Beliefs

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If not by an almighty god

who created the earth?

Speak to me not of inventors,

researchers, scientists.

Their works are both

improvement and ruination.

Humans, thanks to God,

have the ability to think,

yet we frequently do not.

Sunday rolls around and we find

excuses

We run hither and yon,

never stopping for even one moment

to give thanks to the One

who breathed life into our lungs,

blessed us,

filled us with promise of accomplishment,

then set us free to stumble our way

through life,

learning, hopefully, from errors.

All the while He sits in heaven

smiling down at His creations

waiting for the day when His loves wake up

and take time

sing His glorious name.

He welcomes even the unrepentant

saying, “Come here, my child.”

I, for one, will cuddle next to His chest

and cry tears of joy.

God is my reason for being.

I must never forget.

 

Trying to get home

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I’ve heard horror stories about travelers who are stranded due to inclement weather. I’ve always felt sorry for them, imagining the long, tedious hours in airports.

Yesterday it happened to my husband and I. We had just completed a wonderful vacation in Washington DC and New Jersey/New York. We spent quality time with my sister-in-law, son and daughter-in-law.

We visited homes of our founding fathers and saw a musical. We walked under cherry trees in full bloom and amidst towering sculptures. Many wonderful sites and vistas witnessed with fantastic people.

But the weather in DC turned awful on Thursday. Low visibility and constant rain. Wind, thunder and lightning.

As we sat in the airport, one after another flight was cancelled. After a six hour wait, we expected our flight to also be canceled, but all of a sudden, they called for us to board.

When we arrived at our transfer point, our connecting flight had left.

We were stuck. If my husband had been traveling alone, he probably would have spent the night at the airport. But not me. I used the phone provided and found us a hotel with a shuttle.

By the time we checked in, it was 8:00 and we were starved. Thankfully there was a fast food joint a short, but freezing walk away.

As I sit today and wait for my time to check in my luggage, I can reflect on the good things in my life.

I am blessed with an amazing husband and family. I am grateful to the pilots who flew through the tumultuous weather and got us safely back on the ground. I am lucky that I am an experienced flyer and so am comfortable being on my own.

And more than anything, I am blessed to have a God who is watching over me.

Traveling Again

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For the past few days I’ve been in the Washington DC area. There is something quite satisfying about walking where so many game changers have stood and been honored.

We visited Montpelier, home of James Madison. We stood in the room where he researched laws and crafted the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.

We strolled through his gardens where he went to contemplate. It was an awesome feeling.

The next day we went to DC proper. Walked around the tidal basin where the cherry trees were in full bloom. This has been on our bucket list for some time. It’s as beautiful as I imagined.

Yesterday we visited Lincoln’s cottage, a quiet space where he reflected on all the issues that plagued him. We saw the doors that he walked through, the veranda he stood on overlooking the capital, and a section of the original floor that he walked on.

So much history!

And our vacation is not yet over.

A Religious Awakening

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Fifty years ago, my faith was in doubt.  Tired of hearing the hell and damnation homilies of the local parish priest, I tuned out every time he spoke.  I knew that I should have been listening, for I feared that I was one of the sinners that he condemned to everlasting fire, and that there was no hope for my salvation.

I did not “do” drugs, proffer myself to men, nor commit crimes against society.  I was, however, not a dutiful daughter who accepted her subservient status in a household that held women with little respect. My parents believed that my sole purpose in life was to work for them, as a household servant, and when those jobs were done to satisfaction, then and only then could I pursue an education.

I did not object to assisting with the care and operation of the house.  What angered me most was that my siblings were exempted from any and all responsibility, including cleaning up after themselves.

A major part of the problem was that my parents were ultra-conservative and narrow in focus.  To them, the duty of an older daughter was to manage the house and to marry young.  By young, I mean by the age of fourteen.  I didn’t even date at that age, let alone have a serious boyfriend, and I hated housework, so I was a failure in their eyes.

It should be a surprise that I was so affected by what was said for the pulpit, for Sunday worship was not something that my parents faithfully practiced.  They went to church when they felt like it, when the weather was good, when there were no sporting events on television.  And when they did go to church, it was not at the nearest church, but rather one which held the shortest service.

When I left for college in the summer of 1969, I decided to act boldly: I would not go to church at all.  My resolve faded as soon as the first Sunday arrived.  Not wanting to anger God, fearful of blackening my soul any further, I found the Newman center on campus.  The atmosphere was one of welcome.  The music filled me with joy, literally erasing all my negative thoughts and feelings in one fell swoop.

As time passed, my attitude toward the church changed. I believed the good news that I heard over and over during those joy-filled services. I understood that God had not judged me and found me wonting.  Instead, I now knew, He was a loving God who cried when one of His souls lost the way.  He offered peace and salvation to all who believed.  He gave solace, when needed, in times of stress and anxiety.  He loved us, no matter what we might have done.

Several months into that first school year, the Newman Club organized a retreat up in the nearby mountains.  I had never done anything this before, but it sounded exactly what I needed.

