It's Never Too Late To Begin Again

In December while on Christmas break I discovered mention of Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. I began the main exercise of that book – an activity called Morning Pages. The idea of morning pages is a catharsis of sorts; to clear one’s brain from the debris that we all have floating around inside of us. As early as possible upon rising for the day the idea is to hand write 3 8 ½ by 11 pages of thoughts. It’s not exactly journaling, and it is written for no audience to read. It is stream-of-consciousness writing and from it patterns in life emerge and we can sort of clear and address any blocks we might have – clearing the way for creativity, but not just as an artist or writer, but in our careers or jobs; our family life; wherever we might be blocked. It is a fabulous exercise. I do find it a challenge to rise an hour earlier to do this exercise, and sometimes I don’t have an opportunity to write until after work, but I feel it is helping me in my life. I feel clearer, more focused. I am able to concentrate and even think about the future through different eyes. It’s interesting that it took me this long to pick up that particular book; it was published in the mid-90’s and as a bookseller from 1998 through 2014 I have seen that book countless times, never taking the time to discover what it was about. It’s made a world of difference to me.

When I saw that Julia had a new book coming out – It’s Never Too Late To Begin Again, and that I could read it through Net Galley in exchange for a fair book review I completely jumped at the chance. Admittedly, when I began reading it and discovered that Julia primarily wrote it for newly retired people I nearly balked at reading it. But then I remembered that The Artist’s Way was not written purely for artists, either, so I continued on. The book is written to help individuals realize that it is never too late to begin life again. Some of us are considering out place in life, contemplating a change in our life style or career, and some of us are in an in-between stage of life; some people are just beginning retirement and are uncertain what life will bring next. Regardless of where we are, I believe this book can help us discover our next desire or course of action.

 I have not finished the book,  and I really don’t want to. It is one of those books that I am just delighting in reading and I truly do not want it to end and be over. I’ve skipped ahead, skipped back, re-read the inspirational quotes, flipped forward again – I keep reading back and forth, but I am not ready to be finished with it.  A few years ago in my first job as a school librarian I worked for a private school. We held our twice annual book fairs at the local Barnes & Noble, and that suited me fine; I worked at that particular store part-time, and book fair weeks were a lot of work, but fun, too; being a bookseller and school librarian during that stage of my life were probably some of the most fulfilling days of my career. Parents were so appreciative of my knowledge and honesty, and steering the children toward “just-right” books was such a pleasure and so satisfying. At the same time, in between visits from the kids (they rode on the bus as a field trip to the store and often parents would meet them there), the parents would wander the store and I could talk books to as many as wanted to. One particular mom had been fighting cancer over that past year. She had two daughters; one was on the verge of “graduating” 8^th grade; the other had graduated the year prior. In our chat at the store she spoke frankly of her illness and her fears of dying from her illness. I don’t know how the conversation drifted, but we began speaking of the afterlife. And from that I told her of a book I had read on the subject which captivated me – Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian Weiss. She ended up purchasing it, and a few weeks later she called me and left me a voice mail. When I first heard her voice, my heart beat incredibly fast and lodged in my throat. She said, Kim, I just want you to know I have not finished the book, and I do not want to. I thought – oh, no! Then she went on in a rush of laughter – she loved it, thought it was fabulous and did not want it to end, which is why she was not going to finish it.

That is how I feel about Julia Cameron’s newest book. I don’t want it to end. It is not a book designed to be read in one sitting. It is intentionally set up to be spread out over a twelve week period. There are tasks involved – Morning Pages, Walking, creating a Memoir, an Artist Walk. Each are activities designed for soul searching; for rediscovering ones passions – or even finding them for the first time. I am very new to Julia Cameron and her books, but I am truly enthralled with her writing and her suggestions. I look forward to continuing with this book and never really finishing it. Julia – thank you so much for your gifts to your readers.

<Half a Chance, by Cynthia Lord

What I really liked about this children's book is its lack of angst, magic, or bullying, which tend to be thematic in today's children's literature. I believe sometimes children just need to read a in order to experience the story of life. Half a Chance is a simple sweet story about a little girl who has moved around the country with her family quite often; her father has wanderlust and is a famous photographer. She is ready to settle down and just live her life in one spot. When she and her parents move to a little town in New Hampshire, they take up residence at a house on a lake. She meets the boy next door and his family, and she becomes enchanted by the loons on the lake. She enters a photography contest, and the book revolves around her taking photographs, but also forming friendships. It's a true to life story, told beautifully. As a child this is the sort of book I would have gravitated toward. I would highly recommend it to anyone with children 4th grade and up.

