Terminal A

There’s nothing quite like people watching in an airport. A quiet and cacophonous blend of lives in imagined privacy. The half-sentences muttered as they pass, the small child confused and pulling against their parents’ sudden urgency, the unabashed staring of those like me who sit and observe.

There are noses in books, fingers in noses, crumbs on chairs, and forgotten phone chargers. A gentleman is quietly speaking French to his wife on the phone. He laughs and makes a comment about his mother. I don’t speak French well enough to pick out the joke as he speaks rather rapidly, the ease of a native tongue quickening the tempo of his speech.

A woman produces a deck of cards from the depths of her carry-on to appease and entertain her young son. The hustle of the terminal and the anxiety of impatience eases from his face as the familiar game commences.

Another woman, with deeper lines of age, has an exceptional furrow creasing her face in concentration. She is cleaning the windows that look out onto the tarmac. The monotony of work has jaded the magic of the airport. The thrill most of us still feel at the nearness of travel has long since passed. The secrets of the brick and mortar responsible for the hum of excitement in the air is just that – brick and mortar. A concrete receptacle for her time and effort. She’ll punch the clock and drive away without a glance behind.

As I scribble away, noting the snippets of stories laid before me, the woman seated next to me collects her things and moves a few rows away. I wonder if she’s been snooping and found she doesn’t want to be part of my observances. Too late, lady. I’ve already made a note about you picking your teeth with the edge of your driver’s license. Kept it out after coming through security, I imagine.

My husband travels enough that I know the quiet thrum of anticipation doesn’t occupy his stomach before a flight anymore, but what a shame. How many places or opportunities do we have in life that ignites such wonder? Just another day of flying through the air in a metal machine with several hundred other people. You are infinitely intimate with these strangers for the duration of your flight. You are breathing the same air, eating the same snacks, hearing the same voices speaking louder than is polite in confined quarters. You flinch at the same jumps, gaze at the same incredible views, and sigh at the same rumble of a landing. Once the door opens, you stand in unison into a line that snails until it doesn’t and an avalanche of people rush forth, clipping their elbows and the wheels of their bags on the arms and legs of empty chairs. You disperse without any recognition of the closeness you shared just moments before.

Once you arrive at your destination, the building doesn’t hold the same magic it would, had you not just been hurtling through the air. No, now it’s just the air-conditioned portion of your long walk to the car that will whisk you away from the enchanted roost of the aluminum birds that carry travelers in their bellies for a steep price and stiff knees.

Alright, lady. I’ll stop. But you must understand, you are even more ingrained in my memory now and will most certainly make an appearance in my next book.

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Happy Birthday To Me

I’ve had a birthday since the last time we spoke. It was a pretty big one, too.

I turned thirty.

Thirty.

I know the typical reactions to those digits tend to be ones of fear or at least a rapid uptick in blood pressure as we start to ask ourselves, “What in the world am I actually doing?” However, I’ve been looking forward to this one. I’ve managed to cram a ton of life into my thirty years, the details of which I’ll save for my memoir if I ever write one, and in doing so, I grew up pretty fast. Even as a child, I gravitated to the adults in a room and didn’t shy away from trying to participate in whatever most astute and mature conversation they were having. Precocious is what they called me, and while I appreciated the recognition that I was able, on some level, to “hang with the big dogs”, there was always a little laugh or a little flippancy hidden in the corner of their smile.

At some point in childhood, we all become aware of the thirty milestone and what awaits us on the other side. Often joked about, a dress-rehearsal for the even more feared “over the hill”, thirty has its fair share of foreboding whispers.

Once you leave your twenties you’re not young anymore. You’re a “real” adult now.

While some of my peers may have slapped a big ole warning label on the distant “thirty” in their psyche, my eyes lit up. Thirty! That’s what I want. That’s what I’ve been waiting for. I want to be thirty. I want to be an indisputable adult. I want the mantle of respect and acceptance of my adult peers. I want the simpering smiles and chuckle of surprise when I speak to stop so that my words are actually heard.

Now, I’m not naive. I know now that my initial idea of what turning thirty would mean isn’t how the world works. There will always be someone older than me, assuming that wiser is a given. And I’m okay with that. I welcome the opportunity to give them something to think about.