The camp was somewhere east of Los Angeles, a rustic setting nestled in a forest. From the time we arrived at the camp, I felt at peace. All of us hurried inside, anxious to claim a bunk in one of the dorm rooms.  There was no pushing, no domineering, no one person making others feel worthless.

Having never been camping, I was unprepared for the chilly nights and the crisp morning air.  My clothing was not substantial enough to keep me warm, especially when it snowed in the night, leaving about six inches on the forest floor. Nevertheless, thanks to the generosity of those who shared warm mittens and thick sweaters, I stayed warm.

Throughout that weekend, my heart sang.  It was as if a giant anvil had been removed. Like a newly feathered chick, I flopped my wings, and took off.  Faith came at me from every direction.  From the treetops came God’s blessed light.  From the ferns sprang His offerings of love.  From my fellow participants came God’s unconditional love.  From our times of prayer and reflection, came discovery of my love for the God who loved me back.

I smiled until my face literally hurt.  I laughed at the crazy antics of my roommates, and joined in the singing in front of the fireplace at night.  During prayer times, tears poured down my face, yet I did not have the words to explain why.  It was as if someone had reached inside, pulled out all the pain, and filled me with a wholesome goodness.

I do believe that God touched me that weekend.  Not with His hands, for I did not feel the slightest brush against my body. What I did experience was the enveloping of His arms, holding me and making me feel safe. He gave the gift of feeling both loved and lovable.  He made me feel important, and inspired me to continue to follow His way.

When the weekend drew to a close, it was with deep regret that I packed my things.  I hoped to hold on to all that I had experienced.

I would love to report that my life was permanently changed, but it was not.  When at home, I continued to feel inadequate.  Not one day passed without hearing what a huge disappointment I was.  There was nothing that I did that ever pleased my parents, and not once did they give me a single word of encouragement.

When I graduated from college, I moved back to the still stifling environment of my parents’ home.  Pulled down by the never-ending criticism of my unmarried state, my unemployment, and by the wasted years at college, I quickly fell into a state of despondency.  The local Mass situation had not changed, even if the pastors had.  One pastor continued to preach the same old fire and brimstone message about the blackening of our souls.  In another, the Mass was so short you could be in and out in less than forty minutes.

It was not until my husband and I moved into the parish that he had known as a teenager, that the glow returned.  I rediscovered the God who loved me, who sheltered me from the storms of life, and who walked with me every step of every day.

It was, and continues to be, a community of caring individuals who come together to worship and to pray for each other in times of need.  While priests have come and gone, the overall feeling has not.  We are the parish, the ones who define the atmosphere that envelopes all who step through the doors.

I know that there is a loving God who helps us walk through life’s challenges. He has blessed my life in ways that I am still discovering.

That is the story of my faith.

 

 

 

 

A Fresh Idea

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            When it comes to getting my hair done, I’m an avowed cheapskate. As far back as I can remember, my hairdos were monitored and maintained by my mom. She cut it, permed it and styled it, all using home care products that were unpredictable at best.

My hair hung well below my hips until I was nine. At that point, after tiring of my cries of pain, my mom decided to cut my hair. We walked to a bus stop, then rode from the country into Dayton, Ohio. There, at a shop, I got my first professional cut and perm.

I loved the feeling when someone else shampooed my hair and ran a comb through it. I was entranced by the parting and snipping that shortened my hair to shoulder–length. I hate the perm. Long rods were wound into my hair, rods which were attached to an electrified pole.

My dad hated it. In fact, his words were so hurtful that it was a long, long time before I allowed my mom to cut my hair again.

After college it became popular to have an Afro style. I loved it. My hair was very short, easy to take care of, and required minimum care. The one downfall was that my hair did not take to the perm chemicals naturally, and so I had to have second and third dousing in order to get tightly wound curls.

I kept this “do” into my marriage.

Then I discovered the joys of going to the beauty college, where I could get my hair cut for free. Yes, it took a long time. Often hours. Every step along the way a supervisor had to come over and approve. But it was free! And inconsistent.

After months of this, I graduated to the next stage, which still required hours, but the skills of the operators were much better. For this I had to pay a minimum fee, I think five dollars. Quality varied, and I had to be flexible in terms of the final product.

When this program was terminated, I moved to the floor of the school, where my care was still monitored,  but not as closely. I was still getting perms, but only enough to put some life in my normally straight hair.

After I went back to work and was making a little more money, I found a local shop that only cost eight dollars. Perms were now out of style, so all I needed was a trim now and then.

I kept this up for years. Again, the quality varied. Sometimes I got a good cut, something that pleased me. But more and more often the operator cut my hair too short, making me look more male than female.

Three months ago my sister-in-law treated me to a cut at a salon that normally charges forty-five dollars! I was in shock, but, I have to admit, terribly pleased with the result.

That was the first time that I understood two main things: you get what you pay for and there is a difference between a cut and a style. I fell in love with style. Not that my “do” is fancy, because it isn’t. What I liked was having my hair cut evenly, the finished product a blend all the way around.

