Category: Musings

All Creatures Great and Small Redacted

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I’ve always had this thing about animals, all of them, including birds, even insects, yeah, spiders too. I’m with Gandhi in his belief that the greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated. In honor of World Farm Animals Day, here’s one of my favorite essays on all animals. It’s by Henry Beston, writer and naturalist—1888-1968. (Some of my friends below from my visit to England in April).

“We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. Remote from universal nature, and living by complicated artifice, man in civilization surveys the creature through the glass of his knowledge and sees thereby a feather magnified and the whole image in distortion. We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.”

The Lighthouse

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Today, instead of heading down Canyon Acres with Jake and Fergie to climb the big hill, I made a sharp right toward the beach, just like that. No plan. My inner self fed up with my whining about writer’s block had decided to shake things up by taking a different path. I’d consciously developed this habit when I worked in Newport Beach, when I felt desperate about my dead-end job or my insane marriage. Most of the time it was my trip to work I varied, all the way down the canyon to Coast Highway instead of taking the short cut along Cliff Drive, Jamboree instead of MacArthur, Camelback instead of Bison. Parked in front of the building instead of behind—even though it wasn’t allowed. Small changes but it made me feel adventurous and in control. And it always brought about a shift in perspective.

Halfway down to the beach, I found myself turning into that roped-off dirt parking lot next to the Art Affair grounds—the site of a yearly summer art festival—and heading up the barely visible goat pathway that skirts the lighthouse perched on the side of the hill behind the police station. The tower, about ten feet tall, isn’t really an old lighthouse, never was. It was built in 1935 as a vent for the flow of treated sewage, but no longer serves that purpose. Instead it’s a handy landmark for me and the dogs to head toward. And great for the tourists.Every time I take this route, I wonder if this is the day some cop notices us from below, especially since I let the pups off their leashes. We scrambled up quickly, with Fergie leading the way, kicking clods of dirt and stones down on me and Jake. At the top, we charged along the brush crowded path below houses big as hotels with fortified foundations dug into the side of the hill to an opening between two houses, onto Hilledge Drive. At the corner house, Jake and Fergie refreshed themselves from water pooled in the middle of that rock shaped like a beanbag before we snaked up Skyline then down Park Road to the beach.

Half an hour later, Jake charged across the sand toward the ocean dragging me and Fergie along behind. At the water’s edge, Fergie slammed on brakes—she’s still no surfer chick—and I let Jake’s leash go to prevent myself from being torn in two. I let him body surf for a couple of minutes until I spotted a lifeguard headed my way to remind me of the law. I leashed Jake and we made for home.

A straight shot this time. Fergie clomped upstairs to my bed for a nap, Jake settled in his leather chair. And then instead of heading for my computer to sit and agonize over what I wasn’t writing, I found myself following her upstairs. My conscience gave me a sharp prick, but I ignored it and slept for an hour. A record. I don’t allow myself naps. I awoke refreshed and encouraged. Something had shifted in me.

Old Post Resurrection Hop: The Magic Faraway Tree

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I’m re-posting this blog I wrote in March, 2011 as part of  Old-Post Resurrection Hop:

An unpublished Enid Blyton book has just been discovered: Mr. Tumpy and His Caravan. It’s about an anthropomorphic caravan that befriends a dog, develops wanderlust and goes off on an adventure involving a dragon. Lovely stuff. Who’s Enid Blyton you might ask? A prolific British author who died in 1968. And still selling.

As a kid, I devoured everything I could find of hers in our dinky library in the copper mining town of Nkana, Zambia. This was a room half the size of the “Men-Only” bar on the other end of the T-shaped Mine Club, social center of the mining community. As you can imagine my choice was limited, but with holiday trips down to South Africa to visit the relatives, I managed to get my hands on enough of her books to satisfy my addiction.

I loved Ms. Blyton’s The Famous Five and The Adventurous Four series: kids embarking on adventures and solving mysteries. But my favorite was the Magic Faraway Tree in the Enchanted Wood where the trees, “a darker green than usual,” whisper their secrets: “Wish-wisha-wisha.” This wonderful tree, laden with fruit of all kinds from acorns to lemons was inhabited by colorful characters like Moon-Face, Mister Watzisname, Silky, and the Saucepan Man, draped with all kinds of saucepans. Its topmost branches led to ever-changing magical lands above the swirling clouds. All this took place in the lovely English countryside, so regular and so civilized.

