what i do instead

There are a million things to do. And unfortunately, I have a problem staying focused. Instead of doing what I "should" be doing, I keep myself "busy" with lots and lots of Nothings. I check my gmail. I check my FIT email. I check the Angel network for messages and my online classes for new discussion postings. I go on Facebook (aka World's Most Successful Time-Suck). Lately, I even started playing Klondike solitaire again--a Nothing I hadn't indulged in for years, but which became frighteningly enmeshed with my hourly routine.

I found a wonderful blog on Psychology Today called "Don't Delay" by Timothy Pychyl, PhD. According to his bio, Dr. Pychyl's research is "focused on the breakdown in volitional action commonly known as procrastination and its relation to personal well being." Reading the blog I discovered that, like creativity, procrastination is a sub-field of study in psychology research. Fascinating.

Of course, reading the blog posts gives me another thing to do--not quite a Nothing, and it really gives me some food for thought. Mostly, it helps me feel less, um, pathological--I am certainly not alone in my Nothing-ness.

I've also read that checking email or texts obsessively--or even compulsive Googling--is connected with the surge of dopamine you get from receiving messages and retrieving information instantly. The last thing I need right now is to get locked into a dopamine-feedback-loop. I'll never get free!

I have decided that, today, I will only check gmail once an hour (if that sounds like a lot, believe me, it's a huge reduction). I will only go on Facebook at lunchtime and the end of the day. And I will not play Pretty Good Klondike at GoodSol Online at all.

Instead I will write. I will get my tax information to my accountant (a BIG source of entrenched procrastinating energy). I will make headway on grading. I will chip away at the dozens of things I need to do for the family--paperwork for Stella, child care arrangements, spring break travel plans.

One thing I am proud of is my commitment to exercise. This week, I have gone for a run/walk every day except Tuesday. And last night I finally did a yoga class at my gym for the first time in a few weeks.

Having done at least that, no matter how much of a blob I've been in other ways, shows me that, in at least one area, I can make the choice to do the right thing, the smart thing, the thing that is good for me. I know that this good energy can carry over into the other parts of my life.

Wish me luck! I'll keep you posted....

my creative brain ?

Needless to say, when you are recovering from a trauma it messes with your mind. In my honors class, Creative Imagination: Theory and Process, we study some of the research about the brain and how it's used while you're making art, solving a problem or coming up with innovative ideas. Our main text for the past few times I've taught it is Nancy Andreasen's The Creative Brain, which is a readable, manageable little paperback that digests some of the theories of creativity over the centuries, and presents the author's own research in neuroscience. We also look at a number of "case studies" of creative achievers in the arts, sciences, and business--from Michelangelo and Leonardo to Maurice Sendak and Maya Angelou.

I'm so grateful to be teaching this class right now--as usual, I feel that it's benefitting the teacher at least as much as the students. It's been two years since it was offered, and this semester I've been discovering some new publications on the subject. Not only do they give some important information (including new research in the social sciences), but I am finding them helpful to me on a personal level, as I struggle to try to write (always a struggle, but now more than usual).

One of the topics we focus on is what I used to term "Creativity and Mental Illness." Andreasen has a chapter called "Genius and Insanity," and the link between the artistic ability or exceptional intellect and psychiatric disorders has been oft-debated. After reading the introduction to Ruth Richards's Everyday Creativity and New Views of Human Nature, I was very encouraged: Richard and colleagues have found in their research that the exercise of creativity (including writing, art-making, and other activities) can actually alleviate some of the symptoms of disorders like bipolar and depression.

Meanwhile, I was in the middle of Heather Sellers' amazing new memoir, You Don't Look Like Anyone I Know, which is about Heather's recovery of and from a difficult childhood, and the discovery that she has a rare neurological condition called prosopagnosia ("face-blindness"). Heather has been one of my favorite writers for a long time, and her books Page After Page and Chapter After Chapter are lifelines for me when I need to pull myself out of the waters of procrastination and writers' block. In the memoir, Heather describes reading about schizophrenia (which she suspects her mother has been suffering from), and discovers that some of the uses of language that are "symptoms" of the disease sound a lot like things she tries to get her creative writing students to do! It's a fine line....

I was also thrilled to see that interviews with creative people who have been on Studio 360 (one of my favorite radio shows)  have been compiled in Spark: How Creativity Works. When my copy arrived from Amazon I stayed up much later than I should have because I couldn't stop reading it!

By far the most exciting of the new "creativity handbooks," though is Your Creative Brain: Seven Steps to Maximize Imagination, Productivity, and Innovation in Your Life. The author, Shelley Carson, has taken all of the research I've seen here and there and framed it in a usable, practicable, even "fun" way. I'm determined to read it cover to cover ASAP and put it into practice in my life!

everyday creativity: a way of healing

I've been doing some research for the honors course I am teaching this semester, Creative Imagination: Theory and Process. Our main text is The Creative Brain by Nancy Andreasen, and we have a number of handouts and a lot of books on reserve.

When I first started looking into this subject while I was working on the course proposal, I discovered that much of the research of creativity has come from the social sciences--mainly, psychology and education. (This was also at a time when "creativity" was a highly charged buzzword in the business world--every CEO apparently wanted to know how to make employees more "creative.")

"the process"

This illustration depicts pretty accurately what I've been going through. Frankly, I'm getting tired of it. I want to feel better, or at least not as terrible as I do much of the time.

I'm tired of it interrupting my concentration. I'm tired of having an addled brain, faulty memory, glitches in thought, little irritations blowing up randomly into something that feels bigger, vast, huge, threatening to swallow me and everyone who comes within striking range.

I'm tired of feeling inadequate as a mother, of struggling to figure out how the hell to help my children deal with this. And alone, all alone as a parent.

Truth: No One will ever love these kids the way Bob did.
Truth: I am only one person.

So what? I do what I have to do. I was not prepared to be the parent of a child with a disability. One day I wasn't, and then the next, I was. And just had to deal as best I could. In the same way, I have to learn to deal with this, too. Play the dealt hand. Sigh.


A few weeks ago,I got into a routine, long abandoned, of reading and writing a little before bed. I like to use these Mead composition books with leathery-looking cardboard covers, different deep colors. Currently, my notebook is sort of an oxblood or maroon. Anyway, one night I was writing, writing about a tough situation I was going through, and then all of a sudden it wasn't about that situation anymore. It was about Bob. I went to my gmail and did a search through old emails from Bob.