I would have returned to that shop even though it’s a long drive, but then I met someone local who called herself a stylist. The next time I needed a cut, I went to her. Once again, I loved the result. So I returned and will continue to go to her as long as she is local.

Now my cuts cost actual dollars. It pains me to pay so much for a cut, as I am still an avowed cheapskate, but I love the end result. It is well worth it to pay more if, when you walk out of the shop, you feel pleased.

The Awakening

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When Vivien opened her eyes she didn’t recognize where she was. It was a small room, in a small bed, not the queen size she shared with her husband of many years. Her left arm touched the wall, an unfamiliar feeling. Directly above her was a large window through which the sun shone. The curtains and the comforter were white with tiny purple flowers, something Vivien would never have purchased.

When she looked to the right she saw a small, cheaply made table and a worn orange upholstered chair, its legs scraped clean of any stain. After that a built-in closet, painted white. At her feet, a small television was bolted to the wall. And next to that, an open doorway.

Vivien had to go to the bathroom, so she sat up. Her head spun for a bit and her body felt clumsy and heavy. She swung her legs over the edge, then stood. At first she feared that her legs would buckle, but once she was solid, she slid her right foot forward. Then the left, slowly, slowly until she was able to stick her head out the door. To her left was a bathroom, so Vivien headed that way.

Inside she went to pull down her underwear, but found she was wearing a diaper, taped at both sides. She ripped it apart, then sat, just in time. Finished, she looked in the mirror. Her hair, which she always kept short, hung limply to her shoulders. It was greasy and matted. And she smelled as if she hadn’t bathed in weeks.

Vivien turned on the shower, removed her stinky nightgown and stepped under the spray. It felt fantastic to have water streaming over her head and down her body. She found shampoo and scrubbed her hair. Conditioner. Soap. When she turned off the water, she heard pounding.

“Vivien, open the door.”

She didn’t. She pulled a stiff white towel from a rack and dried herself. The towel left her skin pink and barely dry. She hung it back up, carefully folded and even at the bottom. Vivien opened the medicine cabinet and found deodorant and lotion, which she happily applied.

“I’m coming in,” the voice said as the knob turned. A small brown-skinned woman came in, an angry look on her face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I was dirty. I took a shower.”

“You have to ask for help,” the woman said as she pulled Vivien, naked, back into the small room. “Sit.” The woman pushed Vivien into the chair and began opening drawers. “Put this on,” she said as she handed Vivien a blouse.

Vivien had a little difficulty getting her arms in the sleeves and her fingers wouldn’t cooperate with the buttons, but she got it done by being patient. That’s one thing Vivien admired about herself: she was a patient person. “Why am I here? I want to go home.”

“Don’t ask silly questions. This is your home,” the woman said. “Lay on the bed.” She pulled Vivien up, moved her to the bed, and pushed her down. “Lift your butt.” She slipped a plastic-sounding thing under Vivien.

“Stop,” Vivien said. “No diapers.” She tried to pull it off, but the woman slapped her hands. “I want to wear panties and a bra.”

“Okay,” the woman said as she removed the diaper. “Let’s see how long you go before peeing your pants.” The woman rummaged in the drawers and came up with a beige pair of underwear. “Put these on.”

Vivien loved the feel of the material. It was slippery and smooth. She put on her panties, and then when the woman handed her a pair of slacks, Vivien refused to take them. “I want to wear jeans. I wear jeans every day.”

The woman tossed a pair of jeans at Vivien and then huffed out of the room.

Vivien finished dressing herself. After a bit the woman returned carrying a brush. The woman was a bit rough, not seeming to care when the brush tangled and pulled.

“I need a haircut,” Vivien said. “I wear my hair short.”

“Stay here,” the woman said as she left the room.

Vivien found a TV remote on the table and pushed the red button. The news came on. She had always like listening to the news, knowing what was happening in the world, so she watched. So much devastation! Wars. Famine. Drought. Floods. Snow storms and tornadoes. Arguing about laws and decisions and statements. It seemed as if the world was crazy, but she felt compelled to watch, as if she hadn’t seen the news in a long, long time.

The woman returned with a small table and a tray. “Eat.”

Vivien tasted the pancake and it was cold. The eggs were gooey, not firm like Vivien preferred. Limp bacon and tasteless toast. She was hungry, so she ate as much as she could tolerate.

When the woman returned, she scooped the food remnants into Vivien’s mouth until the plate was empty. “You have to eat all your food. We’ve been over this.” And then  she left, caring away the table and tray.

Vivien went into the hallway, turning to her right, and soon found herself  in a sitting area in which four woman stared at a blank television screen. Vivien first sat on the couch next to a woman wearing a huge flowery dress, but the woman stank, so Vivien got up and moved to a wooden chair.

Vivien smiled at a woman, but the woman stared ahead, no reaction on her face. Vivien said, “Hi” to another woman, but that one looked at Vivien then brought one finger to her mouthed and shushed her. Vivien asked if she could turn on the TV, but another woman told her no, so she didn’t. It was boring sitting there with nothing to do.

