Arrows

I was sitting in the children’s section of my local Barnes & Noble working on a picture book manuscript. Know the Market was the advice given at the latest conference. So there I was researching other books, ones actually published, when I couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between a woman doing her own research for a large publishing company and the manager of the children’s book department. They were talking about the lack of books for boys. 

I decided to chime in. “There is a real need for substantive, non-stereotypical books,” I said. What followed was a thoughtful conversation about the marketplace.

At the end of the conversation, I sheepishly added, “I’m actually a writer and working on some manuscripts for boys.” How shocking, she must have been thinking. But it was true and this happenstance encounter was magical for me. 

Writing is solitary work. It’s easy to get lost in the latest project and then after months of effort and sweat, question if your creation will ever see the light of day. A conversation, a good word, a glimmer of hope is: gold.

She gave me her information on a piece of scrap paper and said, “When you’re finished with what you’re working on, get in touch. I’d love to help if I can.”

I kept the paper in a bowl on my desk, along with pieces of sea glass and other inspirational items.

Many months later when I asked my husband to read the sixtieth version of one of the manuscripts, he said, “Just send it out. What are you waiting for?”

Just send it out. Just send it out? He made it sound so easy. 

I thought of the piece of paper, in the bowl. I wasn’t sure if the manuscript was ready but I was ready to send an e-mail. So I did. A couple of weeks later we, the woman from the large publishing company and I, met up for coffee. 

I wasn’t sure what to expect. But five minutes in, I knew exactly what I’d found. I was having coffee with a new friend. A mentor.

We talked about writing and mothering and where to “put the time.” But mostly we just talked. Halfway through our conversation, she said, “‘I’m going to tell you something I wish I’d learned earlier. You have to keep throwing arrows. Don’t waste time questioning yourself. Just keep throwing arrows.”

Keep throwing arrows. The advice from my new mentor was simple. And not unlike other advice I’d received over the years. The difference was, I heard it. And felt it. There was something about the sincerity in her eyes and the calm confidence in her voice. 

That’s the thing about working toward a deep down goal, it hurts. It is quite frankly easier to hear how difficult or unlikely success is than Keep Trying. Trying involves putting yourself out there, dangling the heart in open air, risking more failure, or worse disappointment. 

The sad reality is many of us give more time to other people’s dreams than our own. No one has ever had to tell me to Keep Throwing Arrows when it comes to my kids. As is well documented in this blog, I can be a little “pushy.”

And, I would never have survived in the world of fundraising if I had to be reminded to, Keep Asking. I have no problem raising money on others’ behalf, especially for a project I believe in.

But finding homes for my inner ramblings, daring to realize my publishing goals? The world is paved with writers. What makes me special? 

January is National Mentoring Month (www.nationalmentoringmonth.org.) Yes, I thought the same thing when I saw it: Wow there really is a month for EVERYTHING.

But the truth is we all need mentors. It quite simply helps to have a caring, thoughtful person provide an encouraging nudge in the moments when we all feel less than special. 

So keep your eyes and ears open, and then return the favor. 

And above all: Keep Throwing Arrows.

The Gambler

“I’m not staying Mom, it’s not a class--it’s auditions,” John said, scally cap askew. He’d been there for maybe five minutes.

It wasn’t exactly dishonest. More like a conscious omission.

“I’ll be outside the entire time, it’s your choice, after today. If it’s not for you, that’s fine. Your choice,” I said. Of course the fact that I had driven him there and was willing to sit outside in a hallway lobby for two hours, decreed I had made my choice, for him. I wanted him to give it a try.

I departed leaving him in a small sea of nine, ten and eleven year olds, all of whom seemed to know the little community stage and each other. This was either a fabulous chess move or a check in the lousy Mom column.

John is an easy kid. He loves school and home. But every time I discuss signing him up, for anything, the response is the same,“No thanks.”

The one and only extra curricular activity he’s never questioned and actually asked to do again is Summer Music and Arts Camp. So when a friend mentioned that her kids had taken part in a production at a nearby children’s theatre, I hopped on-line to get some information. 

