What makes me "ME"?

It would be impossible, I think, to reach this point in my life without at least once or twice questioning who I am and why. Oh, sure, there's the easy answers: I'm my parent's child, my children's mother. But I'm thinking of the other questions: am I an honest person? Am I compassionate, funny, a good friend, a deep thinker?

Before I answer, let me explain why it's on my mind today. Roughly three months ago, a friend was in an accident. Now, mind you, I've never met this person, only read his published works and exchanged emails and chat posts with him. I don't know if he considered me his friend, but I considered him mine. His name is Richard Bach.

In the accident, Richard suffered a head injury. There was doubt for a while that he would live, and once it seemed he was safely on this side of life, there were questions as to how much he would regain of himself. Eventually, he recovered physically enough to move to a rehab center, and recently was staging a hunger strike to be allowed to go home. I don't know if he's made it home yet.

One of his children posted a comment on Facebook, which I am paraphrasing, since I can't find the original. He said his father didn't know who he was, and had forgotten most of the philosophies about which he had written. This confused me at first, because I was pretty sure the same child had posted that Richard remembered who he was, and remembered his children. But in thinking about it, I suspect that what the son meant was that his father no longer knows what it means to be Richard Bach.

I know that personality changes are often a by-product of TBI's, or Traumatic Brain Injuries. Once gentle loving people can become hostile, rude, withdrawn. Personality changes are also sometimes a by-product of a near-death experience, although that usually is a change for the better.

It all makes me ponder the idea of who I am. If I look at myself, I find flaws, lots of them. I'm not 100% honest, although I try to be. I'm a sucker for a sob story, I have too much faith in the people I love and too little respect for the rest. I'm not careful enough with my money, my time, or my love. But I always thought these were traits that were born within me, set in my genes, just like my inability to lose weight and keep it off. But if a TBI can change a personality, cause someone to forget a life's work, then what really makes us us? 

For most of my adult life, I believed that my body is just a vehicle for my soul, that my soul is eternal, and that I chose this life for the lessons I needed to learn. I believed that who I am is who I will always be, and that although I can learn new things, (and unlearn some old things) I can't change my basic 'me-ness". Now I question that. Now I wonder if all along, I've been wrong.

The more I think about it, the more confused I get. If our basic personality really isn't set in stone, then what excuse do I have? I've told myself for so many years that I'm not an extrovert, that if I could be a hermit, I would be. I don't like crowds, loud noises or pushy people. And yet, having written a book and self-published same, I know I may have to develop a thicker skin, and reach outside my comfort zone if I want success. Is that part of the problem? Do I unconsciously not want success because it would force me to change? Can I be a hermit, and a best selling author at the same time?

What do you think? What governs our personalities, where does our self-ness really reside? Can we ever really lose it, and if so, is it possible to find it again?

A fun weekend project

     I thought I'd give you all a look at my latest "stash-buster" project. I have, as some of you know, a huge stash of fabric, in dozens of prints. Cottons, flannels, fleece, wool, felt, velvet, corduroy. You name it, I probably have it. Some of it I've had for years and years, moved in boxes from one home to another. Some I inherited from my mother. 

      Last weekend I rummaged through the stash and picked out three fabrics to make a baby quilt for the soon-to-be-born daughter of my nephew. I discovered an quick and easy, and yet adorable, quilt pattern on the internet, and I made the quilt and sent it off. 

      But once it was finished, I started looking at other things I could make using my stash and that quilt pattern. Several years ago, I purchased a cute border print fabric (see above) and used some of it to make aprons for my two granddaughters for Thanksgiving. (I think they worn them just long enough for pictures.) 

      I don't know what I was going to do with the rest of the material. I suppose I could have made yet another apron, or hemmed it and used it for a tablecloth. But yesterday I decided to use the motifs along the edge as squares for a table runner. I picked out two other fabrics, and started cutting. The brown is leftover from my grandson's dinosaur costume of two years ago, and the tiny acorn print is something I bought thinking it would make a cute blouse for fall. I've had it at least five years, so its chances of ever becoming a blouse were rapidly slipping away.