Two of the messages in particular jumped out at me. The first was from March 09, when I asked for some reassurance in the wake of some emotional turmoil or other:

if you can learn to really love yourself well, that is without harsh judgements, without expectations, without shoulds, and without conditions, then you won't need validation from a 'partner' and therefore you will be in a better place to let go of prospects that aren't quite right or what you want ....  

It was uncanny how directly this spoke to exactly what I was feeling at that moment. It was, in fact, exactly what I needed to hear.

The other one was from a little over a year ago:

I do care about you and love you - that will never change until I die.

Truth: Bob would tell me, "It'll pass." He'd remind me, "your thoughts are not reality."  He certainly wouldn't want me to feel like a failure.

"You're beautiful," he'd say. "Brilliant." "You're a badass." (many of his friends and loved ones heard that.) "A great mom." That was nice, and I could almost believe it when he said it (which he did, regularly, even after we had separated).  


Now, I have to say it--and so many other things--to myself. And, more importantly, to believe them. Which was exactly what Bob wanted all along.

"how are you?"

Cartoon by Cathy Thorne

I love this cartoon, because it captures a situation that is all too much part of my current reality. When people ask this question, do they really want the answer? I know that people truly are concerned--about me, about the kids--and sincerely do want to know how we are doing. But most of the time, I am stumped for what to say. So I just say, "OK." I can't really come out with "Fine," or certainly not "Great!"

It's been five months now since Our Devastating Loss. The shock has worn off, and we are in a new phase--reality hits, and it hits hard. My feelings are complicated, of course, by the emotional impact of the three-year separation that preceded this tragedy. Sometimes I feel as if I'm going through the split all over again--and others I feel as if it never happened. Not sure which is worse--it's all mixed up with the incredible love I have for our children, the crushing weight of being their sole surviving parent, and the daunting task of shepherding them through these fields while dealing with my own healing process.

I have found myself taken over by grief at odd moments--on the subway, in the ladies' room of an Irish pub in Washington, DC, during yoga class. According to friends who have been through similar situations, this is par for the course. And it's unclear how long it will go on--being sideswiped and swept into a crying jag, right there in public. It's terribly inconvenient, and extremely undignified. But it is what it is.

So, dear readers, please don't worry about us. We are OK, and we have a lot of support. But yes, I do need help, and I don't always feel comfortable asking. In the immediate wake of loss, helpers are everywhere, but after a little while, everyone moves on--or maybe just thinks of us, wishing there was something they could do. There is! Help clean my house (please). Play games with Stella while I make supper or grade my online classes. Play Wii or XBox games with Bobby (I'm just not a gamer). Stay with the kids for an hour or two so I can do laundry, take a run, or go outside to make some private phoe calls. Take them to the movies, bowling, something fun that I may not have the energy for. Hang out with me some evening while I put the kids to bed, and have a glass of wine (or two) with me after they're asleep.

Or just tell me I'm doing a good job keeping this all together (even if I'm really not). Don't ever think you are bothering me--I appreciate your concern, and I know it comes from a good place. I wish I had better news to report, but it will improve, I know,  all in good time...

merry christmas & happy new year

Bobby, Stella, and Mom at Grandma & Granddad's, Christmas 2010

D.P. and A.L., Fairfield Pike, 12/29/10

Grateful for these wonderful people in my life....

sisyphean

• parent-teacher conferences
• forms, endless, endless forms to fill out
• take kids to get blood/urine samples for their physicals (which happened over a month ago)
• bobby home sick two days
• stella half day tuesday
• both kids off thursday for veteran's day
• keeping up the household
• WORK: five classes. five billion ungraded written assignments. forgetting things, things slipping through my fingers. the threat of student evaluations. insane and slippery paperwork for four guest speakers' honoraria.
• a bunch of other stuff i probably forgot.
• oh, and grief slapping one upside the head, randomly. "part of the process"

ican'tdoit ican'tdoit ican'tdoit ican'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan't

iwillnotfeelsorryformyself. no.

UGH. ARGH. AUGH. It will pass, I know it will....

light shining in the darkness

In the midst of one of the worst experiences of my life, somehow I have also found myself at the beginning of one of the best. I'm trying very hard not to question or wonder why, and just to accept this wonderful gift. And be very, very grateful.

buddy walk...stella style!

The NYC Buddy Walk starts at the top of the "Great Hill" in Central Park, then winds down the path and out to Central Park West and back up to enter the park at 106th Street. We (that is, Stella, Bobby, our friends Adrian and George, and I) got off on the right foot, perhaps a little behind the curve, with perhaps a few more stops than the rest of the walkers, but then we took a sharp left at the practically brand-new, very cool Tarr Family Playground.

A giant sandbox. A water play area. Some really cool jungle-gym type things. It was no contest. This was where we ended up spending the rest of the "Walk."

There is a certain point at which you just give in and let the moment happen, despite the "plan." We have many such moments with our Stella Bella. This photo was snapped after her strip-down sojourn under the water sprayers (blessings to the anonymous woman who offered a beach towel). She was clearly in her element. And the whole thing really was all about her, anyway.

I sat on a bench and chilled. I chatted with George and cleared up a funny miscommunication (I'd been raving about the new Howl movie, and he thought I meant the "owl movie," Legend of the Guardians). When Stella moved out of sight range, George got up and followed her for a bit (he had also chased her earlier when she started running, and carried her piggyback when she refused to walk).

Then it was time to go, so we headed to our car (which George had parked for me after I spent a fruitless 45 minutes circling a 10-block radius for a space) and back to Queens. I felt a little weird about not participating in the events on the Great Hill--Bobby and Adrian did not even get their snow cones--but we had done the walk. And unlike last year, we had T-shirts. It was a beautiful day. Somehow, thanks to a little--or a lot of--help from our friends, and a few deep breaths, it had worked out for the best.

and now for something completely different (musical lactose tolerance)

I do not know why (the season, the weather, the effects of tragic life events, satellite radio on long road trips) but I find myself gravitating towards songs that I would ordinarily deem decidedly, um, cheesy.

Case in point: sophisticated musical snob that I am, I seem to have developed an affinity for, of all people, Dave Matthews and his musical progeny. Jason Mraz. Matt Nathanson. Joshua Radin. And yes, I have even found myself actually enjoying the occasional Jack Johnson tune (very occasional).

