Black Birds

The sky was a low slung canopy of ash and slate.  Yet off in the not too distant western sky, the sun beamed a fistful of rays toward earth, no doubt onto a cold gray ocean.

Overhead the sky filled with black birds.  Hundreds, their wings spread taut, sitting gently upon the zephyr.  They had appeared suddenly, hovering several seconds before banking off into the western sky.

Less than a half mile up the highway, just past the slow curve east, another flight of black wing birds clambered toward the ashen canopy.  It was again impossible to determine their origin.  Had they been on the ground, digging into the damp earth?  Behind the hill?  Without faltering, they too headed west. The car drew my eyes east, where lightning danced atop the distant hills.

The road through the far valley darkened with greater intensity, and the first few drops of water fell on the windshield.  They grew larger, more voluminous, and as I headed up the grade, I was engulfed in sheets of water.  I had just moments before been one of dozens climbing the hill.  Now, I could scarcely see past the hood of the car.  Hazy taillights and the faint outline of other wheeled tins hovered in front of me, as if in a dream.

I had slowed to a crawl, wondering if pulling off until the downpour had passed was remotely viable.  It was not.  The chances of moving more than a few inches in any direction other than forward suggested the certain anguish of scraping metal, in a place where getting out of the car held the promise of injury if not worse.

Passing Cars

It appears to be a normal thing, noticing with some regularity the state of oncoming traffic when travelling the freeway. This morning was no different. As I headed north on the 101 toward the hills of Thousand Oaks, I noted the rhythms of the southbound lanes; the knotted clusters of slow moving traffic, and the torrents of high speed vehicles when the knots loosed.

Today, though, I found myself marveling at them. The darting lime green bug festooned in lively advertising, the old battered pickup filled with random objects once someone’s dearest possessions, the convertibles, the wagons of numerous shapes and sizes, the ubiquitous SUVs. All of them in glorious flight toward the sunrise. I envied them. In that moment, they drew from deep within me a longing so great that tears welled softly in my eyes. They were the embodiment of a new day, of unfettered opportunities, of hope. They headed full tilt toward beginnings, as I headed in the opposite direction, toward life’s untidy middle.

How many times each day? How frequently could we catch ourselves envying others, yearning to start over, or longing to move toward the sun, eager for the newness of the unknown? How can we cease this measurement of our lives against the perceived richness of others’? Life’s middle is as alive and affirming as any beginning. It is rich with action and emotion, and rife with pleasure, its wrinkles as affirming as the moments of calm predictability and enlightenment. Yet our breathing becomes shallow, our vision narrows, and our desire moves away from our present, toward a past or future.

Tomorrow I will wake to the early morning blackness of pre-dawn, and I will choose. I will decide that my life is ample, is enough. I will decide that those driving toward the sunrise are only, in fact, driving toward the sunrise. I will accept that when they arrive, they will find themselves in the same untidy middle. At least for today.

What will you do?

Heading Home

Home beckons, and I struggle to heed its call.  Delightful days in perfect places, and it saddens me to leave them behind, even as we plan our next return.  Packing our belongings, we make three stops before heading south.

First, one final visit to the beach of treasures, where we collect rocks of many colors and sizes.

Second, there is an elephant seal vista just twelve miles north of us.  Paying no attention to it on yesterday's drive north, the elephant seals on the beach piqued our interest on the drive back.  We arrive just, the kind gentlemanly docent informs a couple standing next to us, as a thoroughly exhausted male arrives from Alaska.  We watch his trip from the water to the sandy bed.  Slow at first, after a rest, he hauls himself all the way up onto the beach, where he joins at least a dozen others, already sleeping soundly.  Soon he is sleeping deeply, engulfed in the pile, as if he's been there all along.  Just up the beach, the younger seals, who have clearly already rested, are playing loudly.  Their screams of delight vary from adolescent barks to deep, baritone throaty calls.  They wrestle in the water and swim through the breaking waves.  We drop what cash we have into the small plastic box, hoping that we make a difference in the continued protection and health of these magnificent creatures.

Third, we stop again at Cambria Coffee, for one more cup of heaven, and a pound to take home.  We promise the kind young people at the counter that we will see them on our next visit.

South we head, with visits first to Morro Bay, then to Avila Beach and Pismo, and then home.  Morro seems a brief drive, and we stop for a visit to the Garden Gallery at the beach.  This place drew me in during our last visit to the Rock.  Once within its wood walls and outside spaces, I find it difficult to leave.  "Here, look at this.  This is beautiful."  How many times do we utter these words during our brief visit?  I leave wanting to head home, dig up my back yard, and somehow replicate these spaces.

