When writer’s block sets up camp in your soul and refuses to leave, it’s only natural a writer find another way. My other way comes in the form of Letters to My Daughter. Mind you, they are housed in a black leather-bound journal, but they begin with a date and “Dear Lovey”  and end “with love from Mom.” To me, that constitutes letters and it’s letters I’ve been writing to her since December 5, 2011, 372 days after her dad, my ex-husband announced he was leaving. It was at that point I decided that I had to get some things off my chest, exorcise a few demons.

I must admit, not every day has been filled with love. In the beginning I poured out my heart in the only way I knew how, talking about the pain, the games, and how the torture just kept going. The clocks kept ticking. The sound that made me insane when my daughter was first born – tick tock tick tock – reminding me how quickly she was growing became the sound that my heart synced up to in order to keep beating. And with every heart beat life moved on, slowly. Lovey grew upward, up to 44 inches in March, and my heart grew a little stronger. I’m still waiting for wings to sprout, but for now, at least it can beat on its own.

It kept time with the world yesterday and granted me joy in experiencing the little things and the ability to write about them. Things like:

The color Moroccan red, which now artfully adorns our kitchen and makes me smile each time I glance in that direction; cats purring and mewing around my ankles as they seek out a snack, and a little Buddy who refuses to leave my side; the smell of roses and gardenia growing together; any blue bird God ever created followed closely by red, then yellow; the romantic trill of a cowbird; a bullfrog croaking along with the sound the water makes as it pours over the rocks; the smell of rain as storm clouds begin to loom; the sight of brightly colored leaves and flowers spreading out across our vegetable garden knowing tasty, fresh vegetables aren’t far behind; learning Lovey had written her very first stories in school yesterday and her confidence as she proudly read them to me; the sound of her sobs as she begged, “Mommy, please, please let me sleep in your bed tonight because I miss you and…I’m crying” – sweet, funny girl; the sound of her softly snoring as she lay on the pillow next to mine; the breeze rustling the leaves outside my window and the tinkling sound of rain drops bouncing off the window; the sound of friends laughing, especially Mickey who has the heartiest laugh ever to leave a man’s chest; my mom and aunt as they feed off of one another’s hysterical laughter until they both begin to cry and the priceless looks of confusion on my father’s and uncle’s faces; the sound doves make as they launch into the sky; and the moment I once again experienced true joy.

Every day I write a letter to my little girl. Each day is different, yet each one offers the promise that life really is getting better. MAybe someday she’ll accept it as my gift of wit and wisdom about how purely crazy our lives were way back when. Maybe someday the pain, the games , and the torture will stop. Maybe someday my heart will sprout wings and lift my soul whistling as doves do when they fly away.

What little things have you experienced that have brought you joy?

My munchkin, fiery red-head that she is, was slated to camp with her father in Chattanooga this year. Alas, Spring Break  arrived and off they went. I kept my distance allowing them much needed time together. Then miraculously I got into my own grove. Totally unexpected, but here’s how it happened:

Monday I felt lonely. I missed Red with all my heart like someone had removed my head and left my body behind to poke and clod around. Body bumping into all the things it desired to accomplish, without my head I just couldn’t see those things at my fingertips.

On Tuesday, I took the proverbial bull by the horns and made dinner plans with a couple of good friends. We met early and enjoyed a pitcher of margaritas and plates full of carnitas. Giggling ensued and I finished the night feeling a lot less lonely and a lot more empowered.

Wednesday was pure bliss. It was the one night I planned in advance – dinner and tickets to Ghost Brothers of Darkland County at the Alliance with a man. Yes folks, a man. This special man I’ve known for over 25 years. In fact, he was my date to my fifteenth birthday dinner – ah, memories. It was the first night in about six months I’ve allowed myself to be a woman; not a mom. I put on makeup, a dress, and the extra special perfumed lotion I love. My friend arrived, handsome as ever with salt and pepper hair and tanned skin. My stomach did a little dance but I didn’t let on. We sat at my table and enjoyed brisket with cherry barbeque sauce for dinner. Then out the door we went. What happened next left me star struck. I am a huge theatre fan and opening night at the Alliance can be thrilling, but Ghost Brothers, a Stephen King / John Mellencamp collaboration, was the best yet. The completely unexpected but very King story accompanied by classic toe-tapping honky tonk of Mellencamp made this play one I would see again. At the beginning of the second act I inadvertently eves dropped on the couple behind us. They spoke of how disappointed they were for not talking to “him”.