Time passed. When Vivien had to use the restroom, she took herself. She used the toilet without incident. “I don’t know why that woman wanted me to wear a diaper,” she thought. When finished, she returned to the small bedroom room and turned the TV back on.

“Time to go,” the woman said when she came into the room. “We’re going to the park.”

“I want to go home and be with my husband,” Vivien said. “I don’t want to go to the park.”

The woman grabbed Vivien’s arm and pulled her to a standing position and out into the hall. Altogether there were three women wearing some kind of uniform who led the silent women down the ramp and onto the sidewalk. Even though she wanted to wait for her husband to come, Vivien was happy to be outside. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and birds were singing.

They walked two blocks down to a main street, waited for the light to change, then crossed. The group walked a short distance to a park. It was a huge place, with two baseball fields and a playground. Small children were swinging and climbing up and sliding down. Vivien smiled, remembering when she used to take her son to the park and how much fun he had.

“Sit,” one of the uniformed women said as she pushed Vivien toward a picnic table.

The women sat at the table. No one talked. No one looked at Vivien. All of a sudden Vivien knew where she was. She knew she was on Dyer in Union City. All she had to do was walk down Dyer and turn right on Whipple. East on Whipple, then north on Ithaca. A left turn, then a right, another right and she’d be home. Back to her husband, whom she loved and missed.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Vivien said. One of the women took her to a bathroom behind a baseball field. Vivien noticed that the building backed up to the scorekeeper’s shack. Suddenly she knew how to get to her husband. All she had to do was sneak out of the bathroom, squeeze between the two buildings, and hide there until she could find refuge some bushes in a neighbor’s yard. Stay there until they stopped looking for her, and then walk home.

When she was finished in the bathroom, Vivien looked outside. The woman’s back was to her, so Vivien slid around to the back, moving as quietly as she could. She brushed away cobwebs that tickled her face and arms. She waited there, breathing as quietly as she could.

She heard the woman calling her name and when the sound seemed further away, Vivien took that opportunity to scuttle around the baseball field and into a front yard, where she found large bushes that were perfect for hiding behind. She sat on the ground, amidst ants and bugs and dirt and waited, expecting to be found, but thankfully no one came.

Early evening came. The sun lost its brilliance and the air cooled. Cars zipped down the street, but still no one came for her. When it was nearly dark she left her hiding spot and headed north. She realized that there was no hiding places on this side of the street, so when she came to a crosswalk, Vivien went to the other side.

She was careful now. When she heard a car coming, she ducked into the darkness. When  it was safe, she walked, further and further along. She crossed Alvarado Boulevard, then Alvarado-Niles. When she tired, she’d rest on fire hydrants.  It seemed like she had to rest more and more often as she walked past a restaurants that her husband liked and then past Walmart where she bought her birdseed. She acted as if she belonged there, believing that no one would challenge her if she stood straight and moved swiftly.

Traffic eased from the evening rush to a trickle of cars. After the train tracks, Vivien turned north at the Seven Eleven. Left at Geneva. Right at Carroll. Right at Gresel. Right on Gerald Court. Two houses and she was home.

Vivien wrapped her arms around herself and admired the front yard and the stucco and the windows, but most of all, her car, sitting right there in the driveway like it always did.

Vivien went to the front door and turned the knob, but it didn’t open. She knocked and heard shuffling, then the door opened a crack. Her husband’s face looked at her. She smiled. “Steve,” she said. “I’m home.”

He opened the door and pulled her inside. “Oh, Honey, I’ve been so worried. Why did you run away?” His arms felt strong and good, even after all these years. He smelled of Dove soap and coffee and felt like love. He brought her into the bathroom and asked if she needed help.

“I’m fine,” she said, but she had difficulty pulling down her pants, so he helped. When she was finished, he pulled them up for her. Then he took her to the dining room and sat her in a chair.

“I bet you’re hungry,” he said. “I’ll zap some spaghetti for you.”

Vivien admired the beautiful house. The pictures on the walls. All scenes of Native American life. The dolls in the display case, dressed in the traditional clothing of various tribes.

Steve put a plate in front of her and handed her a fork. “I don’t understand why you ran away.” He brushed her hair back from her face.

“I wanted to come home. I woke up in a strange room. I smelled and got yelled at for taking a shower. The food was soggy and cold. I wanted to be with you.” She tried scooping up the spaghetti, but it slid off her fork, so her husband fed her.

When she was finished, he led her to the family room and settled her on the couch.

He ran his fingers over her head. “I love you,” he said. “But I can’t take care of you. That’s why you live in the home.”

Vivien stared at her husband. “I can take care of myself just fine,” she said.

Steve kissed her cheek. “Today maybe. But most of the time you can’t. You need more help than I can give. That’s why you live in the board and care home.”

“Please let me stay here,” Vivien said, tears running down her cheeks. “Don’t make me go back there. They’re mean to me. Please let me stay here.”