It is now noon, and we head down the coast toward Avila.  Coming through the forested road off the highway, we emerge into the sunlight-dotted town of brightly colored buildings.  We park and head to Hula Hut, where we have been anticipating a lovely, fresh lunch.  We are not disappointed.  We sit at a round table by the window.  It is quieter here than I expected, but more lively than during our April visit.  The beach is filled with families, the shore alive with children on boogie boards standing in the surf.  We sit for a while, digging in the sand, writing in our journals, and wondering at the possibilities of staying here.  One more cup of local coffee for the road, and we are off.

A final stop down the frontage road at Pismo, where Isabella loves to roll down the small soft dune beneath the pier.  From here, we can see the little Inn that served as home our last trip, the crashing waves beneath it.  A rest, a few trinkets to take home, and we haul our sandy selves into the car.  I forego the coast this homeward trip, heading instead inland and through the Santa Ynez valley toward Santa Barbara.  These hills and fields feel worlds away, which is just where I prefer to be for as long as possible.

North Along the Forest By the Sea

We sleep in.  Perhaps a little late, but who's keeping track.  Perfect cups of locally roasted coffee and hot cocoa from Cambria Coffee in hand, we head north.  A day of driving, north along the Pacific. I remember these soft rolling hills, like a gentle roller coaster.  Past San Simeon, past Las Piedras Blancas, where the beckoning lighthouse is sadly closed to us.  Soon after, the road veers right, the gently sloping hills giving way to rock and deep green forest.  And so begins the first climb.  I remember this road - the sheer cliffs to the left and the steep faces to the right, the rocks threatening to fall without warning.  Sudden breaks in the rock reveal the lush green of Los Padres.  How have I forgotten this forest at the cliffs?  It is breathtaking.  I follow it for 67 miles, occasionally behind cars in no hurry, other times at a healthy clip when landscape and traffic permit.


Somewhere along the way, we find the Peace Mobile. Our stops never coincide, and so the best I can manage are a couple of well-timed honks and flashes of the universal peace sign.  I would like to tell him thank you, hug him, encourage him to keep going.  FollowYourHeartActionNetwork.

I fully expect patches of newly surfaced road, given the inevitable erosion by weather and time.  But somewhere halfway through the climb, there appear two traffic lights, miles apart, where the cliffs have eroded to a single lane.  AND, a sudden proliferation of man and machine of giant proportions - where a bridge-building is taking place on the sheer rock adjacent to the ocean. Wow.


Soon we are in Big Sur.  I have by now been fully absorbed by the landscape.  Relaxing completely at the start of the ascent, I have climbed the rock face - one handhold, one foothold at a time.  Slowly, with purpose, but with the rock.  I round a dark curve.  There is a Henry Miller library? But how wonderful!! And for how long?  My family wishes to push on.  We pass Nepenths, sitting atop the cliffs inviting the ocean to make the climb.  "On the way back," I promise myself, continuing on.  Esalen pops up on the left - the long private drive down toward the ocean still, even today, feels mysterious.  Ventana comes and goes on the right.  It is different here.  I don't recall the presence of structures at the road fork.  We pass through a series of very small towns, and through three hours of time.  We stop to fill the car in a quaint preamble to Carmel - a teeny, old-fashioned gas station and general store.

The Carmel Valley unrolls to the east.  The loud presence of civilization is again jarring, but I am comforted knowing that the sea and shops are nestled just to the west.  And so we head to the sea.  It has been some thirty years, and the influx of people has busted the little town at its seams.  Still, it feels somehow intact.  We park in a quiet lot and venture northwest into town.  The shops are hundreds, but we are hungry.  Lunch at Nico proves to be an adventure in perfection, as with every other meal on this trip.  It is a small Italian caffe, and it feels just that far away for me.  A plate of luscious mediterranean cheeses, locally grown artichokes, and kalamata olives.  Fresh baked focaccia - airy and light - with a paste of olive oil, garlic, and fresh & sundried tomatoes.  Gorgeous.  A single glass of a local pinot noir.  Glorious.  Fresh baked thin crust pizzas - margerita and vegetarian, and cold, bottled water.  We are nourished.


We wander past the stores, delighting in the windows.  The shops give way to Inns, beckoning and quaint, which in turn give way to beautiful houses - the beach neighborhood.  We snap pictures of homes, gardens, streets.  For the first time in years of travel, my husband agrees with me.  "I could live here." he says.  Yes, so could I.  We perch ourselves atop a high narrow dune of the most perfect soft white sand.  Isabella rolls down the hill, befriending a passing dog - a most handsome black hound by the name of Eddie.  We find this uproariously funny - all three of us.