Call it Paradise

There’s a certain quality to the light of a late afternoon in Florida during the cooler season. In the summer the late day sun blazes, and the air becomes still and searing. Late afternoons from around October through March as pleasing to behold. The land is golden and beautiful and it’s a beautiful day to be alive.

There is a part of Florida that many do not get to experience. Winter visitors’ flock to beaches, to Disney World; Key West; Busch Gardens. So many parts of Florida are overpopulated; too many people converging and living in so small an area. Roads are overcrowded with inadequate lanes to hold the traffic safely, even with continual construction. Housing developments spring up everywhere; land developers run rampant building quickly, without quality, taking exorbitant fees with them to the next project waiting for them to victimize the land. We are left with half-finished developments, or worse, over populated sections; strip malls and parking lots appearing where cattle and wild life used to run.

When I see wide open spaces of land I see the life that lives there. Within just the last 100 years someone fenced the land, raised cattle or crops; before that no one could really live in Florida – it was a rough, hard life. For now, Sand Hill cranes continue to raise their young on this land as they have for millennia. Gopher turtles, possum, deer, wild boar, raccoons, coyote, armadillo, foxes, rabbits; Florida panther, countless species of birds have lived and flourished until the human population began booming; clearing land, raising house after house. The animals that remain are boxed into small areas and have become a nuisance to people. They are trapped and re-located again, or worse, they are destroyed. When developers see that same land they see dollar signs, and lots of them, because Florida land is tremendously lucrative. Florida is the sunshine state, and in 2012 the census discovered that on the average, 630 people move here each day, which is the equivalent of 229,000 people a year.

I live in Central Florida on 2 ¼ acres of land purchased by my father-in-law back in 1962 from a woman who was the original owner of the land. Behind me are 300 acres of prairie that have never been developed. Each day is a blessing to wake up, look out over the field and see what nature has brought to the new day. I am fortunate. It’s beautiful and wild, but its existence is precarious. Neighbors anxious to continue living a semi-rural life grouped together, and we fought land development of the prairie and won on a fluke. It is an uneasy fact that the county owns the property now and it is protected. But it’s really only protected until someone finds a way around the laws, which has been the case in so many areas in Florida. Greed wins out more often than not, sadly. There are signs around us that our pristine prairie is being disturbed and will ultimately fall victim. For now, it is beautiful and peaceful. 

Today I took a rural route home from shopping in a city east of here. It’s a beautiful route, more houses now than used to be, but still, it’s quite a few miles of gorgeous, flat land, perfect for raising cattle and horses. Miles of beautiful land, scattered with graceful old oaks dripping with Spanish moss. I had to stop on the drive to let a young Sand Hill crane cross the road, but I did so happily. Along the way I saw hawks soaring overhead; osprey sitting in their own nests on the telephone and electric poles. I passed at least six other pairs of Sand Hill cranes; this is their nesting time. Young calves, recently born, wandered the pastures with their mothers and other members of their herd. There’s a certain quality to the light of a late afternoon in Florida during the cooler season. In the summer the late day sun blazes, and the air becomes still and searing. Late afternoons from around October through March as pleasing to behold. Today it was beautiful, rural, and breathtaking. Golden light touched the ground, shimmered in the trees, not a cloud marred the brilliant blue sky. I felt so blessed to know that I have experienced such beauty, and in the next breath I knew that such beauty cannot last. The terrible truth is that on 1000 of those glorious, gorgeous, historic acres I passed today, 2460 homes are going to be built, and soon. Along with the homes, according to the Tampa Tribune, the Canadian developers are proud to also add to the plan 345,000 square feet of commercial space and 50,000 square feet of office space. On a gorgeous, sleepy north eastern part of Hillsborough County that has been home to nothing but wildlife. It is tragic.The Canadian developers will build, and they will take their money back to Canada. The city of Plant City will gain revenue from the new homes and the new businesses, and 2460 families will move in. And a beautiful piece of land will be gone, forever. It saddens me. In the grand scheme of history there is nothing that can be done; some people say it is progress and we need to keep with the times. Dr. Seuss says “some say I’m old fashioned and live in the past; I think that progress progresses too fast”. Here is the scariest thing. 2460 new homes; that is only enough homes to fill about eight days of new people moving to Florida. Don Henley says “they call it paradise; I don’t know why. You call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye”. I do not see dollar signs when I see beautiful, wide-open spaces. I see breathing room, nature, life. 

