It’s been a strange time; one of transition and fear, prayer and tested trust. My mother has been repeatedly ill, a combination of heart and lung ailments—some recent and some long standing—and I’ve made a number of trips to Alabama . . . and the ER. I’m now as familiar with Decatur General Hospital as I once was Vanderbilt’s Children’s Hospital. But Rachel is stable and reasonably healthy these days, while I feel as if I’m watching my mother’s descent in to that infamous good night.

Earlier this week, I headed home again, only this time I skipped Interstate 65 and drove Highway 31 almost all the way home. Once the major thoroughfare from Decatur to Nashville, it’s now one of the “blue roads” – those 2-lane beauties that meander with the land (as pointed out in the movie Cars) instead of cutting through it.

It is some of the most beautiful country in the world. In spring, the trees are laced with dark and light greens, and wildflowers line the side of the roads, their pinks, whites, purples, and blues waving wildly with each passing car. The weather alternated between sun-backed storm clouds (giving a whole new meaning to the term “blue road”) and brightly lit, rolling fields.

I pass through a half dozen unincorporated towns, maneuvering through curves and hills like a child at play. The land around Nashville undulates like the ocean far from shore, so that even the open horse fields rise and fall like great swells of verdant seas.

It also brought back memories of the first time I rode this stretch of highway, almost fifty years ago. It was Summer 1964, and we were on the way from Alabama to Nashville to see the Grand Ole Opry. I was a kid, but almost every mile driven in that unair-conditioned 1964 Impala is etched in my mind. It was good to look back, remember the way my parents used to be, what we were as a family.

This year, I turn 53; my mother will be 84 in June. We don’t look much alike; I carry too many of my dad’s Welsh genes. But there is kinship in our spirits, in our experiences, in our faith, in our love.

Life is not simple or easy for me right now—not financially, emotionally, or spiritually. But in caring for my mom and making her a priority, I’m reminded, almost daily, that remembering what has gone before can make us strong, bind us together, help us face the future.

So here’s to remembering Highway 31 in 1964 during the year we turn 53 and 84. And God’s staying power.

Hm.

Now, I’ve been single a long time. But immediately my mind leaped backwards, over two boyfriends and into a time when I pondered the same thing about my husband. And before I could stop it, out of my mouth came, “Used books and lead figurines.”

Lord, what a memory.

Once upon a time, before Amazon, before eBay, there was only one way to collect your favorite author’s backlist: used book stores. And I spent many an hour searching dusty, cluttered storefronts, prowling through unorganized stacks of books, looking for old editions from Piers Anthony, Roger Zelazny, Michael Moorcock, Philip K. Dick, and dozens of other authors.

My ex and I read a lot of science fiction, but on top of that, he was a gamer, and discovered a pastime that helped him relax…and made me nuts. He painted 25mm lead figurines for his role playing games. Preferably from Ral Partha, a high-quality company started in 1975 by a 16-year-old sculptor and 5 gaming buddies. Some of his prized favorites were the complex, expensive dragons.

So the best gifts wound up being acid-yellowed books and lead dragons. Not easy to find, and it made finding a store like South Bend’s The Griffon akin to digging up treasure in your backyard.

The point?

“Follow his interests, and do something special,” I told her. “Forget the card and buy him a lead dragon.”

Yeah, ok, she looked at me a little funny at that last part.

She did get that Valentine’s Day isn’t really about chocolate hearts and Hallmark cards. It’s about paying attention.

Stana Katic on Castle is svelte. I’m more . . . well . . . zaftig. I’ve not been svelte since I was four years old, and there’s no way I’ll be that thin. What I would like to do, however, is get to a comfortable size so that I don’t have to worry about turning my ankles in high heels or taking out small children with my purse when I turn around in WalMart.

To get to a size where I’m a little less embarrassed to have my photographer do those new headshots later in the spring. Jason’s great (just look at some of his portraits on Facebook), but . . . hey, I may not be svelte but I do still have an ego.

