See you tomorrow

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A beautiful couple, who had been married for seventy-three years, recently left this earth a mere sixteen hours apart. For any of you who have seen, or read, The Notebook, this story may seem like a fairy tale, but it is real. It is devastatingly sad, but it is the purest form of true love I could ever write about.

Jack and Sylvia were an integral part of my life. In my early twenties, I was in a relationship with one of their sons, and their love for their family was the thing I cherished the most about them. I can still picture the dining room in their home where we would gather for Sunday roast dinners, and Gran would be fussing about the little details to make sure everything made its way to the table before we all sat down to eat. It was sometimes chaotic, but it was always pure bliss.

They were the epitome of the devotion they had for their life partner. In the many photos I have seen, their hands were always intertwined, and they were gazing at each other with true affection, and after seventy-three years, the look in their eyes never changed. Their love was magic.

When Gran left on March 14th, Grandpa was overheard saying, “Goodnight Gran, I’ll see you in the morning”. And true to his word, he followed his lover into the afterlife, not wanting to spend a moment on this earth without her. No romance novel, nor no epic movie, could ever capture the sentiment or the overwhelming emotion he conveyed in that moment after she left him.

As I write this blog post, I know they are holding hands in a realm we can only dream of. They will soon be passing out cards for their next game of bridge, and arguing about their bids and hoping they will take the maximum number of tricks.

I can simply say, I was blessed to have had them in my life. They touched so many lives, and I am thankful my life was one of those lives. I am sad they will no longer be in our world, but I am forever grateful they will be a part of my past, and a big part of my future as I move forward holding onto the lessons they taught me. May we find each other again in the afterlife, and may our dining room table be as filled with as much life when we see each other again as it was when we were blessed to spend time together in this physical realm.

My Bridge Day

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Yesterday marked the ninth anniversary of my mom’s passing and like I have done for the last eight years on March 7th, I woke up at exactly 7:02 am. That is the time I received the phone call and was made aware of her death back in 2014.

The first time it happened, I thought it was an unlikely chance occurrence, but it has happened every year since she left us, and when I wake up at 7:02 am each year on March 7th, I replay the phone call over in my head. Her departure was unexpected at that time, and I can still feel every emotion I felt in that moment. I remember what I was wearing. I can recall the dryness in my mouth, the uncontrollable tremble in my lips, and I think of how difficult it was to sit up in my bed and swing my legs over the edge to bring myself to a seated position.

Today is what I call my ‘bridge day’ because tomorrow will mark the seventeenth anniversary of losing my dad in 2006. After his prolonged illness and subsequent health decline, his passing was much more of a blessing than the sudden shock of losing my mother, but the loss of a loved one is never easy to process, regardless of how they leave our world. These early days in March not only remind me of how much I have lost, but these days encourage me to continue to be the person my family and friends always wanted me to be.

I willingly forge ahead with each new day, thoughtfully holding on to the lessons I have learned from, not only my parents but, all the important people in my life who have left this earth before I could mentally prepare for their absence.

I have seen this bridge in my dreams. Many times, this stone structure has entered my subconscious and pulled me onto the apex of its design. As much as I wish to see the faces of my loved ones and feel the warmth of their embraces, in my dreams, I stand alone at the peak of this stone wall. I know the spirits of those who have left my world are with me. I am so thankful, and although I cannot see them or hear their voices, I can feel their energy surrounding me, keeping me safe, and sending me implied messages and signs that they will always be with me.

While life goes on around us

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February 8th, 2023, is the day a dear friend of mine took his own life, and it is a day I will never forget. Those in his intimate circle knew about his struggles, but the rest of us were utterly shocked and gutted by the news. I have been spending the last two days selfishly wondering why I was so oblivious to his pain.

My heart aches for his wife, his immediate family and friends, and the rest of the people in his life who were fortunate enough to have been touched by his charismatic personality. He was the essence of joy. He infected the world with his wit and charm, as well as his brutal honesty. His generosity knew no boundaries, and he was always the guy who would be the first person to give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.

