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See you in Santorini?

Book Group. Walk and Talk and bring your dog along! Sounds like my kind of outing. I had signed up for that book group long ago. But to date, have not attended. I am in their list of members but have not shown up. I have a feeling this will be a good group for me. The books are focused on a global exploration through literature. Well then, what have I been waiting for?

I head for Greece in a few days, another work trip. I am very excited. And, as I prepare my reading list for the trip, what better way to travel than to prepare for the next book group gathering by reading their next selection: Prayers for Sale by Sandra Dallas. This book is set in Colorado during the Great Depression. In the acknowledgment section of the books, I read a quote from a novelist encouraging the author to pursue her novel: “You’ve really got the bug about doing Breckenridge,” she wrote. “I feel quite sure about you and you have the grace to grow … As you have found out, the stuff out of which such books are made has to seep into a person”.    

It’s that last bit that captured my attention. Is that how it is with my own novel. Is it seeping into me first? I have written so many words for that novel, and each time I go back and read a section, I know that I am doing the right thing. But it is taking time. I feel as though if I am to be successful in capturing the essence of the characters, I need to not rush. What is incredible to me as I reread portions of my own novel is that these characters are no longer characters really, I can actually sense them- they have a life of their own. I never really understood that concept when reading about it from other authors’ experiences. But in my case, all of the main cast so far offers a rich canvas. Nina, Vera, Lars, Vidar, Mona, Sigrid. Each of them and others, should I mention Gunnar, all of them have a bit of me now. And, I can’t let them down. I must press on and finish their stories. I must give them life on the page and hope and purpose and settle certain matters, bring closure to others. It’s magic.    
I am hooked on this writing thing and in many ways wish it was not the ‘hobby’ that it is … I wish it could be my every moment, and my every day. Is that possible?  Could that be my next step in shifting to a life of purpose?

I need to pack up and head to my work desk to add a frequent flyer number to someone’s airline ticket record, process a final payment on an Iceland Self-Drive Itinerary, create final documents for a couple’s romantic escape to Paris. And I will pick up this thread later, perhaps tomorrow… Perhaps in Athens, Greece on Friday. 

 This travel career is not a bad gig, don’t get me wrong. It just seems I never have enough hours in my day to give my writing the time and nurture it deserves.   See you next time- maybe in Santorini?  Mykonos or… might I be in Crete?

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Woman.  Childless. Mother’s Day.

Babies have never really been my thing. I was not one of those young girls that enjoyed baby sitting. Young children were an oddity to me. I simply was not exposed to them very much and I had trouble figuring out how to talk to them. This fact has stayed with me for my entire life.

Still, I have a strong nurturing tendency within me and I love to give to others, to my family and friends and to my dogs over the years. It’s not that I don’t have a caring side. And I have been told that just because you are not good with other people’s kids doesn’t mean you won’t be great with your own. And I held on to that.

Except that in my life, time moved forward and the opportunity vanished.

Coming out of my divorce, I had a fairly high debt load. I was unwise in the exit strategy and thus walked away with over $25,000 in debt from various lines of credit that we as a couple had taken out for home improvements which were in my name and which were on the house I was leaving behind. Brand new roof on that house that he was enjoying and for which I was paying. For the first six months of my departure from that home, I paid the mortgage because my name was on the note and he was unemployed. I couldn’t risk losing my good credit rating.

 
When I exited my marriage, I simply had to get out. Plain and simple. I fled from despair. And, I rushed to such an extent that I agreed on holding the debt because truthfully, there were no other choices in my view. He was not working.

In hindsight, perhaps I could have sought counsel to figure out a better way but that would have cost money. And money I had none. So, I carried this debt and was paying it off slowly while accumulating more debt of my own because life as a single person in an apartment on my income was far from easy. And, therefore, the idea of bringing another soul into the picture, of caring for her needs – for I had a sense I would adopt a little girl, never came to pass.

 
And while I was never one to go crazy over other people’s kids, I longed for my own. I truly did. And then, over time, I shut off that emotion. I pushed it down under into a place that I could hide from. A place where I could avoid it and focus on what I had in life.

I watch this weekend as mothers are lauded and celebrate their motherhood. I feel a particular press against my chest as I consider all that I missed out on in not having children. I lavish the love I would give to a young person – into my dog instead.

On Facebook, occasionally, I have seen postings from parents or mothers in my distant circle that suggest that people who treat their dogs as if they were children are silly, or plain stupid. I actually from one person saw a fairly long rant on the subject not too long ago.  I shook my head as I read it.  Obviously in her world, someone pissed her off by suggesting that the relationship that person had with her own dog was the same as a mother and a child. This person is not a personal friend – so I am thankful to say that her beef is likely not with me.
In my world, my dog actually helps me to anchor myself to a place of joy while I walk through life childless. Would it be possible for those that mock others for putting all of the love they have into a pet- would it be feasible even for them to give us childless women a break? To understand the concept of mercy. To allow themselves to reflect on the privilege they have in being a mother, of the gift and the incredible joy that it must bring them. And then looking at their childless sister who may be a bit wacky and realize that perhaps, this wacky friend who treats the dog in her life like the treasure he or she is to her, that this person is doing her best and trying to capture joy in her own life.

