how I wish I could write; how I wish I could live at the beach; how I wish I could find my voice. There it was in a burst of recall - the support of family, the affirmation from friends, most recently from writer Mike Burgess, "Carol, if you keep hearing you're a horse, then it's time to get the saddle." There it was in an explosion of purport - the years of journaling, the closed employment doors, the available house, the financial means, the beach spread before me like an avenue to my heart. In a gasp I knew - knew why I ached for my core; knew that I had shoved it away; knew that my core was a chamber designed for communion, to be written in the language of Love.

Oh, yes; I have spurned You. I have treated this gift of space and time too casually. I have tried to minimize Your voice, though You have yearned powerfully within me. You have ached for me; ached for me to express; ached for me to write. And I have been aching for You.

And there it all was....

....my Core; uncovered at the Sweet Spot.