Saturday was a good night. Warm and enthusiastic writers, agents and publishers crowded into a huge ballroom, eager to see who and what would happen at this year's Royal Palm Literary Awards . The conversations all around me were vibrant, creative and filled with talk of books, writing and plots. My book came in first place, Memoir. The second and third place winners were accomplished, published authors with some meaty subject matter (One book was about a mother who's son was in the war in Iraq, the other, a story told by a cancer survivor). I was very honored that my book, a tale where a donkey serves as a metaphor for grasping for a dream and failing, held up so well. Most startling was walking up to receive the award and hearing the announcer read my bio. With credentials including an  MFA, teaching experience, and a list of other awards I was lucky enough to win since the last time I received a Royal Palm Award, I realized that while I often feel I've not accomplished any of the things I had hoped for when I moved to GA, I really have made great strides despite the challenges I've endured. And THAT made me feel prouder than any chunk of etched glass that symbolized winning an award. Our lives are nothing but the accumulation of small steps, and walking up to that podium, I realized that even if I am not yet at my hoped for destination, I've walked miles in the right direction.  

Later, I had a wonderful meeting with a very established agent who not only asked for my book, but took the time to share insight as to why my queries have not been getting the responses I hoped. She said no one will touch a memoir that runs 110k words, even if it's amazing. I have to pare the book down to 80K words to be saleable in this market. OK then..... so tonight I begin the arduous task of cutting material from the book to prepare it for a new agent and a fighting chance to earn a place in the publishing world. I embrace the task. Every change, painful as cutting can be, makes for a stronger book, and bidding good-bye the fluff is bound to make My Million Dollar Donkey a more intense and poignant read.

My date, David, had great class. He helped make the evening special, doing all he could to make me feel beautiful, accomplished, and talented (I suppose the Chardonnay helped me feel good too.) I appreciated his genuine support and efforts to make the celebration all it could be. 

After reading my last blog, my friend George texted me to wish me good luck. He said, "Pack light, Ginny. It's time you start lugging only a carry on with you." Made me laugh.
George has always been both practical and wise, and his words came to mind more than once that night as I sat in that crowded room among strangers. I felt grounded and at home because it occured to me that special friends are with me always, in spirit, in heart, and in the smiles they inspire; smiles that resognate long after the moment of first impact.    

Ginny, the writer, is back. It feels right and good to be blogging again, but I'm afraid not tonight. I must attend to my editing.....

    This weekend I am going to a writing seminar, the first I’ve attended in years. On Saturday night I will go to a banquet where the winner of the Royal Palm Literary Award will be announced. I am one of three finalists in the memoir category.

    I am not particularly excited or anxious about the results. I’m just going to see what happens. This particular contest fills me with memories and reflection and serves as a poignant reminder that life can be filled with important lessons, the kind of lessons that must be viewed through an honest lens.  

      I won the Royal Palm Literary Award ten years ago for the first full book I ever wrote, a historical romance called SISTERS OF FATE (the book was renamed more than once during a long, slow evolution.) I was thrilled beyond belief, except for the fact that my husband and I had a fight after the awards ceremony. He felt I didn’t thank him enough during my moment on stage and the focus of my winning this exciting award was quickly diverted from my writing and personal accomplishment, to his feelings that he was not appreciated enough or given enough credit for his part in my success. In retrospect, his needing to be given credit for anything and everything I did and his having to be the center of attention was a common theme in our marriage and not something I will get into here. But because of that memory, I know that when or if they call out my name tomorrow night, my delight will be dampened by the nagging resonance of my disappointment and hurt over a 20 year love affair that was completely out of balance. Memories and the baggage we can’t seem to put down are a bitch.  While some people can shrug and move on easily from a broken past, for others, the sorrows of a failed life linger like ghosts making the hair stand up on your arms for reasons you can’t quite explain. I fall into the latter category.  Sigh.

     Writing. What a journey it’s been.
 
     Winning this particular award way back when gave me something much more important than an ego rush. Dumbo was handed a feather and told that as long as he held it, he could fly. Damn if the elephant didn’t take to the air after that, convinced he could defy gravity just because someone gave him a symbol proclaiming his potential. Confidence is a wonderful thing.

     I had been dabbling in romance writing for some time.    I’ve wanted to write since I was a child, and in those tender years when I was expected to pick a career, I came darn close to going to school for journalism, but dance had such a grip on my heart and had a short shelf life, I moved to New York to pursue that dream instead. Still, I clung to the notion that when dance was done with me, I’d tackle the writing dream. I held that plan close to my heart for as long as I could remember and years of writing articles for magazines and journaling privately while I worked as a dancer kept writing a vibrant hope for me. 

     I opened a dance studio out of necessity to support myself way back when I first moved to Sarasota as a single mom, and some ten years later when it at long last became stable enough to afford me snippets of time and energy I could allocate towards something other than survival, I started writing fiction again. I wrote romance for reasons I won’t go into here, but to be honest, I was living vicariously on paper. My personal life was greatly devoid of physical intimacy, but I loved and adored my husband, so I found myself acting out, having the affair of the century with a complex, handsome man who lived in 1847 England. He was sexy and had ethics and absolutely loved his woman with conviction. He was everything I longed for, and the romance I plunged into on paper provided me with the passion and tenderness I needed and lacked in my real life.  Acting out on paper was a good thing, because it won me the Royal Palm Literary Award for Historical Fiction. In that way it is fair to say my husband WAS the reason that book won the award, because sheer loneliness and isolation in my marriage drove me to write the dang thing.

     Anyway, I won the award and, with it, a lovely burst of confidence, but selling a book is much harder than writing one, especially when you are unwilling to make compromises and write books that are format friendly for the genre publishing arena. I suppose I could have plowed on and eventually made enough adjustments to the book to get the dang thing published, but I chose to go another direction. If everyone was so convinced I had talent (I kept hearing this from teachers and agents and publishers who felt the book needed more work, but the “writing” was deeply promising) and if I was winning awards on sheer talent without so much as a lick of training, imagine what I could do if I seriously studied the craft! I didn't want to be a published author. I wanted to be a GOOD published author. So, I applied for some very competitive MFA programs and low and behold, was accepted by Lesley University in Boston.

     I got my acceptance notification on the very day we received an offer from someone to buy our business. Fate was giving me a sign, I thought, so I readily and willingly let go of dance to embrace the second dream. I had worked hard for 20 years building a business at great personal cost, and now I had earned the right (and enough money) to retire and try my hand at something that meant the world to me. At least, that is how I viewed the choice to sell FLEX and walk away from my dance career at the time.