 
We know mothers are special. Mothers are the only people in the world who understand that life is not just about themselves. They sacrifice. They put everyone else first. They overlook their own needs. This type of message is fairly frequently blasted in the media and social media. I have been instructed by the popular culture that I will never understand because I have never been a mother. This message is something I endure even from my own mother. When this message is thrown at me so often, I dare say- I grow tired. It’s a presumption and it can feel disrespectful and down right mean. I understand that in birthing a baby, a woman places herself second to her child- for the rest of her life. It’s a privilege and an honor for which I wish so strongly that I could have been a part.

I will praise and laud my mother this weekend. I will lavish her with gifts for she expects it and because she does deserve it. I will take her out for a beautiful meal. I will bring her flowers. I will fill out a card with words of love and praise because I want to but also because she needs it. And, I will not be the recipient of any such praise from anyone. Ever.
And, that’s how it goes when life passes you by and you never had a chance to dive into the reality of womanhood in motherhood.

Happy Mother’s Day – all of those of you who have been blessed to either give birth or adopt. God bless.

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The Value of My Time

Before entering the shower, I check my work emails. A habit I have formed lately. It can be a good thing. Just as easily it can be a bad thing.

 

Since last week, I have been dealing with a client that because we are a store front travel agency, called and insisted on visiting with an agent the very afternoon of his inquiry. In our world, we have a string of clients to whom we have committed time to work on itinerary planning. We are a very busy office.   Some itineraries are very complex and require a substantial amount of time to research and service. This client was not willing to wait even until the next day to sit with someone – and as a result, it was scheduled that he would meet with me at 4:30pm that afternoon.

 

He arrived with his wife and we sat at my desk.  He and his wife wanted to travel in August to Ireland, England and Scotland- over the course of a three week period and as they are both somewhat aged, they do not want to do their own driving. I share with them that I will gather as much information as possible from them to help me ascertain the best itineraries to meet their needs- primarily sourcing escorted and guided tours. I offer that with escorted tours, the nice aspect is that they do the driving, so much value is included, yes it is a group tour- and this can offer a remarkable array of experiences which otherwise they would not enjoy if they booked a simple air ticket with hotels and train tickets. There is an incredible amount of information one receives on these trips which offer an enrichment not possible on one’s own with a guide book in hand. A tour guide is with the group from start to finish, helping along the way for both the core tour as well as independent time- making helpful suggestions, restaurant reservations and the like. We spend a full hour at my desk discussing their needs and wishes. I promise to get back to them within 24 hours or so, letting them know that we have other client commitments, so will do our best to provide a follow up email with ideas as quickly as possible. The client insists he needs all of this information by morning. I look at him: “Is there a reason that this is so pressed for time?” They reveal that they are expecting out of town company so need to make a quick decision. Ok. I buy it.

 
What they do not realize is that I truly have other client commitments- dozens of them, and many demands on my time. I have pushed my pile of former client requests aside for his benefit this evening, and now he is asking me to push all of my commitments aside for the following morning in order to push his project to the top of my list. It is then that I learn that he has worked with another travel agency, and that this other agency had already suggested a few itineraries through various tour operators (that we of course also represent). He is shopping for tours and he is also shopping agencies. He says this with a half smile- like, you know, I am not committed to you- prove you have value.

 
I grow tired of this type of client. They are completely worthless to me. The time and energy he will suck from me and from my competing travel agency makes his business not worth my time. He is gruff, cranky, is sitting with his arms crossed and his nose up in the air. Wait, wait- I absolutely must serve this arrogant person right now, I must drop everything to please him and suck his toes while I am at it. His business is the most important thing in my life.

 
Oh wait, no. That’s not right.

 
I have value. I have worked in this business for decades and know that when clients trust me, and value my time- they reap dividends.

 
This guy is an arrogant son of a bitch who thinks that my time is of no value, he has not regard. He is cocky and believes that I should lay down flat with my arms outstretched and worship the ground he walks on because- he is a customer.

 

The next day, I put to use a new-hire in our department who wants exposure to research. She invest about one hour of her time searching through every possible tour operator offering to identify which comprehensive escorted tour will offer all of the bullet points the client indicated were of prime ultimate importance to him and his wife. One of the criteria was that since he is tall, he wants a motor coach that will be spacious, offer more legroom- business class type seating.  He prefers smaller groups if possible (not the large 40 group options that are mostly the norm).   He wants unique lodging, not big box hotels.

 

My colleague provides with the results of her research, we have three options to present. I go to work and type up a nice proposal which contains the three options, I explain discount offers and extra values.  I send it to the client within the requested time limit. And then, nothing.

 

Later in the day- he sends a four word text style email to me with no salutation, no thanks for the work, no appreciation. A question that seems stronger in tone that it likely was- but lacking any substance, hard to read. I answer his questions. The deadline for early booking discount is that same Friday- just so happens that the tour operators are offering an early booking discount and it expires April 28. I had conveyed this in the email. As promised in the email, I follow up with a phone call to invite discussion- let me know how I can be of help, would love to talk through the options and learn your feedback so that I can best serve you.
Time invested so far: 3 hours.

Nothing.

Late Monday, I receive a phone call. It is then that I learn that he is now shopping a third agency, and wonders why I did not offer the tour that this third agency offered- through a completely different tour company. Yes, that is also a great tour company. There are dozens of tour companies. I checked on many different companies and the ones I had offered are also excellent choices.  I explain that it is not really a matter of only one company offering the end all and best tour option amongst the dozens.  I offer that there are several companies that are known for doing a great job- the one agency # 3 offered does a good job.  In fact, I sell those tours often. In the case of his needs, I offered some options that promised a more intimate experience with only 18 people maximum on the tour. The experiences in my offered tour are unique and enjoyable.