We had our own version of The Adventurous Four, only our adventures took place in the jungle which wasn’t so civilized, all kinds of snakes, notably, the deadly black mamba, and crocodiles, along with lions that lived in the bush at the bottom of town. The “foofie” slide we built across the croc-infested Kafue River featured in our adventures. This was a purloined mine cable strung between two trees across the river, a homemade metal cylinder the size of a toilet paper roll providing the ride down the cable. Wearing your cozzie (bathing suit), you climbed the tree on one side of the river, wrapped your hands around the roll, leapt into the void and zoomed fifty yards across the swiftly running water to land on the other side. Hopefully you made it. Fun. Belly button tingling, pants pissing fun. I don’t remember anyone not making it.

But the thing is I also wanted Enid Blyton’s world, filled with high teas, hedgerows, badgers, Peter Rabbit, Winnie the Pooh and fairies, where magic was part of its history. A Magic Faraway Tree could only exist in the lush verdant English countryside; a black mamba would make short work of all those fairy folk in their buttercup dresses and foxglove caps. Truth is, I probably wouldn’t have made it in Ms. Blyton’s world, my wild African roots and all that, but I’m grateful to her for instilling in me the love of ceremony and magic. It showed up in my first book, Monkey’s Wedding, featuring English fairies along with the African equivalent, tokoloshi. I can’t wait to buy Mr. Tumpy and His Caravan, so I can read some of the passages over the phone to my two grown sons (one in South Africa, the other up north in Davis, California) and see if they connect to the characters from the days I read the old Enid Blyton books to them.

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Old Post Resurrection Hop: Twilight

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I’m re-posting this blog I wrote in December of last year as part of  Old-Post Resurrection Hop:

It’s twilight, I’m driving up Laguna Canyon Road to dinner with friends, and thinking about how much I love this time of day.  I sneak glimpses in my rear view mirror to catch the last glow from the setting sun behind me.  Ahead, the snow-dusted San Bernardino mountains are turning into a barely delineated dark hump in the gloaming.

And then like one of those scenes where the camera pans in, I notice the glimmer of lights in this one house to my right.  It’s not a particularly homey place or anything, yet, I’m filled with a sense of well being, of belonging; all that’s missing is the smell of freshly baked bread. This isn’t the first time this has happened.  But this is the first time I’ve given it any thought.   The last time I got snagged on the glow of lights in a random dwelling, was a single apartment in an otherwise dark building by the side of the freeway in Reno. I was on my way back from that writers workshop in Lake Tahoe. Again, nothing spectacular; in fact, the sight of that apartment would be downright depressing during the daytime.

 The time before that, that I can remember anyway, was seven years ago on a trip home to Africa, Zimbabwe this time.  Off to the side of a narrow dirt road at the base of a massive rock, sat a solitary hut, its scruffy thatch aglow from a flickering light inside.

This phenomenon is not about missing having someone waiting for me at home, or family all under one roof, that much I’ve figured out.  Who knows who lives in these places I glop onto, could be a single guy.  All I know is that when this sensation comes over me, I feel connected to whomever is inside that dwelling; it’s like we’re linked by the light.  And by twilight, that time of day when sunlight scattering in the upper atmosphere illuminates the lower in a most magical way.

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Old Post Resurrection Hop . . . Crackling Grass

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I’m re-posting this blog I wrote in November of last year as part of  Old-Post Resurrection Hop:

If you’ll remember I attended an essay workshop up at Lake Tahoe.  Turns out it was actually at a house in Squaw Valley, site of the 1960s Olympics, the entrance complete with Olympic rings and flame:  six women, a massive stone fireplace, hammered iron balconies, and a dining room table that belonged in King Arthur’s court.  This was where we dined, but mostly where we wrote.  I’m not going to tell you about how I stalled time and again on the page in response to the writing prompts. And how panicky I felt.

Instead, I’ll tell you about the desperation run I took in 25-degree weather that second day to clear my head.  Dressed in my winter clothes—Laguna Beach style—blue jeans, a sweatshirt and gloves, I tried to ignore the cold as I charged down the road and into the meadow that is Squaw Valley proper, evergreen trees not yet dressed in their winter white.  It was only at a point where the trees converged into a dark narrow path, lowering the temperature by a couple more degrees that I finally turned around.  By now, my nose was dripping, my toes about to snap off and I was shivering so hard I veered drunkenly off the path.

There’s a soft crackle and I stop.  Around my feet, a carpet of tiny frozen spears of grass pokes up this way and that.  I drop to my haunches and press down on an untouched area with my gloved hand, feeling the resistance there.  Another satisfying crunch.  Feeling a sense of wonder, I shift around and press down on another spot, then another and another.  I finally have to stop; the cold has become unbearable.