The Artist's Way

I have not been this excited and this actively involved in a writing project for some time. You probably have read The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron? I - believe it or not - have not. Me, a bookseller for nearly 16 years; a librarian for over 8 years, and aspiring writer. Recently I heard mention of it somewhere, and I wanted immediate reading access. I downloaded a $2.99 sample of the high-lights and borrowed an electronic version from the public library - no physical copies were available, so it was second best until I can get to the book store to buy a copy. What I have gleamed so far is the Morning Pages concept. I am enamored. Just in case you don't know this about The Artist’s Way (and I honestly think I am probly the last person in the world to know this!) the Morning Pages are three - no more, no less - pages hand-written just after you wake in the morning. They are personal, not to be read, shared, or even re-read for quite some time. They are almost a catharsis. You write whatever is on your mind and make all kinds of self-discoveries; hidden passions or obstacles in your way. Things that have been bothering you, hidden dreams. Whatever. They have to be hand-written, not typed, because typing can be a deterrent to creativity, and it can also be readily corrected or deleted. The hand-writing allows thoughts to flow in a normal manner or order. One of the things I have noticed is that I used to be able to hand-write for a long time, many pages in a row without hand cramps. Not so much now. My hand is protesting, but it is worth it to keep going, hand cramps and time constraints set aside. The whole idea is to free yourself of creative blocks and even to establish a new routine for writing. It also is supposed to be done on 8 1/2 x 11 paper, but I have a ton of composition books, so that is what I am using. Today was Day 9. I look forward to rising each morning and writing! I am going have to start setting my alarm tomorrow (Monday) so I am already deciding how much time I need to give myself. I am thinking that as I begin work again it is going to be such a fabulous way to start each work day. I am truly excited. I am looking forward to each morning; I mean, I already do love each morning, but this adds another layer!

Every year I tell myself THIS will be the year that I get back on track. That I work on my goals and my dreams. And every year goes by and I am not closer to my dreams. This year I am taking charge of that and I hope this new path or direction can keep my motivation going. Each year that passes is another missed opportunity. I believe that things happen as they should, but I also believe that we can control our destinies a little and help guide ourselves where we need to be. I love writing too much, have wanted that dream too long, and have done so little to accomplish it. So this year it is one of my goals - again. Along with always trying to be a better person - more patient, kind, caring, considerate...but also, more selfish. I give so much of myself, always. I always put others needs before my own; part of being a nurturing person. So while I still want to be a better person, part of that means saying no sometimes and putting myself first. It sounds like two separate, conflicting goals, but I think they twine together. We are only given so much time; so many days, and it is such a shame to have a dream for so long that I have not pursued to the best of my ability. Hello, 2016.

The Red Pashmina

I have a red pashmina I bought in Rome. It travels with me where ever I go. It's been to Sweden, Ireland, Canada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, Washington, California, Oregon, and all over the southeast; Florida, South and North Carolina, Georgia, West Virginia, and Virginia. It's well travelled, and it keeps me warm as a cover on chilly flights. I wear it often as a fashionable neck scarf when not traveling. It's soft and light, and I easily conforms to whatever role is needed.

I searched Rome for it; literally. Pashminas, in Rome, are available everywhere in wide arrays of colors, textures, and lengths. I wanted a particular shade of red, and I found it my very last day there. It was meant for my mother. She loved red. She had a red leather jacket, red leather fringed boots (that I bought for her). She wanted her kitchen to be red; red cabinets, etc. The Pashmina I found was an earthy red, almost brick red. Not too much orange, brightness or dark tones to it. Perfect.