Hmmm, I wondered. Who’s him?

Seconds later, they mentioned “Steve”. I had a hunch…

“Handsome date, check the program to see if there is a Steve in the cast.”

Nope. I turned around a looked at the woman sitting, now a little jittery, behind my seat, “Sister,” I said, “please tell me you are not talking about who I think you are talking about?”

Oh, heck yes she was. Stephen King was there in the audience for opening night. Wow! I mean really – WOW! I just finished reading On Writing a week ago and once finished felt like I was this man’s confidant, apprentice, friend. It was that book that we all long to write – the one that changed my life.

I only caught a glimpse of this man whose writing life I long to mimic, but that glimmer of greatness burned an indelible impression on my heart. Combined with sitting next to a man I’ve known and at times loved throughout the last three decades, I friends, was blessed to feel bliss, passion one more time. Just WOW!

When the night came to a close, and I had finally stopped jabbering about the play, the music, and my hero I told my friend that he was no Stephen King. He looked at me with a slight grin and maybe a tinge of disappointment then I finished, “but you leave me just as star struck.” With a kiss goodnight it was back – passion.

An inescapable feeling of excitement lingered on Thursday. It came in wafts and waves throughout the day leaving me unnerved, waiting for the next phone call like a love struck teenager. Ugh. Dinner and wine with a dear friend at my kitchen table brought me a little closer to myself and normal.

The house was silent for five days and in those same days I learned to be a woman again. I learned: 1) my life feels less without Red; 2) I enjoy drinking wine while I cook; 3) being in the company of the right old friend can be both comfortable and sexy; 4) and finding passion at 40 leaves you star struck and longing for more.

Were you on Spring Break this week? Did you find yourself? Experience something amazing or unlikely?

Until next time, I wish you passion.

Using Words. When men want something they typically ask, right? When little men want something they handle things a little differently – they grunt. Sounds sort of primitive, but I find this to be true of men in training. They may not articulate what they want, but they will certainly take your hand and pull you to what it is they desire then grunt until you say the magic words, “You want (fill in the blank)?” Then they nod, satisfied that you understand until you say, “No.” Because what they want is always something that they cannot have.

Hugging. Funny, but I think this is the only time in a man-to-be’s life that he is actually open to the whole “emoting” thing. Unfortunately, at the tender age of one/two, when two boys hug it usually turns into a full scale WWE elimination event, cage and all. I digress, a one year old who has less motor function than that of a two year old but is nearly twice his size can be cause for potential concussion. I really think this is where men lose their sense of intimacy. Beginning at a very young age, we tell them “not to do that because they could hurt someone.” It’s our fault. We’re programming them all wrong.

Sharing. He who dies with the most toys wins. Enough said.

Needing Attention. Another fascinating study in men-to-be. Unlike using words, needing attention requires only one signal. It takes a subtle hang of the head, a single tear, and the all important, “Mommeeeee” to grab a woman’s attention. Once you hear the high-pitched “eeeeee” you know that a little man’s heart is aching and all he wants is the doting attention of the only woman in the room. Just pray it’s not to nurse. I’m just sayin’.

Food. If it’s mine it’s mine. If it’s yours it’s mine. If it’s the teacher’s, I hope she brought enough to share with everybody because she’s the one with the good stuff.

Romance. After I started this job I was blessed with the addition of one little girl to our class. She’s tall, tiny as a twig, and has lots and lots of personality. Funny, I think this holds true throughout the lives of both boys and girls – when there is only one girl to impress, all the boys are out to win her heart and when you are the only girl, the boys are that much more fun to play with. That goes for teachers too.

Have you observed the interactions of little men and their environments? Noticed some of the same behaviors? Want to share your own?