There is something to be said for being transported, however temporarily. By cranking it up and dancing in a spiraling swirl. By the giant orange sun setting over cornfields and I-70 West. By a huge comfy hotel bed with too many pillows. By a ginormous coffee to go. By old friends and new. By kids. By grownups.

And if it all seems a little cheesy, a little escapist, a little incurably romantic...what's wrong with that? Because after all, as Sir Paul reminds us, the world can't get enough of silly love songs. Enjoy.

two memorial events for bob tonight

There are two memorial events for Bob being held at different locations tonight, both at 8pm.
First, Hofstra University is having a special concert of Bob's students, former students, and colleagues. Monroe Lecture Center Theater. 


Also, Strike Anywhere Performance Ensemble is doing FreePlay!, a tribute to Bob, who was an integral part of the group. 

Brecht Forum
ADDRESS:		451 West St (between Bank and Bethune), New York, NY

stella's stars...buddy walking in central park today!

our wonderful team logo by the stellar George Giunta!

We're walking in Central Park today to support the National Down Syndrome Society Buddy Walk! Despite our terrible loss, the memorial on Monday, and all the other stuff that's been going on (including a sprained ankle Monday night), I was determined to walk this year, and we've put together a little team for the event. It's a beautiful day, and I have a pair of high-top sneakers to get me around the trail. You can click here to contribute to our team. You can enter my name (Amy Lemmon Bowen) Bobby's (Robert Bowen) or Stella's (Stella Bowen) to go to our personal pages.

here comes the sun

Stellabella playing along with George Harrison...in motion.

memorial for bob in nyc 9/27/10

Two Bobs, Brooklyn Bridge, spring 2005

New York Memorial for Bob Bowen (Robert Emmett Bowen III)
Monday, September 27th, from 5:30 to 10 pm.
Irondale Theater
85 South Oxford Street, Brooklyn NY

Robert Emmett Bowen III, June 18, 1965-August 30, 2010

I cannot imagine anything sadder or harder to grasp. Bob Bowen, my soulmate, friend, and coparent was severely injured in a brutal hit-and-run incident while riding his bicycle in Manhattan on Thursday, August 26. Despite exceptional care at New York Presbyterian's Trauma Center, we lost him Monday night, August 30, just before midnight.

He was loved by so many, and Bobby, Stella, and I are receiving so much love right now. This is only one example. And here is another.

There are no words. Just none.

beating the retreat....again

It's hard to believe that it's been over two years since I last visited the Bon Secours Spiritual Center in Maryland. This is the third time that I've created my own "retreat"--this time I intended to spend a lot of time writing, but I've been distracted by various emotional upheavals and just life in general. I've been here since Monday afternoon, and yesterday I finally just decided this was my vacation and I would do my best to chill and enjoy this beautiful place. Just a few days left until the fall semester starts at FIT, so I'm taking it all in while I can.

P.S. My mom just went into the hospital with pneumonia and is on IV antibiotics. Last week the kids and I stayed with her and Dad in Ohio, and she started to feel sick at the end of our visit, but has gotten worse since then. Thoughts and prayers appreciated!

little star

The little angel in this photo is much bigger now than she was on Halloween 2003. But it remains one of my favorite images of Stella, so I can't resist putting it up here.

I'm writing again. It sound simple, but it is a Very Big Deal. Right now I'm at the Antioch Writers' Workshop, getting feedback on excerpts from my memoir in progress, Little Star. It's been an amazing week, and I feel encouraged and scared and excited and all the things you're supposed to feel when you're really in the midst of something.

I'll post more about the workshop, and what I'm working on, soon.

whole children rock! and stella writes!!!

Thanks to Emma Sage's mom, Tara Marie, I just found out about Whole Children, an organization in Western Massachusetts that provides "recreation and enrichment programs for children of all abilities." On Mother's Day they presented a concert, called "Everyone Has a Voice," with none other than our fave rocker-turned-kid-tunesmith, Dan Zanes. Two years ago Stella and Emma Sage (and their mamas) got VIP treatment at a Dan Zanes and Friends concert to celebrate Emma's 7th birthday.

Whole Children is just the sort of thing I wish we had around here somewhere. I can't imagine how thrilling it would be for Stella, who turns any suitable object into a microphone and belts out number after number, to sing with a group of other children.

Speaking of Stella, yesterday Bob showed me that she had written her own name without any help! And said the name of each letter as she wrote! This is a wonderful milestone for our girl!

cincinnati homecoming

I'm in Ohio for a quick trip--yesterday I participated in a "Poets' Homecoming" reading at the University of Cincinnati, where I earned my master's and doctoral degrees. I was thrilled and honored to be part of a panel that included my old friend Jim Murphy, and new friends Kristin Naca and Lesley Jenike. Hearing their work, hanging out, and seeing so many wonderful people I don't see very often--well, it's been great.

Another perk has been staying at the Clifton House, an incredible B&B in Cincinnati's gaslight district, not far from campus. Nancy runs a lovely home, and I'm thrilled to be able to rest here for a little while.

I'm back to Springfield today for a little pre-Mother's Day time with my parents, then back to NYC tomorrow for some time with the kiddies.

literary mama

Vicki pointed out that a new review of Saint Nobody, by Ginny Kaczmarek, is now up on Literary Mama, one of the coolest webzines around. I'm thrilled to have my book mentioned there!

abba: the debut

Denise read at the New School on Tuesday--and she generously invited me to read one of our ABBA poems with her. We also had chapbooks on hand for the first time ever! Liz Howort wrote this post about the reading on The Best American Poetry Blog. Woo hoo!

my little rockstars

Dancing Queen Stella ready to get her royal 'do on....and Bobby the blues boy (he got the harmonica as a prize in music class).

abba: the poems

It's here! A chapbook of poems that I wrote collaboratively with my dear friend (and personal heroine), Denise Duhamel. Our publisher, Bruce Covey of Coconut Books, is selling away at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) conference in Denver this week.

All 21 poems were written with the same constraints: 1) each poem must be eight quatrains in ABBA rhyme scheme; and 2) there must be a reference in each poem to Europop superstars ABBA, or their music.

We had a blast writing these and hope our readers have as much fun as we did!

renewal

Blossoms on W. 12th Street, Manhattan.

