Falling

I love fall.

Love red and gold leaves sprinkled like "jimmies" over the lush green grass.

Love the crisp cool mornings that demand an extra cup of coffee after we come in from walking.

Love the long, dark evenings when I can stay home curled under a blanket watching new episodes of my favorite TV shows.

Love pulling on cozy warm sweaters and wrapping soft scarves around my neck.

Never mind the cold rain slicing through the sky this minute.

Never mind that fall means an end to flowers and leaves and picnics.

Never mind that winter will follow on the heels of this, my favorite season.

In just about eight weeks, smack dab in the middle of fall, our family will be gifted with new life.

And the season will never be the same.

I love fall.

Time Passages

It's after 6:30 in the evening and our beautiful fall morning has morphed into an evil dark and rainy night.  I'm sitting here at my computer, surfing the internet, and waiting for my husband to come home from work. If I had a dollar for all the hours I've spent waiting for this man during the past 38 years, I know I could retire to Newport Beach and live the high life.

I'm one of those pathologically prompt people  - I arrive places way too early, just to make sure I'm not late. My dear husband, on the other hand, is not of that ilk.  He waits as long as possible before getting ready to embark on any journey.  Back in the early 1970's when we started dating, his scheduled arrival times were always "between" two numbers, usually within a 30 minute window.

"I'll pick you up between 7:00 and 7:30," he'd say when he called to arrange a date to dinner. "I'll be there between 8:00 and 8:15," he'd promise, when I asked him to drive me to school in the morning. So there I'd sit, all clean and shiny and ready to go.

And I'd wait.

And wait.

Finally, I'd hear the distinctive purr of his 1971 Mach One Mustang turning the corner.  I'd dash to the mirror for a quick check of my hair, rush out the door, and run to the curb so I could jump in the car before he had a chance to turn into the driveway and waste more precious time.

After we were married and he started working, I waited even more.  Seventy hour work weeks were not unusual for young automotive engineers, and he was one to make sure every "i" was dotted, and every "t" was crossed before he left the job site.  I spent a lot of time peering out the window for a glimpse of his car turning down our street.  Sometimes he could call and give me an estimated time of arrival, but mostly I was left to wait and wonder.

Fast forward 35 years, and I'm still waiting. Now at least, I get text messages with updated stats on ETA and drive time progress. I pass the waiting time with Facebook conversations and blog hopping. I get dinner into various stages of preparation, so that I can assemble it quickly when he finally arrives.

And when I hear the automatic garage door start to roll open, I run to the mirror and quickly check my hair.

It's a good thing he's still worth waiting for.

The Fear of Writing

Sometimes writing scares me. I have things I want to write about, exciting ideas that often come to mind while I'm doing something completely un-writerly like grocery shopping or exercising. My heart races a little bit, a shiver runs down my spine. I rummage around looking for a notebook and pen, a leftover to-do list, something to make a note of this amazing idea before it gets lost in the detritus of everyday thinking. Then comes the scary part.

No matter how good I think the idea is, I'm afraid to start writing about it. Afraid to sit down in front of that blank computer screen and do the labor to bring that idea into the world.

What is so frightening? What is it that stills my fingers and pushes that idea to the back of my mind? Is it the fear of failing - that I won't be able to do this thing justice, make of it what I know it could be? Am I worried that this magical notion really isn't magical at all, and that once I begin to flesh it out on the page it will turn into a deformed monster rather than a beautifully realized story?

Could it be that I'm terrified of what I might discover about myself if I go deep enough inside my heart to bring this story to the world? Terrified to take the risk of exposing myself, my talent (or lack of it), my story?

"The risk of writing is an internal risk," says Laraine Herring in her book Writing Begins with the Breath. "You brave the depths of your own being and then bring it back up for commentary by the world. Not the work of wimps. Many writers would likely rather climb Mt. Fuji than go in there, but in there is precisely where you must go. You can't really prepare yourself for what's in there because you don't know all that's in there."

I'm not a mountain climber. Sometimes- especially when it comes to writing- I'm a wimp. I'm afraid of the unknown, afraid of change.

I don't like taking risks.