Robbie O was the friend we always wanted, and in our hearts, we knew we always needed. He was effervescent. He was quirky. He was one of a kind. The number of pictures taken of him flipping the bird make me want to do that in every future picture that will be taken of me.

In my attempt to distract myself from the emotions I am trying to deal with, I have been mindlessly scrolling through my social media pages to read tributes from other friends and see pictures of him I had not ever seen. Although I still cannot wrap my head around what happened, I am comforted by the abundance of thoughtful messages being shared in his memory, and the feeling that we are all trying to collectively figure out how to process this great loss.

While the generic buzz of social media is filled with pictures of food and Tik Tok videos, and life goes on around us, I see the innocuous posts about everyday life and I want to shout into the void. I want to scream into those obscured realities. I want to reach through computer screens and make the world aware of what is actually happening, and what the world will be missing in the absence of our dear friend.

I want people to realize what a great detriment we are all suffering through while we are still trying to accept our loss. We should all stand taller knowing he was in our corner. We should all puff our chests being able to say we knew him. And we should all hold every memory of Robbie O tight to our hearts while life goes on around us.

Soup’s On – Part 3

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Wow, if this blog and I were friends in real life, I would have understandably been given the cold shoulder for not holding up my end of the bargain in our shared communication. It has been over two months since I paid any attention to this cherished space and given myself permission to get lost in its warm embrace. I could blame a myriad number of outside circumstances, but the only thing I have to blame is myself.

It is so easy to become so consumed by life that we let our simple pleasures fall to the wayside. Between work, drafting novels, and spending time volunteering for our local food bank, I lost sight of the things that truly bring me back to myself. Creating things in my kitchen, especially soup, is the easiest way for me to feel grounded again. But, until today, I have regarded my kitchen with indifference. It had become just another room in my house, and I had forgotten how much of my heart beats within its four walls.

Not only does creating something from scratch remind me of my dad’s reckless abandon in the kitchen, making soup sparks a different part of my creativity, and sharing those soups with my family brings me great joy. Like my writing journey, I never know what the voices in my head will tell me to do, but almost every soup is something exciting and new. No two soups, even if I make the same thing again and again, are ever the same because I don’t follow a recipe. That is true freedom.

My writer’s brain has been blocked this week, but taking the time to put my skills back to work in my kitchen has dislodged the obstacle that was quelling my creative writing. There is a reason my characters like to cook, and that reason has reminded me to get back to basics and start from a familiar place to allow myself the freedom to put my trust back in the voices in my head. They are not controlling my brain, they are merely shining a light in a direction I had not anticipated.

Two soups are now being slow-cooked into submission in my kitchen, and the neurons of my writing brain have lifted their noses to deeply inhale the aroma of motivation. Everyone is familiar with the adage ‘stop and smell the roses’, but in my case it is ‘stop and smell the soup’. Just that brief moment of taking the time to allow the familiar smells to permeate my senses has opened a new door into the book I will soon finish writing.

When we were children, my mom’s way of letting us know dinner was ready was to yell ‘soup’s on’. Well, the soup is on in more than one way in my house. The crockpots may be filled with delicious ingredients, but my brain is now filled with a profusion of ideas to get this book finished. Soup’s on, indeed!

The cat came back

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Although the title of this post is borrowed from a song, it has a significantly different meaning for me. A few months ago, I stepped outside of my comfort zone and sent my five books to a local address that belongs to the cottage of a Canadian film director with the hope my books would find their way into his hands. Sadly, I came home from work yesterday to find the same box I had sent had been returned to me undelivered. The cat came back, it just couldn’t stay away. It was sitting on the porch the very next day.

Although the ‘next day’ actually totaled a few months, the sentiment is still appropriate. As I ponder the misfortune of not having been successful in reaching this Canadian director, I have no choice but to put my faith in the adage ‘cats have nine lives’. This thwarted attempt to introduce myself was the end of life number one, but I still have eight more to go!