Too soon, it is time to head south - to navigate the Pacific back to Cambria.  We stop at the Mission to snap a few pictures.  It really is breathtakingly beautiful - the simple structures and the wild gardens.






The drive south is quiet, and the three hours pass too quickly.  We listen to Gilberto Gil  - somehow perfect for the scenery.  This time, I stop at Nepenthe, and we meander through the Phoenix bookstore.  Finally pulling my family back through its doors, we climb the stairs to the restaurant, stare out at the sea, and contemplate a snack perched atop the world.  Honestly, we are still full from lunch, and so we bid Nepenthe goodbye and press on, Buena Vista Social Club crooning in the background, home to Moonstone Beach.

Licorice Cows and Butterscotch Deer

A free week, unanticipated, joyous minutes of freedom, and another road trip.  This time, we unpack in Cambria.  A simple, quaint Inn on Moonstone Beach.  Here the water laps gingerly onto the stones.  There are no sharp, craggy cliffs against which an angry ocean can ply itself over and over. A lone cypress sits across the small road.  At the end of the boardwalk, just where it disappears into a small stairway down to the sea, one comes upon harbor seals, sea lions, and perhaps a sea otter, languishing upon the rock tableaus.  The sky is not simply overcast. In rich contrast to our previous visit, the air is heavy with mist. The dampness is palpable.  Is it possible to feel it at bone level - like one can the deep cold?  Small tousle-headed birds of rich graphite wander among the chairs here on the patch of grass.  The adirondacks are empty, all but the bright yellow one which holds me.

The drive north so different this time. Only momentarily did I find the sense of being absorbed by the hills.   Only an instant, a split second. To my core, and then gone. There was no experience of being alone with the earth. Still I marveled at the colors. So muted, darkened by the clouds and mist. So verdant every one. Sporadic cows, of tans, chocolate browns, and deep, rich licorice black. Dotting the hillsides in small clumps or standing alone.  Along a small road off the highway, two light butterscotch deer. From where? Perhaps a trick of the eyes, and in fact small calves grazing the edges of the meadow.  Gone from sight. The hills erupt here and there with rich green mounds, thickets of trees, rugged grey tangles. Sigh. Is the call quieter now, or am I simply not listening?

We trot up to the treasure trove of moonstones across from the San Simeon Pines, eager to immerse ourselves again in the heaven-on-earth rich mounds of polished stones along the water. The tide is out, the sand dry. The shoreline is littered with the carnage of crabs, seaweed, and small creatures now filling the bellies of sated seagulls. The gulls are still gathering just down the beach, scavenging on even more. We sit for a few moments in the sand. No magic overcomes me.  Tossing a small handful of hopeful stones in my bag, we vow to return later, or perhaps early in the morning when the tide has risen and ebbed back into itself.  Only in the dampness of the sea does one see clearly the rich treasures gleaming.

In the late afternoon, we finally venture away from the beach and into the small town of Cambria. While we wait for the dinner hour to begin, we wander into the welcoming doors of Heart's Ease, caroming from room to room, smell to smell, perfect object to perfect object. Walls of candles, next to walls of books I dare not stop to examine. In the next room, glass jars of all sizes filled with herbs, peppers, seeds, potpourri, and teas. I could spend hours on the small shelved wall, and harvest hundreds of small bags of fragrance and flavor. Isabella rounds the corner behind me. "Oh, Mom. You could stay here forever, huh?" Indeed, child. Out back we find a wild path of herbs, flowers, vines, and heaven knows what else.  Gladiolas are twelve feet tall. Grape vines with the hugest leaves I've ever seen. The signs promise faeries, exacting pledges of kindness in exchange for permission to roam. As I wander further, I am suddenly small - perhaps a faerie. For how else could these simple plants loom so high above me?

Dinner at Linn's - a perfect meal, a perfect glass of Ventana pinot noir. Sheer perfection. Panko fried chicken, grilled vegetables, smashed potatoes. Fresh focaccia with charred bits of garlic dipped in fresh olallieberry jam.  One piece of warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Sigh.