 
I go on to mention that I am unsure why with the time constraint of identifying a tour quickly has turned into shopping several travel agencies for the tour operator offers. We all work with the same companies and it is a matter of identifying which tour itinerary will best suit.  We are full service, I am glad to check on other tour companies.  I need more concrete details of the competing offers in order to compare- it is important that we are comparing apples to apples.

 

I receive more cynical questions from him which show his lack of confidence in me or maybe for that matter, any agency or even in the concept of being involved in an escorted tour. The truth is what he needs is likely an independent trip which would require that he drive himself- but he does not want to drive.   I can only imagine the rolled eyes from other escorted tour guests when they encounter this dude who is generally contrary and has a frown and growl.  He will be no picnic for other tourists.  On group tours, one encounters nice people- one also encounters know it all people who must prove and reprove their own worth by being high brow on most matters- he strikes me as the type.

 
I spend another half hour with him on the phone going over more questions.
At the conclusion, he begs off saying he will be in touch.

 

I stew on this for awhile. I have spent about 3.5 hours now. The other two agencies have also likely spent the same amount of time. Together, we have spent over ten hours.

 

I send him an email thanking him for his call. I let him know that any further investment of time and effort towards his trip will require a commitment deposit of $100 ($50 per person) for further research and service. It is a more professional and lengthy email than that but it is one we send often to clients who are not committing and wasting our time. While it may seem like a tactic of pushing business away, the truth is in my business- it is not uncommon for there to be a complete lack of regard for our time. After all, what is the big deal? I book on-line all the time- they are not doing that much for me. It’s disrespect.

 

Plain and simple.
Perhaps they consider it as one might consider shopping for an appliance, checking various stores for the best buys. However, ours is a service industry and the sales process is a time consuming endeavor with a lot of time sucked for research on client requests that are not committed requests. Those, in my view, are not always worthy of my time. I have piles and piles of folders on my desk for clients that value my time. Who understand what goes into the process. So when those clients reveal themselves to me showing they don’t care about what I offer, they are going to shop me around to other retail shops… I let them loose. I need to direct my attention to the labor of love that I offer to those clients who get it.
There is a hope with some of those cold calls that they too will turn into a labor of love. But when they show up with a scowl, crossed arms, questions that at the beginning stage are unreasonable (what are the dimensions of the seat cushions on all motor coaches for all tour companies – I want the biggest seat cushion if going on I a bus tour)- well, those I am comfortable saying goodbye to.

 

I think about conversations I have had with friends in the past, proud of themselves for having put a sales person through the paces, only to compare shop and then jump on-line to buy it on-line instead of in person.     We have become a culture that does not value human service.   We are in a hurry.  We are cynical.  We can be gruff and we can discount the value of the human effort.     With my own experiences with unpleasant customers, I must remember this in my own consumer transactions.   Treat people well.   Be courteous and respectful.   Value their time.    Don’t shop around unless it is absolutely necessary.  Give the person who spent the time with you first- the benefit of the doubt.

 

It’s time to wrap this up and head to my desk and invest my time with those souls who value the process.

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Farewell Sweet Anam Kara

Have you ever listen to a piece of music that washed over you with an intensity that formed wells of sorrow and sadness as well fueled a sense of hope, all at the very same time? That is the feeling I had this afternoon as I listened to the piece called Memories by Ryan Stewart. The soft dance of the piano keys as Ryan’s fingers gingerly played up and down the keyboard.   The speeding up and slowing down and moving to high and low notes as if teasing you, or showing you what it is like to have the rolling surf move into and out of a rocky bay.   I can see the seagulls playing and hear them squawking as they plunge down into the water and then come back up with the catch firmly caught in their beaks.

 

For the past few days, I enjoyed one of those weekends that will be renewed in my mind each time I think of the sudden greening of the trees after a long winter. That delicate lace that appears in a gentle celery green, barely gracing the tree limbs. Just beginning their entry into spring and announcing that winter is likely over.   This weekend, the tree limbs went from bare to slightly green, not quite full bloom.   And on this weekend, I had my friend by my side.   We visited our old haunts. We were quiet at times in the car.   She is the kind of friend that allows space for thoughts, the kind where you don’t really have to talk all the time. You can just be.   It was a short quick weekend. Not quite the amount of time I needed, a gentle hello and then just as quick, goodbye.   Oh how I miss her as weeks and months tumble over themselves and life passes by.   I long for those days again, when each weekend is a special treat. A time to laugh, enjoy a coffee, discuss the week’s events and reflect on personal wants and needs. An authentic and deep friendship.   I have lovely acquaintances in my life, people whom I care for and with whom I yearn to grow in deeper and deeper friendship with over time.  The kind of friendship that I have with my Anam Kara.  That is what she is to me, Anam Kara.   A Celtic concept that completely describes who she is in my life.  Well, on reflection, I know now that this friendship is something that  we both took a bit for granted.    We didn’t really know what we had until it was gone. We had moved on to different chapters in our lives – equally.  It has been four years now since she moved thousands of miles away and we began our long distance friendship.   I treasure her more than ever. And, I hope we will maintain this depth of connection for the rest of our lives. That time will not erase us.