I want to look as good as I can, considering.

So this Friday space will be my accountability ledger, a chart of my progress. Now, I’m not going to bore you with preachy entries about nutrition, new diets, new exercises. Instead, what I want to do is talk about (with humor, I hope) on my progress, what worked, what I tripped over. After all, if this can’t be a little fun, I probably won’t get far with it.

Y’see, one of my biggest problems with exercise and dieting is that they’re boring. I don’t care how good they are for me; I can think of a thousand things more intriguing than walking on a treadmill. It’s why I prefer hiking over walking a track, and I suspect this is why the Wii Fit programs have been so successful. Fun. Combine Fun with Progress, and you get a program that will continue.

What does this have to with writing? You’d be surprised.

Here’s a hint, which is a preview of next week’s progress report:
1) writer’s butt
2) creative energy

The point is to get rid of one and increase the other. You can guess which is which.

Are we having fun yet?

This is a lesson I know all too well.

I also find it intriguing that there is evidence all over the lake of folks trying to break open the ice by tossing huge rocks out on it. It’s an interesting impulse. However, the guy who put one way out in the middle should think about trying out for the Sounds.

I couldn’t resist taking about a half dozen of these, and I’m trying to resist making snide comments about ducks on ice. Truth is, these fellas did pretty good out there on the slickness. Occasionally, they’d slip and slither, but for the most part, they even landed with a certain accustomed grace. I should be so lucky. I certainly don’t even handle everyday events this well.

Now, for those who haven’t seen this in action…this is the buffet line. When I got to the park around 2ish, these guys were all out on the ice. The gulls spend more time skipping and slipping about on the surface. The ducks and geese tend to cluster close to the open water that’s left, landing in the water, then scampering out on the ice. The gulls just take their chances and I do wish I’d had a video going.

But then as it edged toward 3ish, and the arrive of their afternoon benefactor with the bags of bread, the gulls moved over to the curb and lined up, waiting patiently.

How do they know it’s 3? Position of the sun? Amount of light left? Pavlovian training? A gut feeling?

God knows.

I do wish I could act as certainly on what He’s given me. Understand it even.

Someday. In the meantime, I’ll keep letting my feet and mind wander about in the park.

This means that my tangential goals for the next two months (following the words and money, or rather, words FOR money) will hopefully transform me a bit, so he doesn’t have to work quite so hard to make me look decent.

So what are those goals? A moderate weight loss and new make-up. As to the latter, I’m open to ideas. I’m a novice in the area, since I didn’t really start wearing it until I was in my 30s and it’s still pretty low in my list of things to learn more about. So if you have suggestions, please let me know.

As to the weight loss . . . I forget how many programs I’ve tried. Won’t name them here (too long and boring), but to say they haven’t really worked for me is to state the obvious. My goal instead is to try small habit changes – more walking and yoga, smaller portions, more fruits and veggies, and no sodas. Simple.

Yeah, right. I can hear those who know me snickering. Have faith, my friends, and remember this time it’s not about a guy. It’s about tiny ankles, funky knees, and the A1C. I’ll keep you posted.

OK . . . back to the writing.

This photo is of a quilt my mother made from the handkerchiefs that my grandmother carried to church every Sunday. She made most of the handkerchiefs, cutting them from linen and clothes, and embroidering small images and tatting lace around the edges. When my mother made the quilt, it combined the sewing skills of two generations, passing to me and my brother a legacy of creativity.

And faith.

Ila Waldrop seldom missed a Sunday at church, except in the deepest of winters. A good Southern Baptist, she missed her faith home when she moved in with my parents, and when she died, we took her back to that church in Ashville, Alabama, to have her final service. Likewise, when my father died, my mother returned to the Southern Baptist faith of her youth.

Now…I’ve tried my hand at sewing and embroidery. I’m pretty lousy at both. I reattach buttons with safety pins. I have more than one hem secured with duct tape. I can produce a good cross-stitch piece, but my creativity lies in another direction. Words.