I know that what was and is beyond thirty is entirely what I make of it. Thirty is youthful and wise. It’s hopeful and serious. It’s excited and prepared. It’s believing in your dreams in a solid way. Tying the balloon of imagination to a platform where it can take root in reality. It’s earlier nights and earlier mornings. It’s coffee, but even more water. It’s recognizing health as a privilege and something you have to work to maintain. It’s looking back at the last thirty years in appreciation for their tempo, and not allowing it to quicken as you continue.

The years ahead of me are sweet. There will be inevitable bites of bitterness, but growth and development follow closely on its heels. When I close my eyes, I imagine a little girl hunched over a pile of kindling. She is rocked by sudden gusts of wind that threaten the ember she is coaxing to life. As she grows before my eyes, the flame rises and the soft fibers of wood begin to burn. The young lady carefully places twigs around her fire, feeding it, nurturing it. As she turns to retrieve a larger branch, the light catches her face and you see the fine lines forming on her brow and in the creases of her eyes. She slowly sets the log on the growing fire before her. She does so with such meticulous care that you worry her hand will burn. How can she bear to stand so close? But as the wood hits the flame, it ignites and sparks fly. The woman steps back, watching the fire she has created and mothered into strength. And she smiles, feeling the heavy presence of the mountain of fuel set beside her.

Thirty isn’t the finish line of youth. It’s not the end of anything. I carry forth what I know, and my lust for life and all its treasures just like any other day. Thursday was no different than Tuesday. I’m still feeding my kids, I’m still running the laundry, I’m still writing.

But still, I’m thirty.

Woman’s Best Friend

This is Sammy. He’s my ten-and-a-half-year-old Havanese fluff that I don’t know what I would do without. He’s kind, quiet, protective, and the source of a rippled sense of calm that blooms out into my house. I am also increasingly aware of the smoky film slowly lightening his soulful eyes. Every September I try to ignore that another precious year with him has passed. The love of a human lifespan has condensed and intensified to fit his short life, and the sheer power of it might very well drown me when it’s his time to go.

My dearest friend and companion has been with me across the world and back, across heartbreak and back, into motherhood, and beyond. Ever by my side, at times when I felt entirely alone in all of existence, he was there – resting his head in my lap, quietly allowing me to cry into his fur, letting me cling to him like a liferaft. He has always brought me back to a place of hope. This incredible creature has a compassion of such depth you’d be hard-pressed to find a human with such understanding kindness. He deserves every inch of the cozy divot he’s quickly creating on the back cushion of my new couch.

The only angry word he’s ever had for me is a quiet rumble in his chest if I nudge him with my foot when he’s trying to sleep. He’s my forever bathroom buddy, so I never have to pee alone. He’s the first to greet me when I come home after a day away from the house, or the forty-five-minute circuit of dropping off the kids, or the twenty foot trip to the mailbox. He’s lying at my feet right now, curled up with a throw blanket as a pillow. He’s waiting for me to fall asleep before he trots off to the kitchen to finish his dinner. When I wake up in the morning, he’ll be back, staying with me even after his corgi brother has been fed and let out, until I get up and he’s seen me safely to my coffee cup.

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He’s very cute, but not very charismatic. He’s more of a watchful wall flower allowing his brother to hog the spotlight. His excitement and joy lives in his tail, and if I say his name, even at a whisper, it quickly flicks back and forth with happiness even if he never lifts his head. He waits his turn when it’s time to go outside, knowing the corgi will barrel through ahead anyway. He’s a solid indoor dog, only bounding out into the yard for a quick bathroom break before returning to scratch at the door. He loves fetch, Greenies, and a good ear-scratching.

With both of my pregnancies, he’s broken his normal rule of cuddling (lap adjacent, not atop) in favor of getting close to his baby. After each birth, he would always place himself between them and whoever else was in the room. Now he lays at my feet when I read bedtime stories or rummages at their blankets until they lift up a corner so he can stretch out alongside their legs. At dinner time, he smartly sits under their chairs where he has the best chance at table scraps accidentally falling to the floor. He’s an excellent vacuum.