I'm praying today for personal renewal to match the renewal of life in nature.

maundy maundy

Tonight I'm delighted to be participating in the annual Maundy Thursday reading of Dante's Inferno at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on Manhattan's Upper West Side. Last year I was a last-minute replacement for one of the scheduled readers; this year I was invited to be part of the regular program under the auspices of poet in residence Marilyn Nelson.

It was particularly cool for me last year because I had just joined an Episcopal church and was soon to be confirmed--so in addition to the wonderful literary history of this institution, it was also "my" cathedral!

The three-hour reading starts at 9pm and covers fifteen out of the thirty-four cantos. I've been assigned the second half of Canto XXI, which will occur sometime between 10 and 11 pm. If you're inclined to stop by, know that you're not required to stay for the whole three hours....judging by my observations from last year, attendees sneak in and out as the spirit moves them.

Today is also, of course, April Fool's, and I've had a fun gmail exchange just now with my friend Greg who works for The Company Currently Known as Topeka. He said in their Chelsea offices they had fake "surveillance cameras" in the restrooms and (uncracked and thus inedible) coconuts in the cafeteria's fruit baskets. What a bunch of kooks!

It's also the birthday of my wonderful father. Happy Birthday, Daddy!

spring break

It's officially spring break this week, and the kids are in Chicago with Bob until next Tuesday. They took the train--I dropped them off at Penn Station and drove Bob's standard shift late 90s Saturn back to Astoria in crazy crosstown traffic. The trip was 19 hours and they had a little room to themselves with seats that convert to beds. The kids loved it, and apparently they got some sleep, too.

Meanwhile, I'm taking it easy but trying not to turn into a complete blob. I have tons of grading to catch up on, and church activities for Holy Week, time with friends, literary events (the Red Hen gang is in town), and of course the all-important "me time." My goal is going to yoga classes at least five out of the next seven days.

Oh, and did I mention gathering receipts and getting the paperwork ready for my accountant so he can do my taxes? And laundry? And tackling the crazy amount of clutter, starting spring cleaning, and, (wait for it) putting away the Christmas tree? (Shhh! Don't tell anybody!) As for home entertainment: Mad Men--Season 3 is finally out on DVD--a new Nurse Jackie, and checking out, at long last, Liz Lemon's world on 30 Rock.

Anyway, I'm also taking time for the spirit, contemplating the Passion and Resurrection, the stories and the truths behind them (to borrow a phrase from my vicar).

It is spring, a time for clearing out the cobwebs and welcoming new growth. And time for flowers--like this lovely dozen roses I bought for myself. Bienvenue Printemps!

paul james vasquez, 1954-2010

Bob's Uncle Paul was a creative inspiration to his family--musician, actor, writer, director. He passed away yesterday after being seriously ill with cancer for about the past year. This photo is a still from Jail City,an independent film by his former student Dan Eberle. Bob's brother Paulie was a co-star, and Bob had a cameo as some hoodlum who gets offed in a mob hit. (He was really good at falling on the floor :)

This week Paul was in the hospital with hospice care--the whole family came to see him--Bob took Bobby on Tuesday--and Bob and his brother Mike played music for him all day Thursday. Bob said he made sure Paul's hand was on his guitar. Pax, Paul.

the chef is in...

Another pic for all you Stella fans...our girl loves to cook--for real or for pretend. Here she is in the chef's outfit Santa brought this year. And the groovy glasses she doesn't seem to want to wear much anymore. Time for pancakes--which she calls "ca-cakes"!

world down syndrome day

It's World Down Syndrome Day again, 3/21 (get it? Trisomy 21). The National Down Syndrome Society has released a national policy update for the occasion. I particularly applaud the point, "Provide a first-class education for children with Down syndrome." We're not exactly thrilled with the education Stella has been getting in the NYC public school's District 75 program. I'll write more about this later--Bob went to the IEP meeting a couple weeks ago and we have some updates--but for now let's just say there could be more pro-activity going on.

Here's a fairly recent pic of Stella Bella, with her new glasses (which have already been lost and found several times and which she is not currently wearing a whole lot). Today is so warm there is no need for the coat and the stylish beret--we're going to head out into the sunshine soon!

weekender

NOTE: It is perhaps unsurprising that I originally drafted the following post LAST weekend and am just finishing and posting it now.

I haven't posted here in awhile (again). Mostly it's because I've been doing other things, but there is always the shadow of blogger's block. I still don't know what it's about, exactly. Partly it's the same as regular writer's block, but the other part of it is the public nature of blogging. I have a link to my blog on my email signature, it's on my facebook page, it's the first thing that comes up if someone googles my name. So there's no way I can really hide here, unless I have some "restricted" posts, and I don't really see the sense of that. If I have something to say that's private, for a small group, I either just write in my notebook or send an email to a couple of friends.

Anyway, lately I've been remembering the words of Dave Smith, who with Claudia Emerson led the workshop in which I was a fellow at Sewanee last summer. Dave really held my feet to the fire, but it was something I needed. I'd submitted a manuscript of work-in-progress (something that most of the fellows don't do, for some reason, but I thought I'd take advantage of having a thorough reading by some experts, free of charge). After my hour-long conference, I read the three-page single-spaced letter Dave had written--it was more like an essay directed to me individually, engaged, elegantly-written, and incisive. At the end, I broke down and cried because he had hit the nail on the head--not so much about the poems themselves (although his comments were useful and on-target) as about my commitment to poetry.

I think the "serious" poet is not competing against stand-up comics but against the great poems in our language. To bear that burden of competition is a killer weight, but if a poet is not trying to do the best possible work, how is he/she different from the literary week-ender?

That, dear reader, is the question, and underlying that is another series of questions: am I destined to be a "week-ender"? what would I have to do to be "serious" about poetry? something's gotta give, but what?

At the end of the letter, Dave wrote:

I think you can be a very entertaining poet, especially reading to small crowds who have every reason to like not being challenged; or you can be both entertaining and much better, the kind of poet whose language has resonance and durability.

He went on to name some poets (all women, of course) he considered "non-week-enders" and the list included some of my personal heroes and one of my close personal friends. That was when I cried. Yes, I want to do what these writers have done. What has been stopping me? Why, if I consider my writing so central to my life, do I always give other work, the work that is for pay, more legitimacy and thus more of my energy? How can I change this?