Now, sitting here in my yellow chair, it is not quite dark, and the lights are just coming on. We had a lovely walk after dinner, dancing with the incoming tide just long enough to collect a handful of shiny stones. We meandered the boardwalk, watching the sea lions. The surfers gathered down the beach where perfect sets broke onto the shore 8 times out of 10. But those two sets offered a few seconds nirvana on the wave.  It grows darker, and the lights brighter. No part of me wants to go inside, despite the cold. The sea is louder now - the tide having reached the rock. It is a slate grey. I notice that the cypress actually has a smaller partner beside it.  How did I miss that? "Cypress, Isabella. C-y-p-r-e-s-s." I explained this to her because I want her to know them when we drive the road between Carmel and Monterey tomorrow - when we stop at Nepenthe in Big Sur. I hope she will appreciate their beauty.

Sitting here, across from the sea, I can feel my wings relaxing into my body. The chattering in my head has quieted, and I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Phone calls returned, texts sent. I struggle to keep any sense of time at bay. "When will we be there?" "Isn't it taking longer this time?" Why do you ask?  I do not know.  I do not care.  I have left my world of the constraints of minutes, of the lines of day and night. In this space, boundaries blur until they are non-existent. No shoulds, no oughtn'ts. Only "shall we."  Only, "yes."

A Peaceful Place

I sought peace, calm, quiet. I desperately needed green hills and trees - places to sit, to be. I headed southeast into Glendale, through the huge metal gates and up the winding drive of Forest Lawn. It was a spectacular day, and I was surrounded by green on all sides. Windows down, radio off, I wound slowly through the hills, listening to the birds, slowly leaving behind the distant sounds of the city. I drove past small groups mourning loved ones, statues of cold marble and immense beauty, and sweeping trees. After stopping at the Labyrinth at the top of the hill, I'd become consumed with a need to find a church - not typical and entirely inexplicable.  And so I wound further into the hills.

Coming up a hilled curve, I gazed upon a massive structure topped by a clean white cross. At the front of it sat the Hall of the Crucifixion-Resurrection, a most beautiful church with massive wooden doors and an enormous rose window. The parking lot that stood between us was vast and empty, and I navigated it slowly and with purpose. I sat in the car for a few moments, hand poised on the key, listening, thinking...and then calmly turned it off.  I walked up the small steps and into the left side. But this is no longer a church.  It is a museum.  I stood in the cavernous entry, wondering at the cruelty, or kindness, of the joke. Two women chatted quietly 30 feet in front of me.  But the echo was so profound in this place that there was nothing discernible, only an eerie combination of hushes and inhuman sounds. I stood for a few moments, my left hand on the cold marble wall.  A child began to cry, and the voices grew louder. I stepped back out into the sunshine.

Across the parking lot and the vast circles of grass sat a smaller building, the Church of the Recessional.  I walked across the space between us, removing my shoes as I stepped upon the soft green grass surrounding the church. It is beautiful, this place. Rudyard Kipling surrounds it, his words littered across stone walls.  I stopped to read his writing.
    When earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
    When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
    We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it - lie down for an aeon or two
Oh, the beautiful words that continued on. I stepped to the door and took hold of the handle.  It was locked. I was not welcome in this place.  But its beauty was overwhelming, and I sat on the grass in front of the church and wrote for a while, surrounded by trees, jasmine, and hedges of green.

As I drove down the hill, heading again toward the massive gates and the world outside,  the Wee Kirk 'o the Heather sat tucked into a hill on the left.  I passed slowly, spying a beckoning "Entrance" sign.  I pulled the car over in a shady spot and headed up the walk.  This building is a beautiful rendering (Forest Lawn says faithful rendition) of the village church at Glencairn, Scotland, where worshipped Annie Laurie of Scottish lore, and William Douglas poetry.  The words strewn across the wall are quite lovely, and no surprise to the celt in me, I found myself mouthing the start of the poem quietly.  And then I walked to the door of the church.  It gave at my gentle pull.  I was welcomed inside this small, simple structure.  It is empty, and light lay across the wooden benches in long angles. I sat perched on the edge of the second pew from the front. There was no embrace, no sudden consuming emotion or energy. It was peaceful. Calm. And so I allowed myself to sit. Quietly.

Heading down the massive winding road toward the gates, and in no hurry to go through them, I meandered down a small road wandering behind the Little Church of the Flowers. Snapping a few pictures of this small church, I moved on a bit further. The Great Mausoleum sat perched atop the hill like a fortress - oddly biblical to me. I stopped to capture the images, and then tucked the camera into its small pouch. Glancing up, as I prepared to pull away from the curb, I noticed the large headstone sitting before me.  L. Frank Baum. I got out of the car and stood before it for a long time.  L. Frank Baum?  The calm again settle upon me. For here I was, at the end of my day's journey. I had found Oz.