My writing journey has been a roller coaster, and as much as I detest the thought of being strapped into an uncovered train travelling at warp speed, I have embraced the ride. I have done my best to swallow the contents of my stomach before my fellow passengers become victims of being drenched in the gastrointestinal spray of my failed attempts, and I have given myself the courage to embrace the opportunity that lingers in those remaining eight lives.

The cat may have come back, but that emboldened feline is ready for the next battle. I will survive. I will not go gently into that good night. I will not go down without a fight. And one day, I hope the cat that came back will be battling the MGM lion to see who has the loudest roar.

The game of life

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This space used to be my sanctuary, the place I would come home to and allow myself to be the truest version of me. I was able to ignore the world around me. But now, two long months after my last post, I realize the world had called my bluff. It won the last few rounds by catching a lucky break on the river card, leaving me with a small pile of chips and the sheer determination to play one or two more hands to see if I could worm my way back into the game.

For a while, I felt truly defeated. Gamblers with the small stack know their chances of living to see another flop are slim when faced with an opponent who controls the betting. But those same gamblers, the ones who know they only have those one or two more opportunities to command the game, dig deep within themselves to create a strategy. When the cards were not in my favor, I folded, and I waited to see what my next down cards would be. And then it happened.

I peeked at my two down cards and knew I had a chance. I made a smart bet, and the world matched my bet. The turn card gave me even more confidence, and I threw in a few more chips to make the game more interesting. The world saw my bet and didn’t raise. It waited with interest to see what would happen next. The river card was flipped, and I knew I was back in the game. I went all in, knowing the world had an extremely small potential of beating my hand, and I hoped my gut instinct was not wrong.

When the world called, I answered with more strength than I remembered I had. Before revealing my down cards, I paused briefly to savor the moment, knowing the world was waiting to see what I was hiding. For me, that reveal wasn’t in my cards. It was in the belief I had in my own ability to win. I disclosed the two cards I had been holding, and the world had no choice but to reward my victory by allowing me to pull the winning pot to my side of the table.

I am back in the game. The faith I have in myself, and the ability to trust my instincts, has given me the chance to see another flop. The game of life is afoot, and I am anxiously awaiting the next hand.

Thinking outside the box

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This is an odd title for this post, considering the content of this post is about some items I put inside a box earlier today.

My writing journey, thus far, has consisted of a great deal of luck and timing. Five years ago, when I had finished writing my first novel and had the grand notion of querying to find an agent who would help me traditionally publish, I eventually realized the traditional journey was not in the cards for me. I had been dealt an extremely rare hand, and I have been playing those unique cards to the best of my ability.

Having that new perspective has allowed me to develop a great friendship with my mentor, Neil, self-publish five novels, and think of creative ways to put my name out into the world. After a fortuitous double-booking in a volunteer spot, I was given the opportunity to reconnect with a friend I had not seen in a while. She is a fellow author, and a cottager in the area. During our chat, she told me a Canadian director has a cottage nearby, and she had seen him in the area on several occasions. She suggested I find a way to get my books into his hands, and that is what I have attempted to do.

While thinking outside the box today, I carefully packed a copy of each of my five books, a magazine article about my writing, and a carefully constructed letter into an actual box and mailed them to a local address with the hope this particular box will find this Canadian director. This act of fortitude may result in radio silence from the other side, but at the end of the day, I am happy knowing I tried something that was far out of my comfort zone with the hope of making a new connection.

Heading back into the trenches

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I am disappointed with myself. I have been so busy writing books, and working full-time hours at my job, I have ignored this little piece of heaven that allows me to write about anything I deem worthy to write about. I miss the freedom of being able to put together strings of sentences that are not required to tie into the series of books I have written, or the new stand-alone novel on which I am working. This blog is my refuge from the ties that bind me to those ideas. This writing space is my freedom.