     The rest of the story is told in my memoir, My Million Dollar Donkey, which may or may not win the very same award that started it all. Life has a twisted sense of humor sometimes. I did all I could to get my ducks in a row to achieve this latent dream, but my chance was stripped away by someone with a different agenda.  It was a bit like Jack in the Beanstalk, selling the cash cow for a handful of beans. Only in our case, Mark didn’t plant the beans in rich soil so a towering beanstalk leading to another world would rise from his choices. His choices were not out of character for him and after a 20 year history of watching him make similar mistakes, I should never have expected things to unfold differently. What happened next makes for a sad and miserable personal life story, but a good book – one that just might be good enough to win me the Royal Palm Literary Award again. There is good in everything, I suppose.

     Anyway, this weekend I will sit there in a room with other aspiring writers and while I should be gaining inspiration, my mind will no doubt slip to the dream that almost was, the man I loved more than I ever should have, and everything I endured to lead me to my writing this memoir. 
     I worked like a dog to get through my MFA program,  harboring a wonderful anticipation that when I was through, I’d be ready and able to pursue a writing career full steam. But no sooner did I have the skill and the education to follow “the plan” than life took a turn and my entire world fell apart. Instead of love and happiness and the happy, creative life that was right within grasp, my life became a nightmare of financial stress, isolation and loneliness. Voila - I landed back where I began 20 years prior, a single mother needing to open a business to support herself out of necessity, (and this time with far fewer resources and time to accomplish the deed than when I began last time.) Sadder still is that this time, I am dragging that heavy bag too – a bag that I continually strive to let go, but seems chained to my wrist, a perpetual warning that love takes more away from your life than it gives – or at least that has been my experience. (And now we know why this girl can’t write romance anymore.)

       Maybe I’ll win the award this weekend. Maybe I won’t. It doesn’t really make a difference. What counts is that life often comes full circle, giving you opportunity to see behind you without your having to turn around or walk backwards to see where you’ve been. This award is symbolic in that way, a tangible reminder that dreams never die, they just get buried or sidetracked or chained up by someone else so that no matter how much you do to give them their darnest shot, they may never get the space to breathe.  

    I will meet with two agents on Sunday. They will probably ask to see the book, they always do, because it is impolite and awkward to sit fact to face with a hopeful writer and say no. I understand that nothing may come of the opportunity, but there is always the long shot chance. Because of my personality, I have no choice but to hang in there, throwing darts, because someday, eventually, I believe if I keep writing and winning awards and hoping and dreaming, someone will say “yes” and one of my books will at long last manifest on paper. When that happens, I have every confidence that, thanks to my grit, determination and natural gift for business, the story will sell well. That, in turn, will affect my teaching, my career; my attitude and most importantly, it will give purpose to all I've endured and explain why my life has unfolded in such challenging ways. That would be the best gift of all.

     It is not enough to be a good writer. What counts is that you have something of value to say. Having a voice that resonates with the world at large begins with a broadened perspective of the human experience. Life certainly gave me that.
     This weekend, I’ll be remembering every step I’ve had to take in this long painful journey to get where I am now . . .  right back where I began. Bags in tow.  

I just looked up my last post. It was 423 days ago. Eeesh. I am certain I've lost my former audience (once up to 8 thousand hits) . But trust me, the time spent away was important - a time of healing  - the kind of thing that must be done in private. 
So, I'm ready to blog again and see where the words take me. Since I doubt anyone is really going to read this, I wont' bother to write an involved catch up passage. I'm now single. I have a new business. I'm living in Florida and piecing together a new life with slow, deliberate determination. That sums things up.
It feels good to be back.
It feels even better to feel good enough to be back.  
 

It is odd how, when all around you there is crisis and loss, you find yourself focusing on something small and seemingly unimportant, assigning greater meaning to it than the tangible thing merits.Your reaction to a small loss may be out of proportion, but understandably so.That small object has become a metaphor for your life.   

 Such was the case for me this week. In the last few years, I’ve have had to deal with losing my career, my home, my life savings, my marriage, my retirement plan, many dear friends, my integrity, and in the worst blow of all, my children. But it was losing a stupid picture that thrust me into a seven-hour crying jag this week. The human spirit is a delicate thing.  Weird and delicate. Considering the magnitude of loss I've been dealing with, why care about a picture? I guess because it is easier to process this than bigger issues.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a dancer more than anything in the world. As soon as I was old enough, I got a job working at McDonalds and I saved and saved until I had enough money for a trip to New York to study with a teacher that was my inspiration and my hero.  I remember that trip to New York and my first professional dance class as if it was yesterday. I remember the promise and excitement I felt in my gut, and the way that trip lit a fire in my heart and mind. I had found my calling in life and it was that very day I took my first step along the path that would become a life journey. I was 16.

After several days of taking classes, I returned home to finish out school, save more money, and await my 18th birthday when I planned to move to New York to pursue my career officially. That came to pass, and two years later I found myself in a tiny studio apartment in Manhattan,supporting myself as a waitress at night and studying dance in the daytime.

  About two weeks after I had become an official starving artist in New York, a man walked up to me and handed me afolder filled with pictures of me dancing at the very studio where I was now studying. Milton was just an amateur photographer, a nice man who took pictures of dancers for a hobby. He was a familiar face at the studio because he was always hanging around, trying to capture images of students in class.  He did this at his own expense and always passed the pictures on to the students with admirable generosity of spirit. He was an adopted member of the dance community and much beloved because of it. 

Milton told me that he had taken the pictures of me over a year prior and he had been looking for me ever since to give them to me. I was confused at first, because I didn’t believe his pictures could be of me.I had only just moved to New York. "The pictures must be of someone else –one of the regular New York dancers," I insisted.

“It’s you”, he said. “You are not easy to forget.”

I wasn’t sure my being memorable was a positive or negative thing. For all I knew, I was memorable because I danced like some green kid from the sticks, but I do remember thumbing through the pictures,amazed and delighted to see myself all sweaty and focused in my first week of dance in New York. Those pictures, while not all that impressive, meant the world to me because they captured what was one of the most prominent and life altering experiences of my life. More importantly, in the background were images of people that were significant in my life as well – my beloved teacher, peers I studied with and shared history with, and even a few dancers that I considered my competition, thus they were important in a different way because they motivated me to work harder.

 I put those pictures away for safekeeping.They were not fancy pictures, the kind you’d display in your home, but I loved having them nevertheless.

 I left New York twelve years later and moved to Sarasota to open a studio. I was desperately broke at the time, but I wanted to set a tone and create ambiance in my school, and that meant I had to be creative. One night, I thought of those pictures stored away in a file and I decided perhaps I could do something with them. So I spent the evening cutting them out and turning them into a collage. I added a few extra pictures I had on hand, my first headshot and a few pictures taken by a friend one afternoon in what was my first studio in New York, a place called Jazz East that I ran for about a year. The images in that collage were not fantastic, professional shots one might have if they hired someone to capture their likeness with intent to impress. They were just everyday pictures of me dancing… but whenever I saw them, I knew they captured a bit of the spirit and heart of the young dancer I was at 16.  And they made a nice collage- it was a conversation piece.

 I hung that collage in my new school, FLEX, the day I finished painting the walls as I got ready to open. It was the first (and for a while, the only) artwork I had in the school.