I did kinda sorta notice that it said the first class would be an “audition” and I did kinda sorta know that if I’d said, “John, want to audition for a musical?” he probably (okay definitely) would have said, “No thanks.” But I was also pretty sure the whole thing would be right up his alley. 

Familiar, upbeat music filled the room behind the door that was between John and I. Slumped on a cold metal chair, I was surrounded by colorful snapshots of performances gone by while picturing John in there either hating me or secretly happy to be there. Or both.

When it hit me.

I too was in fourth grade when my own mother traipsed me to the local Methodist church to audition for our town Hee-Haw Show. A community talent show fashioned after the real Sunday night Hee-Haw Show of the time.

I don’t remember if I asked to audition or if my mother had taken it upon herself to just take me. But I do remember stepping up, nerves swarming in my belly and belting out “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers. Acapella. What a sight that must have been. 

Uh-oh. Was I one of “those parents” living the old days through my child? I stewed in that not-so-flattering thought for many moments.

The experience, my experience had been a good one. The first time I stood on the performance stage, with the spotlight glaring down, and my cowgirl hat atop my long blonde hair and belted out “On a warm summer’s evening, on a train bound for nowhere...” I was hooked. It was the beginning of a long line of stage experiences. Performances that shaped me and built confidence. Of course that didn’t mean the same would be true for John. 

A long ninety minutes later John exited with a big smile. He pointed to a folder. On top it said: Father Swan. He was clearly feeling very proud and excited. 

As we made our way to the car, I confessed, “I felt a little guilty leaving you in there but it seems like you liked it.” It was obvious he’d enjoyed himself. I was digging, perhaps for a “you were right Mom.”

“It’s like I always say,” he said. “Things happen for a reason.”

He does always say that, and it always makes me smile. But then he continued:

“And I guess there’s a reason God gave me a pushy mother.”

Auld Lang Syne

Well I got me a fine wife, I got me old fiddle

When the sun's comin' up I got cakes on the griddle

And life ain't nothin' but a funny funny riddle...

Thank God I'm a country boy!

In search of Andy Williams I found John Denver. A typical scenario in my household because attempts to entice dwellers, ranging in age from 7 to 46, to put CDs back in their case of origin have proven futile.

On this particular December night with a glass of fruity relaxation in hand, a fire roaring nearby and my littlest man setting up a board game, it seemed only fitting to listen to an old timer wax sentimental. But the Andy Williams case led me to Mary Black who led me to Sara McLaughlin who led me...nowhere. I was about ready to give up or call a family meeting about the absurdity of our inability to return CDs to their rightful cases, when I spotted it. Out of the corner of my eye.

A strange orange case with handwriting I didn’t recognize but a playlist that was all too familiar. John Denver was the soundtrack of my young life. I named my first cat Sunshine because of the song Sunshine on my Shoulders. I’d sung Take Me Home, Country Road at the local Fiddler’s Festival. While a great friend, Brad Lovenguth, sang Grandma’s Feather Bed.

I immediately put my accidental find in the player and cranked the volume. Will, fixated on our game, hardly noticed as I sang my way through each tune, sweet and twangy. 

Until Thank God I’m a Country Boy came on. It’s impossible to sit while that song plays (I dare you to try it). As I attempted to recount the square dancing moves of my Upstate NY youth, with my seven year old partner, John and Rob walked in. “Oh boy,” was all Rob could say.  

I’d quickly run out of steps. “Do you remember any square dance moves?” I asked, motioning his way. 

“Bostonians don’t square dance,” he said. Lucky for him the song was almost over. 

Still we, the country girl and the city boy, danced (or something like it) for as long as it lasted. 

Andy Williams was missing, but it hardly mattered. I’d found Auld Lang Syne, courtesy of John Denver. 

Hugs

I found this piece recently, tucked away in a notebook from my “early Mom days.” When I wrote it many years ago, our days were filled with board books, endless feedings and tummy time. Life is very different now. My little ones aren’t so little, their arms and hearts are bigger. My desire to hang on is too. 

Watching last Friday’s horror unfold was mind paralyzing, a stirring of our deepest darkest fears. It was also a reminder. To hold those dearest even closer.

We owe it to the parents and children whose lives and dreams were cut short, to hug, more.

