One Year Out

Were I living in the 19th century, today would be the day I cast aside my black clothing, stepped out the front door, and re-entered the world around me. Today my year of mourning for my father would be over, and I could take up my normal life once again. It’s almost laughable, isn’t it, the way this custom has changed. No year spent wearing black dresses and being tastefully excused from everything except church services on Sunday. When my father died a year ago today, I boarded a plane to Florida the very next morning and spent a couple of days helping my stepmother arrange for his cremation. That accomplished, I then flew back home where I went straight from the airport to a weekend spent rehearsing with my handbell group.

And then life returned to it’s normal pattern – not just musical rehearsals, but grocery shopping and dog walking, doing the laundry, cooking, cleaning, paying the bills, checking emails, talking with friends.

 But underneath all those regular everyday activities -  the things that grounded me in so many ways during this year of coming to terms with being really and truly Fatherless - there was always a pervasive sense of vulnerability, of teetering on a precipice of disaster. A deep chasm opened up beneath my feet, a large chunk of the very earth on which I stood was scooped out from under me. I sometimes felt myself free-falling into danger, with no one there to rescue me.

 I was one of those golden girls, the ones whose fathers protected them and coddled them and pampered them. All I had to do was ask, and it was given to me, done for me, made to happen. More than a protector, more than a spoiler, my Dad was my Champion, the one who believed in me, who never doubted my value, who thought I could do anything and be the best at whatever I did.

 One of my clearest childhood memories is of running a foot race at my dad’s Lodge picnic and seeing him at the finish line waiting for me, arms outstretched, a huge smile on his face as he cheered me on. “Come on Beck! You can do it!” he called.

I won the race, a truly amazing feat for a child who was never allowed to run because it might cause an asthma attack.

 But on that day my feet had wings.

 So it is that sensation I miss the most. I miss having the lasting support of that man who cornered my soon-to-be husband in the church basement minutes before our wedding with a solemn warning that he had “better treat my baby right.” And even though it had been years since my father could actually do anything concrete to help me, I believed he was still in my corner, still rooting for me to be happy whatever that took.

 Life goes on after loss, and it goes on faster in this 21st century than ever before. We present a semblance of normalcy to the world when sometimes we feel anything but. We wobble and waver when the bulwarks of our past leave us. We feel unearthed and unsettled without those people who gave strength to our weakness, added joy to our accomplishments and sustenance to our spirit.

Unlike my 18th and 19th century sisters, I never wore the outward trappings of mourning, didn’t spend the last 12 months sequestered away from polite society. But in my heart there dwells a small quiet chamber that holds only memories, the ones I keep like treasures to remind me of a man who held me so dear.

The In Between

I’m a hurrier. I move quickly through my day, grabbing and tossing and scrambling. I like to get things done and over with, dust off my hands and move on to the next thing. Tick all the boxes on my to-do list. Finis.

But with age (and a less lengthy task list) has come a the desire to back off, to slow down. I have a new awareness that there will be time and that it’s alright to shift those undone things onto tomorrow’s index card of things to do..or even next week’s index card. Or maybe some days it’s alright not to have an index card at all.

But it can be a struggle for one who doesn’t like the in-between, for one who likes things completed and off the list. I feel uneasy with unfinished projects hanging over my head.

Right now there is an enormous project in this stage of in-betweenness. It’s my book, Life In General, the one I’ve been thinking about and working on for the past couple of years. It’s done, but it’s not done. It’s on the road to being in print and it’s almost there...but not quite yet.

I had planned to be farther along in this process by now, had planned to be in the very last round of editing and nearly ready to print. I had dutifully made my schedule at the beginning of this year, parceled out the months and what needed to be accomplished in each to bring this book to fruition. I ticked off every deadline, right on schedule.

Until I got to the end, and then I stopped short.

Even though I am a hurrier, I am also adept at the art of procrastination. So for quite a while even though the pages were ready, I wasn’t ready to let it go. Steven Pressfield (The War of Art) calls it resistance. "Resistance is experienced as fear; the degree of fear equates to the strength of Resistance. Therefore the more fear we feel about a specific enterprise, the more certain we can be that that enterprise is important to us and to the growth of our soul. That's why we feel so much Resistance. If it meant nothing to us, there'd be no Resistance.”

I was resisting it big-time. Resisting the idea that this book project was finished. That it would be done for the world to see and judge, seeing and judging me along with it. Resisting the awareness that it was time to move on to something else. 

Then I brought myself back to the reason I’m doing this book in the first place. It’s really for ME - it’s a way I can hold in my hands the culmination of everything I’ve learned about myself and life in general through the writing I’ve shared through my blog over the past decade. The pieces I chose to include in the book were those that defined me and every life passage I went through during that time. The pieces that helped me make sense of Life In General and my own in particular.

It’s a gift I’m giving myself. I’m happy to share it, but sales are not the main motivation for its creation. As much satisfaction as writing on the internet has given me, it’s not ever going to be quite as satisfying as holding a book in my hands - holding a printed book filled with words I’ve written, thoughts I’ve labored to share. 