As FLEX prospered and grew, a lot of nice pictures found a place on the wall. I bought postures and artwork for decoration and in time the students became dancers of merit and images of them graced the walls,which was way more appropriate. We had a huge posture size image of Mark in the lobby that was very special. My representation as a dancer was just that silly collage, but I was delighted it was there.  Thanks to digital technology and the controlled environment that comes with setting up a dance shot, the pictures of all my students (Mark included) were far superior in every way to my silly New York collage. Yet, I kept that thing hanging somewhere in the studio anyway. It wasn’t there to impress others (because, face it, the shots weren’t impressive) but every time my eyes landed on it, I felt connected to my roots. I hung it for me. And as the years went by, it took on a different meaning… it was a symbol of FLEX that stuck in the student’s minds too. Students learned to turn spotting that dumb picture, and they often made fun of me for some of the stupid poses - so it was a part of their dance journey too in away.

 Every time FLEX expanded or moved, I found a place for that picture. When we sold the business, it was the first thing I packed up to remove from the premises.  When I opened a new studio in Blue Ridge, I hung it again – this time in the back of the studio because I recognized that the collage was dated and wouldn’t serve as inspiration to anyone anymore, but it was still inspirational to me.  It was the one stable thing that followed me through my dance career.

When I left Sarasota and passed the Blue Ridge studio on to my daughter, I noticed she had removed the picture and had propped it up in a corner of the storage area. I told Mark I wouldn’t dream of taking it off the wall myself if my daughter wanted it, but since she obviously didn’t, I would like to keep it. My car was filled with personal items and I couldn’t fit the picture into my vehicle at that moment, so I told him I’d pick it up on my next trip. Mark said,  “It will fit in my car… I’ll just bring it to the house for you and you can put it in the truck.” He loaded the picture into his car.

That afternoon we had an argument, your typical divorce conflict, and though my family had made plans to meet me and help me pack up the rest of my belongings, they didn’t show up. Emotions were running high. I ended up packing a small u-hall with the remainder of my belongings and I drove back to Sarasota crying all the way.

 A short time later we sold our home and Mark and the kids moved to a lovely new log cabin home with a view.  Our former home was finally cleared of everything that was ours.  About two months after that, I got a message from Ben, the new owner of our former house, saying that he had found a picture of me that he believed I would want. He said it looked as if someone intended to throw it out, perhaps because it was old and worn,but to him a picture like that appeared to be something with great sentimental value, so he wanted to be absolutely sure I didn’t want it before he did anything with it. I greatly appreciated his thoughtfulness, and his insight.

 He sent me a picture of the collage so I knew what he was referring to, and I was shocked. How did it get to the house considering it was at the studio last - then in Mark’s car? I had left the home for good by then with all my belongings, so I couldn’t imagine why Mark would unload it there, or if he did, why he would leave it when he finally removed every other thing the family owned. We no longer had any personal possessions at that home, and he knew I wanted the picture so the least he could have done was stick it in storage with all the other pictures, he took, pictures that had no significance or meaning. Still, he bothered to move and stack these in his basement.

I told Ben that I indeed wanted the picture and asked him to save it for me. The next time I had Neva for a visit I asked him to put it in the barn so I could pick it up and I opted to drive her home rather than fly her just so I could retrieve the picture.  I truly wanted this last vestige of my former life and I felt it was worth a 22-hour drive to get it.

After driving 11 hours to Blue Ridge, I drove the extra half hour to the house to pick up my picture, but when I got there I found the thing was damaged beyond recognition. The collage hadn’t just been left at the house; it had been left outside by the trash and for several months it had been battered by the elements – abandoned to the rain, sun and heat.There was water damage, mud and mold all over the picture and it had faded where the sun beat down on it.

 I cried. No. I actually wept. I ran my hand along that old picture and sobbed. I know, this is an out of proportion reaction to a mere picture, but I had crossed my threshold. I didn’t have the resilience within to face losing one more thing, and seeing the only remnant of my former life that had meaning being needlessly ruined just broke my heart. I guess it wasn’t the just the loss of the picture, although I will forever regret losing the only images I had of my teacher and friends from New York, but the idea that Mark could so callously destroy something that he knew I cared dearly about hurt more than I could describe. I couldn’t imagine myself ever purposely ruining any of his artwork or destroying or discarding the few pictures he has of himself when he was a young dancer. These are the kinds of things you want in your old age, something uniquelly your own for your grandchildren to make fun of. No matter how angry I might be with him,I just couldn’t destroy anything that is a part of his history, but clearly, I was had not been given the same respectand consideration. I know I shouldn't take it so personally - in a divorce, people often act badly due to the intensity of emotion. But to me the ruined picture was a perfect example of the long-standing dynamics of our relationship, a revelation that continues to be very painful for me to witness. 

 So, instead of staying in a hotel that night,I decided to drive home without taking a break. I simply had to get out of dodge. I cried for 7 hours as I drove home with that moldy mess in my backseat. Eventually, I feared I’d crash because I could barely see the road since my eyes were puffy and I was going on 24 hours without sleep, so I stopped at a dingy hotel and slept for four hours. At 4 am, I got back on the road and cried an additional 5 hours until I got home. As you can see, I haven't been exactly on top of my game of late.  

 After a good sleep the next morning that allowed some sanity and perspective to return, I decided that there was nothing to do but try to put the pieces of my life back together the best I can, and if the picture was a metaphor for my life, I could start there. So, this morning I dragged the damaged collage into my living room along with a smaller picture frame with intentions to save what images I could and perhaps create a smaller version of the collage for prosperity.  I am getting ready to open a new yoga/dance studio and I thought it would be special to hang this small symbol of my dance journey someplace personal, - perhaps in my office for my eyes-only. But when I pried open the back of the picture frame and tried to remove the photographs, mold made them all stick to the glass like those annoying price tags attached to new glasses – the kind you have to soak off and scrape with a knife. I couldn’t save a single picture from the huge collage. The images of my past ripped and fell apart, disintegrating like everything else in my life.  So… I cried some more. … Then I took the entire thing to the trash and watched it slide down the shoot to oblivion forever. Yes, that damn collage truly IS a metaphor for my life, or so it feels like today.

 There is a yoga philosophy that says, “You must loose everything to gain the world.”

I keep trying to embrace that, keep reminding myself that rebuilding a life is a process and I just have to get through the dark period with trust that things will get better. I keep reminding myself that there is nothing tangible in this world that is truly important, certainly not a dumb, outdated picture. A person’s history is theirs no matter what, and it doesn’t need to be documented with visual proof nor do you need to assign symbolism to a silly personal item to create inner drama. I will always have the memory of my New York years and the people who were so special to me. But even so, I mourn the loss of that personal trigger, that tangible thing that served as a reminder of who I am and where I came from. It only meant something to me, because it was seeped in memories of a rich and interesting life of dance, but the fact is, I cared about it. That picture symbolized my journey as a teacher and businesses owner because it was a part of the backdrop of growing that businesses and losing that businesses and starting over.. . again… then again…

There are so many far more important things I can mourn, and here I am broken up over a picture. Funny, how our minds work.

