Category Archives: Books and Writing

Recommended books and the writing life

A Poem a day

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Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
– Virginia Woolf, English novelist, essayist, and modernist literary figure of the 20th century, from Orlando: A Biography

Yes, you can wear a cropped top. I prefer wearing it with a high-waisted faux leather skirt, which elongates short frames.

Yes, you can wear a cropped top. I prefer wearing it with a high-waisted faux leather skirt, which elongates short frames.

I’ve been struggling to get everything that I want to get done on my personal to-do list, especially as I try to multi-task to speed the check-off process. Whereas in the past I would have argued that multi-tasking does indeed work, I have to admit that you aren’t fully invested in the current task when your thoughts are leaping toward the next task, which leaves you dissatisfied, especially with respect to any meaningful, quality writing. As a result, the e-mails that I need to get out are not coherent and the blogs posts end up as drafts without souls that are piling up unpublished.

A desperation began to set in as I wondered if I would ever complete a task that I had started. Every weekend for the past several weeks, I stared at my list in paralysis. Research and send out query letters for the first novel. Resist or give in to the urge to edit and revise the first novel one more time. Go back to researching and note-taking and outlining for the second novel. Read and read some more. Blog twice or at least once a week.

In the last several months, I’ve not had to work late nights or weekends – though an exceptional late night has been scattered here and there, and my days are packed with meetings and tasks with end-of-business-day deadlines. So I asked myself why I felt as if I were more stressed now with work, with everything, versus when I was burning the proverbial midnight oil for the last several years. I recalled the months of revising the first novel while keeping up with my grueling work schedule and being on top of my kids’ various extracurricular activities. I didn’t have an answer, which made me flip the switch for turbo multi-tasking.

So I sat myself down and looked at my “free” time. People don’t believe me when I insist that I’m a lazy person at the core and I need structure to keep me on the straight and narrow. Now was the time to incorporate that structure. As awful as it may sound to free spirits, especially creative free spirits, I wrote out a schedule, barring school and other meetings, extracurricular activities, kid sporting events, and so on. Weeknights I either read a novel from the huge stack I’ve created for myself of must-reads (I don’t like to read online; I insist on the joy of turning real pages) or do research for my second novel. Weeknights I find myself less able to write, so understanding this weakness I gave myself things I could achieve with a greater degree of success.

Friends tell me my top is as soft a cashmere. Surprise - it's from Target, and faux leather skirt is from Zara.

Friends tell me my top is as soft a cashmere. Surprise – it’s from Target, and the faux leather skirt is from Zara.

I devote my weekends to writing, either my blogs or exercises in poetry and prose to keep my writing crisp and muscular. While I read novels both for the pleasure of being immersed in a fictional world and examining the structure and character revelation, I realized I needed to read more poetry to keep the musicality of words in my head. Read more poetry. Every day. What made me come to that realization?

I came across a poem by American poet Christine Kemp that reminded me how much I admire poets’ ability to capture the largeness and the small moments of humanity and present it to us in a thimble. Every word is precise. Every word, every line, every thought carries the weight of so much more.

The poem that captured my attention is Kemp’s “The Things That Keep Us Here,” which I offer the first two stanzas (since I can’t print the whole poem out per copyright laws; Google the title to read the rest of this gorgeous poem):

I wouldn’t call them dream times exactly,
those moments when the wind finds you
folding clothes or putting the milk away.
And all that was no longer is.

As if you stepped out from another life
you lived just moments ago. It’s the small
of the closet or the strain in that sonata
you listened to yet never heard till now.
But it isn’t now anymore.

Kemp really captured the ordinariness of everyday life. And elevated it. Shined a light on it that made those acts startling. You are caught off-guard and yet this is your life. The here and now. The yesterday, which will never be again. The present that you can be in and yet feel it rushing away from you like water, sand, and wind. Never to be recaptured whole. And there you stand being in the present. Helpless. Amazed. In awe.