He’s also great at shredding used tissues, and more than once he’s lulled me into a false sense of confidence by not showing any interest in my food for months, only to use a well-timed sneak attack when I’ve stood up to grab a drink and returned to find only half a bowl of leftover casserole. He never puts up with the cat’s cheekiness. Cuddle buddy? Sure. But his tail is not a string of yarn to attack, thank you very much.

Sammy noses his food when he eats, gently picking out a kibble or two, walking them to a nearby doorway, and eating them there. The corgi may or may not have a few extra pounds on him because he doesn’t share his brother’s table manners and loves to hurry him along with the threat of picking up the slack. No, Sammy is a grazer, much preferring to dancing with me in the kitchen while I’m cooking dinner with the radio turned up. He loves the bits of carrot I nonchalantly drop from the chopping board. He doesn’t beg when he thinks it’s an accident, you see. He mostly lets his brother do the talking, but will alert us when the front door is opened…even we are the ones who open it. Yes, Sammy, something might be out there. Thank you.

Sammy believes in me. He has never questioned my life choices, though he does prefer me working from home. He wouldn’t be surprised if I succeeded at this whole writing thing because it would never occur to him to doubt me. He’s loved me when I didn’t have two nickels to rub together, and when we could start splurging on fancy, grain-free dog food. The love of a dog is truly unconditional and I am so deeply grateful to receive it.

sammy

Sammy, Sam, Sambo, Sammy Boo, Samalotta, Fluff, Fluffer-Nutter, Fluff-Butt, my little therapy dog, mon cher chien, my best friend. Thank you for your love. You’ve only ever grown more precious to me, and I know you feel the same way. Facing your mortality, hearing your vet call you “senior”, has been an adjustment for me, to say the least, but you’ve seen me safely into true adulthood. I’ll see you safely through whatever comes around the bend.

Please don’t hate me when I try to make an imprint of your paw in clay.

xx

A Writer’s Mind

Follow me down the rabbit hole of how thoughts beget thoughts that connect and spark ideas that fall together to inspire a story. It’s fun and weird and…well, you’ll see.

 

Podcast

New book by Tisby something or other

Mrs. Brisby from Secret of NIHM

Auntie Shrew

Taming of the Shrew

10 Things I Hate About You

Trust after deception

Marriages that continue after infidelity

Loud anger

Quiet anger

Living together without living together

House of Cards

F*ck Kevin Spacey

What’s he up to now?

Is he sorry?

Or just sorry for himself and his situation?

What does that do to a person, having to face the monstrous parts of themselves without a single sympathizer to the pain of doing it?

What’s something horrible that a person can do and then have to live with the consequences?

Accidentally killing someone?

Marriages that continue after infidelity.

What’s worse than just cheating on your spouse?

Cheating on them when they are already weakened?

Cheating on them when they need you to be their hero?

After a loss?

During an illness?

What would hurt me the most?

Betrayal.

Betrayal of everything I thought was real in my life.

Wonder how often men actually have dual lives with two families and two wives that know nothing about the other.

That’s crazy.

Would they be different? Like, complementing personalities, filling in the gaps of the other?

That’s an interesting dynamic.

Would the guy treat them differently? Or have personality traits that are more pronounced with one family than the other.

A book told during one timeline from two wives perspectives as they live their separate lives and discover that they are both married to the same man.

One finds out first and then tells the other?

Or they meet by chance and discover it together?

Do they confront him?

Do they agree to continue to live the lie?

And then what?

Let me find out…

Kate (name from Taming) lived a solid and dependable life. She woke up every morning at five fifteen, dressed in leggings and a matching shirt, pushed the button on the coffee pot, and quietly left for her morning run. She was back, showered, and setting breakfast plates on the kitchen table just in time for her sleepy-eyed children to come down from their rooms and plop down to eat the expected eggs and toast or cereal and fruit that Kate alternated during the week. Unless Jeremy (name of the crow in NIHM), Kate’s husband, was home, then it was eggs, bacon, toast, fruit, and pastries. His rigorous travel schedule for work kept him away half the time and Kate relished in presenting him with lavish meals and bedroom romps meant to keep his returns home something to look forward to. She hoped, so privately she wasn’t fully aware of it herself, if she made home appealing enough, he’d find a way to slow down and stay…..