I run back to the house, feeling some kind of reintegration beginning to take place inside of me, something I vaguely recognize.  I’ve undergone this experience before when beguiled by nature, whether it’s here in my adopted country or in my native Africa.  I’m reminded that as in nature everything in its own time and that I have to trust myself.  The words will come.

I wish I could tell you I aced the rest of the writing prompts.  I didn’t.  But I did come up with a killer ending to an essay I’d been working on.

Ah, the writing life.

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The Next Big Thing

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Remember that trip I took to Santa Barbara to meet up with my tribe (five women writer friends I’d met on-line but never in real life?) Well, as a result of that hook-up, I got tagged by the fabulous Deborah Batterman, whose Leonard Cohen quote on her blog—“there’s a crack in everything . . . that’s how the light gets in”—first drew me in to read her posts.

What she did by tagging me is to give me an opportunity to strut my stuff, to showcase my memoir, Loveyoubye. Is my “stuff” good enough to be the Next Big Thing? You be the judge. In turn I’m tagging three other authors to take part. By the way, I welcome questions or comments on my answers that will help me hone this kind of presentation in other venues when the time comes.

My answers to the questions:

What is the working title of your book?

Loveyoubye

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I needed to make sense of the break-up of my marriage

What genre does your book fall under?

Memoir

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

My girlfriend/best reader thinks Meryl Streep should play me because the woman can transform herself into anyone (she’s also thinking Oscar, more attention on my book: bless her); other suggestions: Jennifer Grey, Nicole Kidman and Helen Mirren (my son’s suggestion). For my ex, Sam Elliott would be perfect, same looks, same easy drawl and charm. My brother would have to be played by someone who could do Forrest Gump justice a second time around

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A journey home to South Africa gives a woman the key to her past and her future allowing her to move forward from a disastrous marriage

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I’m seriously thinking of going with SheWrites Press, an independent publishing company is how they list themselves. I want to get the book out there. Going the agent/publisher route would take at least two years 

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I can’t answer that because I rewrite as I go. Actually, one of my goals in life has been to write an entire first draft all the way through, without looking. Loveyoubye has taken me five years (during which time I was still going through the break up)

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

 Breakup by Catherine Texier with a beloved dog as go-between, meets Nature Lessons

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

 It was a matter of survival. I had planned to write a memoir of my childhood, but got high-jacked by what was happening between me and my husband. And so I wrote through my feelings of anger, disappointment and rejection, and tried to make sense of how something like this could’ve happened to me at this point in my life

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

 The settings and the funny, poignant interactions with a dog of great character. Thirty percent of the book takes place in South Africa, ten percent features said dog (an essential part of the story), and the rest takes place in a quintessential beach town on the coast of Southern California

 Now it’s my turn to tag people:

Please visit their blogs. They will be publishing their answers to the questions in week 12 (between the 10th September and 17th September)

Message for the tagged authors and interested others:

Rules of The Next Big Thing

***Use this format for your post

***Answer the ten questions about your current WIP (Work In Progress)

***Tag five other writers/bloggers and add their links so we can hop over and meet them.

Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big Thing:

What is the working title of your book?

Where did the idea come from for the book?

What genre does your book fall under?

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Include the link of who tagged you and this explanation for the people you have tagged.

Be sure to line up your five people in advance.

Old Post Resurrection Hop: My Happily Every After

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I’m re-posting this blog I wrote in January of this year as part of  Old-Post Resurrection Hop:

I was just reading this blog by Heidi Munson called Dateless this New Year? Online Dating?  (okay, so New Year is past: I’m a little behind on my reading).  This is what she suggested for New Year’s Eve–or as we call it back in Zambia, Old Year’s Eve, makes sense, right?–a do-it-yourself beauty makeover, eating in with a fabulously set table, Frank Sinatra playing in the background, and that special dessert you’ve been meaning to make.  Next, a movie marathon with titles that inspire you to believe that there’s still a chance for Happily Ever After. She goes on to suggest that you reinvent yourself online by spying on the competition and then reworking your own profile so that you don’t attract “toads,” the term she uses for unwanted prospects.  Her blog is about online dating tips and other toad evasion techniques.

The latter didn’t appeal to me at all.  No online dating for this 100-year-old single woman.  And no Frank Sinatra.  How about Bon Iver and Beirut?  That’s who I had playing on my iPod on New Year’s Eve.  I had on my yoga clothes from my yoga session followed by a hike I’d taken with my dear maniacs up the “other” hill (after my incident with The Law up the regular hill), but no beauty makeover.  It may be too late.