 

This past weekend and its newly formed memories has led me to the thought of chemistry. Of investment.   One does not cultivate this kind of depth in friendship without the requisite investment of time to nurture and feed that friendship. Intentional moments.   Thoughtful expressions, recognizing that which is beautiful in one another on a regular basis and sharing insights, cradling one another through challenges and persistently supporting one another through decisions, ambitions, hopes and fears- through the good and the bad. Praying for each other.  Checking in and finding out how things are going.  An important regular feature in sustaining a depth in friendship.  And, oer time, this nurturing endeavors to solidify the ties that bind us all together.

 

Dropping her off at the airport today was rough.   As we pulled her suitcases out of the trunk and we said our standard goodbyes… as we hugged and she turned and she pulled the roller board up onto the sidewalk and waved, and as I waved and as I left her and said to her: “Safe Travels” – she replied simply: “Thank you”.   And then, she walked through those automatic doors into the terminal, and I watched as her blue sweater dissolved into the dark back drop of the interior of the building until she was gone. All of those things are a standard fare for a long distance friendship.   And as all of this happened, as I found myself climbing back into the driver seat, turning the key in the ignition, putting the car into drive and releasing the brake – rolling away gently from the curb and heading towards the exit ramp … with all of those actions and my movement towards afternoon errands, putting myself into an automatic pilot position, I basically sank into a stupor.   A hard to come to grips with melancholy descended upon me and I know that it will likely hover around my shoulders for weeks to come. I miss her already and I dread the void she creates when we part ways.

 

I will return to business as usual.  I will get my haircut today.  At the moment, I sit in a coffee shop and write this entry and sip on an Iced Coconut Nirvana concoction. I try to concentrate on ideas for the novel.   I consider a future schedule of work commitments, group friendship commitments and future weekend brunch commitments. And I will enjoy them all.   I will learn to cherish those moments as much as my time with my sweet Anam Kara.   And, I will look forward to our future encounters which we have promised each other to plan, make sure to schedule something soon, so we can again reconnect. It’s my turn to come to her hometown, to finally see Mount Pearl.  And, when that happens, we will come together again and we will start the conversation right where we left off.

For that is how it is with an Anam Kara.

And today, I am so truly grateful to be able to say that have at least one Anam Kara in my life.

 

 

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Ginger Curls

The unforgiving wind whipped her grey toned skin as she lay bare under the chill of a February sky.  Her body tangled up in layers of seaweed. Her ginger curls had lost their spring, long soaked by the waves lapping up from the shore.  It could still be quite a while before someone happened upon her in this isolated bay in the middle of winter.  Perhaps a hardcore fisherman who ignored the harshness of the season.  This abandonment had been well planned to give plenty of time for the elements to do their thing.  There would be little left of her by the time the authorities became involved.

Who is she? How did she end up lying on the shores of the majestic Oslofjorden, lodged between a few hefty boulders and covered in seaweed. Wrong place at the wrong time? What was her involvement with “The Group”? Was she followed and then eliminated by a master plan? Did she know too much? Was she inappropriately inquisitive with the wrong people?

Anita generally asked too many questions. She needed to know every detail. Her discernment meter could be a bit off when it came to certain people. She trusted too much. Martin had been leery of her ability to follow orders when it came to discretion. He questioned Otto’s judgment in bringing her into The Group in the first place. During her training, Martin would call out instances of weaknesses in her approach to various assignments to the higher ups, only to find his opinions batted away. They liked her. More importantly, Otto liked her. They all wanted to believe in her. Martin worried about her safety and the safety of his comrades. Would she end up being their worst vulnerability? Could her personality and innocence result in harm to the team, or worse yet- a disastrous end to a vital assignment? Otto was unconvinced that she had been a mistake. He kept repeating over and over again that she could be the Ace up their sleeve, the honey to draw the bees. With her supple body, brilliant red curls and sultry ruby red smile, she could be useful in uncovering hidden plots through the plying of her charms to the enemy. It was risky, but he felt she could be that sweetheart that softened a Nazi soldier into giving away secrets. It had perhaps been a naive proposal.

At any rate, she had not received enough training and they had not allowed enough time to fully ensure that she had the full understanding and scope of her difficult assignments; that she had the right appreciation for the necessary precautions that she must take. They had needed more time to hone her instinct. They had likely sent her out into enemy lines way too early. But time was not something for which they had a surplus. Each day and each month deepened the hold the Nazis had on Norway. Letting time pass was not something Martin or any of the leaders of the Group wanted to nurture without some progress in thwarting the Nazi master plan. So they pushed her out of the nest early, and hoped she could fly. And she flew like the best of them for a time. What they had not counted on was that her heart would get tangled up in a romance with one of the Nazis. They had not fully considered that she was a feeling young woman with hungers and hopes for a future that included full fledged romance and belonging. And, poor sweet Anita had trusted the wrong man. While her parents had no idea where Anita ended up, The Group had a strong suspicion that her disappearance had something to do with Helmut. She had not returned from that last assignment, and that assignment had everything to do with Helmut. He had been the key to advancing their project, to gaining better insight into the next steps.