An edgy palette: gray, navy and silver. Michael Hickey reclaimed vintage necklace (Sugarcube, Philadelphia), Sundance stack of rings, Angela Cummings sterling silver sculpted ring (Urbanity, Berkeley, CA), Carmela Rose earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), sterling silver Hill Tribe cuff (Se Vende, Portland, ME), and Boutique 9 pumps.

An edgy palette: gray, navy and silver. Michael Hickey reclaimed vintage necklace (Sugarcube, Philadelphia), Sundance stack of rings, Angela Cummings sterling silver sculpted ring (Urbanity, Berkeley, CA), Carmela Rose earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), sterling silver Hill Tribe cuff (Se Vende, Portland, ME), and Boutique 9 pumps.

I marvel at poets, their ability to pack so much in each word. Someone once said that if they knew where poems came from, they’d go there. I surely would. Poems are mysteries to me. They are a foreign language that I am struggling to speak and understand, which is something I once told, in exasperation, to the late Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Karl Shapiro, who taught a poetry workshop that I was honored to be in while I was an undergraduate at UC Davis.

But it doesn’t matter in the end whether I fully understand the poet’s message. It’s the sensation in the brain that matters. It’s the fact that carefully strung words that feel so natural and dynamic are making the neurons in my brain fire like crazy, a mini fireworks. And reading a good poem satisfies me. It makes me want to read another one. But read it slowly because poetry is like the finest, most intense dark chocolate that you can only eat and should only eat in small doses to fully appreciate it. More importantly, reading good poetry makes me want to write, makes me want to be careful with how I say what I want to say. So, a poem a day, every evening. My writer’s routine. Check.

Galway Kinnell: words that last

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It’s the poet’s job to figure out what’s happening within oneself, to figure out the connection between the self and the world, and to get it down in words that have a certain shape, that have a chance of lasting.
– Galway Kinnell, in an interview with Elizabeth Lund, The Christian Science Monitor Online, about his then-unfinished poem, “When the Towers Fell,” October 25, 2001

Galway Kinnell, 1927-2014.

Galway Kinnell, 1927-2014.

This past Tuesday, October 28th, Galway Kinnell passed away at his home in Vermont at the age of 87. The Pulitzer Prize and American Book Award winner, who also served as poet laureate for the state of Vermont from 1989 to 1993, succumbed to leukemia. When the news hit, I stopped what I was doing to read moving eulogies about this giant of a poet. Admittedly, I knew more of him and his reputation than I had read of his poems. He was a professor at NYU – he retired in 2011 – when I applied and was accepted into NYU’s creative writing program back in 1988. I didn’t go, though I had desperately wanted to, because I had no money, coming off of two years as a volunteer in the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. The only programs I could consider were the ones that were going to pay my way through graduate school either through a teaching or research assistantship. I chose Syracuse, and more so because of the friendships I forged I am grateful for my time there.

That said, when I read that NYU’s creative writing students receive various fellowships, teaching positions, and stipends, I felt I had missed out. I thought about how different my life would have been had I gone to NYU with financial assistance. E.L. Doctorow was the head of the faculty for fiction and Kinnell for poetry. Had I attended NYU, I would have gone to Kinnell’s readings. I would have been surrounded by intimate interpreters and been privy to backstories only available to those around him. I would have had a deeper connection to the praise heaped upon the fallen poet. Instead, I felt as if I were standing outside a gate, looking in.

I listened to recordings of him reciting his poems, particularly one of his well-known poems, “After Making Love We Hear Footsteps,” about his then-young son, Fergus. While I was drawn to the vivid images of the boy crashing his parents’ post-intimacy and nestling in between his parents, I was touched by the music of his words and how they shaped those moments that conveyed such love for this tiny being:

In the half darkness we look at each other
and smile
and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body–
this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his
making,
sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake,
this blessing love gives again to our arms.

Only poetry has that power, yes?

Best photo ever of Galway Kinnell, by Richard Brown (c).