Tell Me The Secret of the Labyrinth

Please tell me the secret of the labyrinth.  I walk one foot in front of the other. Slowly and methodically, head bent downward.  Feet bare.  Sky bright and sunny.  Alone.  No one walks with me. But I am unfocused - disquieted.  I can find no peace or calm.  I hope for it to end, this unending spiral, and in the next moment want it to continue. The walk becomes more relaxed -  my gait unforced.  The turns are unnoticeable.  But my head will not quiet.  Thoughts tumble incessantly, and a dialogue begins in my head. A sudden sadness overtakes me and tears brim at the corners of my eyes. I walk on, and thoughts continue to wash over me. What is to be gained by this? Why is there no magic? Where is my sense of peace? Should I walk this path on a cloudy day, when the sun is hidden? When the birds are quiet? Will I be able to hear the secrets then? I reach the end, and I breathe deeply. Then I realize...this is not the end. I have to walk back.  I cannot cross the labyrinth.  I must walk back out. And so I turn around and, without rushing, begin to walk. And to breathe.  


A sudden gust of wind throws my journal open where it sits on the end of the stone bench. Pages are torn from the covers and strewn across the labyrinth. The wind blows them toward me, but spreads them in all directions. I panic. I abandon the labyrinth.  The wind continues, and I struggle. I let out a cry and begin grasping at the pages.  I begin to sob uncontrollably. I am angry, and the crying ceases. So angry. The book no doubt unprotected and facing northwest, the wind blew it open by chance. But to me, it is an act of fury, an act of violence. My insides have been torn out and tossed carelessly into the world. I have been ripped from my space, from my attempts to find peace, solace, direction, and wisdom. The universe has blown my world askew with great purpose.  I am hurt.  And I am fuming.


I gather pages, some a handful at at time and some scraping a single sheet from the hard ground. I run to the bench, turn the journal with the remaining pages around, and throw it under my shoes. I return to gathering pages, running in all directions, collecting them into an armful of random sheets covered in what gathers in my head. I am near hysteria, for a moment believing that I will lose too many of these pages. That I will litter this beautiful green velvet with my paper. That I will leave some behind, and not be able to remember what was on those pages. The breeze abates, and I gather the last few sheets, strewn about the grass and street. A random piece of paper captures my eye, taking me to a grave marker. The paper is not mine, and not to be removed. Jessie is beautiful, an elderly woman who died sometime in 2007. I am compelled to nod to her image, and I feel such sadness rising in me. I walk to the car 10 feet away and step in.  As I lay the disorderly pile on the front seat, I am undone.  I sob uncontrollably, loudly, and physically.

The Call of the North, Part 1

Last week my family took a leisurely drive north from Burbank up into the central California coast. The occasion was spring break for my ten year old daughter. I have to admit that this is something we never do, and should do with great regularity. We have carted ourselves across the ocean to Australia to visit my older brother and his family. We have taken the night flight across continents to Rio, via Miami or NY depending on the airline's preference, many times to visit my husband's family. Yet we had not yet gone further north than Santa Barbara since Isabella's birth. Mostly because "travel time" with a child equals "school vacation," which equals hordes of people. And, frankly, Mom hates the hordes. Not the people. I love the people. I just prefer that they not surround me by the millions on highways, beaches, sidewalks, hiking trails, and in hotel rooms. Hordes set my teeth on edge like absolutely nothing else, and, admittedly, I am less than pleasant to travel with when my teeth grind incessantly. Still, when my daughter looked at me on Monday and said "Mom, I think we need to go somewhere this week. Even if it's just for a day or two." I knew with certainty that she could not have been more right. And so we hit the internet.


That we would go north required no decision. The north calls to me with great regularity. I have at times listened and followed that voice. Other times, I have fled from it. And so, with each passing year, the voice gets louder, and louder. It has become part of the noise that surrounds my life....the chirping birds, the distant barking dogs, the lawn mowers, the planes overhead, the streams of traffic down the street. It blends in and I forget that it is there...until I venture north again. Listening in earnest to the voice, Isabella and I decided on Pismo Beach...which gave us proximity to SLO, Morro Bay, and a handful of other beautiful spots. We booked a night at an Inn on the cliffs, and waited the three long days for Thursday morning to come. Early on Thursday, we headed north, and the forgotten siren began her singing.

It started this time as we rounded the curve @ Bates Road, passing Rincon Beach and driving into the little town of Carpinteria. The memories flooded me suddenly and powerfully, like the waves that occasionally hurl themselves without warning over the concrete barriers between the highway and the Pacific below. I was back in high school, trekking up from L.A. to visit one of my best friends who had moved up here. The beach trips, the concerts, the long nights talking and laughing, all the time watching her little toe-headed boy grow like a weed. 