I got home from Italy on a Saturday morning, and I talked to my mother on the phone for two hours on Sunday, sharing so many details of my trip; the food I was going to prepare for her, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. The feel of the air in Tuscany on a clear, cool, spring night, with a million stars shining down on me, the only sound to be heard, the wind in my ears. I told her of the 1100 year old church I discovered, still in use, on the road from Radda-in-Chianti to Adine-in-Chianti, and how I sat in those beautiful thick stone walls, cool even though the sun made my hike quite hot. I sat, relishing the peace, listening to the wind, with the scent of luscious food cooking and the faint, lovely sounds of Italian radio coming from a nearby kitchen while the woman inside prepared a noon time meal for her family. I told my mother how the Adriatic looked as it lapped the shores of The Lido in Venice; the quiet, calm, serene slippage of Venice; the joy and glory of Venetian children playing gondola tag, or soccer In their local square. How I adored Florence with David, Raphael, Dante....how Artemisia Gentileschi's paintings moved me to tears...the bars on the windows below the street and how I imagined bony fingers reaching for scraps of food. Rome and the ancient glories; how the old merges so very well with the new, about sidling up to the bar in a cafe and ordering une cafe, per favore - non, no - not Americano! Being stopped by men on the street, kissing their fingers my calling me Bella signorine. Stumbling on Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Theresa by accident, and only because another tourist added a euro to her light box. About the tragedy of the beggars on every corner; on every church step, the woman who dressed her child In rags and sent her begging with a crushed McDonalds cup. The Roman forum and how eloquent it still is; the majestic, crumbling colosseum. I was a chatterbox and she was so proud of me and my wonderful adventure alone for 22 days in a very foreign country, not knowing the language, but having absolutely the best time of my life. She  told me her mouth was watering and she could not wait for me to try the new recipes I obtained from my Tuscan cooking class. I told her that I bought her the perfect present; probably the most perfect present I'd ever found for her (besides the red leather fringed boots!). I told her I could not tell her what it was, but I would come visit soon and cook for her and bring it. Three days later I was on my way to her house, unplanned, dreading the drive, dreading being there. My mother died two days after our wonderful, unknown at the time, last conversation. It was sudden, they say painless, but it was such a staggering loss it's indescribable.

She will always be young forever to my sisters and I. She had just turned 63, and the heart attack was so unexpected. I brought those soft red, fringed leather boots home, and they are in my closet, waiting for me to wear them. The pashmina is with me right now as I write, sitting in a plane, an hour or so east of Seattle. My mother is gone, but she lives on through me and my sisters. She was not a brave adventurer. She lived a small life the best way she knew how. She did not travel much. She was happy enough in the world she made. She was not the strongest or the bravest person in the world. She depended on a man to help create her happiness, and on a man to take care of her, and often the men in her life changed her outward appearance - she was a chameleon with the ability to be whoever her man wanted her to be. Still, she was my mother; my beautiful, adoring, caring, kind, quirky, sensitive soul of a mother. She taught my sisters and I to be brave, to take chances, to want more, do more in our lives, but to above all be happy. She loved poetry and reading. She instilled in my sisters and I a sense of wonder and curiosity, and I love her. She did not dole advice, but I can hear her words in my head when I have decisions to make. I  miss her daily, and I still hear her breathy chuckle-laugh in my ear all the time. I carry the pashmina I bought for her in Rome every place I travel to; every adventure I take. It's like having a piece of my mom with me, and it's kind of like giving her adventures she never had. My great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, us; now my nieces. We are all a part of those who came before us, who lived their lives so we could come into being. My great-grandmother was an adult before women could vote. She gave birth to my grandmother and great-aunts right around the time the law passed giving women the right to vote. My grandmother raised my mother in a post -WWII world; a time of subdivisions, women joining the work force, etc. My grandmother stayed home; never drove a car, raised her two daughters in much the same fashion as she was raised. She was a round, warm, affectionate, apron-wearing, cookie-baking grandmother. My mom raised her daughters in the tumultuous 60s and 70s and we are all a part of them. Fate, destiny, chance. I am who I am because of those who came before me, and I am so very grateful. My pashmina keeps me warm now, as the plane begins the descent to Seattle, and my next adventure begins.

I Will Never be a Highly Effective Librarian

In my current position I will never be considered a highly effective educator. I am evaluated by a peer mentor. This mentor observes me in my library setting over the course of about a 30 minute period twice a year. I am observed a few times during the year by school administration. I receive good scores – mostly average, a few exceeds expectations, a few needs improvement (more signage needed; consider letting students do their own check-outs). I can live with that – they are fair and unbiased observations; they are a small snapshot of my “normal” days, but I am okay with that. Those scores are added in to the entire school population reading scores, and I will never be a highly effective educator in the eyes of my school district.

My school ranks in the lowest 300 reading scores in the state. We are a Title 1, Renaissance school. We are given resources that other schools are not, because of these labels. Title 1 means we are given extra state funding to help serve our student population. Renaissance is more extreme. It means that a vast majority (97%) of our students live below poverty level and are eligible for free or reduced lunch. It means us, as educators, receive slightly more pay than those educators at a non-Renaissance/Title 1 school. That does not mean we have sunshine and roses every day. Students often come to us without any basic skills; how to say please or thank you, how to look someone in the eye when speaking; how to greet someone good morning. Anger is their only form of communication; throwing chairs, knocking books off shelves, destroying classrooms. Our students come to us often after rolling out of “bed” in their cars, or a hotel room; a house without running water or electricity; any number of basic needs not being met. School, for them, is a chance for clean air, two meals a day; maybe a little stability. Many of the students do have parents who try their best and just cannot make ends meets. They send their students to this local school and hope that their children can meek out a better life than they have been given.