Why is it when you begin a new endeavor that some mysterious unseen force manages to weave its way into your new life (think Final Destination) and try as hard as it can to derail you? Yes friends, my Friday the 13th was just such a day and I say it laughing. Follow along with me…

After only a week and a half of teaching at the Parents Morning Out program I was given my own room. Yes, my very own class of little angels to care for and teach on my own. We were up in the air about the official start day until I got ready to leave work on Thursday. “Tomorrow!” I yelped, uncertain if I could wrap my head around the idea so quickly. But, being a flexible, capable person, I agreed.

What could go wrong, right? Anything can go wrong on Friday the 13th.

Imagine my joy when I arrived on the morning of Friday the 13th ready to face a tense yet fun-filled day to find my classroom turned upside down by the teacher moving out. The room seemed empty; lifeless compared to how it appeared the day before. By 9:30 AM four of my eager little students had arrived. All boys, yes that’s men in little bodies, with good constitutions. First up, little Jordan. Up on the changing table (one of those fold down things) where I expected to find gloves, wipes and ointment in the usual storage location – EMPTY. And diapers? Where? Under the sink a full five feet away. Okay, so I could’ve been a little more prepared, but when one little man gives the signal to charge, the others follow suit. I had to get busy.

After the first round of diaper changing was complete, me and my eager friends sat on the rug to read a story. An adorable board book on colors and painting, little Gregory became inspired and located a paintbrush that had been displaced in the tornado known as the room exchange. He brought it directly to me and figured, in his infinite manly wisdom, that the best place to store it temporarily was my – CLEAVAGE. Fabulous!

Somewhere between the cleavage incident and getting the kids ready for lunch I LOST one child. Okay, so I didn’t exactly lose him. One of the other teachers had absconded with a “favorite” without making eye contact with me, but still, it proved to be heart-stopping.

Finally, the day came to an end. The boys gone, the room quiet, I decided to spend some additional time and effort getting my classroom organized and ready for the next week. I’m a project manager and administrator by trade so being disorganized is NOT okay. I was alone in the classroom wing of the church. Settling into my task I was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. I fought my intuition to ignore it and figured one of the other staffers might have left their keys in the building and had to ring to get back in. I was wrong, it was a solicitor, but in my hurry to get to the door I didn’t think that the other doors would be locked. Yes, I locked myself in the foyer between the fellowship hall and the classroom wing – car keys, purse and coat left behind in the classroom. Thank goodness I had my cell phone stashed in the city (titty city that is) so I called my director who had left early to pick up her sick child, apologized profusely and begged her to come and let me back in. I couldn’t tell if she was  cursing or laughing, but either way she agreed and came to my rescue. Whew!

That’s when I gave up. No, I didn’t give up on my newly realized dream of wanting to teach. Instead, I gave up on making it perfect and meeting and exceeding expectations. Friday the 13th tried to jinx me; it tried to take the wind out of my sails, but, I don’t give up so easily.

Bring it on Friday the 13th. I can take whatever you can dish.

What about you? Did anything crazy, unwarranted, unbelievable happen to you on Friday, January 13th? Share your story for your chance to participate in the Petit Fours and Hot Tamales oh-so-hot anniversary celebration. One lucky commenter will win an autographed copy of Allison Brennan’s Fatal Secrets.

I believe these are Sarah Ban Breathnach’s five keys to finding your authentic self. I’ve been reading her book Simple Abundance – A Daybook of Comfort and Joy since sometime in August. It appears I missed a few months at the beginning and will blissfully get to start January 1 with a fresh look at these five keys to authenticity.

After ending November with a shard of ice left to stand on, I found that instead of the pond re-freezing beneath my weary feet like I had hoped, God instead melted all of the ice in my world and my heart. Funny how that happens. And you know what, the water was only about knee deep. For that, I am grateful.

Still a little soggy from my fall I found myself in a whole new world. In this post-divorce, single mom, still no job place of existence I found leaves falling, withered, even crunchy from trees ready for their winter nap. Just yesterday as I walked down the street I noticed one last leaf drifting, tired yet elegant, to the ground and I thought to myself (montage anyone?) what a wonderful world. But seriously, the leaf represented my shedding of that one last painful thought that lingered in 2011. It brought to a close what I now call the past. One day, one hour, one minute ago is gone; not to be changed. I smiled then continued walking thinking about all of the promise 2012 holds.