Was this her fate,then? Lying in a pool of seawater, her eyes staring up at the heavens as if asking for help a bit too late. Her face was void of any meaningful expression, her soft green eyes offering only a blank stare up at the sky, as if to say: “look there, a fluffy cloud”. The innocence of her death would break anyone’s heart, even the coldest enemy couldn’t take this scene in without knowing that on both sides, people – human beings, were casualties of this war. Regular citizens trying to make a difference, becoming involved in the layers of intelligence that in a normal healthy world, would never have been necessary. These civilians would have led simple lives with regular jobs and marriages and children. But in these years of occupation, people stepped up. Ordinary people. And in some cases, these ordinary people did not have the skills or insights to properly navigate the traitorous waters of war.

As Anita lay in this agitated pool of seawater, one could not see any trace of a final fear or any strain in her soft face. There was no detection of tragedy to mark her final moments of life. It was as if her death had been a soft and simple comma in a long string of hopeful words. There was no exclamation point to be found here. This was a fade to black moment on an otherwise beautiful sun drenched horizon which invited the waters into a soothing embrace of her body, leaving behind dark green moist ribbons of seaweed to cover her up from peering eyes.

 

No one in her personal circle missed her because she had been absent for so long. It had been years since her parents and sister had seen her. Thinking back, her family might say she had been gone almost since the moment that those u-boats headed up the Oslofjorden in the Spring of 1939. But it wasn’t quite that long ago. It was actually just over a year into the conflict and occupation that Anita had found her way into a friendship with Otto, and it had made all the difference in her world. Her parents had never met Otto, but they knew of him. Anita had mentioned Otto to them early on in her friendship with him, but then just as suddenly, she stopped talking of him. Her parents did not know this, but her silence came along once she had been officially recruited into The Group. When her parents would ask about him, she would offer vague responses and then change the subject. In fact, on most topics, her usual bubbly and energetic responses were lacking. She had become more and more secretive. She had changed.

 

When she disappeared on that day in late August of 1940, they were not that surprised. They had a feeling she had gotten involved in something to do with the underground, but they were not sure of the exact details. They missed their sweet Anita. She was one of those people that commanded an audience. She always entered a room with a full voice and lifted people out of the doldrums. She was a mood booster. She enjoyed people and they enjoyed her. Her absence was definitely felt. The world was not the same without her. As with most people, Anita’s mother hated the war, but she despised it all the more because it had taken Anita from her.

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Surrender:  Step One

Am I an addict? A sugar addict? Looking back at my 49 years, I can identify regular intervals of time when sugar was the only thing I thought about. How to eat it, when to eat it, how much, how many servings was too much, when would I begin to feel the sickness, how long would it last, could I get away with it this time, when would enough be enough?

I have been on just about every weight loss program out there. And each time I know that it won’t work, not really. Because in me is this overwhelming urge to eat sugar and lots of it. I can put the sugar down for small periods – at least in the worst form of it, but eventually, it creeps back into my life and takes over. Sugar. Yes. Sugar.

Some of my sugar comes in the form of cereal, cookies, chocolate, candy and wine. Other times, it is straight up scoop of sugar blended with something like cocoa and butter to make my own creamy version of frosting. The only real evidence is the weight. I carry a substantial amount of excess weight. I am not yet at 300. Not even yet at 250. Nor even that close to 225 ..but wait, oh.. WAIT! I am close to 225… Just recently came around that bend. For the better part of the last fifteen to twenty years, I have held pretty steady with my weight at just under 200. I have been just a little proud of that fact… Well, at least I am not over 200! That’s been the narrative streaming through my head.

I can pin point the actual moment in time when I began to use sugar to self medicate. Back then, I didn’t think of it in those terms, but now and even in the last few decades, I have recognized my problem. I just have not completely surrendered to the idea until very recently. Like in the last few days- surrendered. It pretty much started around 1979. And, I am not really sure how I figured out that sugar would dull my pain, but for a temporary dullness, it worked. I became acquainted with frosting and soft chocolate chip cookies which I would eat by the box full after school while my parents were still working about an hour away, in the big city.

 

As a teenager, I was pretty quickly aware of the effects of the sugar on my physique, but the dullness was more attractive to me back then- than being too worried about my body and how other people might perceive it. I was horrified even back then about my fat body but that horror was overshadowed by my need to not feel anything, so I ate sugar anyway.

 

My parents swung into action early on as they noticed me putting on a few pounds. And, I mean- really, just a few pounds. Back then, I believe I was about 115 pounds, maybe 120. On my 5’1 frame, I suppose some of that looked a little squishy and my parents grew concerned. My father, with whom I did not have a very close relationship and who was more often gone on business trips than home with us, offered me the miracle of a shake diet he was selling on the side: The Cambridge Diet. These were disgusting shakes that I should drink instead of a meal to help me lose some of that excess weight. I had my little tumbler that I would bring with me to school; powder and water and voila: lunch. In between shakes, I would eat sugar. Of course, Dad was disappointed when the shakes were not working on his 15 year old daughter. Not a great testimonial there. Never mind that my soul was breaking that the only man in my life was basically telling me I was fat. Not good enough. Needed to be fixed.

He didn’t know at the time that I was using sugar to dull the pain. He didn’t know that the pain was from my guilt which I had been carrying around at that point for about two years already. The guilt that goes back to the death of my brother, which was all my fault. So many things I should have done early on to prevent the literal car wreck that occurred in 1979.

Later in life, bad decisions and poor judgment led me to more abuse from men which lead to more dulling of the pain. Poor luck in this department called romance.