If I don't get a handle on this I'll never have a second book. I'll never finish the memoir. I'll always be a might-have-been, an also-ran, a "but she had so much potential." I'm working on finding another way.

spread the word

snow day

The only reason I can even post this is that FIT is closed (along with the NYC public schools) due to "inclement weather." We've got a snowstorm on our hands and, although at the moment it looks like it may be petering out, it's dumped several inches already and is supposed to leave us with up to a foot on the ground.

Bob came over to take the kids out sledding. So here I am, just you, me, and my computer. I have so much to talk about, but I just can't bring myself to write much. I don't know what it is--some of my "stuff" is not suitable for public consumption, but mostly it's just too daunting to shape and craft and wrestle with words right now. I've written dozens of emails for work, done some Facebook status updates, exchanged some messages with friends. Maybe I'm worded out. I'll keep trying, though. I promise.

parerez-vous....?

reading with the peeps

Last night my poetry group gave a reading at Cornelia Street Cafe. We published an anthology together in 2008, This Full Green Hour, and this time readers included not only the six of us who were involved in the book, but two other fabulous members, Katie Johntz and Carly Sachs. It was a full house, and a good time was had by all.

I'm so glad to be part of this community--I literally would not have written some of the poems in Saint Nobody without them, and there are others that would definitely not be in the shape they are, thanks to their insights and inspiration.

Here are two videos, courtesy of the lovely and talented Greg Sanders.

nesting

The kids and I moved into a new apartment in August, but it's only been the past couple of weeks that I've finally been able to make it feel respectable. It's bigger than the old place (the two-bedroom Bob and I moved into as newlyweds in '96), and was completely redone before we moved in--the walls and floors are immaculate, all the bathroom fixtures and appliances (except the refrigerator) are brand-new, there's actually counter space and cupboard space in the kitchen--and [gasp] a dishwasher.

It was advertised as a three bedroom, but it's technically a two-and-a-half with a formal dining room. There's a little room off of the living room that I'm using as my "study" (yes! a study!). The kids each have their own bedrooms, and I use the front room as my sleeping place. Until last week, I was using our old futon couch as my bed, leaving it down because the frame is too much of a pain to crank into sofa mode. We put the TV in the dining room also doubled as the living room, kids' homework room, etc. The front room has three huge east-facing windows, and I felt bad about hogging the light (the dining room has only two small ones). I wanted to find a way to have the front room really be flexible enough to function as a sitting room.

All that has changed now that I have a sleeper sofa (pictured). It's awesome--a "click-clack" mechanism makes it easy to change back and forth, and there are two storage compartments underneath where I stow the pillows and bedclothes while it's being playing the role of sofa. And the futon, now mostly a sofa, is in the dining room, and the kids no longer have to sit on the floor to watch TV. It's strange how one item can change your way of life.

p.s.: posting more today on the Red Hen blog.

logos, ethos, pathos....

Actually, I don't plan to discourse on the three rhetorical appeals in the title, above. But I do find it positively pathetic that I haven't blogged here in over a month! I've been posting at the Red Hen Press blog (rather sketchily) and doing a lot of other stuff, mainly fixing up the apartment so that, after six months, there are finally more actual pieces of furniture than cardboard boxes. The place is starting to live up to its potential.

I've also been baking a lot of pies. And eating them. More about that another time.

je suis un auteur

Big Little Wolf has pointed out to me that Saint Nobody (aka Ste. Nadie) is available on Amazon.fr. Qui sait?

She's also graciously included me on her "holiday book pick list" along with The Shipping News, Jeffrey Eugenides' short stories, and Francis Ponge, published on the fabulously titled a Femme d'un Certain Age.
Joyeux Noel, vraiment!

that can't-do attitude

It happens every semester. The Overload. The Swamp. The crush of student writing to respond to, all of it deserving of careful time and attention. I don't want to let them down, which adds to the sense of impossibility. But it does always get done somehow...

Now, though, it's a battle against the forces of Can't. The militia of What Were You Thinking? The special forces of Here We Go Again.

Reinforcements welcome!

my first interview...

Last spring, Samuel Lloyd interviewed me for the online version of Southeast Review, published at Florida State University. It's very cool to have it published--now everyone from students to my parents can see what I have to say about the writing life (for what it's worth). And I admit I'm hoping it will bring a few more book sales--keep them trickling in! I thank Samuel for his patience (he had to wait four months for me to answer his questions), as well as Julianna Baggott (the online contributing editor and one of my writing heroes), for setting things in motion.

You can read it here.

back on track

It's time I reminded myself how essential writing is to my general well-being. Not just because it can be therapeutic to "journal," but because writing is my medium, my passion, my vocation, the art form I am trying to master or at least practice consistently.

While I haven't been posting here, I've been reading other blogs and marvel at the consistency and clarity of these writers. One of them, Big Little Wolf's Daily Plate of Crazy, is like a magazine with posts that are funny, touching, helpful, and cogent every day.The author D.A. Wolf's post from yesterday is amazing in articulating the fear of not being able to articulate. I have read few accounts that are so honest and accurate about writer's block, guilt, grief, fear, self-recrimination, being overwhelmed, the power of rage to sidetrack us, and trying to parent--because we haveto parent--despite it all.

It's hard for me to put my inchoate thoughts and feelings into a form that I feel comfortable sharing with "my public" (however small that may be). It's not just about privacy and self-disclosure, it's about the writing itself, the feeling that it must be of a certain level to post here, and the inability at the moment to put in the time or effort that it takes.

Right now, it's crunch time at FIT (as in most academic institutions), and for me that means a desperate attempt to catch up on the seemingly insurmountable responding and grading that the students in all four of my writing classes need right now. It doesn't help that I've been dealing with a difficult Personal Situation (sometime I'll post about it on my new blog, which hasn't really started up yet) that has sucked up my energies and added to the sense of behind-ness.

This morning, looking out at the trees outside my "study" (first ever! my own little alcove for working, writing, dreaming, filing--urgh) and the brick two-family attached homes across the street (so like the one that houses my second-floor apartment), I actually got out the pink spiral bound notebook I'm supposed to be using for the erstwhile morning pages. I had been gearing up to write about the Personal Situation, to explore, get down, and somehow unravel all the roiling, looping thoughts and feelings that have washed around my brain for awhile. Yes, it helps. Yes, as I always tell my students, I discovered things I didn't expect to. Yes, it is a key to health and peace and productivity.