He got her a tissue and wiped her cheeks and then he went into the kitchen. She heard him talking to someone and thought it was her son. That maybe he was telling  her son how happy he was to see her. He returned and sat next to her. He pulled her to his chest and held her tightly.

“If only it could be like this. It would be wonderful.” And he sobbed.

He held her until the doorbell rang. A woman and a familiar looking man came into the room. The woman said, “We searched all over for you. We even called the police.”

Vivien tried to remember where she’d seen the woman before. The man smiled at her, then held out his hands and pulled her up. “Come on, Honey,” he said. “Time to go.”

The woman held one arm, the man the other as they walked her through the building and out the door. They helped her down some steps, then put her in a van and buckled her in. The woman started the car and pulled away. The night was dark except for a few streetlights shining here and there.

Vivien stared out the window, watching as buildings sped by. The van stopped and the woman turned off the engine.

“We’re home now,” the woman said. She opened the door and said, “Get out.”

Vivien did as she was told. The woman pulled her into the building and then into a small room. “Lie down,” the woman said as she pushed Vivien onto a bed.

The woman washed Vivien’s legs. “You’re a mess,” she said and then put a diaper on Vivien. Took off Vivien’s top and slid a soft nightgown over her head.

“Get under the covers.”

Then the woman pulled a blanket up to her chin. “Go to sleep,” the woman said and then turned off the light as she left.

Vivien lay there for a long time, trying to figure out where she was. She closed her eyes.

A Dilemma

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She opened her portfolio and turned to Martha’s picture. It had been hastily chosen, but it perfectly captured the image of the washerwoman Ziana had wanted. She held her hand over the image and said the word alive. Martha appeared in the room and without command, began cleaning the messy kitchen.

Next she found Jackson’s image, that of an old English gardener. Ziana brought him to life and sent him out to trim hedges and mow her expansive lawns.

She released Jacques and set him about preparing a fancy dinner for twenty. She loved watching him work. His arms flew with lightning speed as he chopped, diced, mashed and rolled. And his creations were divine.

Ziana was pleased with her life. From the time she was a small child she had been able to animate pictures. Her skill had been honed by a series of private tutors, the most recent being Suzanne, from the Illustrators Academy in Woodside. Suzanne taught her not just animation, but anything Ziana was able to learn. She wasn’t adept at all skills, but at many.

When she was of age, she enrolled in the academy where her progress was rapid. She graduated well before her peers and then was hired as an instructor, where she taught a variety of skills, but specializing in animation. She was happy in both her career and her abode, nestled deep in a wooded enclave in Woodside, California.

The one thing that Ziana had never been able to magic was a suitable boyfriend. Her first attempt was a strongman from an ad that appeared in the Sunday paper. He was handsome with blond hair and bulging muscles, but all he could talk about was cleaning products.

Her next boyfriend was a well-dressed man in a three-piece suit. His smile was seductive, and Ziana imagined herself falling into his arms. Unfortunately his repertoire was confined to the quality of the fabric, and limited to the fact that his clothing was made in America.

She had tried a race car driver, a politician, a late-night host and a singer whose voice gave her goosebumps, but all had failed miserably. These so-called boyfriends lacked depth, which Ziana yearned for in her life. She did not want a poster-man as a husband and father to her children.

And those children were important to her. She wanted them to be gifted like her, but to also be able to survive in the greater world. To be college professors or town mayors, engineers or even, well, yes, to be president. She knew what she liked in a man, but unless he was a living, breathing real-life person, she would never fulfill her dreams for herself and for the future of her magical world.

That left the employees of the academy as her only options. She had to marry someone who understood the importance of magic and who wasn’t repelled by its use. The man had to be able to speak about a variety of topics in order to hold her interest, but to capture her heart, he would have to focus on her and her many attributes.

To win that man’s heart, she created her people on this day, of all days. Tonight she was hosting the Spring Dinner, a formal affair for all those who resided in the academy’s private grounds. It was a time to see and be seen, to walk about her gardens and have private chats. To stroll arm in arm and fall in love.

Ziana wanted the stage to be perfectly set, so while her house was being cleaned, her yard trimmed and her food prepared, she brought forth a hairdresser she liked and a dressmaker whose skills she had used many times, who would add the finishing touches to her gown. She smiled, for in a way, she felt a little like Cinderella whose bidding was done by birds and animals and eventually by a fairy godmother.

Among the many who would come tonight, there were two men who she thought might do. James, who taught the art of growing things, was tall, slim and a tad handsome, but not gorgeous. He was intelligent, kind and patient, qualities which Ziana admired. And single. He was the one that all the single women lusted over, but Ziana had never seen him walk about with any of those women. She felt her chances were quite good to snare him.

But there was also Parker, the headmaster. He was recently widowed after the death of his wife of thirty years. He was a bit old, but still intellectually stimulating and not too bad looking, despite random hairs sprouting from his nose and ears and hair that was rapidly disappearing from the top of his head. The good thing about Parker was that he ran the academy with aplomb, not favoring particular students or skills, but rather treating all as equals. And he was rumored to be an old-fashioned romantic.