But I do know that the well of ideas and emotions living inside me need to find their way into the world, need to come to life on the page. And I must find the courage to start putting them there.

Anaïs Nin once wrote this: And the day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom.

I think I'm ready for that day.

How about you? What fears stop you from writing? Are you able to take the risk and bloom?

Much Ado

There was a huge kerfuffle about the "new Facebook" last week while I was away, and I purposely refrained from joining in because (1) I was traveling and using Facebook only on my iPad which didn't appear to be affected; and (2) I thought the whole uproar was simply much ado about nothing.

Today I logged on for the first time since the big makeover and must admit the complaints are valid. But in the overall scheme of "life in general," changes to the Facebook format are hardly worthy of the hue and cry they warranted last week, so I will restrain myself from further hyperbole on the subject.

Things seem to become blown out of proportion so often in the world today.  It's human nature to complain, and because of things like Facebook we're all able to vent our frustrations more readily. After all, when the Pony Express riders changed their route, or the corner newstand raised prices on the Daily Gazette, any complaints about the matter were likely to remain between families on the homestead or folks meeting up in the general store.  Nowadays, when our social network gets reorganized we have the perfect vehicle with which to voice our displeasure to the entire world  -  that very same social network itself.

However, it's part of the risk we take in placing our personal lives within the framework of a huge conglomerate like Facebook. They have the prerogative to change things up however they please. If you've spent any time on the internet at all in the past 10 years, you must realize it's anything but static.

Change is the lifeblood of the digital age, and regular transfusions are mandatory.

At the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon, perhaps we should marshal our indignation for things that really matter, rather than making a fuss about new Facebook formats.

There is much going on in this world that's worthy of ado. Maybe we should all be about making it.

Another Lost Art

The only "C" grade I ever received in elementary school was in handwriting. It was in third grade, and we were just beginning to learn cursive handwriting. I didn't think my performance was SO bad - perhaps my words were a little fat and wobbly and reluctant to stay neatly perched on the lines. Handwriting was a separate subject line on our report cards in those days, and I remember being completely appalled at that letter "C," sticking out like a scarlet letter amongst the "A's" and "B's." I redeemed myself by the end of fourth grade, and had developed a beautiful penmanship almost exactly like my mother's. It was elegant and feminine, and flowed neatly in a perfect slant toward the right margins of the paper. I was vain about my handwriting for many years, although sometimes I tried to mimic my friend Jill's writing which was completely vertical so that each word stood up smartly as it marched across the page. Her handwriting was very different from the way we were taught to write, and I envied the way it expressed her slightly rebellious personality.

Handwriting doesn't merit it's own subject line on report cards anymore, and isn't really worthy of much time or consideration in today's curriculum. Children are taught to print clearly, and given some rudimentary training in the basics of forming cursive letters. They focus on keyboarding skills, which will probably be their primary method of written communication. Keyboarding is more functional, but writing by hand is much more mysterious. It's always amazed me that each person has a unique way of creating letters on a page, even though we're all taught to form the letters in a certain prescribed way. Handwriting was once a way of expressing individuality, and now it seems all our digital advances just serve to homogenize us, lumping us into categories and numbers.

I feel a bit sad about that, just as I feel sad about not getting handwritten letters in the mail anymore. As a child, I loved seeing my grandmother's familiar handwriting on the envelope bearing a birthday or Valentine's Day card. My uncle, who was an engineer, always signed his cards in a distinctive slanted print of entirely capital letters. My father's handwriting fascinated me, for it slanted to the left instead of the right, even though he wrote with his right hand. Their handwriting was as distinctly personal as their voice or their fingerprint. And I was saddened to see their handwriting deteriorate with age, becoming weak and wobbly like my early attempts back in elementary school.

Most of my handwriting these days is confined to the pages of a journal or the To Do list on my kitchen table. My handwriting isn't so beautiful anymore, but if I set my mind to it I could probably recreate those lovely fluid lines I was once so proud of. Perhaps I should make a habit of writing by hand more often, before the art of handwriting is lost forever.

How about you? Does your handwriting express anything about your personality or individuality, or is it entirely functional?