But yes, Stella is home from school for the fifth day this week--she has been suffering from a nasty cold, and I thought she needed an extra day to recover--so I could very easily be waylaid. Right after I put Bobby on the bus, I poured my coffee, went to my desk, and started writing. I put aside the dozens of students waiting for my comments on their poems, essays, and short stories--the screaming, steaming pile of guilt, and wrote. I knew I would be much better able to concentrate on the teaching if I got this out of the way first. I had a good hour or more before I heard her footsteps.

I have to keep at this process no matter what. I must prioritize it again, start over with the good intention, daily if possible, we shall see, we shall see.

Now to my students! (who are wonderful and have been extremely patient)

in need of chocolate

Here's why:
*Work stress is hitting an all-time high; I will not even begin to go into particulars.

*YAI just informed me that they can no longer pay for Krystal's in-home respite services until a Medicaid waiver is on file. Earlier in the year we were informed that the agency was having to use funds from Medicaid for the clients' services (due, I believe, to state budget cuts). I thought we had done all the paperwork for this in the spring, but apparently not. Krystal called and said her supervisor told her not to come today--I am going to pay her out of pocket until I regroup and figure it out.

*Bob is taking the kids to be with him family for Christmas. This will be the first Christmas in their lifetimes that they have not been with me. I suppose it goes without saying that divorce sucks.

Fortunately, I picked up a B.T. McElrath Dark Chocolate Bar ("our proprietary blend of European and Columbian chocolate, 70% cacao") yesterday at my Thursday morning coffee place. It is truly the smoothest, silkiest dark chocolate I have experienced in a very long time. Goes well with the Guatemalan dark roast I purchased as well.

american tune

one of the best songs EVER. Ever.

separated at composition?

NOTE: I have given up on being able to write a coherent, cohesive blog post for the time being. I managed to completely miss National Down Syndrome Awareness Month, the Buddy Walk, and even Stella's birthday--all of which I will catch up on. I promise.
For now, allow me to play a little musical "spot the similarity." One of my favorite random selections on Pandora.com (which comes up on the "Alexei Murdoch Radio" station I created) is David Gray's "Babylon." The song's delicate acoustic guitar flourish and sweet mellow mood remind me of an oldie from my childhood. See what you think!
You're gonna go....I kno-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ow...

found: poem

Will the wonders of the world wide interweb never cease? Doing a random google search for examples of found poems for my students, I came across "foundpoem.com," which offers a program that will randomly generate poems and song lyrics for the low, low price of $11.99. I downloaded the trial and gave it a shot. It isn't really "found poetry," which takes text from another source and arranges it in lines, for dramatic (or humorous) effect. Rather, it selects phrases, presumably from a database, and arranges them in lines, with a title and everything. The pieces generated by this process would be pronounced bad bu even the most devoted dadaist, but this one I like quite a bit (probably because of the word "chorister" in the title):

for the chorister who admitted it
______

everything i appreciate
caves in
a zillion to one
a time check

with these chaperons telling me what to think
feeling nothing
i have lost my passion
what i want is all of september
what i want is apples
i am archetypal with another
expected
tonight
i imagine
in twenty-two different ways
these evils
clowning around
murder in the nick of time
as the rain falls

i advertise agreements
as part of bickering
don't i know

from dad

Since I seem to be having trouble doing writing of my own here, I will continue to borrow the words of others. From an email this morning that brought some much-needed encouragement on a very Monday-ish Monday:
I must say that in view of the tough problems (not "issues," not merely "challenges") that you often face, your resilience and ability to manage the things in your life are quite remarkable. You should take a minute from time to time and just remind yourself of that, and draw some well-deserved confidence from the way you have overcome these difficulties. A truly exceptional young woman, as we have known for all these __ years.

birth story, big brother's version

Still in the process of unpacking some of the detritus left in the wake of the move. I came across this draft in Bobby's inimitable handwriting--which in another century might have been called "crabbed." It's undated but I suspect it's from last fall, when his teacher had them work on a "personal narrative."

When my mom told me that she was going to have a baby I was so exited. I hoped that I had a Brother Because we could play legos together. Every day I would ask Mom if the baby was here but she would always answer no. A couple of months later my mom told me that I was going to have a sister. It was ok but I still would love to have a brother.

The 7 to 9 months past really quikly and before you knew it I was a home waiting for Mom to come back from the hospital. I was watching TV eating crackers. Then the phone rang. Dad said we had to drive to the hospital right away. Dad told me that the baby was here and we drove to the hospital in about 100 minhits. When we got there dad went to a room while I waited on a bench. A couple minuits later Dad came out. He said that my sister was going to stay in the hospital for a couple of weeks.

A couple of weeks later dad said that my sister needed surgery because there was a problem with her heart. When she came home I was so happy even if she was a little different. She had somthing called down syndrome that is a problem with her brain. She can still walk and talk but sometimes she just acts weird but to me she's just the same as all of us and she's my sister.

This is, of course, a work of fiction, with the concomitant inaccuracies and reworkings of time. Bobby was all of 22 months when Stella was born nearly 8 years ago. Yet somehow he chose to write about this event that he couldn't possibly remember in any sort of chronology or detail. I do recall his coming to the hospital, but he wasn't left sitting on a bench unattended. He was in a small "family room" watching a Schoolhouse Rock video, his latest obsession, while parents and grandparents took turns donning the pale yellow gowns and scrubbing up with acrid-smelling soap to enter the NICU.

Now that I'm starting a new season of Creative Nonfiction, my students and I are once again talking about the unreliability of memory, about truth vs. fact, about our version vs. someone else's. Somehow, I think, despite getting the "facts" mixed up, my son has captured a certain truth about his sister's birth and its impact on his life.

my friend, superwoman

I mentioned briefly last month that Vicki Forman's stunning memoir, This Lovely Life, has been released by Houghton Mifflin/Mariner. She has a fabulous website for the book here that mentions all the reviews, public appearances, and other attention it has garnered.