As a place to live, Blue Ridge has many lovely qualities, but the small town was so devoid of opportunity in some areas (at least for me) that it made me feel a bit like Dorothy running through the poppy fields in theWizard of Oz. Poor Dorothy is inspired and determined to get to the Emerald City, but on route she becomes transfixed by the beauty of the wild flowers. She stops to admire the beautiful red petals, totally unaware that they are potent with a heady, dangerous aftereffect that distracts her from her goals. Before you know it, the beauty around her has cast a spell and she falls sound asleep – the Emerald city and all the things she set off to accomplish are lulled to rest along with her body, heart and mind. In that story, Dorothy is awakened, thanks to interference of a good witch who sends snow to break the spell.

I won’t get into what became “snow” was for me, but suffice to say I was fighting sleep while I lived in the country. I was so enamored with nature and the calm of living at a gentle pace, that I lost the drive to accomplish many things I believe make my life worthy and meaningful.  I’m not suggesting that ambition is ultimately important – if anything, the older I get the more personal ambition fades, but I do believe continuing to grow as an individual and sharing your unique gifts with others is an important part of living to your greatest potential.

 When I first moved to the country, I volunteered to teach illiterate adults to read. For three years I worked with one particular woman three afternoons a week. Eventually that project came to a graceful end. Always wanting involvement in some kind of community service or humanitarian project to keep my karma in check, I got it into my head that I should get involved with teaching again, be it through writing or dance. I began by offering my services as a dance teacher to local schools free of charge. No one returned my calls, much less offered me a class. So, with my MFA freshly in hand, I offered to teach a writing class for free at two local colleges, the arts association, and for half a dozen individual groups (senior centers, the library and/or the Kiwanis club). No one was interested in my offerings in this avenue either, and after repeated failed attempts to give away my time and services, I simply gave up. Volunteering may be high on my life priority list, but as long as I was living in that particular town, the best I could do was to join a church and participate  n bake sale fundraisers, etc. Not exactly my ideal outlet for giving, considering I long to share my specific talents not just for others, but as away of honoring the arts I love.  It was a very frustrating issue for me.

Since free classes were a no-go, I offered a short journaling class at the new yoga studio. The session wasn’t very organized or well received and if anything, all it did was shake my self-confidence as a writing teacher. Frankly, I sucked at it, but in retrospect I can see that life was falling apart for me, so I couldn’t really give it my all. The project limped along, barely resembling my vision of sharing writing with others, but it did fuel my desire to someday teach people who might otherwise never have the opportunity to explore the power of words. I didn’t know how or when, but I did believed that someday I’d share writing with others and introduce them to new methods of communicating and exploring their feelings.

 A few days after I moved back to Sarasota, I called the Senior Friendship Center to make my standard offer to teach for free. Having hit dead ends so many times in the last few years, I didn’t expect things to unfold so easily, but lo and behold, within a day I was offered an opportunity to lead an ongoing writing class. It just so happens that the former teacher of a long-standing writing class had passed away in Dec. and the student’s had been trying to stick together sans official leadership. My timing was perfect – but life has away of giving you what you need when you need it most.

 When the class discovered I had an MFA and years of involvement in literary endeavors, they welcomed me with open arms and hearty appreciation, so I took the responsibility to live up to my resume very to heart. , I’ve been teaching fiction and memoir writing to a group of seniors every Monday for two months now.  Like every volunteer project I’ve ever gotten involved in, I feel great about the experience on many levels. I certainly learn as much as I teach.  Then there is the fact that, for me, a life well-lived involves giving of yourself, and I don’t mean just doing thoughtful things for your loved ones or getting involved in community projects that happen to further your work ambitions (although I’ve done that too). Like most people, I’ve embraced generic giving. I sponsor a child from a third world country. I donate to worthy causes, such as purchasing livestock for poverty stricken families in Indonesia each year. I’m quick to volunteer for the one-shot project, helping at a school or organization’s fundraiser. I take things to good-will. I walked 60 miles to raise money for cancer. You get the point. These endeavors are lovely, but face it; this kind of giving is easy because it involves limited commitment. It’s the thankless long haul volunteering – being willing to show up long after the initial flood of “aren’t I a nice person” feelings fade, that defines true selflessness.

 I saw this class as an opportunity to walk my talk, so, I made a pact with myself that I would show up, week after week, even if it meant going out of my way to arrange the rest of my life around this once a week commitment, (which is no small feat considering I’m struggling to piece together enough work to sustain me.) I simply sense this project is important -for me and for others, and for the as yet undefined future that awaits me.

Getting involved in the Senior Friendship Center has opened my eyes to an entire world of mature, active adults and the unique struggles people deal with in their golden years. I lived in Sarasota for 18 years, yet I did so completely unaware such a remarkable, free community resource existed here for the elderly. (In fact, it boggles the mind how many wonderful things this town has to offer that I’ve stumbled on now that I’m exploring it anew, approaching the area with fresh eyes and a good attitude.)

 The first time I walked into the center I was floored by the diverse offerings. Each afternoon a three-piece band of seniors performs. People come and sit in the great open lobby to enjoy live blues or big band music. They lounge around on couches or sit at tables with friends, some sit regally in wheelchairs, tapping their feet to the music and calling out to the band members as if they are all the best of friends (which indeed, I’m guessing they are). There are always a few couples dancing on the ballroom floor and I can’t help but stop to admire them. I wonder if I’m watching married couples that have been dancing together for 60 years, or new couples holding hands for the first time- a unique senior dating experience brought about because time marched on and rocked their world, disengaging them from beloved partners or friends. The romance in both scenarios moves me to tears. I’ve spent a lifetime watching young people move to music, but lately, the image of elderly people dancing strikes me as remarkably poignant. It fascinates me that regardless of a person’s age, music can creep into the soul and the body responds. We dance! 

At the far corner of the great room, dozens of men play pool on 3 busy tables. A room to the side features a handful of women playing scrabble with great intent. There is a wii station set up and inevitably, a senior is always hooked up, swinging his or her arms and legs and laughing at whatever challenge they’ve taken on. A convenient snack bar provides refreshments in one corner and/or people can always go into the large cafeteria for lunch or dinner where another musician serenades patrons on a piano. At the top of the curved staircase a busy computer lab invites dozens of people to pound the keyboard - they work on the Internet or write stories (in many cases, for my class).  Several rooms shoot off from this hallway, where all kinds of classes are offered throughout the week: art, writing, painting, scrapbooking, craft and special interest projects etc….The center offers free yoga, fitness and dance classes as well. It’s simply an amazing place for older people to gather and feel active and connected to others.