About twenty years ago, I managed to lose about 60 pounds. At that time, I was in the full bloom of romance with the man who was to be my second husband. And, I remember vividly that my slenderness at that time was scary to me. I had lost my screen, that protective coat that I carried around most days that made me invisible to men. I remember feeling that vulnerability so strongly when I walked through a bar with my then fiancé and noticed many eyes from the bar staring at me as I walked through. I was at the skinniest I had been since childhood. I had managed to peel of all the layers using drugs: Fen Phen. The miracle drug being sold throughout America. It worked – swimmingly. I was thin and looking in the mirror, not bad looking. In fact, I was pleased with my appearance. I did not have this feeling back then that I had to lose more- on the contrary I felt good. But those stares, those looks from men. They actually did freak me out- quite a bit.

 
When my second marriage began to go south, when I started noticing his change in personality… I reached for sugar once again. It didn’t take that long. And to be honest, the drugs had melted my fat pretty quickly too- so basically within 18 months, I lost 60 and gained back about 30. So, I sat there at around 160-170 for about seven years. Then, after the divorce, I packed on about 20 and have been sitting at 190 for another ten years now. And, then- just recently, I stood on the scale and to my horror: 218. How did that happen!

Over the years, my doctors have been warning me to get some of that weight off. Suggestions have been offered to join a good program like Weight Watchers, “they really have the right formula” they say. I smile “yes, you are right, I should do that, and exercise more too”. But deep down I know that none of those “programs” will do a bit of good. I have been on programs all of my adult life. I could teach the course! Nutrition knowledge and understanding is not my issue. Sugar is my issue. Jars of Nutella by the spoonful. Chocolates by the bag full. Jelly beans by the handful. Not every day. Not every minute. But the minute something ultra stressful, or sad, or emotional, or unbearable- enters my world… I reach for sugar. Sometimes, I reach for wine and yes, I might have four glasses on a Friday night. I don’t drink excessively and not even several times a week. I can go weeks without wine. So with that – I know I am not an alcoholic. But, I am definitely a sugar addict.

In the last couple of years, I have had some symptoms medically which I believe are likely attributed to sugar. Very recently, I had the full blood panel and learned that my blood looks good on many levels. So that is a relief.

But, I am tired. Very tired- of how tired I feel most days. And, I am tired of the roller coaster and the shame and the overwhelming urge I have on many weekends to stay indoors, anti-social. I want to lock myself in my room and just hang out with my dog. It’s easier.

I skipped Easter Sunday Church – because I didn’t feel like dealing with my clothes, and people. I don’t have anything really pretty Easter to wear, and the idea of wearing black flowing clothes to cover my personal layers ..well, unappealing. I begged off with a comment about having slept badly and stomach not feeling good. And, when the family left for church, I ate sugar.

I knew two days ago that perhaps, just maybe, I hit bottom. It doesn’t feel like the kind of bottom that alcoholics might experience, in terms of the 12 steps idea. But for me, the isolation, the feeling of wanting to hide for the rest of my life if I can help it, is scary. I have friends I share time with and for whom I feel fondness. But the truth is that I think more often about the horizon of losing my parents and what will happen to me then. Alone. Completely. No one to share my life with.

Mom keeps urging me to get out there, to lose weight, to exercise to do something about my future. She, too, worries about what my life will be like when they are gone. She has fairly often expressed that she worries about my mortality with the weight gains. Both parents now in their 70s and 80s. Ten years and who knows. What will my days look like without them? And if I don’t get a handle on my weight, will I follow them soon after their own deaths? Or, will I go first? According to Mom, that is not a distant possibility. The way she expresses it I could drop dead any moment because of my weight.

Then again, I have a friend whose husband passed of a heart attack in his early 50s and he was overweight. Perhaps not such a remote possibility for me.

The pathetic aspect of my life comes to me full on. The image is completely awful.

I ponder my singleness and my chosen isolation. Is this what I want for my life? It’s a separate issue: Sugar Addiction, Abstinence from Sugar and a future with a partner. But they float in my mind and link arms at times and look at each other and say: “how are we going to figure this all out together?”

One Day At A Time.

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Inspired by Sigrid

More than one hundred years ago, a Norwegian woman by the name of Sigrid Undset writes her first novel titled Marta Oulie: A Novel of Betrayal. It is a story about a woman who betrays her husband by having an affair with his best friend. In the early 1900s, this kind of novel was scandalous and did not make it to publication until many years later. The story is written in first person, mostly through letters and journal entries.

Sigrid Undset’s life as a writer was met with various challenges, in part due to her conversion to Catholicism, in a country whose citizens were primarily either Lutheran or Atheist.

As I read the entries, I am struck by the emotions that she describes by the act of confession, whether in journal form or in the form of oral confession with the privacy of a screen inside a church, between one soul and her priest. In both cases, the satisfying release of burden which allows the soul to then continue on her journey, unencumbered.

Reading this novel, I feel immediately connected to the protagonist who is writing her letters and expressing her deepest needs, fears and wishes. A character created by a woman in Norway in the early 1900s. There exists between myself and this character, a resonance that bridges the divide of so many years and such difference circumstances. This is the joy of reading, the connection between humans across continents and centuries. And while the words I read are those of a character, they are a depth of the author funneled through her character. I want to know more about Sigrid with each paragraph that I read of Marta Oullie.