Will I make resolutions for 2012? No. But friends, I am going to make plans. Plans to return to school to get my TCC in Early Childhood Education. Plans to go back to work, finally, in January teaching and caring for preschoolers (180 degrees from where I started). Plans to write because that is my passion and what I am supposed to do. I will also plan to follow my friend Tami Brothers’ lead and evaluate, or reevaluate, my life. I will search for my authentic self through gratitude, simplicity, harmony, beauty and joy.

Sometimes all it takes to change is a little perspective, even if it means starting out with frozen, waterlogged toes.

Are you ready to begin fresh in 2012? I hear through the spiritual grapevine that women are beginning to take the lead in cosmic energy and men are going to be left behind if they don’t get on board. Hmmm. What do you think? What are your plans for 2012? Are you making any major life changes?

Happy Holidays and cheers to a fresh perspective in 2012!

But this year life, and my beliefs, changed. I liken it to ice skating:

You lace up your skates and wobble to the edge of a pond you know for certain is so frozen you don’t question the ice’s stability. You step out with zeal, believing your skates, ankles, and legs are sturdy. You dig in your toe pick and push off. It feels at first like your leg might glide not-so-gracefully right out from under you, but the fear fades as both feet come together in an elegant ballet. You find your rhythm. You feel as if you are floating, not scraping, across the pond. You reach the middle of the frozen sheet. Stop. Look around. Confidence fills you as you see that you’ve made it to the center of your current existence. That was easy! The silence of the ice and new fallen snow take even the subtle sound of your breath away into nothingness. There it is. Peace.

“POP!”

Loud popping captures your attention. The silence is broken by the screams emanating from the ice where you were just skating so effortlessly. One large crevice splinters into thousands of tiny others. Panic fills your mind and body. Do you retreat? Move at all? Stand perfectly still and hope the frigid temperatures can freeze the ice solid again before you die from exposure? Do you have FAITH that everything will work out? Do you BELIEVE God is with you in your darkest moment? Will the Lord giveth? Or, will He taketh away?

Hmmm.

I think Monday was the day God chose to show me that I am not in control. When I woke up Monday morning all the promise of a new day existed in my soul. The Lord giveth. By the end of the day, the domino-effect had so concisely splintered my solid ice into tiny, fragmented pieces that I was barely able to balance on the shard of HOPE that remained. The Lord taketh.

The thing is, as I look back on Monday writing this post, I see that there is a reason for all of it. I see that God might not have given to begin with. Maybe that was my design, not His. And maybe, just maybe, He took away the barriers to me doing what He wants me to do. Am I strong enough, do I have FAITH enough, to BELIEVE that the small fragment of ice is enough to hold me until His plan comes to fruition?

I’m human. FAITH. BELIEF. HOPE. Have they eluded me? Let’s HOPE not.

There is no other way to spend a fall day in North Georgia than to visit an apple orchard. This is the first year I have “picked my own”
apples. I had no idea what to expect and certainly didn’t anticipate learning life lessons while there, but sometimes God and Mother Nature have better ideas.

There is always morethan enough to go around. Apple trees bear fruit in abundance. There were hundreds of people visiting the
orchard last Saturday and not once did I hear one of them complain that there weren’t enough apples to go around. Like life – living abundantly means there is plenty no matter how much there really is.

Even the bruised ones have a purpose. Walking through the many rows of apple trees bearing different varieties of juicy fruit I began to notice the fallen – the bruised battered apples that couldn’t hold on long enough for someone to come by and snatch them from their branch. It dawned on me that the bruised apples must be good for something. If I was going to bake a pie, cobbler, and pancakes, make preserves,
whatever, what would I care that the apples weren’t perfect. Ignore the little quirks and make use of the unblemished part. I hope someone will do that for me.