Being a Mom

Being a mom is existing within an undulating definition of self.

Being a mom is long hours of hard work that you hardly ever feel was done well enough.

Being a mom is early mornings when the sun has yet to rise, but your three-year-old has.

Being a mom is balancing firm with soft, strong with gentle, freedom with boundaries.

Being a mom is being challenged on ideals, instructions, and with fierce independence.

Being a mom is gasping with excitement at the new chapter opening up before your child only to have the breath catch with a sob of grief for the one they’ve just left.

Being a mom is letting go and holding fast.

Being a mom is trust, questioning, and surrender to what will be.

Being a mom is a close examination of everything you believe in and recognizing that beliefs grow and change just as much as your children do.

Being a mom is accepting bodily fluids as a part of life.

Being a mom is an extra cup of coffee that you won’t finish before it’s cold.

Being a mom is laughing until you cry and crying until you choke.

Being a mom is wiping butts, noses, and tears.

Being a mom is not being sure what the stain is.

Being a mom is forgetting the last time you showered.

Being a mom is deeply appreciating a shower.

Being a mom is holding your tongue.

Being a mom is reading the Riot Act.

Being a mom is slammed doors, eye rolls, and whining.

Being a mom is the sweetest laughter, warm hugs, and heavy heads relaxing into your shoulder.

Being a mom is dancing through days that you wish were over, knowing you’ll wish to remember them when your bones start to creak and your house is no longer full.

Being a mom is hoping you end up with more laugh lines than frown.

Being a mom is the thrill of watching your child display perfect manners and compassion.

Being a mom is embarrassment when they don’t.

Being a mom is deep, whole-hearted forgiveness and a love so overwhelming that to reflect on it feels like drowning in equal parts joy, worry, and gratitude.

Being a mom is feeling unworthy and underappreciated.

Being a mom is knowing the answer to the question, “Why?”

Being a mom is learning as you teach and teaching as you learn.

Being a mom is to appreciate your own mom in every way you didn’t growing up.

Being a mom is wanting to be a good example, and being honest when you fail.

Being a mom is whispers and tiptoes and sneak attack tickles.

Being a mom is stroking hair and fluffing pillows.

Being a mom is grinning at their grins, challenging their scowls, and empathizing with their tears.

Being a mom is everything and nothing like you thought.

Being a mom is wanting a moment, but not for too long.

Being a mom is selfless and selfish, eager and wary, rational and paradoxical.

Being a mom is life lived with purpose that you truly understand only in the periphery of your mind and in the depth of your soul.

Being a mom is…

Writer’s Block

She sits in her bed, wanting a comfortable, quiet place to write. It’s the weekend, and while one kid is napping and the other is quietly watching her husband playing a game, the void of “nobody needs me right now” has apparently not made enough room to be productively creative today.

The blinking vertical line at the top of the page starts to look like a tapping foot as she stares at it, waiting for inspiration. She is kicking herself for not drafting something sooner, reflecting on the excuses she bought time with during the week. But a deadline is a deadline, even if it is self-imposed.

More staring…blink…blink…blink.

She could write about writer’s block, and she starts to, clinging to the idea for dear life, only to find that having writer’s block about writer’s block is a singularly discouraging and frustrating thing.

She knows what she wants to write for the next post, but she can’t bump it up because it’s time sensitive. It has become glaringly obvious to her that the schedule she’s been putting off making for herself is desperately needed. She starts to distract herself with that but then realizes it’s just another thing to be doing instead of writing so she closes the tab she just opened and starts staring at the blinking cursor again.

The cat and one of the dogs are both asleep at the foot of the bed, and as she finds herself wishing she could just roll over and conk out too, she starts to question her location choice. Writing in bed is comfortable, but the blank space in her mind where words usually show up is soft and beckoning like the pillows behind her and now drowsiness has joined the party.

She starts to type again, just to start something, and a narration of her current status is all that comes out. It’s sad, and will likely be entirely uninteresting to her readers, but it’s all she’s got right now. The annoyingly loud tick of her watch matches the blinking of the damn vertical line and her eyes widen in irritation. The universe is mocking her.