Once the house was in order, Ziana retired her helpmates, and called out three who would serve drinks, food and cater to the whims of her guests. She sent them off to a room reserved for staff, and had them dress in evening attire, black suits with crisp white shirts.

Her guests arrived in a flurry of excitement. The married ones brought spouses and the singles arrived either alone or in small clusters. There was much talk and after a few rounds of champagne, quite a bit of giggling.

Ziana began to panic when an hour had passed and neither Parker nor James had arrived. She asked a few of the guests about them, and found out that the two had last been seen going into the academy’s observatory, a room that only a select few had ever entered. Rumor had it that James was being promoted, but only if he could demonstrate mastery of invisibility, a skill that few ever attained. If completed, James’ repertoire would include all the major magic skills, making him the best candidate for headmaster whenever Parker retired.

While she waited and worried, Ziana flitted about. She kept an eye on her employees, correcting here and there when she found them lacking. She spoke with teachers about students, the caretakers about the condition of the academy’s many buildings, and the spouses about children that seemed to be appearing with alarming speed. One woman already had five kids, four of which had magical skills, and was soon expecting twins. Another had just given birth to her tenth, the most recent one being without talent.

Something was happening, but no one could explain. It used to be that magical parents had magical children, period. But over the past few years, change was robbing the community of talented heirs. Doctors had been crafted and scientists set to work, but so far none had been able to identify the cause nor stop the downward slide.

Ziana hoped to counter the trend. She knew that if she married either James or Parker, their kids would have the best possible gene pool. With their combined skills, they would represent the entire magical spectrum. Such power would counter whatever negative factor was destroying the future of the community. Or so she hoped.

When it was time for dinner to be served, Ziana had planned on seating James to her right, Parker on her left, but since neither had yet to arrive, she sat between too old teachers whose spouses were not in attendance, claiming fatigue and illness, but Ziana thought it was probably due to boredom. Too tired to keep on living, a symptom of the rising death rates of an aging population that wasn’t being rejuvenated by the young.

One of the teachers, Tabath, was a dour woman whose face was shriveled and covered with fine white hair. Her voice was grating, but her command of magic and her ability to teach was unparalleled. “Have you heard from James?” Tabath asked.

“No. Sorry, but I’m expecting him shortly,” Ziana replied.

“I’ve heard he’s going to take over next year,” Quinton, the dean of discipline, contributed. “That’s why the meeting tonight. To formally pass the baton, so to speak.” He winked at Ziana as he laid his hand on top of hers. Which she quickly removed.

“James would make a wonderful husband,” Tabath said as she leaned toward Ziana conspiratorially. “He’s kind, smart and dependable. Plus he’s handsome. Have you considered marrying him?”

“What? Why, no. I mean yes,” Ziana stammered. Before she could embarrass herself further, she arose and stood by the large window at the front of the mansion.

Just at that moment a limousine appeared, stopped, the chauffeur jumped out, ran around and opened the door. Ziana smiled as first Parker, then James emerged. Both straightened their tuxedo jackets, then walked in tandem to the front door.

Ziana greeted them both with a handshake, saying, “I’m glad you made it, but dinner has already been served. I can have the staff heat up plates for you, if you like.” She escorted the men to the dining room, where they were heartily greeted by a round of upheld champagne glasses and shouts of “Hoorah” in rather drunken tones.

“Parker, please sit here,” she said as she showed him an empty seat next to Stephen, a large, sweaty man who oversaw the academy’s grounds. “James, take this spot,” which just happened to be between two married, but not on speaking terms, teachers.

Ziana sauntered to the head of the table where she stood until silence filled the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am pleased that so many of you were able to come this evening. Together we are the most talented magical community. Our combined skills are incomparable anywhere within the state. In fact, most likely anywhere in the world. It is with great pleasure that I present Parker Masterson, our headmaster.” And then she sat.

Parker stammered a bit, seemingly embarrassed by the hoopla. He raised his glass, saying, “To my coworkers and friends. May we be blessed by many happy years of magical living.”

When the meal was over and the table cleared, the guests moved into the back gardens, where they split into small groups as they meandered through the beautifully blooming flowers. Ziana walked side-by-side with Parker and James. “So, how did your meeting go?” she asked.

“Pleasantly,” James said.

“We think we have a solution to our problem,” Parker said. “Our scientists have found an increase in lead in our water supply. After much testing, they have decided that lead is damaging our children. That it is robbing them of their full potential.”

“Oh, dear,” Ziana said. “What can we do about it? Doesn’t our water come from the reservoir that feeds the city? So it isn’t just affecting us, but the nonmagical community as well.”

“True,” James said. “But there is a solution that only people with our talents can handle.”

“Yes,” Parker said. “We will construct a filtering system that will remove lead before it is able to enter the reservoir. For the nonmagical community, it would be cost prohibitive, but for us, it is quite simple.”

“How so?” Ziana asked.

James touched her lightly on the arm and turned her toward the maze in the center of the yard. “We create it. Just like you create people and I create plants and buildings.”