And as if that weren't enough, Ms. Forman has just completed a very strenuous certification program and exam, and is now a certified phlebotomy technician! Go over to her blog and congratulate her!

absence makes the...

blogger feel guilty. i am not going to even use capital letters in this posting because i feel very, very small as a blogger right now! it's been a full summer: three classes, four conferences, two rental cars, one new relationship (!), one new apartment (!!), one fantastic classic rock concert, a couple dozen books sold (i think), lots and lots of miles and not enough hours of sleep.

i am still surrounded by boxes, slowly settling in, just in time for things to start up at school again and take over my brain entirely!

some links to show what i was up to:

conferencing and communing:
west chester poetry conference
ocean state writers' conference
antioch writers' workshop
sewanee writers' conference

addictions, libations, birthday celebrations
brother bear's coffee cafe
young's jersey dairy
stirling's coffee house
lombardi's pizza
sugar sweet sunshine

romance, excitement, tlc
craftbar
new jersey transit
ferguson / commonhealth
look see chinese restaurant
bottle king
yes

Vicki's wonderful book is finally out, and here she is talking about the experience of premature motherhood on "A View from the Bay."

i'm still here!

I've been totally swamped. I will try to bring you up to date little by little. Right now I'm desperately trying to finish a bunch of comments for my online students, while preparing to give the "First Books" talk at the Antioch Writers' Workshop in lovely Yellow Springs, Ohio.

Many thanks to the good people at Brother Bear's Cafe for the righteous java and unlimited wifi (I was literally there for seven hours nonstop yesterday, after a nice yoga class--that's a lot of Grateful Dead tunes)!

balm

A stunning new version of a song I love--originally by the psychrock groovers Love, remade by the Damned in the neopsych 80s...this is Calexico. Rock away that stress. Yes.

kidz

Taken by our friend Ceren, who babysat with her husband Dave last week so I could read at the Bowery. Bob is in South America for a four-week tour.

i love wes, and wes loves me

On Monday, May 18th, I dropped off the signed retainer letter (with the all-important checks) at the mediator's office. This is the next step in the divorce process--she will now draw up the agreement, we will each have lawyers review it, then go from there (hopefully no more changes after that).

Afterwards, I took myself out for a cocktail at my beloved Flatiron Lounge and sent text messages to any of my friends who might be remotely interested in what had just transpired. Having enjoyed a "404" (named, apparently, for the Atlanta area code, in honor of some out of town patrons) and a "Blue Moon" (so named because it is, um, blue) I headed east to Punch for a little dinner. On the way I saw two men standing on the sidewalk talking and realized that one of them looked very familiar. It was none other than Wesley Stace, aka John Wesley Harding, one of my all-time favorite musicians and now a celebrated novelist. I stopped right in front of him and declared, "I love you!" Without blinking, he replied, very matter-of-fact, "I love you, too!"

Then I went along my way, grinning and giggling. As long as Wes loves me, all must be right with the world.

reading tonight at the bowery!

Tonight I'm reading with three fantastic Red Hen chicks--er--women authors at the world-famous Bowery Poetry Club.

Excited to share the stage with the illustrious Judy Grahn, the celebrated Sarah Goodyear, and the prodigious Erinn Batykefer, all introduced by none other than Red Hen goddess Kate Gale herself!

Just made some last-minute babysitting arrangements so I will be there for showtime at 6! (Draw me a pint, Shappy!)

for those new grads and [single] dads?

Thinking about finding a new apartment and some new furnishings (including a replacement for the found-on-the-sidewalk kitchen table with instant removable legs)...I have to admit this little power pop tune gives me a grin.

old saint nick's

Last night I went with a couple of friends to Saint Nick's, a historic jazz club in Harlem. My friend and FIT colleague Praveen lives in the neighborhood (his apartment has the most incredible view) and is a regular at the pub. The band for African Night was large and lively, as was the crowd. Standing room only, jostling required. After awhile, I figured out how to avoid getting jostled by the bartenders shuttling six-packs back and forth to the bar. Before I knew it, it was one a.m. and time to head back downtown on the A train. Good to have a night out.

sweet girl

My 13-year-old niece Mary is a young poet. Her dad, my brother David, just sent me a link to some of her work, which she's put on her school's website. She wrote a wonderful poem about Stella and used a cute photo as background for the page. Still wringing out the kleenex...

Meanwhile, the sweet girl is home with strep (here we go again). At least it was not flu (they tested her) and will be dispatched with amoxycillin forthwith.

love (two takes)

"Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."
--Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."
--Lao Tzu


(Thanks to Kim Addonizio for pointing these out in Ordinary Genius, a book I cannot put down!)

craig arnold, 1967-2009

A bright bright light has gone out.Wish I had been able to spend more time with you, Craig.

poetry in sleepy hollow

I'm excited! I am reading tonight at the Hudson Valley Writers' Center in Sleepy Hollow, New York (yes, there really is a Sleepy Hollow) with my dear friend, the brilliant Stephanie Strickland. We're taking the train up the river, and the Center is actually in the old train station. Can't wait can't wait can't wait! Perhaps Ichabod himself will be in the audience...if he looked like Johnny Depp, well, I wouldn't complain. See you there?

may showers

O western wind, when will thou blow,
the small rain down can rain?
Christ! that my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again!

We're in the middle of a wet stretch. The past few days have been dreary for a number of reasons even beyond the weather. Uncertain finances everywhere. The specter of swine flu--excuse me, H1N1 flu. End-of-semester piles of ungraded, unmarked student work. Other dramas at work. Taking the kids to church a continuing challenge, even a chore. Stella's bus matron, batty and difficult as ever. Bobby's frantic hyper bedtime behavior, draining. A budding romance burst and dropped from the vine, a shower of shed petals in its wake.

But the flowers of May are here. Tonight on the way to the track (during a brief respite from the rain) I put my nose in a peony for the first time this season. It smelled like hope, like sunshine. Yes, the flowers are here. The rains will subside. This is spring. The wind blows from the west again.

find craig arnold

A friend of mine, a brilliant poet and lively light, has been missing on a small volcanic island in Japan for over a week now. Here is an article on the ABC News website about his situation. A fund has been established to make sure that the search is continued until Craig is found. Please go here for more information.

online broadside and commentary

I have probably mentioned a wonderful poet and editor, Sam Rasnake. (If I haven't, I have now, and sorry I took so long, Sam!)

Sam is the one who selected Fine Motor for the Sow's Ear Poetry Review chapbook contest, and he has also published some poems in his online journal Blue Fifth Review. He also publishes and online broadside series, and selected "Fantasy for Cello and Orchestra" for the current issue. He also asks poets to write a commentary about the composition of the poem--a deliciously torturous thing to do.