Then the quiet hillside town of Summerland, where Nancy and Howard lived in a rustic apartment, lovely humans and friends about whom I wonder now with great regularity. Santa Claus Lane, which has finally, and sadly, been cleared of most of the Santa garb, still brings a giggle. The SB Polo Grounds on the right, which I'd surely passed hundreds of times over a five year period, and even spent time inside watching polo matches. Montecito...sigh. Such a beautiful place that still holds some inexplicable emotional hold. This I don't understand, since I've never lived there. But there is something special, and imminently beautiful.  

The East Beach offramp is closed, but the bird preserve and zoo loom quietly on the left side. From my apartment adjacent to them both, I reveled in the nighttime sounds of the animals. Then the curve past Milpas, where the best Mexican food still lies just north of the freeway, @ LaSuper-Rica.  Homemade fare, best served with an ice cold Negra Modelo.  

The stretch of highway, which still feels new to me, then zips past State Street, sweeping north around the eastern perimeter of Santa Barbara. I pass familiar street signs, remembering my little craftsman-style house with the front porch by Oak Park. The memories have become heavy now. I slip Peter Gabriel's US into the CD player. Signs of Goleta come and go, and I remember the trail I used to run somewhere along here. The visits to a well-loved boyfriend @ UCSB, and the ensuing Sunday late night trips home that at some point convinced me angels protected me. How else could I have made it home so many times in one piece on no sleep and a cup of coffee?

My girl is asleep, my husband deep in thought, and I drive north away from the coastline, into the verdant green hills. My god, it is beautiful. Just as we veer toward Lompoc, and Highway One, Isabella wakes up. "Mom?" "Yes, honey." "Is this what you meant?" "Yes, baby. This is what I meant." I had told her about these hills. The emerald mounds she hadn't yet seen. She pulls out the camera, the iPhone, my phone....and begins snapping pictures. Her dad does the same. I drive. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. There is nothing like this for me. There is no comparison of feeling. And there are no words to accurately describe any of it. I cry. I weep. I sob. I want to stop and lie in the fields of green. Climb the mountain, sit myself down, and be absorbed by the earth. It is home. It is me. I am it. We are one. But I drive on, as there is much more to see, to feel, to be.

Interview With An Author

Karen, tell me what’s preventing you from writing your book?

Well, that’s a damned good question.  I think it’s the depression.  I think I’m lazy.  I think that I don’t have the right, or “write” environment.  I have no privacy.  The tapes playing in my head tell me that if I’m not working, then I shouldn’t be doing anything.  I’m tired.  My brain chemistry is off.  I’m afraid.  I’m deluding myself.  I have other things to do.  It’ll never sell anyway.  The idea simply exhausts me.

Okay, seriously? Have you any idea at all?

I don’t really.  But I wonder if it’s really all that important.  Maybe what I need to do is focus on the writing, not the reasons why I’m not writing.

But won’t the same things continue to stop you if you don’t come to terms with them?

What does it matter whether I recognize them? They aren’t human beings who require acknowledgment in order to find motivation to move on. They’re just blocks, placed there by yours truly.  Of course I do sometimes wonder if they are in fact surmountable, or my albatross to bear for the rest of my days as I struggle to tell the story.  But then, I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.

So you don’t believe any of it has merit?

Oh, I think it all does. I think that things are easy or difficult, or somewhere in between.  I think that the degree of simplicity or difficulty can change at the drop of a preposition, and one should expect it. And I think that you have to move forward regardless.

I get it. So, I have to go back to my original question.  Why aren’t you writing?

Because in point of fact I am terrified that I won’t be able to finish it and that if I do, no one will care about it.  That a hundred will buy it, and thousands will taunt it as an empty work of a lost soul.

Then why write it?  I’ve heard publishers say that books should be written for an audience, not an individual.  Isn’t writing a book for yourself quite frankly setting yourself up for failure?

Maya Angelou has said, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."  This one speaks directly past my heart to my core.  It makes me vibrate.  I run the risk of not finding a publisher willing to take on my book for the very reason you cite.  But I don't really have a choice.  The compulsion to write is overwhelming on the best of days, and painfully exhausting on the worst.

But aren’t you really just talking about journaling?