 Each Monday when I arrive, I pick up an envelope and a sign-insheet at the main desk and head to my assigned classroom. Smiles left and right greet me. Most days, I can’t help but think that life passes by in an instant, and it won’t be long until I’ll be stepping into a place such as this for entertainment rather than as a volunteer. It kind of makes me feel I am paying my dues in advance. I always think about my mother-in-law when I pass the scrabble room. Ever since her husband passed away she’s been consumed with debilitating loneliness. A place such as this would provide her with the companionship and activity she needs to feel life affirmation again. Friends and activities keep a person young at heart and I know she would have loved the music and the people.  She would kick butt in the scrabble room too.

Once I get to my classroom, I move tables and chairs into the center of the room while the music floats upstairs from the great room lending subtle inspiration to the project at hand. I wait for students to arrive. When they do, we share news of our lives. Our friendship grows stronger with each lesson; partly because of the time we spend together, but also because sharing heartfelt words is a bonding experience.

I structured the class to follow the format of a traditional writing critique group. Each week students bring in samples of their writing to share with the class, and after their reading, we open the floor to constructive criticism. After everyone has shared their perceptions about the writing, (and I insist on MFA rules of conduct so the discussion stays positive and helpful) I offer the teacher’s view, giving suggestions and advice for developing a stronger voice or evolving the writing to be more effective. When time permits, I end with a writing exercise. I always have something prepared, so even if we don’t get time to write in class, I pass out my handout and encourage the students to try the assignment at home.

 Amazingly, (at least to me) I’m really a good writing teacher. Apparently I have a wealth of information stored in my head from all those years of taking seminars and going through the grueling MFA process, and it’s all come together at last. When I look at a student’s work, I see the weaknesses with clarity, and the words I need to explain how to rectify the problems are right on my tongue. Several of the students in my class are also involved in writing classes at Eckerd college and Vo-tech, and they insist I’m not only inspirational, but that I explain things in terms they consider remarkably easy to understand. One student has even gotten into the habit of bringing me assignments from a college creative writing class he’s in, because he likes how I explain what the teacher expects.  I enjoy helping him prepare for that class as well as my own.

 It is fair to say I began with serious concerns about my ability to teach writing effectively, but thanks to the praise and the results I’m seeing from my little class, my confidence is growing. I’m sharing the act of writing with others. It’s been a long haul to get here, so I’m savoring every minute.

 I will eventually write with more detail about this adventure, or at least the lessons I’m learning along the way, but I will not go into detail about my individual students out of respect for their privacy. I do think I need to share a short description of the class dynamics, so for this one time, I’ll mention a generic overview of the kinds of students involved. My class so far includes one poet (also a visual artist) who is writing moving prose about growing up black in the south, one woman writing a musical about homeless people (bringing in profound and ultimately creative work that she jots down on the back of napkins and on paper plates– It’s a hoot, and she has no clue how good her work is), a student struggling with serious life upheaval because her husband left her after 40 years of marriage (she is writing as ahealing activity, and it’s all I can do not to lose it each time she reads her gushing accounts of her confusion and pain. I not only feel empathy for her, but I can relate,), a man who turns in a memoir piece one week and wild paranormal fiction piece the next, and there are always a few shy drop-ins. I’m told that when the seasonal residents return in the fall, the class will fill with many new faces.  I can’t wait.

 And so, a new chapter of personal “giving” begins for me. I’ll continue to show up week in and week out because, like all new experiences, there are lessons to learn by teaching. For some reason, I sense this particular activity is important – it has volumes to teach me about living, life and people - lessons I am primed and ready to receive at this stage of my life. Lessons I need to keep going.

This week, I’ve been busy re-establishing my life, which for me involves so much more than just finding employment and a place to live. I’ve been immersing myself in activities that I believe will thrust me into the company of people and events that enrich one’s world. In other words, I’m getting involved.

 Last month I went to my first meeting with the Sarasota Book Club. The book up for discussion was “Salt, A World History.” I thought the factual, non-fiction book a strange choice since most book clubs lean towards literary novels, but I plowed through the book and went to the meeting anyway.  I felt like a nervous little kid walking into a new classroom as I pulled up to a woman’s home and walked through the foyer to face strangers. I’m used to book club meetings being held in less intimate settings, like a library. But the moment I walked in the door I felt at home. I was greeted by a lovely, social group of 20 plus readers (sometimes, when a more popular book is on the agenda they have up to 60 people in attendance, I’m told – that is huge for a reading discussion group in my opinion.) The member’s newsletter encouraged everyone to bring food, so I wasn’t surprised by the table laden with salad, brownies, lasagna, and appetizers (I brought sweet and sour meatballs). The afternoon began with a huge lunch spread, then moved on to a vibrant discussion about the book. I so enjoyed being in the company of people like me, nerds willing to pass up hanging at the beach on a gorgeous Saturday to do something mundane, in this case, discussing a dry history book….  Intellectual stimulation – sad to say that’s my idea of a cheap thrill.

Speaking of books, this week I met someone who recently experienced a trying passage of life - she’s been successfully battling a brain aneurism. The family is interested in hiring me to ghost write a book about the ordeal, so I made plans to meet with them to discuss the possibilities. Not much money involved, but I sense this would be a great learning project for me, and I can use a challenging distraction from my personal issues, so I’m game. We’ll see if anything comes of that.

This morning I contacted the Sarasota Senior Center to volunteer my services to teach writing classes, specifically memoir and journaling. I’ve always felt more grounded when a small part of my life is devoted to volunteer work, and I’ve been thinking for some time that it would be rewarding to help older people preserve their life stories for their families and for prosperity. The problem is, every time I tried to get something along those lines started in my small town in Georgia, I hit a wall.  In Sarasota, thanks to the sheer numbers of the population and the available money allotted to non-profits, opportunities abound, so I’m going to try again. I pursued my MFA for personal life enrichment rather than career training, but the more I think about it, all that effort could be channeled to enhancing the lives of others as well. I don’t know if I’m going to be any good at the task of teaching writing as opposed to dance, but hey, I’ve offered my services for free, so the worst that can happen is I’ll develop some teaching skills and meet some wonderful older friends.

I joined two writer’s groups in Sarasota hoping to turn my attentions back to the dream I had hoped to pursue full time when I retired from my business. It didn’t work out for me due to other family choices, but the fact that writing can’t be a full time pursuit now doesn’t mean I can’t plug away at it. The Florida Writers Association has asked me to lead a new writer’s group in my area. Cool beans.  But I look forward to participation more than taking on the responsibility of leadership. The diverse input you get from hanging with an eclectic group of writers in any fiction group is priceless. I joined the Sarasota Author’s Connection as well, because it offers readings and book signings along with short writing sessions that interest me too. Haven't joined any romance writer's groups. Guess I've evolved beyond that. In a way, I'm sorry. Anyway, that covers the writing angle of life.