In the oven, I had a leg of lamb with potatoes that turn oh so crispy at the end; sauteed chopped kale and cannellini beans, mint sauce, chutney, and fresh green peas completed the dinner.  But here’s the best part. I made myself a Bloody Mary with salt around the rim of the glass along with a stalk of celery and a lime wedge: the first I’ve ever made.

A little preamble here, I’m not big on hard liquor but I had just read an article on how to make the perfect Bloody Mary and as I was craving that spicy tomato taste, that’s what it had to be.  Yow!  It was the bomb.  I had two and then amidst a cluster of lit scented candles, I ate my repast on my Thai traveling trunk that serves as a coffee table as I watched MI-5, a British import and very guilty pleasure, with Fergie and Jake’s eyes glued to my fork.  But they’re polite little Staffies, averting their eyes when I looked back at them.  Life is good.

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Connection

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I left my house at 6:30 a.m. on Friday morning for a meeting with my tribe—five women writers—in Santa Barbara, three hours away up the coast. I didn’t return until 9:45 that night. And then I couldn’t sleep for two hours because I was so wound up. I also had a sore tongue: a tiny rip on the right side from all the wagging it did. I didn’t shut up the entire time. Neither did they. It was a love fest. And I had never met them, well except for Britton, the gorgeous blond on the left in the photo below, who drove me from Laguna Beach.

You can read all about the actual meeting, on Jayne Martin’s blog, injaynesworld. There’s no way I can top her brilliant account, except to tell you what I took away from the meeting, other than fun, camaraderie, and encouragement: connection. It’s what I needed on the cusp of sending forth my memoir. A circle of women, strangers even, supporting each other as only women can do with their intrinsic thrust to support and nurture.

How might your life have been different if there had been a place for you? A place for you to go . . . a place of women, to help you learn the ways of woman . . . a place where you were nurtured from an ancient flow sustaining you and steadying you as sought to become yourself. A place of women to help you find the ancient flow already there within yourself . . . waiting to be released . . .

A place of women . . .

How might your life be different?

~Circle of Stones, Judith Duerk

 

Moving On

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For the past two weeks I’ve been sitting on the second round of edits I need to make to my memoir Loveyoubye and then it will finally be done.

Five years of working through all the emotions, the tears and anguish. Five years of waking in the middle of the night, filled with doubt that I had the right to tell my story. Five years of sorting through what to put in and what to leave out. Five years of memoir writing classes and workshops, learning how very different memoir is from fiction, getting past fiction’s iron clad rule to “show don’t tell.” In memoir, it’s tell, tell, tell.

I spilled my guts. And then I sent the manuscript to Thomas White, an editor recommended by my memoir writing mentor for a comprehensive edit. I didn’t realize just how comprehensive his edit would be. He picked up each line, turned it over, examined the bottom, sniffed it, held it up to the light. And asked questions. Difficult penetrating questions that made me realize that I’d held back, that there was still more to tell. His questions took me down paths that unearthed tiny pieces of the puzzle of my experience I didn’t know were missing.

And now all I have to do is make those last few changes. Easy ones, especially after what I’ve been through. But there’s been a force field around my manuscript. I haven’t been able to crack that file. I’m anxious and miserable. I think what’s happening is that I’m afraid of finally being done. I’m afraid I will have nothing more to write. I’m afraid of sending Loveyoubye out into the world where others will get a peek into what I’m about. But you know what, I have to do it. Writing this book revealed a whole lot of me to myself and provided a healing I wouldn’t have found any other way.

Maybe now that I’ve been able to write about it in this blog, I can make those changes. And get on with writing.

Don’t Pet The Sweaty Things

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I want to thank Don Williams of New Millennium Writings for giving me the idea to add to and expand upon his list of what I’ll call “suggestions of how to be a better human being.” Here are a few of mine.

Think with your mind and your heart.

Keep an open mind and when it slams shut, and plays a tape from your upbringing, your fear, your prejudices, your religion, your education, your philosophy, pry it open even if your fingers bleed and you lose your fingernails.

Think “us,” there is no “them.”

Interact with respect and compassion with all kingdoms in nature.

Wake each day and let your first thought be gratitude. Just because.

Meditate—it isn’t just about lowering your blood pressure, or emptying your mind; it isn’t in opposition to praying; it isn’t some exotic eastern discipline or “devil” tool. It’s about being open and receptive to that life that is so much greater than you, and that any philosophy or religion is able to fully define.

Love wastefully.

And . . .

Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things—George Carlin.