The faith, however, lingers. I’m not a Southern Baptist, but I grew up with that faith heritage, which made it supremely possible for me to work on the first Woman’s Study Bible with Dorothy Patterson (back in 1995). And while I refer to myself as a “Patchwork Protestant,” I’m more Wesley than Calvin, with a faith grounded in the study of Greek, translation dynamics, and historical context.

It is a faith I hope to pass on with my words. With my fiction, with my devotionals, with my editing of other people’s words. And, on rare occasion, with my poetry.

I read the following poem at my grandmother’s funeral, which happened when my sister-in-law was pregnant. I meant every word.

And, yes, I wrote it.

—————-

Passage

She was so strong
and proud in a soft, submissive way
of her life and its achievements.
The thousands of biscuits baked—
three dozen every morning for her husband and their kin,
readying them for the fields and the morning sun—
The hundreds of garments sewn, washed, and ironed—
her mother had died when she was eleven,
and she was mother to her brothers and sisters until they died,
or left her.
I listened and reveled in her stories and her laughter,
living in a world I would never know
except through her.
Then
the laughter and the pride began to fade,
leaving only the memories, which became
more real than the present.
And
I lost her.
The gallant spirit chained to an earthly body,
which could not withstand the
slow but strong erosion of time.
And I wait for her freedom
as I watch
My sister grow large with a newer earthly
body, whose shape will give form to a
bright spirit, which will be filled with
Laughter, pride,
and memories to share.

As you can tell from the previous paragraph, I’ve been spending a lot of time in prayer and reflection. I do that more at Christmas than I do at New Year’s, probably because this is a spiritual holiday, one of the soul and heart, while New Year’s is about fun and renewal. On New Year’s Eve, I’m more likely to party hard and celebrate my past. After all, nothing recalls a childhood in a small Southern town like a day centered on a meal of ham, black-eyed peas, and corn bread. (And I make corn bread that will make your mouth hum…)

At Christmas, I focus on my relationships . . . with God, good friends, and family. And I’m usually encouraged by how the “Little Moments” (as Mr. Paisley calls them) still ring the truest, with the most intimacy.

This year, for instance, I got to see pictures of my brother’s cats for the first time. Like him, they are well-fed and sassy. He and Adrienne also refinished the old pie safe they got from my mom, and it meant a lot to see how pleased she was with their respect for a heirloom that once cost $4.98 (only a sign of its age, not its true worth).

I didn’t have a great deal of money to spend this year, so my gifts were small but carefully chosen. Most were fun but practical, so I hope they’ll be put to good use.

One of the most expensive gifts I ever presented at Christmas was one for my dad—an elaborate train set he’d wanted since he was a child. Joyous, he gave the biggest response I’ve ever gotten (lots of laughs and hugs). But he only used it once or twice, then put it on a display shelf. After he died, it disappeared, and I’m not sure what happened to it. The only thing left behind is a single photo of him laughing as he opened the gift, which I cherish.

What I cherish even more, however, is the photo I have him making choo-choo noises to my infant daughter. He could make her laugh like no one else. His gift to both of us.

So embrace the little moments, at Christmas and through the year. Reflect on them, and pass them on, in story and photos. Fifty years from now, it’s these that will make your kids sigh and tear-up, long after the latest video game has vanished into the ether.

The last six weeks or so have been truly awful for me professionally and personally. Mentally and physically. Why? I don’t know entirely, and going into a lot of whiny details wouldn’t be great for you or me. I know I’ve made some bad, really horrible choices, and I’m paying the consequences. I’m bottoming out in more ways than one.

For now, I have to look both around and UP. Really UP. Around at blessings and UP toward God.

Rachel is relatively healthy. It’s fall and the weather is roller coasting, which means her sinuses are playing havoc with her. But she’s coping, for the most part.