Sure I am.  A journal is a record of events or transactions.  A personal journal, or “diary,” is a record of anything at all – memories, thoughts, ideas, feelings, intentions.  A book is basically a collection of pages - any kind of pages, really.  Bound sheaves of paper seem to be the defining quality of a book.   So, going down the “a equals b, but b does not necessarily equal a” path of logic, while all books may not be journals, all journals are certainly books.  Yeah, in that case, I’ve started at least 25 books in my lifetime in the form of journals.  I guess it was time to bring them all together into one cohesive story of some kind.

Why?  Why not just leave it at the neat stack of journals on the bookshelf?  Why a story?

Well, some might chalk it up to middle age, and I couldn’t really coherently argue that.  What I know is that stories are our life’s breath.  They define us.  No one has ever spoken to this as eloquently as Joseph Campbell, or understood it as completely as Walt Disney.  Joseph Campbell believed that we are guided in our lives on this planet by myths and stories.  They define our norms, our destinations, and generally our chosen paths.  What we know is based unequivocally on what has been or has been imagined, and has been passed down through ages and generations.  And Walt?  Well, he was hands down one of the THE most gifted storytellers of his century, and perhaps the millennium.  There is a reason that Disney still has the power of magic over the children of this planet, young and old.  The story doesn’t have to be new – they rarely are.  It just needs to touch you.  And the great stories have crossed millennia, countries, and cultures, touching generation after generation.  Mine won’t be new.  My life and my experiences aren’t new, but they’re mine.  And they have unfolded in a very personal way that is mine.  Perhaps they will touch someone in a way that is personally magical to them.

How do you deal with the doubts which, though you’ve made light of them to some extent, are clearly real?

There is a wonderful quote by Vincent Van Gogh.  “If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint and that voice will be silenced.”  I’m a great believer in the power of quotes.  Generally speaking, they came from someone to whom they made a great deal of sense based on a very personal experience.  I’m pretty sure that Vincent came up with this one having come out the other side of some creative block, and not from a random intellectual ray of sunshine.   And I’m certainly not naïve enough to believe that all other writers, great, good, mediocre, and all out bad, have avoided such doubt.  It is part of the creative process.  If it was easy, everyone would do it, and there would be nothing special about it.

So what is your story, Karen?  What is the book about?

It attempts to rewrite the myth of the middle aged women.

Why rewrite it?  Hasn’t it been done?  Aren’t there enough stories about middle aged women and their journeys?

Perhaps there are never enough.  What I can tell you is that the life I am living is not the life that my mother lived, or my grandmother, or any of the women in my genealogy.  I married for the first time @ the age of 34, had my one perfect child, now ten, at the age of 39, and am 12 years into a career and profession that explodes from me with a passion I find impossible to temper.  And I am about to turn 50 years old.  So while I relish the life I have just described, I also have a very visceral and consuming desire to upend it and do something entirely different.  Physiologically and psychically, I am an empty-nester, prepared to embark upon the next stage of my life.  This conflict managed to bring me to a complete halt in my life.  Not knowing how to proceed managed to undermine all that I had built, beginning a slow, downward spiral in my personal and professional life.  You see, there was no benchmark, no story to look to.  There are no myths for my middle age.  And here I again cite Joseph Campbell, who suggested that there comes a time when the current myths are no longer relevant, and it’s time to write new ones.

So are you hoping that writing this book serves as a kind of healing for you, a catharsis?

Well, in fact the writing of it WILL be.  The act of writing is itself cathartic.  So in that sense, it doesn’t matter if it sells.  It doesn’t matter what ANYONE thinks about it.  It matters only that I write it.  That I put my story on paper so that it no longer threatens to explode me into a million pieces.  Beyond that, I am hoping with all my heart that it speaks to other women who find themselves on a similar path.  It’s kind of the ultimate attempt to create a community around this.  If I can start the dialogue, then other women can continue it.  This is how new myths get written.  Someone has to start them, and I got tapped for this one.

Can you share one or two of the specifics of this new myth of middle age?

Sure.  I’ll start with the belief that middle age signals a slowing down.  People these days joke that 50 is the new 30, 60 the new 40, and so on.  Well, with 100 years now a conceivable lifespan, middle age is truly just a range of numbers somewhere in the middle of one to one hundred.  And I can tell you absolutely that, while there are days that I’m frankly too tired to move, I am constantly amazed when I look in the mirror and see a 49 year old face staring back.  This is NOT what I imagined 50 to be.  Other than a handful of aches and pains and of course a wealth of brilliance borne by experience, I don’t feel any different than I did at 30.  Then there is the belief that once a woman becomes a mother, all of her deepest desires and wishes must be put on hold until the children have gone off to college.  Well, says who?  Who says that I can’t move myself and my family somewhere that I consider healthier, or more peaceful?  Who determined forever that taking your child out of one neighborhood and school to another is a violent act against humanity?  This is no longer a relevant constraint, in a lifespan of a hundred years that is lived on a flattened globe of time, culture, and diversity.