Next is running. Yes, I’m running again – not well,but steadily. Not a day goes by that I don’t head out the door, look up at the brilliant sunshine and the flat stretches of pathway beckoning to me and don’t feel charmed by Sarasota. I was disenchanted with this town when I left, but I’ve returned like the prodigal son, with new appreciation for the quality of life here. Running is one of the things I missed most about Florida, the emphasis on health and wellness, the active culture and the beautiful weather allowing consistency if you love exercising outside. I was not a very active member of the running club when I lived here last, but with a mere $20 a year membership fee I thought, “what the heck”. I rejoined the Sarasota Running club, hoping it might inspire me to go to a few races. For good measure, I also joined the Lakewood Ranch running club. They have some wonderful social events for runners that will get me out of the house and among people who make fitness a priority. Last but not least, I’ve looked into the Sarasota bike club. They organize long rides on weekends that start right by my home. The problem is, I’m a bit intimidated by this group. I have no clue how far or how fast I can ride. I’m guessing I’ll be an abysmal slow-poke if I just show up without some preliminary training. One of these days I have to get my bike out and ride as far as I can and time my ride – then I’ll check the distance with my car. I’ll probably think I’m going 20 miles at a good clip, but find out I’ve gone two in slow motion. But hey, the fact that I want to evolve from a runner to a bike rider doesn’t mean I expect to be good at it. Never been a good runner either – but I do love plodding along and feeling my heart race. Makes me feel alive. Riding might prove the same.

The other day I was driving down the street and a stand was set up selling flats of fresh picked strawberries from plant city. My heart went pang and I thought, “If I was in Georgia, I’d pick some up and make jam or wine . . . I will really miss the organic, natural element of my former life.”

Then it occurred to me that moving doesn’t mean I have to give up the things that enriched my life in the country. People are but the collective experiences of their lives, so everything I learned and loved in Georgia is still with me, and always will be.  I swerved over and bought two flats of gorgeous, plump strawberries. When I got them home, I looked at my tiny kitchen and thought, “who am I kidding…. I am not set up for this kind of thing…” but the dang strawberries didn’t fit in my fridge, so I had to make something out of them. I went to my garage and pulled out my canning materials, dragged them upstairs and at 11:00 that night was finishing my second batch of jam. It was such a pleasure to be cooking again. There I was, rocking out to the blues in my kitchen, singing as I ran a hand over the steam as it shot out of the top of my pressure cooker while I licked strawberry jam off a big wooden spoon. Figuring out how much steam pressure was appropriate was a new experiment for me. A part of my old canning pot was missing after the move so I was attempting a new method. That meant breaking out the pressure cooker for the first time. Cool tool.  Anyway, I now have 24 jars of fresh strawberry jam resting on my counter. Of course I’ll only use about two or three jars myself, and I’ll no doubt want to make other sorts of jams as different fruit comes into season, so I’ll be giving most of what I made last night away. But making jam is not about eating – it’s about cooking and having a gift of food for others on hand at all times. So shoot me. I love feeding others.

Someone asked me the other day if I miss my “expansive life”, a life that included raising llamas and growing tomatoes. I responded that I really didn’t think my life was expansive because of where I lived, but more because of how I lived. I like to think I embrace and explore the opportunities present in a given life situation.  You can lead an expansive life anywhere – it is simply a matter of seeking ongoing growth as a person – of being curious enough about the world to get off your duff and live large. I certainly hope my children have learned that from me if nothing else. 

Frankly, I felt my world was expansive when I lived in New York and I dived into dance and theater fearlessly. I felt it was expansive in Sarasota when I learned about running a small business, bought my first home, had a family and began writing. I felt it was expansive in Georgia as I experimented with organic living and explored the natural world. No one place has ever been more educational or stimulating than another…. no single place was better or worse - just different. Collectively, my life has felt expansive - not because any of those lifestyles were uniquely different from how other people in the area lived, but because moving from place to place provided me with diverse life experience.  Change is good. 

What’s important is to not lose sight of the fact that a person can make strawberry jam in Georgia, Sarasota or Timbuktu. I have a counter full of jars to prove it.

You know you watch too many movies (and read too many novels) when you start observing your life from a distance, like through a camera lens, rather than experiencing your days in a way that allows the sights, sounds and feelings to wash over you and stick. Seems a fair description of me lately as I go through the motions of starting life over. As I’ve been depressed and despondent, hardly able to function, yet there’s this voice in my head sizing up my choices, like the narrator in Bridget Jones Diary (only my life isn’t nearly as humorous and my commentary isn’t emphasized by a great soundtrack). My inner voice can’t resist poking fun at me, making sarcastic quips as I wallow in self pity or get all determined to dig in and tackle my problems only to deflate and give up within the day. When life throws you for a loop it is easy to sway between these two states of mind every ten minutes. I often feel as if I’m floating, wishing I would land so I can plant my feet firmly on the ground. But the earth still seems so far beneath me that even if I point my toes I simply can’t touch it.

During this ordeal, I’ve learned there are people who’ve dealt with worse divorce and financial issues than I. Lots. Trust me, they keep coming in an endless stream. Getting divorced is like getting pregnant. When you’re pregnant, it suddenly feels like EVERYONE is pregnant, or at the very least, their best friend, mother, sister, co-workers, etc… are.  And everyone attached in any manner to pregnancy feels compelled to tell you childbirth horror stories, as if this is going to make you more pregnant-savvy and prepare you for what is to come. All it really does is make you feel panic, depression and/or confusion, thank you very much. But people do mean well, and I suppose it is nice to be reminded that the most trying stages of your life are naught but common human experience. Divorce is like that, but at least anyone who has ever gone through it tends to be sensitive and supportive, which helps you feel less alone. Such an alienating and crushing life experience isn’t easily to forget and people feel compelled to help you through it. I’m grateful to new friends and old who have displayed concern and caring for me during these dark days.

I will not share the details of individual people’s divorces, though I’ve heard enough stories to write a dozen novels with spine tingling scenes. But I will say that a few gems I’ve heard had made me rather proud of my own painful, (but not hateful) divorce. Like the friend whose wife put all his clothes in the driveway and poured paint on them because he wouldn’t return her call in a timely fashion.

Or the friend whose spouse went to law school, made him pay for it and used what she learned to take him for everything, leaving him to the ears in debt as she boasted, “I’m not going to stop until he’s destitute, unemployable, and ruined because I’ve learned how to accomplish just that.”  And she did.  Now, ten years later the anger in him bubbles to the surface at just the thought of her. Or the friend who shared just a few words of the nasty commentary sent to him on a text that he plans to keep in his phone forever just reminding him how evil his ex can be. He shared it to me and said, “This is so I never soften towards her ever again. My significant other never liked me as a person. She likes the life I provided, but not me and after living together for 18 years in that state, I have good reason to resent her!” Or the fellow who described alimony as a woman’s idea of a pension plan. Or the woman who was cheated out of her life savings by a spendthrift husband who, after bleeding her dry felt she had nothing left to give, thus was dispensable. He agreed to provide support, but bailed the moment she left the house, leaving her destitute and unable to care for her child. Then he pleaded a case that he was more fit to raise the child than her due to his financial position.