While Sigrid’s first novel does not get immediately published by the Danish House to whom she submits the work, many years later she would win a Nobel Prize for another work titled: Kristin Lavransdatter; a book set in the Middle Ages of Norway with a vast array of characters that brought to the page the time period when one found a cross over from Paganism to Christianity and the harsh realities of the Black Death; mid 1300s. Within those pages, we find a rich tapestry of characters that forms an incredible saga of Norwegian history. Within that prize, the committee also acknowledged Sigrid’s first piece of work.

During WW II, Sigrid fled to Sweden and then New York City. She had been known for her outspoken criticism against Hitler, so she felt it best to seek safer shores. Sigrid experienced many tragedies in her lifetime, including the death of two children. Her life and her writing have me enthralled.

I remember as a teenager, with my own mother hailing from Norway, that there was excitement in gifting me with the three volume collection of Kristin Lavransdatter. Back then, I had felt it a very long read and a bit dry in places. I did not have the patience for it then. Now, I am intrigued and want to get my hands on all of Sigrid’s writings, to find her within the pages. To have a chance to get to know her better.

Sigrid Undset inspires me to press on in my own writing and in my readings a continuing education. I long to read more, classics, history and biographies. To spend time learning and most of all learning to write better. I am so grateful for the bold and courageous writers in the past that have laid the path for those of us in the present to embrace our own passions, and push onward to better heights.

Who do you carry close to your heart in your own reading world that offers inspiration and ignites your passion?

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A Stasi Spy, A Tapestry Weaver and a Concert Violinist

Romeo Spies Project from the Cold War is mentioned in the podcast that I listen to covering Occupied- the Original Netflix Series. It has me intrigued, I set off to the Internet to find out more information and come across an article in The Guardian which unfolds the typical scenario of the Stasi Spy from an East Germany project. The basic idea is that a Stasi Spy romances a woman that might work in a high up office within the American Embassy and he plies her for information that will help the communist cause. Just such a situation played itself out in real life between Gabriele Kliem and Frank Dietzel. They were engaged for 7 years; in 1991 she was arrested for espionage. Only then did she learn that her fiancé was already married and was an East German spy not the physicist he had claimed to be.

It occurs to me reading this article that this is likely the basis behind a character and relationship development I follow on the fictional serial: The Americans on FX.

And it excites me. This idea of taking viable scenarios from real history and folding them into my own novel. My five year project is in full swing. I suggest five years to take off the pressure. After all, this is my first novel. I was originally saying 1-3 years. And, that grew to 5 recently as I read articles about first time novelists and all the work that goes into the process. And, as I experience that process first hand.

So many layers of my novel require a ton of research, for which I am completely energized. I want to get my hands on as much material as I can to flesh out the various paths, characters and goals.

There is the main character that grows up on a farm in Southern Norway that raises the special Spaelsau Sheep. My character matures and ends up moving to the big city as she follows a blossoming romance with a genius violinist. This guy is narcissistic and temperamental, but my character does not see or acknowledge this through her rose colored glasses. And, in the end, she marries him. In the big city, she works at a Tapestry Factory. All of this occurs just before the Nazi occupation which begins around April 1940. Pursuant to the occupation, my main character becomes involved in the underground, without her husband’s knowledge. He in the meantime becomes involved in the Quisling Regime, unbeknownst to her- at least initially. So much to research. Farms. Sheep. Woolen Mills. Fiber. Tapestry. Oslo, Norway during the 1930s and 1940s. Classical music, particularly Scandinavian and European composers. Professional orchestras in Norway, their schedule and how they are affected during the war. The violin. The occupation and WW II history in general. The Quisling Regime. The underground movement in Norway.

I gather ideas, materials, research. I develop characters based on my findings. It’s a huge project and one that occupies my mind most days. It’s an exciting wave and a dream. And I relish each moment.

 

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Occupied

Occupied is a new Netflix Original series that was released in the United States this past January and for which I am completely hooked. Set aside the notion that I am presently working on a novel that covers the occupation of Norway during WW II, this serial set in Norway is chock full of plausible current event scenarios that could lead to just such an occupation. Politics, geography, resources, culture and war. I just started watching the serial and while I have been doing a bit of binge watching, I am only as far as episode #6 out of I believe, 12. Half way there.

In addition to watching the serial, I am listening to an unofficial accompanying podcast which features four young souls that episode-by-episode critic and reflect on everything from the premise, setting, acting and cultural significances of each scenario and action.

Today on the podcast covering episode #4, they discuss a little about Norway’s history and they touch on the occupation, even bringing up the fact that in present day Norway, the term Quisling is an adjective reference to someone being a traitor. This comes from the actual person of Vidkun Quisling, the leader of a collaborationist regime with the Nazi party that was present in Norway during the events that led up to the country’s occupation in April of 1940. Norway was vulnerable because within its government there was a traitor regime that basically welcomed in the Nazis to take residence and utilize their shoreline for the purpose of gaining access to the Iron Ore situated in Kiruna, Sweden. Kiruna is only a short distance from a major port in Northern Norway: Narvik. This may not be the sole reason for Norway’s occupation during WW II, but it is a large part of it.