After cutting out the pieces, I put together all the smaller individual pieces, then pieced each block. I joined the blocks, then instead of using quilt batting, which would have made the runner too thick, I used a piece of leftover flannel. I backed the runner with the pumpkin print from the middle of the border fabric.

I think it turned out really cute! It's on my table right now. I have enough left over to make another one, but I'm currently working on a couple of Christmas presents. Maybe when I'm done with those, I'll make another. Might make a cute present, huh?

Oh, and I also made this: banana bread. I added a bit of orange peel and nutmeg, and since I didn't have walnuts, I used some sliced almonds from the freezer. Don't usually make banana bread (I don't really like it.) but I had the bananas, and I'm a firm believer in 'waste not, want not'. It will be good for slicing and toasting in the morning, especially with a little bit of butter or peanut butter.

So, that's what I did this weekend. How about you?

No Illusions

I know I haven't been here for a while, but I hope you'll understand when I tell you why. A dear friend of mine was in a plane crash ten days ago, and I've been thinking of little else since.

This friend isn't a friend I've ever met physically. Not even a friend on Facebook. But I've gotten to know him through his writings, both professionally published, and informally posted on his website. We've exchanged emails and commented on each other's ideas. We don't always agree, and not too long ago, I was royally annoyed with him.

But when push comes to shove, you realize what's really important.

Right now, the prognosis isn't great. He has a brain injury, and isn't "all here", as they say. But he and I, and his many, many family, know that looks can be deceiving, we have no limitations, it's all an illusion.

Illusion. According to Merriam-Webster: a mistaken idea, a misleading visual image.The image of my friend in a hospital bed, instead of flying over lakes and forests, is definitely an illusion. Doctors may think he's there, but we know better. We know he's just exploring other dimensions, soaking up atmosphere, maybe even visiting with his beloved Lucky.

In an old Star Trek episode titled "Spectre of the Gun", Mr. Spock is called upon to save his fellow crew members by reminding them that everything they see is an illusion. They are in the middle of a gun battle with aliens, and at one point, he reminds them: "If we do not allow ourselves to believe that the bullets are real,they cannot kill us! 

Spock's logic worked for the crew of the Enterprise. And it sounds great... convince yourself the bullets aren't real, and they can't hurt you. But even better, convince yourself that even if they ARE real, they can't kill you. Nothing can kill you, without your consent. (I can hear you arguing from here. hush.) The truth is,(a truth my dear friend was trying so hard to explain to me just days before his crash) the truth is, WE NEVER DIE. Our physical bodies might cease to exist, but that which is me, that which is you, will never perish. We're not bound by time, we're not bound by space. We're boundless beings.

And that's no illusion. 

Contest

Okay, so if you would like a chance to win a pretty, hand-embroidered bookmark, just email me (najama@earthlink.net)  with the answer to this question about "Sky Blue Orange.>> Name of the person who owns the property on which the labyrinth is located<<. That's it, it's that easy.  You have until September 30th to enter.  I will pick a winner from all the correct answers. No need to give me your address until you win. :-)

Sometimes....

if you give yourself enough time to cool down, you realize that some things just aren't worth stressing about. So, I just deleted a post that was way too angry for even me. I'm not letting someone live rent-free in my head....

Sweet Violet

Here's an excerpt from my new WIP, "Sweet Violet"...
      "The suitcase was large; the type of suitcase Jimmy Stewart was looking for in “It’s A Wonderful Life.” A great big one, big enough for labels from all over the world.  The blue leather was cracked and faded from years of exposure to the desert heat.  It was locked, and of course I had no key. It was heavy, but I had no idea if it had anything inside. I was about to find out.  I grasped the blue Bakelite handle and heaved the heavy thing up onto the bed.  The bed creaked and swayed, and I worried for a moment it was going to collapse. It was only a roll-away, one of two that we keep on hand for our guests. I had borrowed it for Emily, but if it collapsed, I’d have to rethink that. Luckily, after an initial protest, the legs and springs held, so I went to work on the suitcase.