Those are great examples, actually.  I think I’m beginning to understand what you mean by the need for a new myth.  I have one final question for you.  Is yours a fiction or non-fiction story?

It is absolutely non-fiction.  Because what I know is what I’ve lived, seen, experienced, and internalized, this is what I can write.  I will share my journey, and hope that women can relate to moments of it, and use it to either accept their own middle age, or as a springboard to rewrite their own story.  Or perhaps just have a good chuckle at it all. J

Liberty Equality Fraternity

The French are in an uproar over the wearing of burqas.  The parliament has recommended a partial ban on the garment in public buildings.  The burqa is the full islamic veil still worn by a relative handful of muslim women.  Despite the fact that France claims one of the largest muslim populations, there are an estimated 1900 women wearing the burqa.  1900 women, in a country of 65,447,374.


I am pressed to point out that the French have long prided themselves in their strong belief in individualism. The French Revolution was about choice over oppression. President Sarkozy has declared the burqa unwelcome in his country. He calls it a symbol of women's subservience. And when he calls the burqa "an affront to French values...which cannot be tolerated in a country that considers itself a human rights leader," the hair on my neck stands on end. This is a prime example of intolerance, Monsieur.


While the burqa began as a necessity, a literal veil of protection from raiding sands and men, it has become one of the most prominent symbols of oppression of our time. This has become a call to arms, and, as a woman, I am not immune to its siren cry. In Black Veil, Iram blogs that "the burqa or rather the woman in the burqa is seen as a passive, dependent and oppressed being who needs to be rescued by her more liberated and emancipated counterparts."  I too would like to free every woman who is truly being held in place by the garment.


But the issue is not black and white, and nor is the range of emotions and responses it elicits. I understand without reservation the concerns over security and safety.  It is unfortunate fallout of the world in which we live. I support without reservation those that see it as oppression of women as human beings. But, my friends, we are no longer a collective of discrete countries who happen to be co-located on this planet.  We are a community of human beings.  We are neighbors living on a single block.  We should be embracing diversity, acting with tolerance, moving closer to unity.  While it is our place to question cultural history and actions, and perhaps even to judge on occasion when human rights are in question, it is not our place to legislate what a human being chooses to wear on their body. It is in fact our responsibility to support our fellow human beings. Educate them. Help them to understand that there are a thousand other perspectives to consider, and that they have the choice to consider any of those they wish.


My belief is mine.  And although I may believe with every fiber of my being that it is right, it is still within me to permit others to choose. We teach tolerance by exhibiting tolerance.


Just a thought...

School District Rules

Today my daughter is home from school, with a sore right forearm. I don't yet know why it's sore. I know she's ten, which means that growing pains are more a rule than an exception. I know that it started after we hit some tennis balls around two nights ago - something we virtually never do - and that it's likely that she pulled, twisted, or bumped something while contorting into positions heretofore unknown in efforts to hit balls over the net. I know that she is sound in every other way and should be at school learning, interacting, and socializing.


I don't take my child to the doctor every time she has an ache or pain. I take her when pain is persistent and unrelenting. I take her when she has a high fever for several days.  I take her when congestion doesn't go away with medicine and rest. I take her for her annual checkups to make sure she is exactly as she should be.  When I was a child, I twisted a wrist badly enough that it was tender to the touch.  My mother tied a neatly cut swath of white bed sheet around my neck, nestled my mildly tormented arm inside it, and sent me off to school. No harm, no foul.  No phone calls to come and pick me up.  I was precisely where I was supposed to be - at school, learning.  I sat out PE that day, and likely recess as well.  And somehow all was well in the world.  No one fussed. No one lost.


What now begins is the search for information. It is not the first rule to stymie me in my child's six years of elementary school. It may, however, be the one that broke the camel's back. I understand that attendance is one of the district's prime directives. The annual book of student rules sent home decries absences and tardiness, threatening to brand our children as truants. Attendance is everything, for only by being present can a child learn. Yet today they sent her home, excluded her from learning, because her right arm was a little sore. I do not expect to change this rule....or any other for that matter.  I do expect that understanding them with clarity will enable me to have intelligent conversations about them.  And I fully intend to have conversations about them.  My child's education is of paramount importance to me.  So when rules prevent her from this objective, you can expect that I'll rattle a window or two.