A poignant and beautiful black-and-white moment: best photo ever of Galway Kinnell, by Richard Brown (c).

Kinnell was immersed in life. He supported the antiwar movement, civil rights, environmental causes, and freedom of expression in repressive countries. In 1963, he worked for the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE, which was also actively supporting the farm workers’ struggles during the grape strikes in Delano in the 1960s). He traveled to Louisiana to help register blacks to vote, an act that landed him in jail. He felt that the job of poets was to “bear witness,” and he did so as a participant, not an observer. Kinnell once said, “To me, poetry is somebody standing up, so to speak, and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment.” Plain-spoken, big-hearted, Kinnell, not surprisingly, was an admirer, a follower, of Walt Whitman. He forged his own way with poetry, and he embraced what was before him. He embraced everything.

While I’ll never have the opportunity to meet him or hear him read in person, it’s never too late to start reading the work of someone whom I should have been reading more deeply, whom I should have been reading at all. We are all immersed in a world that is spinning much too fast. We ourselves are spinning, forced to choose among objects enormous and imperceptible that are swirling around us, coming in and out of our sight, every waking moment: what among the trillion things out there will I allow to matter in my life? What am I missing when I blink or turn my head?

Is it the irony or the saving grace of death – that he will no longer shape words or recite them in his deep and solemn voice but with the news of his passing I have discovered his words as if new, will trace his connection between himself and the world, between all of us and the world, and because of that exploration his poems will sing in my head, become a part of my memory, for years to come?

I have always intended to live forever;
but not until now, to live now. The moment
I have done one or the other, I here swear,
no one will have to drag me, I’ll come
but never will I agree to burn my words.
(from “The Seekonk Woods“)

Rest in peace, Galway Kinnell.

National Filipino-American History Month: exploring our diaspora

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Men who had poetry in their soul come silently into the world and live quietly down the years, and yet when they are gone no moon in the sky is lucid enough to compare with the light they shed when they are among the living. – Carlos Bulosan, Filipino-American novelist and poet, Charlie Chan is Dead: An Anthology of Contemporary Asian American Fiction

I just finished watching a video celebrating the Asian American and Asian Diaspora Studies Program at the University of California at Berkeley, which I found while exploring the meaning of Asian and Pacific Islander diasporas. I’ve always been intrigued with the word “diaspora,” which I’d first come across many years ago in a flyer describing an independent film about displaced Africans. For me, what it boils down to is a search for identity when you are no longer home – whether you were forced out or felt you had to leave your homeland – but with the circumstances of your flight greatly informing the process of identification and the identity or identities you take on.

Diaspora literally means “Jews living outside Israel, the dispersion of Jews beyond Israel, the dispersion of any people from their original homeland.” It’s a state of disruptive being and one that is, of course, constantly evolving. I’ve been refining my query letter for my novel, A Village in the Fields, adding or deleting historical facts or descriptions of my novel as I personalize each query for the intended literary agent. But one description that I have kept throughout all of the queries is this:

“This novel encompasses more than the Filipino farm workers’ struggles in the fields. It also chronicles the Filipino community that my father and his cousins built in the farming town of Terra Bella in the Central Valley. Upon examining their lives, I found that as immigrants my father and his cousins were trying to determine what home is and who encompassed their concept of family when they were far away from home. I sought to answer those questions through my characters, in particular my protagonist, Fausto Empleo, whose story is at the heart of A Village in the Fields.”

Filipino immigrants leaving the ship that brought them to America (photo credit: everyculture.com).

Filipino immigrants leaving the ship that brought them to America (photo credit: everyculture.com).