A big heavy screwdriver worked to pop the two side locks, and I used the power drill given to me by my son as a housewarming present to drill out the center lock. I worked slowly and carefully, not wanted to damage anything that might be inside. Finally, I felt the lock give way.I set the drill aside and slowly lifted the lid. The suitcase was almost full. As I pushed the lid back, a silky white blouse slid off the top of the pile and fell to the floor.  I picked it up and placed it on the bed next to the suitcase. There were several other items of women’s clothing, and I lifted them out one by one.
     Underneath the clothing was a bundle of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon. I set those aside to look at later. Most of the rest of the space in the suitcase was taken up by a newspaper wrapped bundle. I lifted the bundle out and set it on the bed as well. It didn’t weigh much, so I could probably rule out my first impression, which was a bottle of wine, wrapped for travel.  The bundle was tied like a Christmas package, more pale pink ribbon tied in a bow right in the middle.

Before I investigated the bundle, I checked the satin pockets on the sides of the suitcase. The elastic had lost most of its stretch, but there wasn’t much in them, anyway. In the side pocket, I found a pretty silver hairbrush, with the initials AE engraved on the back, and a packet of bobby pins, with the 10 cent price sticker from Sprouse Reitz still on it.

Finally, I was ready to examine the newspaper wrapped bundle. The newspapers themselves were brittle and yellow, with cracks in the paper where it had been folded. Carefully, gently, I pulled the loose end of the ribbon bow and slid the ribbon free from the bundle. Gingerly, I folded back the corners of the newspaper. Underneath the newspaper was a thin white terrycloth towel.  To my surprise, the edge of the towel was embroidered with the words “Blue Moon” in dark blue machine embroidery. 

As I folded back the towel, I uncovered a flannel blanket, the kind I can remember my grandmother using for my siblings, with teddy bears screen printed on faded yellow, satin binding wilted and worn from use. 

The sight of that blanket gave me pause. I almost didn’t want to keep going, but as usual my curiosity was greater than my common sense.

           I should have listened to my common sense."

Too much like work

My mother taught me to sew when I was thirteen. It was the only real handicraft she pursued, and I think she learned more out of necessity than any real desire to be creative. I loved sewing, and made doll dresses by the dozen.

In the fifty years since I first learned to wind a bobbin and sew a straight seam, I've tried a lot of different needle crafts. I'm a fairly accomplished knitter, I can crochet a mean afghan, I cross stitch, needlepoint, and yes, I still sew. When my children were little, it seems I always had a baby sweater on my needles, because they worked up fast, and even if I didn't have a use for it immediately, there was sure to be a new baby somewhere, soon, and I liked having a gift ready to go.

But as soon as someone suggested that I knit, or cross stitch, and sell the results, I balked. I like to work at my own pace, do a little or a lot, or none at all. I might put the work down for months, and then pick it up and work furiously for days.  I cross stitched seven birth samplers in a span of four years, for my six grandchildren, and for years, I never wanted to see a needle again! (yes, seven samplers for six babies. That's because baby number six, who was supposed to be a girl, turned out to be a boy. No way was I presenting him with flowers and butterflies!)

I suppose that's why I'm having such a hard time sitting down and working on my second novel. I learned a lot from the first one, about plotting and characterization and pacing. Oh, and especially about editing. You can never have too many fresh eyes reading your work, and you'd be amazed at what slips past on the first three or thirty reads. I spent hours upon frustrating hours learning how to format for uploading to Kindle, and working on a cover design, and fiddling with spacing and page breaks and font size. But seeing the finished product is so worth it, and I can't wait to do it again.