While the sound of thunder rumbles outside of my house, and the rain falls heavily on the foliage so desperate for sustenance, I take refuge in the words that don’t have to mean anything, but they mean so much to me. This blog is my escape from the rules of writing. Here, I can say anything. And, though these words may mean nothing to the characters who haunt my waking hours and invade my personal space, the words I share in this space mean a great deal to me.

Since becoming a self-published author, I feel like I have lost my voice to the voices who have added their perspective to my narratives. I will never be ungrateful for their input, but I feel compelled to visit this blog more often than I have been to allow it to give me the freedom to banish those voices and speak for myself for a change.

The book I am currently working on is a stand-alone book that I will carry with me like a shield, back into the trenches to look for a literary agent. The time has come. If I am going to follow my dream of getting my stories onto the big screens, I need a friend in my corner with connections to the outside world that is so far beyond my comprehension, it is alarming. But I am willing to tackle this next step with every ounce of strength I have, and I am ready to face the rejections until I find the agent who will pull me out of these deep trenches and convince me they share my vision.

My first official book signing party

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Every author dreams of sitting at a table and signing copies of the books they have painstakingly brought forth from the depths of their imagination. It is a rite of passage that has always intrigued me and has lingered in the back of my mind since I self-published my first book in January of 2021. Putting out that first book in the midst of a global pandemic was not ideal, so the opportunity to organize a book signing was an unattainable dream that was soon buried under the pile of words swirling around in my brain.

Yesterday, a small group of women I refer to as “The Fab Five” joined me in a small room, and they allowed me to sign their copies of my books and talk about my writing process as well as the difficulties self-published authors face as they attempt to fight their way into the mainstream of the literary world. It is an uphill battle, but one I will continue to walk barefoot in the snow both ways. (I’m showing my age with that reference)

The hour we spent together was nothing short of magical. I allowed myself to feel like an author, and not just a person who wrote a story or two. The more I talked about my journey as a writer, the more I connected to the part of myself that feels like the true essence of my being. I love to write, and I love that the stories I have created have entertained people enough to have them ask to have their books signed by me, and to spark a discussion about the books I will be writing in the future.

When I sent my first book baby into the world, I felt like a writer. But after sitting in that small room with The Fab Five, women who have read and enjoyed my stories, I truly felt like an author. I am compelled to give my eternal gratitude to Nancy, Nora, Evelyn, Sharon, and Jayne. The time you gave to me yesterday inspired me to keep going, and to never lose sight of my dream.

It doesn’t take money to be kind

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I have not been present much on this platform, this accessible soap box that allows me to write about whatever topic I choose to write about. The lodge is busy getting ready to open for the long weekend, and I have been preoccupied by finishing my fifth novel and preparing my new baby to enter the world.

But, as writers do, I became distracted by social media while trying to write the blurb for the back of the book and I was unsettled by a tweet I saw while I should have been writing the outline of my latest novel. I’m sure the phrase in this woman’s bio was simply meant to insinuate that she could do more good if she had access to a plethora of funds, but the simple line “I wish I had the $$ to be more kind” took me by surprise.

I do not have access to heaps of cash, but I choose to be kind every day. Money, in my mind, does not equate to kindness. Simple gestures of humanity can bestow a great sense of compassion on those who are fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of that gesture. Perhaps if the line in her bio read, “I wish I had more money to donate to great causes”, I would not have been so affected. But her reference to money being equated to kindness burrowed under my skin, and the contamination of her misguided ideal caused that small, polluted remark to infect my sensibilities.

While this post may seem like more of a rant, my intention is to simply have my words be a reminder. We are not all blessed with wealth, but we are all given the opportunity to be kind on a daily basis. A few thoughtful words, or a simple gesture, could change the trajectory of someone else’s day without monetary currency being a factor in that communication. Kindness comes from the heart, and not from a bank account. Cash should not be the currency in a world of good will. It does not take money to be kind. It simply takes a willingness to take the time to shine your light on someone else and let that person momentarily bathe in its glow.