I listen and wonder how romance, once blooming with promise and joy, can take such a 180-degree turn. Divorce changes people like the invasion of the body snatchers. Sad. And listening to numerous people unload the heartbreak and fury attached to their divorces, I began wondering if my depression wasn’t just about my own losses, but also because a magnifying glass has been held up to highlight the endless stream of romance stories with unhappy endings that are everywhere around me.   Listening to these scenarios is witnessing the death of everything I’ve always held most dear – the idea that love endures. I’m a big believer in happy endings – and if this one isn’t it for me, I’d like to think the next one will be. But to trust that, I need to come across at least one happy ending.  Sad to say, romance novels are the only place you find happy endings anymore, and damn if I haven’t given up reading that kind of material years ago.

Anyway, it seems the entire world population has a story to share about divorce, and not a day goes by that I’m not treated to yet another heart stopping tale of anger and loss.  Everyone, everyone, from friends and family to lawyers, doctors and Indian chiefs, continue to lift one eyebrow and say, “You may think your divorce will proceed amicably, but it will get ugly. They all do.”

Me? I continue to shake my head in a condescending way and say, “You don’t know my ex. Perhaps we can’t live together, but we can work together. Always have. Always will. Besides which, we’ve already discussed things and have agreed on how to proceed. I’m moving to Florida to arrange work and set up a life that can support me and my daughter– Mark and the kids even packed the truck for me and sent me off with a hug. There is nothing to fight about. We have jointly agreed it is time to separate, but we appreciate our colorful past and recognize what was good. We will be best friends always.”

Why does this always earn me a jaunty “you’ll see” smile? 

Then IT happened. I was hit with a lawsuit contradictory to all our agreements that threw all our congenial plans out the window. Suddenly, after years of loving parenting and caring for my husband, I was being accused of being an unfit mother, an adulteress, and an all around horrible person who jaywalks. An abandoner! And just like that, I’m dragged into a battle for my respect and my children, who overnight changed their opinion of me. Spending their days as if all things are normal with my ex while I am in my dismal state in Florida, they grew cold and unresponsive – My eldest even wrote to tell me she never wanted contact with me again in a message filled with such venom and ugliness that when I showed it to a few selective confidents they crinkled their brow and said, “And you want a relationship with this child why? I don’t believe any parent could excuse those comments, nor should they. I wouldn’t.”

I sat with that message for a day, rereading one particular line in a long paragraph of vicious accusations, (and this wasn’t the worst.) “You are no mother. You are a sick, sad, confused individual in need of help and I need NOBODY to tell me that.”

Now, here I am, changing lawyers, gearing up for battle, planning to devote every resource I have to force a fair distribution of assets. I will fight to be recognized as a good mother, even if it means I end up with nothing at all in the end, a ‘la war of the roses. It’s the principal of the matter. And at long last, instead of being devastated and feeling beaten and alone, I’m actually angry, feeling strong.

 Yesterday, I paused in the bathroom and got a glimpse of my own eyes. They were not unlike those of all the people who have survived divorce, the ones sharing horror stories, warning me to beware, prepare, and not to trust. And recognizing that I have finally been dragged into this ugly state made me sadder than ever.

 Everyone was right. I WAS naive. My upcoming battle is the comeuppance I deserve for boasting that we could end 20 years of loving each other with respect. I was wearing dark sunglasses to hide tears - but they were really just rose colored.

But even as I prepare for a fight now, I still wish they were wrong.  I am finally angry, but beneath that emotion I still feel a deep sadness - a sadness so profound I feel awash in it, as if melancholy is seeping into my pours and will leave a parlor on my skin, heart and mind forevermore. I can’t imagine ever feeling cleansed of it.  

   Of course I’m mature enough to know this too will pass. Life goes on, and happiness only awaits those brave enough to sake steps to pursue it.  Divorce when a marriage has gone wrong is a very important step towards happiness for both parties. It may be a horrible end of something on the one hand, but it offers the promise and hope of a fresh beginning too.

 Mad, sad, or whatever...... I hang on to that.

I haven’t blogged in a long time. There is a reason…. I simply don’t know how to begin under the new circumstances of my life. But I do miss sending a reflective letter out into the world, especially since I know friends old and new stop by occasionally for a Ginny update. Blogging is like having a quiet talk with a faceless friend, an audience collectively representing everyone I’ve ever cared about or shared a laugh with. Considering I could use a friend of late, I’d like to get back on track.  It is time.

The problem is, if I continue to blog it will require an uncomfortable announcement, so today, I’m here to make it. I’m going to stick with the facts and avoid being philosophical or giving my “view” in respect to the personal nature of the announcement.

Here goes:

Mark and I are in the process of getting divorced. I’ve moved back to Sarasota to be near family, friends (emotional support) and the work I’m cut out for, and am now situated in a small “transitional apartment” while I struggle to establish a new life. In effort not to disrupt the family any more than this kind of emotional earthquake has to, I agreed to let Kent and Neva stay with Mark in Georgia in our home to finish the school year. Kent will be off to college in a few months anyway, and not dragging Neva along during this difficult time has proven a good choice. I’m not altogether my spunky self nowadays and life isn’t exactly charming during this sort of emotional and geographical transition. I miss my children more than words can describe. Of course, I miss Denver too, but at 23 she is a competent and self sufficient adult living independently, so I missed her even when I lived in Georgia. The plan is that Neva will join me this summer to live with her mother. There is some resistance on her part but I will not address that here. 

 After 20 years of marriage, most of my friends are also friends of Mark’s, so I want to point out to everyone that ours is a congenial and respectful divorce. We do not fight, there is no ugliness, and we put forth a united front for our children, friends and family hoping to make this as painless as possible for everyone. Mark and I have always been very competent during times of crisis (which has been most of our marriage) and as such, our divorce is sort of like a recital, with both of us digging in to accomplish all the chores and handle all the problems as efficiently as we can.  We have always tackled difficult problems well together and we treat the fall-out of divorce just like any other life-crap that needs handling. In fact, our divorce is rather dispassionate and anti-climatic – there is apathy towards this separation that breaks my heart. The calm nature of this undertaking is prominent evidence that we are meant to be friends rather than lovers. To say it makes me sad is the understatement of the century.   

 I cannot speak for him, but I will say that Mark has been my best friend for 20 years, and hopefully, always will be.  While I understand that we are not meant to live together anymore, I still miss him. It feels like I’ve ripped off a leg as I hobble around through my days without his wisdom and humor to help me make sense of what I experience. But the nice thing is, when I really need it, I can and do still call him and we discuss things with warmth and caring.That means a great deal to me.  If I experienced any of the hateful comments or behaviors that so many friends have described to me regarding their divorces, I’d crumble into a ball and never stand upright again. I don’t know how people endure it. Divorce is simply the saddest thing I’ve ever experienced.  It isn’t just a marriage that dies, but a part of you as well.  And I could never hate someone I’ve loved, for 20 years, no matter what transpired to cause separation. How do people discard a lifetime of memories and shared history so abruptly and turn on their former spouse like a rabid dog? Thank God, that is not us.