But making myself sit down and actually put words on paper, write that second book, is hard. I know, you're thinking, isn't that exactly what I'm doing NOW? Yes. But this is stream-of-consciousness writing. I have no plot to follow, no characters who must have their say. This is just me rambling, and it's not work.

And that's my problem. I don't like work. Never have, never will. If I'm going to get that second book finished, I know I need to treat writing like any other job: dedicate a set amount of time to the process, and work at it regularly. Which totally goes against the grain with me. My inner, stubborn child is rebelling against being forced to do her homework!  So, while I take a break to sit in the sun and do a little cross stitching, I'm recharging my writing batteries, reminding myself why I write in the first place.Because I love it.

Two roads....

One of my favorite authors is Richard Bach, of "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", "Illusions", "Bridge Across Forever". A few months back, I chanced across his website, and discovered that he is actively communicating with his fans and friends. There is a healthy dialogue going on, and lots of fantastic give and take of ideas.


I wrote the following in response to something he wrote, and I'm re-posting it here, just because I like it, and think it bears repeating. I hope you like it, too.


...Some of us walk the same path every day, so used to it our feet know every rock and rough patch, and mud puddle. And then, for some reason, maybe snow or ice or a new pair of shoes, we venture off the path, and we find a new way. Might get bogged down, stuck in a briar patch. Might find a field of tiny yellow flowers and decide to sit and enjoy the sunshine and have a cookie or two. No chocolate chip. Peanut butter, so the dogs can share. Might find a river too wide to cross, so we have to go back and try again. But we always keep trying. Sometimes we walk with a friend, sometimes we walk alone. The important thing is to realize that the path was there before we even put on our shoes, and it will be there long after we have found our way home.

They're only things, after all.

A local newspaper recently ran a column, asking people to write in with a list of the things they would save if they were suddenly forced to evacuate in the face of a fire or other natural disaster. The lists contained everything from pets and children to computers and photographs.

I made my own list years ago, when I lived in an apartment, and realized I was at the mercy of not only Mother Nature, but my neighbors, as well. My list included all the usual: important papers, my children's baby books, photos and jewelry.

But as I started putting together a new list, I realized there are only two things in this house now that I would make a real effort to save, and they are both four-legged and furry. Lily, my Pom/Chi mix, and Annie, the big, sad-eyed Aussie mix who came to live with me last January. I keep a couple of spare leashes in the nightstand next to my bed, in case we wake up to disaster in the middle of the night. I can't depend on them to follow me out, and I can't imagine escaping without them.

But everything else is expendable. That's not to say that my home doesn't have some nice things, some irreplaceable things. It does. My mother's jewelry. Scrapbooks of the grandbabies for the past seven years. My father's wool shirts, all eight of them, packed away for the day I have time to turn them into quilts. Just sitting here looking at my desk, I see a coffee mug from my mother's fortieth class reunion, and a stamp dispenser made by my youngest child in high school.

When my mother died three and a half years ago, the family home was put up for sale, and my siblings gathered to clean it out. A dumpster went on the driveway, a flat bed rental trailer out front. In the flurry of activity, trying to get everything done in the three days allocated to the work, things were discarded, either thrown away or sent to Goodwill. Other things were parceled out to my brothers and sister, as we each picked what was most important to us.

Afterwards, when I was living by myself for the first time in seven years, I found myself missing so many of the small things I had taken for granted. The Pyrex casseroles sized just right for a single person or the aluminum hamburger press that dated back to my childhood. I regretted letting my sister have my mother's china, purchased in Japan in the 1950's. I'd had no place to store it, but still....and the silver-plated flatware, that Mom had kept in its storage box, under the bed in the spare room. I never understood why she didn't use it.

I found both the china and flatware on ebay, and I purchased as much as I could afford. I use the flatware every day, and it just gets lovelier with each washing. 