I hope hugs are a little like advanced degrees and golden high school memories. Larger in the mind than in the moment. Plucked out like little diamonds of self-confidence when the world starts to chip away.

When it comes to parenting, the list of things I don’t know is endless. But I do know about hugs. Hugs are crucial. I never let go first. I’ll ask for one, but never require it. My favorite hugs are the ones that seemingly go on forever, although in truth probably last just a couple of minutes.  

My eleven month old is a ferocious hugger. The other day as I unbuckled him from his car seat, he threw himself around my neck and dove to nibble on my shoulder. Through the reflection in the car window I could see his eyes were closed. There he clung, momentarily soothed, soaking up my love.

It was an after nap hug that let me know I was on the right track after my oldest was born. Haggard and a little blue, as I scooped my son out of his crib he looked right through me with his chubby cheeked smile. Hanging on for dear life I couldn’t help but marvel, that it was me, a vision in postpartum sweat pants, that he so lovingly craved. With the same passion of someone dangling off a hundred story building in the climax scene of the latest thriller, I was the right-on-time heroine saving his day.  

I have a feeling these moments are fleeting. Stages move quickly and so will the hugs. And so, I am counting on these hugs to store easily, for them and me. Safe and intact in a little down deep soul bank. Fertilizer for the dreams growing inside. 

Practice

Practice may make perfect BUT the process is anything but. 

My youngest has been taking piano lessons for six months. He took right to it. Mostly he loves mastering things...anything. Give him a challenge and he’s ready. He also comes from a long line of musicians. Scores of ancestors run through his veins. It’s eery and fun.

I never have to remind him to practice, because he “practices” all the time. Piano is his space filler. Like after he’s been told he can’t play anymore video games and dinner is still ten minutes away. Or, when the whole house is running around in the morning filling backpacks and lunch pails, he sneaks off to play the piano. It’s hard to yell at a kid who’s playing the piano. Even if his bed’s not made. 

But make no mistake, listening to him practice is a perfectionist’s hell. He runs through the songs at warp speed. Testing himself to see how fast he can play something. Or, he plays songs that he learned months ago instead of the ones on this week’s “to-do” list. I am quite sure if there is a book about how to help your kids practice (and let’s face it there must be!) he/we are breaking every rule. When it comes to practice my little guy does exactly what he wants to do.

A few weeks ago I sheepishly asked his piano teacher for tips. I put it all on the line, my parental laziness that is, and admitted, “I don’t really keep track of what he is practicing. But he plays a lot.” To my amazement (and relief) her response was simple: “Don’t change anything. Whatever he’s doing is working.”

Take that Tiger Mom. 

My oldest is a different story. He is, to put it plainly, a lot like me.  Creativity soars through him in waves, all day, every day, exhausting everyone in his presence. He is “working” on a new idea at any given moment, on any given day. Sitting still, doing nothing, is not in his DNA. Every moment has a purpose. But practice is painful. Too linear. Too stifling. Where is this going? What is this for?

In an attempt to help him learn about the power of practice (and make the hefty monthly rental fee worth it) I’ve instituted a “you must practice your baritone for fifteen minutes a day” rule. He reels, he objects, he erects an almost daily soap box about how unfair I am, how I have no idea, and on and on and on...

Until he finally, practices. The first round he plays in regimented tone. A sort of “take this” to any nearby listeners. Then about five minutes in, he’s making up his own song. Off happily in his own private ba ba ba bum land, creating music or something like it. Twenty minutes later he usually announces that he’s going to do a little extra practice time, to impress his band teacher. The push, the pull, the torment is over. Until tomorrow.

And then it’s my turn. To sit at my computer. At the coffee shop I call home. Willing myself to tap tap tap at warp speed, to keep the thoughts moving, to get it down. To trust that twenty minutes here, thirty minutes there will get me where I want to go. But where am I going? What is this all for? 

Mahatma Gandhi said, “An ounce of practice is worth more than tons of preaching.”

And so I practice what I preach. Willing my own butt in the chair day after day. Finding the courage to spend time on what matters, to me, in the hope of reaching something close to perfection, or more importantly, happiness.