“The scientists have given us a design. All we have to do is magic it into being,” Parker said. “I’ve put James in charge of the project. It will be a good test of his ability to manage and direct groups of people both inside and outside of our community.” At that Parker bowed, saying, “I’m sorry, my dear, but I must go. There is much to be done in preparation. Besides, you two lovers must have time alone.” With a wink, he left.

“Lovers?” Ziana sputtered. “What did you tell him?”

James smiled. “Nothing. He’s an emotions reader, remember? Besides, would it be so awful if we were a couple?” He touched her on the arm and led her to a stone bench near a bubbling waterfall.

Ziana smiled. “You’re right, I suppose. But first and most importantly, did Parker appoint you to take over as headmaster?”

James frowned. “Is it that important to you that you must know my status before we could date?”

Ziana thought for a moment before answering. She liked James, found him both attractive and intellectually stimulating, but could she love him? Marry him? Live with him forever and bear his children? “I…I don’t know. It’s important, yes. I want my husband to be powerful within the community. To be able to travel between worlds and be influential in both. But I also want to be in love.”

James brought her hand to his chest. “Feel the beating of my heart,” he said. “It pounds a love song for you. But no pressure. I will build this filtration system and then I will ask again.”

After all the guests were gone and the workers put to rest, Ziana slid into bed. She considered the challenge that she had given James. It was demanding, but honest. She knew that Parker could do these things, but he had shown no interest in her. Among the remaining staff, there was no one but James who Ziana considered worthy. Maybe that made her arrogant, but she wanted future children to have the best chances for being born with tremendous talent, and that meant James.

Time passed with no word from James. Children were conceived and born. Marriages performed. Houses built and the academy expanded to include a more modern science lab that competed with the nonmagical ones at universities and research centers around the world. And in all that time, Ziana waited and watched.

Parker retired. James took over. The filtration project long completed, lead no longer polluted the reservoir. No longer were children born without skills and the magical world was sound.

Ziana still dreamed of love, but time had not been kind to her. Despite creating the best physical trainers possible, her body had unaccountably shifted. She was no longer slim and trim, but matronly. Her hair would have been gray if not for the hairdressers she created from advertisements. Thanks to designers she found in magazines, her clothes were modern and stylish. But her life was empty.

All was well except that James had found love when a new teacher moved in a few years ago. Ziana wasn’t worried, for Sharone, a lithesome dark haired beauty from Nevada, was severely lacking in talent. But Sharone had lured him in. They married and had a gifted child. A son, who was expected to be the most powerful creator in the history of the magical world.

This was the son who should have been Ziana’s if only she had not been so diffident. So determined that James show his worth. She had thrown away her only chance for love. She had only an empty house to look forward to, to spending her days creating whoever she needed, whenever she needed them, to teaching at the academy, and to looking dreamily whenever James passed by.

 

 

 

 

Conference Take-aways

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February 16-19 I attended the San Francisco Writers Conference at the Mark Hopkins Hotel. It was a sold out event, with hundreds of “wannabe” authors as well as established publishers, authors, agents, editors and author coaches.

There were many interesting sessions, in fact, too many for one person to attend.

I took notes, so as to remember the bits and pieces of advice given. Following are those things that seemed most important.

  1. Creative nonfiction is now called narrative fiction. Memoir falls into this category. The nice thing about the title change is that it allows for the recalled essence of dialogue that most likely took place.
  2. Book Club fiction are those pieces that inspire discussion and tends to appeal to women readers. Think JoJo Moyes. Commercial fiction are titles that appeal to a wide range of reader. Think Gone Girl.
  3. In terms of what agents want to see and don’t want to see, here are a few tips:
    1. No prologues or epilogues for debut authors. They feel this is “a lazy way to jump start tension”
    2. No first lines of dialogue.
    3. Skip flashbacks altogether unless there is something about the memory that adds to the emotional history of a character.
  4. Be careful about including diverse characters unless you are well informed about the particular group. For example, when including an African-American character, verify with a trusted source to make sure that you are not typecasting or stereotyping. Avoid writing in dialect unless you are very familiar with that dialect, and it is important to the essence of the story.
  5. Within each scene, look at how the flow of time is reported. How much time has elapsed? But avoid terms such as “three days later”.
  6. Within scene, also be aware of change. In each segment, there must be a starting place and then an ending place, and change must have occurred. There is external change, in which a character moves from one place to another. Internal change is the most powerful, as this lets the reader see how it impacts the character.
  7. When editing, it nothing is happening in a scene, no forward movement, no choice-making or risk-taking, then delete.
  8. Characters should behave in a logical way, unless strange behavior is part of the character’s M.O. People come to story to see logical human behavior, verified with an underpinning of evidence. Must believe that the character is a living human being. People do stupid things all the time. Readers question what in their lives forced them to act that way.
  9. Be watchful for the “dreaded middle”, which is the part of a scene where things get too slow. When this happens in your work, cut the scene or condense it into another. Ask yourself if the scene needs dialogue or action. Make it fast and punchy to keep readers engaged. Introduce a new obstacle that must be surmounted.
  10. Make sure there are no passive characters. Empower them by putting them in situations that force them to take action.
  11. Avoid dreams, waking up and overheard conversations.
  12. Your villain, whether it be a person or a force, needs to arrive early.
  13. Create a history for each character before you write the first scene. Know who your character is, what he/she wants, what motivate him/her, and when confronted with a problem, does the character feel trapped or betrayed.
  14. When writing an emotional scene, try to channel that emotion before beginning. Feel the anger or the hurt. Remember what falling in love feels like.