About six months after I purchased the chine and flatware, I realized that it had become, in my mind, my mother's. Even though I knew it wasn't, the very act of washing the "Shelburne" pattern dishes or "Eternally Yours" flatware brought back memories of Thanksgivings, birthdays, and other special events.I guess what I'm getting at is that memories don't burn, and things can be replaced.

I decided that the best way to hold fast to the things I cherish the most was with photographs. All the knickknacks and photos and documents were photographed or scanned, and stored not just on my computer but in the cloud, on a photo storage site. CD's were created as well. 


Someday, when I'm gone, hopefully my children and grandchildren will have a whole houseful of things to divide up and cherish. If not, well, they were only things, after all.

They say the neon lights are bright...

...on Broadway. And on the Blue Moon Motor Court. And out my bedroom window.

Last month,  a traveling carnival set up on the grass playing field of the middle school next door. I was miffed, to say the least. The prospect of a weekend of noise and traffic was irritating, and put me in a really bad mood.

But then, the first night, I was seduced. Seduced by the glow of neon. Yes, I admit it. I love neon. Well, technically I suppose I should say I love neon and argon and krypton. Those are the three "noble" gasses that light up those fabulous signs that used to be the trademark of places like the Las Vegas Strip. Neon gas glows red, argon glows a blue/purple, and krypton glows a green/gray. There are other gasses that glow other colors, of course. But those three are my favorites.

There's something about an old-fashioned neon sign that wakens a nostalgic part of me, that 

makes me yearn for simpler times. I think about car trips as a kid, staying in motor lodges or motels, with tiny swimming pools and neon Vacancy signs. Sometimes the motel office would have neon outlining the roof, or a big "Open" sign in the window. I remember one trip when I was about 14, when we stayed in a hotel in downtown San Francisco, and at night, the motel's neon sign shone through our window, blinking on and off all night.

 

The carnival next door was full of neon. Neon on the Ferris wheel and the Tilt-A-Whirl. Neon on the candy apple booth and the bumper cars. There is just something about the glow of neon against a twilight summer sky, something that speaks of youth and excitement and the promise of adventure.

Neon is magical, turning even mundane, shop-worn buildings into fairy-tale castles. And who doesn't need a little magic in their lives?

"Gramma!"

She stands there silently, her amber eyes as bright and clear as the first day I saw her. Her lips still curve in a sweet innocent smile. Her hair is still a deep black, with no touch of grey.

She is an Indian doll, standing about ten inches tall. Oh, I know, it's not politically correct to call her an Indian. I should call her a Native American. But when I was five, and we bought her as a souvenir of our trip from Washington state to Michigan, she was an Indian. Her leather dress is dried out and cracked in places, the beading loose but intact. She's missing a finger on one hand, but to me she's perfect.

I remember nothing of that trip. I'm not even sure if we actually were coming from Washington. I do know that we had just returned from several years in Japan, and were heading to my grandmother's house in Michigan. I remember being excited to show my grandmother my doll, and my own mother's cautionary warning. She gently told me that my grandmother was old, and she had lots of grandchildren, and I shouldn't be too disappointed if Gramma wasn't as enamored of the doll as I was. Of course, Mom used words a five year old could understand. I have no memory of what actually happened after I ran up the steps of Gramma's house. I have very few real memories of my Gramma Racine, and it's not just because she's been gone almost 50 years.

Since I grew up in an Army family, I didn't get to spend much time with my grandparents. My paternal grandmother died before I was born, my paternal grandfather and step-grandmother lived in the Sacramento area. My maternal grandfather also died before I was born, and my maternal grandmother lived, as I said, in Michigan.

I don't know how my parents felt about being grandparents. Certainly, they loved their grandchildren, and spent as much time and money on them as they could. They seldom said no to babysitting. They taught them how to make fruit leather and how to shoot rubber band guns. But I don't know if being a grandparent was as soul satisfying to them as it is to me.