Reminding myself of the impetus for creating Life In General gave me the incentive I needed to move forward with the next and final steps toward the creation of that book. 

So even though I’m still somewhat in-between, I’m moving closer to the day when I can tick off an very important box on the Life In General checklist.

The one marked The End.

Overdoing

One of my mother’s favorite warnings to me as a child was this: “Don’t overdo it." It was uttered in reference to everything from playing outside in the cold winter air, to running races with my friends, to eating potato chips dipped in Philadelphia cream cheese and chive spread. “You know what happens when you overdo it,” she’d say ominously, as if the tone in her voice wasn’t already enough to stop me in my tracks.

What happened was that I ended up sick. An asthma attack most likely, but also stomach upsets and headaches - my body’s favorite ways to let me know I’d overdone it and it was going to put me in my place: Bed.

Now that I’m grown, my mom is pretty good about keeping her opinions to herself. But there have been times over the past decade or two, during those years when I was working two jobs, playing in three or four musical groups, and writing on the side, that I saw the memorable and unmistakable “you’re overdoing it” look in her eye.

As a child, I did everything I could to deny the truth of her warnings. She was just engaging her usual overprotectiveness, I thought, as I sulked inside while my friends went dashing through the snow. As an adult, I prided myself on “taking it to the limit,” working all day and then playing concerts at night, rushing hither and yon, not getting enough sleep, and stressing about all of it.

Most of the time all that overdoing it caught up with me, just like it did when I was a kid. I had chronic sinus infections for years, never knowing when I woke up each day if I’d have a raging fever, a pounding head, and laryngitis. Even with those infections running rampant, I’d continue to do and over-do, until one year I ended up with pneumonia. (I knew I was in trouble when I didn’t have enough air to blow out the Silent Night candle during the Christmas Eve service at church.)

But in the past three years, I’ve been SO healthy.  I also live incredibly simply in comparison to those days of running hither and yon, trying to do everything for everybody. I get plenty of rest, eat regular meals, I’ve retired from my job and cut back on musical activities. I have the luxury of picking and choosing what to do with my time and energy, and I’ve decided to do a lot less in favor of more time to enjoy the simple pleasures of life.

But friends, I slipped. Last weekend I overdid it.

And I have been SO sick.

I wasn’t feeling well at the start of the weekend, one that was to include the annual retreat for my handbell group. We’re preparing for the Christmas season, which means lots of music and choreography to learn. So we meet for a weekend of intense rehearsal. Friday night from 5-9. Saturday from 9-5. Then our regular rehearsal time on Monday from 9-1. Most of that time is spent standing, concentrating, thinking about music and technique and when to throw the snowballs during Jingle Bells (you have to see one of our concerts to know what I’m talking about). On Friday night I was already achy and tired, and my digestive system was a little out of whack.

No big deal, I told myself. But Saturday morning I felt worse. I clearly recall telling myself, “you just have to stop thinking about it and get this done.”

The same old philosophy I employed all those years ago when overdoing it was my modus operandi.

I got it done, and got Monday’s rehearsal done as well, along with driving my mom to a doctor’s appointment afterwards.

When I finally got home Monday afternoon, I crashed. My body felt like it had been run over by a steamroller. My stomach was on a roller coaster ride, and most of it was downhill at breakneck speed.

I had overdone it big time, and the payback was hell.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? In my last post, I was writing about being so tender and loving with my body, of treating it with special care? And then I turn around and abuse it to the point of collapse. It’s easy to fall back into old habits, even when those habits aren’t good for us. I have a deeply ingrained sense of responsibility, and never blow off rehearsals or other obligations. Instead, I give myself the pep talk - you can do it, just get it done, you’ll be alright. And then I power through. While a certain amount of "powering through” adversity and illness is necessary and commendable, it sometimes results in dire consequences rather than happy congratulations.

Yesterday my dear husband stayed home from work and took over all my daily tasks - the grocery shopping, the errands, the dog feeding and walking - so that I could stay inside where it was warm and dry. I ate little bits of toast and drank cups of sweet tea and Vernors throughout the day. I kept a heating pad rotating around my aching back, neck, legs, and shoulders. I curled up in bed with warm puppies, in my favorite chair with books, on the sofa with last night’s Dancing With the Stars.

In short: the polar opposite of overdoing it.

I felt 100 percent better.

I’m back at my desk, busy writing out tomorrow’s to-do list in my head. But not far from my mind is the sound of my mother’s voice - “Be careful...you’re going to overdo it."

Not to worry, Mom. I learned my lesson.

At least until next time.

TLC Book Tour: Prism

PRISM, by Roland Allnach

Paperback: 282 pages

Publisher: All Things That Matter Press (July 3, 2014)

Prism presents the best of Roland Allnach’s newest stories together with his most acclaimed published short fiction. These selected stories fracture the reader’s perceptions among a dazzling array of genres and styles to illuminate the mysterious aspects of the human experience. Roland Allnach has been described as a ‘star on the rise’ (ForeWord Clarion), ‘a master storyteller with a powerful pen’ (Cynthia Brian, NY Times Bestselling author), with writing that is ‘smart, elegant, and addicting’ (San Francisco Review).