I hope these tips help!

 

What I Hope to Get Out of Conferences

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Today is the first day of a major conference in San Francisco. I will have the opportunity to sit in a variety of seminars, all geared for the “wannabe” writer.

There are sessions on publishing, which I’m nowhere near needing, to beginning the first novel, which hopefully I’m long past.

On one of the days I can sign up for a free eight minute session with a publisher, author coach or editor. Last year I met an author coach who read my entire manuscript, for a fee, and helped clean up the rough edges.

I also had eight minutes with an editor, who used more ink deleting sentences than I had used printed them. It was terrifying to watch her pen zipping around my page!  I did not hire her.

This year I am going to meet with a different editor and see how that goes. I realize that my novel is a bit lengthy, so I’m sure there are places where scenes can be eliminated or condensed, but I hope that there is much to be saved.

There will be guest speakers who are all published authors. I’m to the point now where I’ve heard so many success stories that I’m not sure I want to hear any more, but there might be something to be gleaned.

The best part of the next four days will be the opportunity to mingle with agents. Last year I met six who wanted me to send them a query. Of those, only one requested more information. Eventually she turned me down.

What I hope is that there is one who will be interested enough in my book to want to publish it. Not a small wish, but it’s that main reason that I spent the money to register and will travel by BART and cable car to the conference.

My dream is to one day walk into a bookstore, or log on to Amazon, and see my book. What an amazing thing that would be!

Keep your fingers crossed that I will learn the secrets to success, hear something that will open the door to publication, meet the right editor and agent, and that all will be good.

 

Mic Mistakes

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I’ve been singing in my church choir for a number of years now. When  I first began I was a practically silent member because I was terrified to sing loud enough to be heard. I feared being off-key or hitting the wrong notes and so would stand out.

Those fears are not irrational because I have no formal music training. I remember being enrolled in a junior high music class, but we didn’t learn how to read notes. All we did was sing old-timey songs like “The Erie Canal” that made no sense to a young child.

I’ve always loved music. In high school I bought a portable radio and took it everywhere with me. If we were picnicking or visiting relatives, it was on. Only in the privacy of my room did I sing aloud, primarily because my father told me I couldn’t carry a tune. But I loved the way the words moved me, the way the melody carried me away in its wake.

Our church had a choir and so I was able to sing along, enriching the experience for me. But I was terrified to join. When I worked up the nerve to go to a rehearsal, I expected to be laughed out of the room. When it didn’t happen, I became emboldened and returned week after week, but not singing louder for I was learning how the rise and fall of notes carry the melody.

Things went well at first. There were about five of us who showed up on a regular basis. All of the others were experienced singers, most with formal training. I attempted to blend in and not destroy the music. But one Sunday morning none of the others came. It was just me and the pianist. At first I felt like sitting in the pews with the congregation. When the choir director smiled at me and told me I could do it, I stood there and gave it my besteffort. I know I flubbed some words and notes, but I survived.

After a six year hiatus, I recently returned to the choir. Maybe it’s my age, but I’ve made some major mistakes. I’ve sung the wrong lines for verses until I realized what I was doing. Instead of singing “desert and wasteland will bloom” I sang waistband. More than once. When I realized what I had done, my knees weakened and I felt a blush creep up my neck. I listened for snickers from the congregation, but either they didn’t hear or they were too polite to laugh.

I came back the following week, determined to get all the words right. Unfortunately the director cranked up the mics, so every little thing I did wrong blasted back at me. I sang rhyming words instead of the right one. I got lost and mumbled, but pretended that I knew what I was doing. I thought about quitting, thinking that I was destroying the holiness of the moment, but I keep coming back. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, or maybe at my age I’m already starting to lose my faculties, but I’m determined not to give up.

I am a natural alto, but I’ve been singing the melody, which is for sopranos. My choir director decided I should sing the alto parts in the worship music. To help myself, I record the part during rehearsal and go over it, again and again before church. The song begins, I sing, but when we come to my part, I fabricate notes.

This past Sunday I didn’t think my mic was working. I sang louder, thinking maybe the  sound level was turned down. That was a huge mistake for several reasons: my voice cracked, I ran out of breath and I had a hard time hitting the right notes. After Mass I found out that the mic wasn’t working. What a relief!

Despite all the stupid things I do, the choir director hasn’t asked me to leave. I’m sure I’ll substitute more words and hit more wrong notes. But I’ll keep singing anyway.