I have six grandchildren. I've been privileged to be a part of all of their lives from the day they were born. I've rocked them to sleep, read them stories, kissed their boo-boos, watched them learn to walk and talk and run. All too quickly they've gone from sweet-smelling infants wrapped in cozy blankets to tough sweaty little boys playing soccer or hockey, earnest little men with video games, books and stuffed animals. And the girls! Oh, my. Fashionista, dancer, gymnast, artist! Hair like silk, and endless questions. They are such a joy to me, all six of them.

I feel sorry for my grandmother, if indeed she was too overwhelmed by sheer numbers to appreciate what she had. I'll never know for sure, but I hope that my mother felt the same way I feel when I walk up the steps to my grandchildren's house, and ring the bell. I hear little feet pounding across the floor, the door is flung open wide, little arms circle my waist, and sweet sweet voices call out, "Gramma!!!"

I am so lucky.

What was I thinking?

I had one of those "Oh my god, what was I thinking?" moments today. 

It actually started last weekend at my grandchildren's birthday party. I saw a big, beautiful desk sitting under an apple tree near the driveway, and asked my son about it. He said it had belonged to my daughter-in-law's family, and he had tried to sell it at a recent garage sale, and no one wanted it. Well, I wanted it.

My son's in-laws delivered the desk to me today, and even though I had rearranged my living room to accomodate it, I was still overwhelmed by how BIG it was. It measures 5 feet across, and is almost 3 feet deep. Heavy, vintage, with deep file drawers and all the space I can need or want. I nudged a sofa over a bit more, turned the desk 90 degrees, and finally fit it into the planned space. With a lamp, and my printer, and an assortment of tchotchkes for inspiration, it makes me feel like Hemingway, or Fitzgerald. I almost want to swap out my computer for an old-fashioned manuel typewriter. Almost.

I love this desk. I love the size, the patina, the history. I love the feeling it gives me when I sit down, the feeling that I'm a serious writer, that someday, someone will buy a big, used desk, and blog that it makes them feel like Starns.

I seem to have annoyed my sister again today.  It's a gift, I guess.

The issue today was the sex of her unborn grandchild. This is her first, and she's very excited because it's going to be a girl. Maybe. I pointed out to her in an email and on her Facebook posting, that ultrasounds are not infallible, and that she shouldn't get too wedded to the idea of a granddaughter. She took exception, and was upset that I wasn't more supportive.

I thought it was rather ironic, actually, coming today as it did. Today is the fourth birthday of my youngest grandchild, the sweet, brown-eyed boy who was supposed to be a girl. That's right. Two ultrasounds confirmed that fact. My son already had one daughter, and although we were a tad disappointed that the new baby was going to be another girl, we embraced her, and planned for her. For my granddaughter's second birthday, just weeks before her new sibling was to arrive, I bought her a book about sisters. Her other grandmother bought her a bracelet set, two little silver circles, one saying Big Sister, one saying Little Sister.

I still have the texts my son sent the night the baby was born. One says "Here she comes!" and just minutes later, "It's a BOY!" We were stunned, and thrilled, and so excited. I was so happy for my son, who now had a son of his own.

But underneath the laughter and amazement was, surprisingly, sadness. My daughter-in-law in particular was affected by this. For four months, ever since the second ultrasound had confirmed the results of the first, she had daydreamed about two curly haired little girls in matching dresses, about tea parties and ballet classes and two sisters playing together. Of course, she loved (loves!) her son, but when the time came to bring him home, the pink blankets and sleepers and onesies all had to be replaced. The cupboard full of Big Sister's baby clothes, so carefully washed and folded for Little Sister, had to be packed away again. It was almost like a death, the death of a dream. Luckily for all of us, there was the birth of a new dream, the promise of trucks and trains and all things blue.

If I upset my sister, it wasn't intentional. I laugh about it now, the grandson who was supposed to be a girl, but if I can spare my sister and her daughter-in-law even a little bit of hurt, then I don't mind if they get annoyed at me. Better to be annoyed at me, than to have to exchange all those pink clothes.