You can never get your fill of miracles. The orchard employees encouraged us to taste test every apple we wanted. They said they wanted us to know exactly what we were getting. Makes sense. It’s absolutely good customer service. So, Red and I ate every type of apple we came across. We loved two in particular – Gala and Suncrisp. When we finally sat down in one of the vast rows of trees, I began to think about how special each of those apples was. Each one required planting, fertilizing, rain, and the tender care of a Master Gardener; each one a sweet miracle and I couldn’t get enough.

Life doesn’t happen on our time. I listened intently to one of the staff tell the hoards of visitors that because the summer was so hot and the rainy season came so late that the pink lady apples weren’t going to be ready for another couple of weeks. He apologized as some of the crowd grumbled a bit upon hearing that their favored treats weren’t going to be ready for them TODAY. But, life doesn’t happen on our terms or on our time, now does it? Life, like the apples, might lollygag a bit depending on the climate (natural, emotional, political, or otherwise). Life just might not be ready for us even though we may think we are ready for it.

There is nothing sweeter than an afternoon spent together. When Red and I left on Saturday morning I told her that it was our day. I promised her that we would be in no hurry. “No schedules!” I announced proudly. With that in mind, we took our time. We sang in the car while waiting for I-285 to clear. We talked about how the leaves would display colors more dramatically as we achieved higher elevations. The point is we spent some really good time together. I got to see life through Red’s four year old eyes and she experienced things she never had before.

We managed to pick our own apples, mine for gems (ruby, emerald, garnet, moonstone), watch three girls from Atlanta fish for catfish
with hotdogs (not productive for obvious reasons), jump in a bouncy house, traipse through a corn maze, shoot a corn cannon and ride a pony. Life lessons, like the apples and activities, were out in abundance.

For me the longing to create comes with the Fall. Her early chill was in the air this week in Atlanta. A cool breeze whispered away the misty air of dawn each day to reveal crisp blue skies. Every year at about this same time I get drawn back to when life was very different; a time when exuberant youth and a yearning to create pulled me out into the wee hours of the morning to work in my woodshop, to paint, to write.

Each year, my mom and my aunt would work diligently on charming arts and crafts to take to various craft shows throughout Georgia. Some were based in church parking lots, others were much larger. Some, like the Mossy Creek Barnyard Festival and The Arrowhead Arts and Crafts Show, you might even have heard of or attended.

I enjoyed going along to help them on those brisk Fall days and then eventually joined their ranks. One of the fun little things I made were these cute puzzle magnets that were hand-painted and came in their own little coordinating hand-sewn drawstring bags. I would cut them out on my scroll saw then paint them, and so on. I sold them for a mere $4.00 each at the craft fairs. Do you have one on your refrigerator? Twenty years later, I still have a select few in a box downstairs to remind me of what it was like having my own woodshop and hand-painting crafts for people to purchase and enjoy.

“Creativity is inventing, experimenting, growing, taking risks, breaking rules, making mistakes, and having fun.” – Mary Lou Cook

I miss the early morning set up at the various fairs; the heavy fog hanging low in the trees and the air having just enough of a chill to make your nose cold, but too warm to need a heavy coat. I regret not keeping up with the floral designers who made the beautiful wreaths and the wood workers who were much more advanced but applauded my cutesy puzzles anyway. The smell of caramel apples and popcorn balls haunt my memories and so too does the sound of children giggling as they’d ask if I could paint pumpkins or ghosts or witches on their rosy, cherub cheeks (yes, I painted faces too).

Honestly, I don’t know if any of those kinds of craft shows even still exist. They were loads of fun from both sides of the booth.

There are more stories for another time, but for now I want to know if you ever packed up on a Saturday morning to head out for a cup of hot cider and some early holiday shopping. Did you visit crafters at outdoor fairs? Pick out pumpkins in the field? Ride in a hay covered wagon? Did you craft yourself? What kinds of projects did you enjoy the most? Do you still make time to work with your hands?

Dreaming of one day having my woodshop again, I wish you and yours a chilly and nostalgic Fall.

Phobia n. a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it.

As a writer I oftentimes ponder the quirky attributes of characters to make an appearance in the latest WIP. It’s fun to dream up ideal people and their strange mechanical and emotional peculiarities that make them who they are. But, I didn’t consider until recently that, as a writer, I could end up a character too. The idea of a writer afraid of writing or the business of writing started my wheels spinning.