All the notes she has about future topics seem dumb, and the inspiration train has still not pulled into the station. She pouts. She fidgets. She welcomes the distraction when her husband comes in to sweetly ask if she needs anything. She welcomes the ping of someone messaging her on another tab. She knows she should close it, but then the ticking watch and blinking line would be her only company.

The dog is snoring. Lightly, but the even sound of a dreaming canine is lulling her to sleep, so she sits straight up. No more cushy pillows to cradle her, she goes back to the narration and rolls her eyes at herself for still not having anything better to write about today. But that’s how it goes sometimes. There are days when nothing but choppy, random sentences make it to the page. There are days when every word seems wrong or weak or boring. But she still writes them. It may not make up very much at the end of the day, but it’s still writing.

She writes a short apology to her readers for not producing something more interesting this go round. Reminds them of her introductory post and how she warned them that sometimes she would fail. She thanks them for their patience and hopes they like the better-planned post that’s promised for next time.

Failure is just a launch pad for growth. Mistakes are inspiration for learning. Weaknesses recognized are seeds planted to reap wisdom.

The writer excuses herself to go tend her garden.

Food, Gloriously Written Food!

Turkish delight, butterbeer, fried green tomatoes, lembas bread. Oh, the world of literary foodstuffs. I’m a sucker for a good book and a good meal, so when I stumble on some food so well written that I can’t help but pout about what I’m missing being stuck on the reality side of the page…my friends, that is heaven. I’m sure if you thought about it right now, you could easily reflect on some kind of snack or feast referred to in a book that made you salivate.

I didn’t have a clue what Turkish delight was until I was an adult (a rosewater flavored gummy sweet), but Edmond’s anticipation, and, let’s face it, his willingness to betray his siblings for another taste, in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe had more than piqued my curiosity at this treasured tasty.

As an American, I had many a moment reading Harry Potter as a child where I wondered which foods served at Hogwarts were English traditions or Rowling’s own magical creations, but please bring on the pumpkin pasties and the butterbeer!

I’m sure I’m not alone in this particular sensation. Where the imagined becomes real. The words have triggered an incredible physical reaction that wakens longing, hunger. There should be a word for that particular feeling. If you know it, please share!

My best friend ensured that my first encounter with raw oysters included a glass of champagne because…well, Hemingway:

“As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.”

 

It is no surprise to me that a common term for someone with a deep, unrelenting, desire to read is “voracious”, an adjective which means – wanting or devouring great quantities of food. Books and food are kindred spirits. They each nourish and feed the mind, body, soul. Good food, like a good book, inspires and satiates all at once. You are left feeling deeply satisfied and equally wanting more. You feel genuine sadness that it is over, but grateful for the experience…one that never really ends because now it’s part of you. That food will turn into energy for your body, and the memory of flavor will linger, subtly altering your tastes and desires for food in the future. That book and its words will sit in your skull until leaping forward to be remembered and questioned and needle its way back into your subconscious, evolving self.

I’ll keep it short and sweet today, this last day of the year, and leave you with a bit of sweetness. As a young girl, maybe eight or so, I was reading Laura Ingalls Wilder’s beloved books. It was winter, and I had just finished the first volume, Little House in the Big Woods. When Texas got a rare treat of snow that stuck and a scant few inches blanketed our yard, I begged my mother to make Maple Syrup Snow Candy, just like Laura did in the book. I can still picture the small, plastic blue bowl that she helped me fill with the clean top layer of snow we delicately scooped up, not wanting to collect the dirt and grass hiding millimeters below. Mom warmed some syrup up on the stove, then helped me drizzle it in my precious bowl of snow. The magic and sheer delight I felt will live with me forever. Something from a cherished book had come to life before my eyes and I could almost smell the wood smoke from the stove in Grandmother Ingalls’ cabin.

If you’re lucky enough to have snow on the ground, here’s a recipe I found that you can try. She even has a few quotes from the book. 

Happy New Year, my friends. I hope it’s filled with delicious food and delightful books. ❤