I don’t teach children to read. I don’t even serve as much of an actual librarian at this school. I don’t have a group of avid readers waiting on the edge of their seats for the next Magic Tree House, Harry Potter, Lightning Thief, or even Wimpy Kid. I have kids who check out books because they are free, and because they can. I have kids who have lost books because they left them in their desk and their 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th, 5^th grade friends stole them because they did not know better. Or they left them at home one day, to never be seen again because their family was evicted and all of their possessions taken as collateral damage. I have had kids check out books but could not bear with parting with a possession so sacred; they could not stand turning it back in. What I can give my students is this. Every single hug they ask for. A smile, each time, no matter how difficult they feel they need to be. I can reassure them, remind them of how to act, how to speak to one another. I can give them so little and just hope that one day they will say, oh, let me smile, or let me hug this person. I remember once someone did that for me and it made a difference in my life. I will never know if I made a difference; I can only hope I can. So, no. In the eyes of my media mentor, my administrators, the county I teach I can never be deemed highly effective and get an annual bonus. I can only hope that despite this fact I can continue to be a smiling, positive presence in the eyes of children who don’t care if the school district calls me highly effective. They just know that I care about them and hug them, and that I am a librarian with heart.

Sleepless in Seattle and Phil Collins

I catch a glimpse of the night sky; trees silhouetted against the darkness, clouds sliding in and out of sight; starlight winking through now and then. Clothes tumbling in the dryer, the warm sweet smell of their freshness filling the air. In the living room the movie Sleepless in Seattle is on – Meg Ryan is sitting on the bench outside her Baltimore apartment building, Tom Hanks is sitting on the bench of the porch of his houseboat in Seattle; each longing across the miles, in the quiet of the night for something yet unknown; yet unnamed or recognized. I love the timelessness, the simplicity of this movie. 1993 – Tom Hanks doesn’t think he can allow a woman to pay for her own dinner; times have changed so much since he last dated in 1978. Before cell phones, before reality television; before bad behavior became the norm and celebrity was still relatively classy. It was based on the movie An Affair to Remember with Carey Grant and Deborah Kerr – and that movie was based on 1930s Love Affair, another old movie with the same theme and main character; totally classy, totally romantic; ultimate in chick flicks. Like Meg Ryan and Rosie O’Donnell said - Men just don’t get it.

When I was in college I remember the first time I heard the song In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins. My memory is kind of like a classic movie scene – maybe over the years I have built it into more than it was, but the clarity of the memory is so crisp, and it never falters and it never changes, through all the years past, so I really think I remember it well. The song came on with its haunting drum and guitar intro, and I remember thinking wow, what a great beat; how dramatic; it instantly became my favorite song. I was standing in this dorm room on the third floor of Stuart Hall, Morrisville College, Morrisville New York. My friends and I were at a room party held by someone – I cannot recall now who it was; someone we had partied with in the past; there was always a party to attend somewhere. I remember standing in front of the window looking out at the darkness. This window faced southwest, and back then the “new” dorms were at the back of the campus, with not much beyond but cornfields. There were lights on, all around Helyar Pond and the paths that led to West and Helyar dorms were lit up, but I remember the darkness, and I remember seeing my own reflection as I looked out the window listening to that song for the first time – January 1981. It was before I met Michael; before he and I were together, and then not, and it was before I left New York for the summer and met Steve. I remember listening to that song thinking somewhere out there someone was waiting for me – someone who would be the one to change my life; I could feel it coming toward me in the night. It was one of the most profound moments of my life, and it has stayed with me all these years later. Through a long, lovely marriage, through the terrible heartbreak and loss of that marriage, through searching for and finding myself again. Often when I look out the window at the night, flashes of those few moments so long ago come back into my mind. I’ve always felt that the night is so full of possibilities. When I see that scene from Sleepless in Seattle; where Meg and Tom are longing  for something unnamed, I think of myself looking out that third floor window longing for something of my own in the night. I have not had that feeling since then, but I know that the possibilities of the night are truly real.