Can you imagine never being able to use the word pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis? (Yes. It is really a word.) Oh, I’m sorry. You say you are afraid of that word. I can’t blame you. I am too. But if you are truly fearful of all long words then you experience a phobia known as Sesquipedalophobia.

If you suffer from Allodoxaphobia you might not want to ever consider entering a contest or critique raffle. Forget having a crit partner or group. People with Allodoxaphobia fear opinions.

What are you afraid of?

What if you were so blocked you just had to get out of the office? If you suffer from Scriptophobia then writing in public is not an option for you. There goes my Starbucks!

Here’s a good one. What about all those agents and editors you query? Looking for an immediate response? I hope you don’t have Macrophobia. This is the fear of long waits. For that matter, don’t head to downtown Decatur on a Friday night for dinner or the doctor’s office or DMV.

Forget about writing or reading, and stay away from the library, Kinkos, and Office Depot should you have Papyrophobia. Paper is the cause of great anxiety and even fear in people who struggle with this unusual phobia.

Oh, and recall all those agents and editors you queried, well your Nomophobia will keep you connected. This modern phobia affects people who are afraid of losing cell phone contact. I don’t know about you, but I’d go to just about any length to keep in touch with the rest of the human race, especially my editor.

As writers I think we deal enough with our own self-directed fears. Who needs a phobia too? I make no joke of phobias. They are serious business. I hope if you suffer from one, be it mild or extreme, you seek help to get you past yours.

As for me and my character defects…I am terribly uncomfortable with heights, fear falling and rolling backwards, and panic when I cannot breathe through my nose. Do you suffer from a particular writer’s phobia or any for that matter? Share it with us.

It’s funny, sitting here trying to find a video or something poignant to share with you that’s not just my opinion, but instead based in fact, leads me to just write what’s in my heart.

I’m a girl. I’m a mom raising a little girl. When I look at myself in the mirror I question what I see. Should I focus on the little imperfections, or embrace them? Should I race to fix the wrinkles or stretch marks that are much like hard earned badges placed so obviously on a body that creeps toward forty? Do I whiten, straighten, strengthen, color, or attempt to improve all of the little things that make me crazy about my outward appearance? What kind of example does that set for my little girl? She’s paying attention to every single move I make whether it’s cooking versus going out for dinner, making up the bed versus leaving it unmade, brushing my hair and teeth and washing my face before bed . What is the good and healthy example?

I tell you, it’s hard being the mom of a little girl. Like peer pressure alone is not enough, let’s try to instill enough responsibility to take care of our homes, bodies, and families but let’s not go so far as to teach a little person how to be a doormat, or even how to be neurotic. I mean, where’s the balance?

I read a really good article tonight by Lisa Bloom, author of “Think: Straight Talk for Women on How to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World about how little girls perceive compliments. As she offered, when we meet little girls our first impulse is to compliment them with how sweet, cute, adorable they are and how unfortunate it is that we do that. What we do is impact the perceptions of the little people we want to raise as emotionally healthy, stable adults. How? In her book, she reveals that “fifteen to eighteen percent of girls under twelve now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and twenty-five percent of young American women would rather win America’s Next Top Model than the Nobel Peace Prize. “ Is outward beauty really all we want for our girls to see or be?

I know my daughter is beautiful, but should I tell her so? Sure. But I should also talk to her about her interests, her school, her perceptions of the world around her and do my full-level best to help her grow into a well-adjusted, smart, earthy, well-mannered and beautiful little girl who brushes her teeth and her hair, washes her face and her hands, makes her bed in the morning, eats right and exercises, follows her dreams and does it all with grace, caring and compassion. Like I said, being the mom of a little girl is not easy.

So how do I accomplish all of this?

1)      I lead by example

2)      I read well-written books on the subject

3)      I teach, preach and act with accountability

4)      I pray, a lot

5)      I count on my village for help

Are you raising a little girl(s)? What do you want to pass along to your child(ren)? Are there other ways you work to encourage solid values? Share your thoughts, hopes and dreams for your kids, right here.