Can you imagine how excited I was in my car as I was driving to work today and this group of 4 podcaster a was talking about Quisling and his role in WW II and the notion of a country’s vulnerability as a result of traitors in the midst of order? Most people I encounter have no knowledge of the finer points of WW II and the occupation of various countries, in particular Norway. How did it happen? How did people allow their country to be suddenly over taken by the enemy? Was there not a government and military presence to help snub enemy efforts?

I know about the Fort Oscarsborg situated on an island just south of Oslo and which was thought to be closed and considered inoperable and in fact, unknown by the German military. On April 9, 1940, this fortress played an instrumental role in slowing down the military coup of Norway by the Nazi regime. Deep under the fjord waters was a torpedo battery which successed in sinking the sub: Blucher. This prevented the Nazis from taking the king prisoner and allowed enough time for the royal Family to escape Norway with their valuables including the royal gold, before a second attempt was made. Quisling’s regime had previously attempted to declare leadership over the country and announced that no one was to resist the Nazis. The soldier keeping watch at Oscarsborg disregarded those orders, and for his disobedience he ended up in jail. That man was Birger Erickson.

I just recently learned that in the last year and in particular last month, the US Troops have been in Norway on a NATO mission to load up the caves with artillery and military vehicles to arm 15,000 soldiers for 30 days, in the event of a major incident. This project has been ongoing since 2014. And, it is something that is on most major network websites. However, I being a regular news watcher, I have not seen it on any prime time media outlets. In my view this is a good thing. I speak of it here, but hope that this type of contingency military action stays under the radar.

Occupied: the Netflix Series- not so far fetched.
It’s happened before.

I am glad that perhaps we do remember history, our leaders and military higher ups keep history in mind as they watch various strategies being made by various ruling parties around the world.  Avoiding the mistake of history repeating itself is a very good thing.

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Missing Violet

Where is Violet?
The final story in the best of episode of The Lapse brings the voice of a young woman whose quest it is to find her mother. Her last memories of her mother are the kisses that she received on her cheeks as Violet dropped her off at neighbors. Looking back it was the earnestness of her kisses and hugs, and in particular, those that Violet bestowed upon her baby sister, that prompts her to reflect that Violet knew in those moments that this was the last time she would see her daughters.
Later we learn that someone witnessed a person in a black leather jacket plunge over Niagara Falls and the event is deemed a suicide.   Violet wore a black leather jacket, the two are connected including her vehicle close to the falls.  The dots are connected.
The daughters move on with their lives.
Twenty two years later, Felisha Martin is still looking for her mother Violet. She has learned from various sources, that this disappearance was likely not a suicide. That it was instead a planned escape into a new reality. Her voice conveys a forgiveness and concern for her; an overwhelmed young mother with two children by age 23. What Felisha later learns is that her mother may have been mixed up in some very bad stuff, including prostitution and drug dealing. She likely wanted to push the restart button. Reboot. Start over.

I listen to this young woman who has such a brave and yet remarkably light voice. She clearly learned to be a grown up very early on. Now, she seeks answers, mostly because she just wants to know. She talks of confronting her mother’s family a while back because they protected her and her sister from her mother’s truths. Felisha tells them they don’t need to protect her, that she wants to know the truth so she can move on.

At one point, someone in her circle saw Violet in a casino and came face to face with her. The woman claimed a different name and rushed out, but this person says she knows it was her. There are certain mannerisms that suggest that there was a 99.95 % chance that the woman in the casino was Violet. Someone else comes forward having known Violet as a child. This woman who had encountered Violet suggests that she was a truly lovely person and that she was quite fond of her.

Another circumstance reveals yet another encounter episode with Violet. This time another young woman remembers Violet walking her to a party. At the time, this young woman was a little girl and she carried great affection for Violet. This little girl presented Violet with a pair inexpensive seashell earrings and she noticed that Violet was already wearing these beautiful gold earrings, likely quite a bit more expensive than the seashells. Violet immediately took off the gold earrings and replaced them with the seashell earrings. She then kneeled down and hugged the little girl and told her how she loved them. She wore them the whole evening. There was tenderness in those actions.

 

I wonder about Violet, her love for her daughters, her knowledge of being stuck in a no-win lifestyle full of violence and perversion. Her worry at exposing her daughters and keeping her daughters in a bad situation that was perhaps only continuing to get worse. Did she leave to save her daughters? Did she leave to save herself? Was she coerced?   Did she continue on the path of destruction or did she clean up her life?   Is she alive?   Felisha wants answers to these questions and so much more. She wants to know she is safe, that she is ok. She perhaps wants to know her better. She wants to understand what happened and put into perspective how she is to live herself.

 

When life ends up a bucket of mistakes, how often do people hit the reset button? And in that reset, are the mistakes completely wiped away? Or do they linger on and filter into the new life? Did resetting help Violet? Or, did she repeat the disaster in another reality with other players and other messes?

 

Habits and tendencies: do these not follow us around no matter where we end up? You can divorce that person for being insensitive or abusive. Will you simply repeat the disaster with someone else? Our human makeup, can it be changed? Can we get out of ourselves and improve so that the cycle does not repeat itself? And if so, how do we do that?

 

I wonder if Violet still doesn’t want to be found. If she is afraid of coming face to face with her past mistakes, that is- her own mistakes of not treasuring her gifts in her daughters, of the hope and joy and promise they presented her. Of not seeing at such a young age what a incredible miracle they were. There is a website where Felisha is gathering data on her mother… MissingViolet(dot)com.