Prism collects seventeen stories into one volume, following a trail of diverse genres and narrative forms. From literary fiction to speculative fiction, from humor to horror, from tragedy to mythical poetry, Prism represents a wide ranging journey united by contemplations on the human condition. Including Allnach’s award winning published fiction (“Conquest’s End” and “The City of Never”), a Pushcart Prize nominated story (“Creep”), Prism also consists of the previously unpublished pieces “Titalis” (a tragedy along the lines of Shakespeare and Greek theatre), “Of Typhon and Aerina” (a tribute to epic verse), “Tumbleweed” (a humorous ditty), and “Dissociated”, a surreal short to cap off the collection.

I’ve been on a short story binge lately (Olive Kitteridge, Strange Love), so the timing was good for me to read/review this collection for TLC Book Tours.

There are seventeen stories in this volume, and they cover the gamut of genres and narrative forms. There’s everything from literary fiction, humor, horror, tragedy, mythical poetry. The author portrays human experience in every form, and his writing style is smart and sometimes edgy. And while the collection demonstrates a deep breadth of imagination and perception, I found it difficult reading in one sitting. Perhaps the fault is mine - having read several collections of linked stories, I had trouble staying focused with the kaleidoscopic nature of these varied stories and characters, who portray many of the dark sides of human nature.

I think readers who enjoy an eclectic mix of genres and are interested in the darker facets of humanity would likely find Prism a more satisfying book than I did.

About the Author:

Roland Allnach, after working twenty years on the night shift in a hospital, has witnessed life from a slightly different angle. He has been working to develop his writing career, drawing creatively from literary classics, history, and mythology. His short stories, one of which was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, have appeared in many publications. His first anthology, Remnant, blending science fiction and speculative fiction, saw publication in 2010. Remnant was followed in 2012 by Oddities & Entities, a collection spanning horror, supernatural, paranormal, and speculative genres. Both books have received unanimous critical praise and have been honored with a combined total of twelve national book awards, including honors from National Indie Excellence, Foreword Reviews, and Readers’ Favorite. Prism marks Roland’s third stand alone publication.

When not immersed in his imagination, Roland can be found at his website, rolandallnach.com, along with a wealth of information about his stories and experiences as an author. Writing aside, his joy in life is the time he spends with his family.

You can also find Roland on Facebook.

You can find PRISM on Goodreads, and you can purchase it from Amazon and IndieBound and Barnes & Noble.

TLC for Me

Writing gives me an opportunity to spend time thinking, and most of what I think about is myself - or at least myself in relation to my family, my home, the world around me, and the things I love to do.  Because I’m introspective by nature, I spend a lot of time dwelling on and writing about my inner thoughts and feelings, and during this year I’ve been paying special attention to those things that help me live the life I desire. I chose the word “Devotion” as my touchstone for the year: I aimed for it to remind me to practice devotion toward the things I deemed important, to treat them with tender loving care. Reflecting on the past 10 months, I can see many ways in which I’ve achieved that goal. I’ve been more careful with my schedule, giving me more time to spend with my family and at home where I’m happiest. I’ve worked to shift my perspective toward an attitude of gratitude, to slow down and appreciate the ordinary sparkling moments that fill each day. I finished my book, Life In General, and it will soon be ready to send to print.

This morning I spent some time with my journal, and I found myself called to write about something that rarely comes up in those pages.

My body.

I’m 58 years old. I’m beginning to notice that parts of my body, this healthy organism that I’ve been taking for granted all these years, doesn’t feel like it once did. My knees ache when I walk too much, especially when I do my beloved Leslie Sansone Walk at Home exercise tapes. My feet hurt every day and I have to wear ugly flat shoes all the time. My hair feels dry and sandy when I touch it. There are bags under my eyes large enough to hold a wardrobe for a European vacation.

I feel as if I’m drying up from the inside out.

It occurred to me this morning that the one thing I’m not very devoted to is this very important part of me: the flesh and bones that house all the activities, thoughts, and feelings I’m so interested in exploring with my writing. I expect a lot from it every day, and I expect it to fulfill those expectations without trouble. Thankfully, for most all of my 58 years, it has done so without complaint. But now, like an exhausted toddler after a long day,  it’s beginning to whine for a little attention.

I’ve never been one to pamper myself with things like spa treatments, oils and perfumes, or designer outfits. They always seemed like unnecessary extravagance. And with age, my interest in those things has diminished even further.

I’ve treated my body with respect but not with tender loving care.

Not with devotion.

I’d like to change that. I want to explore the sensual part of me, to take time to care my physical body. Tend to it. Love it. Smooth fragrant lotion over its dry skin. Keep it warm with soft sweaters and scarves that look as good as they feel against my skin. Feed it fresh, simple food I’ve prepared myself. Move it freely and happily, letting music inspire shoulders, hips, and feet to move in their own way.

I want to notice it, caress it, give it the love and devotion it deserves after so many years of solid service. Lavish it with love and attention.

Devote myself to feeling good, from the outside in.