The Magic Cliff

It is a late fall night. Feels like midnight, but it’s only 5:15 pm. We, my sons and I, are making our way home.

I’m mentally preoccupied with dinner. The boys are discussing a download...a video game, I think? The guy on the radio is daring to dangle off the impending fiscal cliff.

“Mom, I have a problem.” Will’s words cut like crystal through a sea of extraneous chatter. I turn the radio off. This sounds serious.

“What’s wrong Will?” I ask.

“I don’t believe in Santa,” he says.

I am ready for “So and so says there’s no Santa,” or “Mom is there a Santa?” 

But: I don’t believe in Santa. It’s clear he’s mulled the facts and arrived at an outcome. 

Lucky, for me, John the older brother chimes in.

“What do you mean? Of course there’s a Santa!” he says.

“Really John?” Will replies. “A guy flies around in a sleigh with reindeer and drops presents into chimneys? And he makes it to every kids’ house in the entire world in one night?!”

“I don’t believe in that part either. I think it’s a real guy who flies around in a plane and there’s a system for shooting packages down the chimneys,” John says. 

He is backing off from his firm resolve but resolute nonetheless.

“You think someone applies for the job of Santa?” asks Will. 

“Yes, the guy who gets the job has skills,” says John. He says the word skills like he’s talking about a basketball game.

“Who would want that job?” Will asks.

Um...that would be your brother, I want to say. But, John beats me to it.

“Will, you’re just going to have to deal with it, there is magic in the world!”

“He’s right,” I say. You’re both right, I want to say.

It’s clear we are, once again, dangling off our own magic cliff. The gig’s just about up. I think John already knows. I also think he’ll make an excellent Santa someday. And Will, well, he'll eventually be satisfied to have his hunch verified. He’s a realism kind of guy. 

Still it can’t hurt to keep it going for just a little longer. Until I’m sure they have the skills...to find the real magic. 

Post Sandy

Sandy came and went. 

On Monday, the day she arrived, we watched the wind whirl and random sheets of rain move rapidly through, leaving a trail of branches and leaves strewn across yards and streets. 

On Tuesday, we connected with family and friends, many of whom were without power. But thanks to last year’s streak of storms, most had generators. The all to familiar post storm dance began.

“Do you have power?” “I hear your neighborhood is next.” “Sure hope school is back up and running tomorrow.” 

By Wednesday, Halloween, all the schools in our town were back except for two, one was the school my sons attend. Turns out our fifties era structure, with it’s evolutionary additions and improvements was providing challenges of an electrical nature. A flurry of texts and e-mails flew. And finally in the late afternoon hours official word arrived: the kids were indeed going back to school in the morning!

I traipsed back to CVS, in search of the required portable sugar, before heading home for pizza with friends and taking my post at the front door.

As soon as the automatic doors opened, I bee-lined for the mass of brightly colored bags. But in their former place of Halloween glory, were rows of empty shelves. A shift in seasons was taking place. Sandy or no Sandy, retail was moving on.

Where was all the candy?! 

I once again made my way past the toilet paper and batteries (now stocked) and paper towels and decks of cards, to find three straggler boxes of candy bars near the cash registers. The leftovers for deadbeat shoppers like me who’d left trick or treating to the twelfth hour. I shoved ten bags of delinquent scraps into my basket.

Thanks to a steady stream of ghosts, goblins, Angry Birds and my personal favorite three pre-teen girls dressed as the 70s, 80s, and 90s-- a few short hours later our candy was gone too. Leaving us to pick up the pieces, the random candy wrappers of life. 

This morning, ten days after Sandy, eight days post Halloween, we woke to a blanket of snow. Not a one inch lightweight summer blanket but a several inches deep covering foreshadowing what is to come, or already here. 

Yes, Sandy came and went, so did Halloween and apparently fall too. Time stops for no one, or anything--not a hurricane or Halloween or me. 

Thank goodness there are the little things that rarely ever change. Like how In a few weeks, I’ll make it back to CVS for stocking stuffers, just in time for the display of rotating sunglasses to arrive.

For all the people still reeling from the devastation left in Sandy’s wake: our thoughts and prayers are with you.