I reconnected with an old friend, which was a beautiful thing, and I have friends who’ve supported me all along the way. I couldn’t get through this without them. Fortunately for me, I have TRUE friends, who lift me up and tell me when I’ve been stupid. We all need friends who do not pull punches.

I have an agent interested in my work. This is a VERY good thing, and I hope to continue talks with her this coming week.

Even as most of my projects are winding down, I have another coming along. I’ve missed some deadlines, however, which adds stress and doesn’t help the physical issues I’m dealing with.

The bad choices I’m turning over to God for guidance and resolution. We all stumble. I went down hard this time, but there is always hope in Him.

There you have it in a nutshell, why I’ve been so long gone from the blog. Mostly this spot is for sharing my writing more than my personal life, but occasionally, you’re going to get the emoting. It’s all part of the journey. Vulnerability and strength, hope and despair have to go hand-in-hand or we get out of balance and our true vision blurs.

Here’s a prayer for clarity, for all of us.

Confession: I’d like to start dating again. Don’t ask. Sometimes I look around and think this would be a HUGE mistake. Other times . . . well, I dream on. So I have profiles on Plenty of Fish and eHarmony, both currently hidden.

Here’s why they’re hidden. My friends tell me that I can tell a great story, but can’t profile myself worth nothing (as we say down here). I think this reflects on how hard it is for me to write my own bio for all these PR moments as an author. My friends tell me that none of the profiles I’ve ever written “reflect” who I really am.

The result is that I’m convinced that I need to meet any potential date “in real life,” and that online would never work for me. Yet it has for a whole slew of my friends who’ve met folks to date—and marry—online.

AND—in an entirely different line of thinking—sometimes I become convinced that the restlessness in my soul, my very being, which sometimes turns my mind to “coupling,” is, instead, a nudge from a much higher place, an insistence that I’m missing out on where and how He’s trying to guide me.

But, listen as I may, nothing comes through.

Instead, I turn to the one thing, the only thing, that relieves the restlessness.

Music. As loud and intricate as I can make it.

I’m open to suggestions. Should I date? Listen harder? Or strike out and wait for the doors to open . . . or close?

Out for now. A song awaits my dancing feet.

I wanted to be a doctor, and took every science course I could in high school, going as far as enrolling in pre-med biology and chemistry classes in college. Then I hit calculus . . .

I wanted to be a vet . . . OK, that lasted only until the first series of allergy shots . . .

I wanted to be a musician. This involved more than a decade of piano, flute, piccolo, guitar, vocal, and bagpipe lessons. I sat first chair flute for two years in my high school band, even taking a turn at directing when I was a senior. Now I’m really good with the penny whistle . . .

I’ve had classes in Spanish, German, and French. I used German as my translation language for my master’s degree. Now I know just enough of each to get me in a great deal of trouble . . .

In college, I went through FIVE majors: music, mass communications, theater, pre-med, and English. I couldn’t even make up my mind about a MINOR – I wound up with an interdisciplinary minor, Modern European Studies, which included two classes each from the political science, history, and foreign language departments . . .

Sounds a lot like I can’t really make up my mind, doesn’t it? But, if you’re a writer, you know where I’m going with all this.

I started spinning yarns and making up imaginary friends before I could read, and I’ve been typing out stories since I turned ten. God knew, and so did I, what I would be. The world said, you’ll never make a living at it. So I followed other interests, other dreams, even as I scribbled in my closet at night.

Truth is, I am a writer. It’s the one thing I do better than anything else; it’s the one thing I CAN make a living at, provided I work hard enough and stay open enough to what works and what doesn’t. As long as I listen to HIM, and absorb the rest, I’ll be OK.

Because the rest was not, definitely not, a waste of my time. Everything I’ve done; every experience I’ve had or will have, is merely fodder for the writing.

So if you have moments when you’re a little unfocused or blocked, or if you have kids who just can’t quite make up their minds about the future, embrace the moments and each luscious experience. Then put your head up, focus on Him, and keep going.

It’s worth the journey.