Thank you, Sam, for your efforts on behalf of poets and poetry!

wouldn't it be nice

This is where my head is at right now: the Beach Boys' classic of teenage love and longing. I don't know why, but the little toy-piano-calliope-sounding tune at the beginning always makes me want to cry. I remember the way Michael Moore used this song in Roger and Me over a montage illustrating the lost hopes and dreams of people in Flint, Michigan. Heavy irony, anyone?

I'm thinking (and writing) about the way in which, in midlife, I have become a lot like a teenager--constantly changing, prone to hormonal surges, wondering about my future, alternately exuberant and discouraged, despairing and hopeful, impulsive and cautious, foolish and wise. Lately, I have been talking to my parents a lot, leaning on them for advice as I haven't done since high school, when I subjected them to a nightly litany of my hopes and dreams and insecurities, and they struggled to comfort and counsel their complicated and perplexing eldest child. How lucky I am that they are here for me as I navigate these treacherous seas.

and now for a word from Nobody...

254

"Hope" is the thing with feathers --
That perches in the soul --
And sings the tune -- without the words --
And never stops -- at all --

And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --
And sore must be the storm --
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm --

I've heard it in the chillest land --
And on the strangest Sea --
Yet -- never -- in extremity,
It asked a crumb -- of me

confirmation

I was eleven, a very fragile age. I didn't feel well-liked in school. I ended up being home-schooled the second half of my sixth grade year because I didn't want to deal with the other kids. My family was going to a Missouri Synod Lutheran church in Fairborn, a 25-minute drive away. Those mornings, slightly carsick--little breakfast, curving roads, smoke from Dad's Lucky Strikes.

I was in confirmation class. I remember the booklet--an illustration of Martin Luther on the cover. I don't remember what I learned, or how far I got. All I know is our family left the church before I could finish. I'm sure Dad had his reasons--I have only a vague sense of a difference of opinion with the pastor. But the result was, I was never confirmed. I could not take communion, according to our tradition.

The first time I went to Saint Bart's, I knew from reading their website that I would be welcome at the Eucharist--they only ask that you be baptized in a Christian church--but I was nervous. Luckily, a friend was with me, a lifelong Canadian Anglican who showed me how to hold my hands for the wafer and took a sip of wine before me, kissed my cheek when we exchanged the peace. It was New Year's Eve and a very small group congregated in the chapel while the main sanctuary was being set up for a festive concert. The priest spoke with a southern accent about his memories of Christmas, and his associations with the passage that tells us "Mary kept these things and pondered them in her heart." It was my first communion.

Today, I will be officially confirmed--go up front, speak the words, receive a blessing from the Bishop. I'm nervous, excited, probably no less so than I would have been at twelve. It feels strange to be doing this at my age, although I will be in the company of many other adults, all of us settling on this particular spiritual home. But it feels very good, finishing what I started over three decades ago, becoming an adult in the faith, belonging somewhere at last.

poetry is central

The week before Easter was FIT's spring recess, and on Tuesday, I went up to visit Ravi Shankar's poetry writing classes and give a reading at Central Connecticut State University. Ravi, not to be confused with the legendary sitar player (whose 89th birthday happened to be that very day), is a brilliant poet, editor, and teacher, and a generous host.

I gave the students a couple of exercises, including a "common objects" prompt I stole from Kim Addonizio's Ordinary Genius (and Kim admits she adapted from one used byRebecca Brown). Basically, you find two ordinary objects in your sight and write about them as if one object is in love with the other. I was fortunate to have some perfect examples to hand, from Brendan Constantine's Letters to Guns. As the book's title implies, several of the poems are framed as letters to guns from another object, once closely related, now separated. Example: "to a Taurus model .38 special from a woman's flannel night-gown, San Bernardino, California, 1999.

Ravi reported back that he was delighted with the work students turned in the following week--I'm hoping he will send some of their poems my way!

a few words i don't want to forget because i will most likely never hear them from these particular sources again

"You are beautiful and wonderful and special, and those things are all true all the time."
"You're a bad-ass!"
"Brilliant, beautiful."
"You rock!"
"Your poems rock as much as you do!"
"You are perfect just the way you are."

They said it; I didn't. They must have meant it at the time. Maybe it is actually still true, even though these people are not saying these kinds of things to me anymore. (And maybe, just maybe, they still think them even though they are not saying them.) I know I said a lot of similar things about them, which probably are still true (although I hate to admit it right at the moment). In an article entitled "Love Lessons," Martha Beck writes:

The really potent part of love is that it allows you to carry around beliefs about yourself that make you feel special, desirable, precious, innately good. To graduate from Heartbreak Academy, you have to learn that neither your ex-beloved nor the fact of being in love invested you with these qualities. Your lover couldn't have seen them in you, even temporarily, if they weren't part of your essential being.

I've been reading a lot of self-help literature these past few months (actually, my intake of the genre has increased markedly since October 2007). Most of the authors who really speak to me emphasize a lot of the same things, including the importance of letting yourself believe the good things you felt about yourself while you were in the sweet, cushiony-soft center of an intimate relationship, even after you've been soundly ejected into the mucky, foul-smelling, thorn-riddled Slough of Despond (aka Breakupland). It makes a lot of sense. Truly absorbing it emotionally is, of course, another matter entirely.

stumbling through the dark

The chorus of this song never fails to give me goosebumps. And the Jayhawkers are back together again.

Stumbling through the dark
Seems I'm stumbling through the dark
Eveybody's stumbling through the dark
--by Gary Louris/Matthew Sweet, perf. the Jayhawks Rainy Day Music (2003)

some quotes

"A musician must make music, the artist must paint, a poet must write, if [s]he is to be ultimately at peace with [her]himself. What a [wo]man can be, [s]he must be."
--Abraham Maslow, Motivation and Personality (1954)

"I therefore...beg you to lead a life worthy of the calling to which you have been called, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace."
--Ephesians 4:1-3

"Transformation happens through the awareness of oneness, not through struggle. When you fight to gain control over yourself, you have already lost. Nonresistance to our passions and feelings without the need to do anything is the path to awareness, awareness of the absolute oneness beyond duality."
--David Richo, When Love Meets Fear: Becoming Defense-less and Resource-full

"Emerson says that the voyage of the best ships is a zigzag of a hundred tacks. So if you careen off a time or two more, give yourself a break. Just keep the needle pointed towards home (wherever that is for you), and you'll be OK."
--C.A., email to author 3-30-09