 Anyway, I’m single now. That’s the gist of it.

 Now that I've made this announcement, I’m going to continue blogging when inspired, and anyone who misses this entry will no doubt be extremely confused since I’m now in a new state, pursuing a new life in every way. My donkey is gone, as well as my ducks and peacocks and horses and bees (but I kept the winemaking equipment.) I’ve packed away my muck boots and pulled my heels and skirts out of storage.  Just goes to show, a person needs to pay attention or they will get lost when choosing to be a witness to a life that often takes u-turns.

 I do not plan to write about any of the painful feelings or frustrations I’m experiencing in this life transition, and of course there are plenty, because that is the nature of divorce. But cleansing emotions is not the purpose of this blog – it’s always been more a vehicle to reflect on my life experiences and record and share the things I learn and discover about life. As such, I will write about what it is like to be 50 and single and starting over from scratch with practically no resources. Hopefully, I will do so from a positive angle, and perhaps even with humor on occasion.  I hope my not addressing the serious issue of divorce in my writing (unless it is a more generic reference) doesn’t give anyone the impression that I am frivolous or unfeeling regarding the impact this has on my family. We all deal with grief in our own way, and my choice is to focus on whatever positive elements I can find in my days. I believe there is always an important lesson to be gained from hardship, and as such I’m grateful even for life’s hard fist when it knocks me on the jaw good. At this time, it has wholliped me unmercifully. I'm very much alone at this time, which I suppose can be healing, but I've suffered so many years of issolation already that a heavy new dose feels unbareable some days. As such, I need to blog again. Now that I've finally explained what is going on in my world, I finally can.

Whew.

This Christmas never seemed to get off the ground for us,and a perfect example is our tree. Last year our gigantic fake tree, chosen especially for our 25 foot ceilings, disintegrated in the attack over the summer, so when Kent and I went to put it up, we ended up using duct tape and fishing wire to hold up the branches. No problem, we thought, we’ll just toss it at season’s end because there is no way we’ll still be living in this house by next season . . . we’ll pick a tree suitable for where ever we land….but of course, here we are. Ah well.

So this year, we decided to get a real tree to fit our big ole house, and about ten days after Thanksgiving, Mark and the kids went to a tree farm to have one cut. Thus begins the tree ordeal. They pick out a nice tall tree and have it cut, but on the way home the truck breaks down and it lands on the side of the road. A day later, we had the truck, tree and all, towed to the transmission shop. I suggested we go put the tree on my van roof rack to get it home and start our Christmas decorating.

Mark says, “I’m afraid that would be impossible. It would crush your van.”

“Just how big is this real tree?”

“Pretty big.”

And it was, because a week later three burly guys came over with Mark to lug the 16-foot spruce into our living room. It had now gone a week without water, and the base was so big that we couldn’t fit water into the largest tree stand we could find. Ah well. We would just cross our fingers that it would last the few weeks until Christmas.

But, before the poor thing got decorated, it was loosing pine needles and looking the worse for wear. We decorated it with lights and started putting on ornaments, but when we had gotten through only two boxes or so, we decided that was enough…. the darn tree would end up bald from losing pine needles if we stressed it any more. For the first time in 19 years our tree was not picture perfect with ribbon and hundreds of meaningful ornaments collected throughout the years dripping from the branches. Ah well.

When it comes to ornaments, nothing compares to the Hendry’s gluttony. We started collecting ornaments in our early years whenever we traveled or did something meaningful, because back then, a small token was the only thing we could afford to buy for a remembrance. As time wore on, it became tradition. Now,each year as Mark puts up the tree he plays, “Can you remember where we got this one?” with me. And every year we prove once again that I am not the ornament historian in this family.  But every beautiful or sweet or funny ornament has a history and once a year, putting up a tree brings awareness to this ornament map our life adventures, so just the act of putting up a tree becomes a poignant experience. Lovely.

In the end, Christmas isn't about decorations anyway (It's about mistletoe and cooking in this gal's book) and no one seemed to care about what might be missing from the tree, which goes to show that you can fret about things for no reason if you fail to put life into perspective. Our scaled back holiday was right sized in the end.....

(Kent & girlfriend, Brianna, sister-in law Dianne, Denver, Neva, & Jason. Mark must be somewhere with his mother. I was behind the camera) 

Dianne & Ginny

(Denver and boyfriend Jason)

Today, the day after Christmas, we were more than ready to get the dead tree out of the house, but how? Mark decided we would have to cut it down piece by piece and burn it. Ah well. It’s a plan.

So this morning, he and Kent removed the few ornaments and packed up the lights and begin cutting branches. Within moments the house was heating up from a roaring fire that sounded like a forest burning to the ground. For hours they kept feeding the fire as the tree dwindled and a foot high pile of pine needles collected on the ground and began to spread to every corner of our home. You can bet whoever lives in this house will be finding them in corners for eternity….

As Mark was cutting branches he called out to me that he found a bird’s nest in the upper crest of the tree.

“That’s a shame.” I said.

“Why? It’s not like there are any birds in it.”

"Well, obviously. But in the spring I’m imagining a bird will be looking for her summer place and not only will it be gone, but also her entire neighborhood will have been cut down."

“Ah well,” Mark said.

 When enough branches were removed that the tree could be lifted by Kent and Mark together, they lugged it outside, pine needles scattering every which way from room to room – my mess now so extensive I could only grip my broom tighter and sigh. Did people really do this all the time in the old days? Eeesh. Someone told me that a Christmas tree bag is the way to avoid this entire cleanup, but where do you find one for trees the size of Rockefeller Center!

So this afternoon, I’ve been sweeping, sweeping, sweeping…and mopping, mopping, mopping… and I must say, it feels good to have Christmas over this season…. It just wasn’t our year, and frankly, I’m tired of cleaning up messes and making this house picture perfect in case a buyer stops by (and we have two scheduled to come this week). When life feels like it is all effort and no pleasure, you know it is time to restructure your approach to living…. and perhaps living large is not all it's cracked up to be.

So, next year, when I get that Christmas gleam in my eye and start contemplating how to go about creating a really dynamic tree from scratch, somebody out there better remind me to go the pre-lit, easy to put up route – or better yet, a live tree in a big dirt ball – so my tree has meaning in a different way and doesn’t need as much glamour and sparkle to be special.   I’m making my new life motto -KISS.

Keep 

It 

Simple 

Stupid.

It may mean giving up a little in the creativity department….But, Ah the pleasure of simplicity........ 

Does that mean I'm losing my celebratory edge? Probably.  Ah well.