October is National Filipino American month, and this year I’m celebrating it with yet another excerpt from my novel, with an eye toward diaspora. In this scene Fausto recounts to his nurse, Arturo, the boat ride that took him from Manila to Seattle in 1929:

Fausto took comfort in his cabin mates—four others besides Benny. Three had cousins or uncles waiting for them in America. Vermil Bienvenido spoke good English. He had worked in hotels in Manila and was counting on making more money in the American hotels. Ambo Ayson’s uncle had a restaurant job waiting for him in New York City. Arsenio Magsaysay hailed from Santa Maria, ten kilometers north of San Esteban. As he rolled cigarettes made from his family-grown tobacco for his cabin mates, he told them he expected his work in the fields would serve him well on American farms. Vermil and Arsenio were going to return home rich. Ambo wanted to remain in the States but visit his hometown, bringing gifts for his nine sisters, his parents, and grandparents. Everyone’s heart was still in the Philippines, except for Jun Villanueva.

Jun didn’t talk much, but one evening when Arsenio spoke longingly of his family’s land, Jun cut him off, blurting out that there was no future in his hometown of San Fernando. When Jun declared he would never return because he hated his country, his cabin mates wanted to fight him—even Fausto. It was as if he had spit on their mothers! Fausto calmed down and convinced the others to go up deck to cool their heads so he could talk to Jun. With just the two of them in the cabin, Jun complained that the rice they served on the ship had too much grit. His mother milled rice with a mortar and pestle, which made it taste more fragrant. Fausto told him the rice would be better once they got off the ship, but Jun said it would always taste bitter in his mouth. His family had lost their fields to harsh weather, which ruined their crops, and cheating agents who made it impossible to make a living off of the harvests. The new landlords overcharged, but his parents conceded just so they could stay on his lelong’s land.

“I told him he did not hate his country,” Fausto said to Arturo. “The people in power were dishonest. I told him he would realize that—maybe not now, but later—when he is in America and he grows homesick. I admitted I was already homesick.”

Fausto massaged his eyelids, bringing up an image of the teenaged boy who sat rigid in the bunk opposite him. Jun’s face and body were angular and hard. His eyes, mere slits, told everybody he trusted no one. The part in his hair was severe, a white streak. But when Fausto told him his homesickness was their secret, the hardness melted away. Jun yanked the bunk’s wool blanket over his head and began wailing.

“There is no shame in being scared or angry.” Fausto pulled the blanket down and locked his hand on Jun’s knee, which Jun had pulled up and tucked under his chin.

“If they had not taken our land, I would not be here!”

“Astun, astun,” Fausto said softly. “You will get it back. You put your anger to hard work in America, eh? Then you return. But you are tired, you need to rest.”

“I cannot stay here. They all hate me.” Jun sat up, amid the empty bunks.

Fausto promised to talk to them; they would understand his family’s hardships. Jun lay down, crossing his arms, but when Fausto patted his hand, Jun grabbed it and held tight. Neither of them moved. As Fausto watched Jun sleep, he thought of what they had left behind. His life in San Esteban was not so bad after all. Homesickness gnawed a hole in his stomach, but he wove his fingers with Jun’s until they were entwined.

Benny and the others offered Jun extra bread and fruit that they had smuggled out of the kitchen, but Jun wouldn’t accept them. Fausto didn’t know what happened to him when they landed in Seattle and parted ways. When he was working near Stockton years later, a pinoy on his asparagus crew told him about a pinoy named Jun Villanueva. The two Villanuevas shared similar stories from back home. At the time he heard this story, the American government had passed a law giving pinoys free passage to return to the Philippines. Not many took it. Fausto later found out that if a pinoy accepted the offer, he could never return to America. This Villanueva had gotten into trouble up and down California, fighting with whites and pinoys alike and landing in jail. He took the free passage, bragging to anyone who would listen that he was glad to be leaving.

“You think it was the Jun from your ship?” Arturo was on his second cup of coffee.

“When I heard the story, I hoped it was not him,” Fausto said. “I did not want to think he had no place to call home. When we landed, he said he wanted to keep in touch. I gave him the address in Los Angeles where my cousins lived, but I never heard from him again.” Fausto stared into his cup, his watery black reflection now cold. “Last time I saw him he was walking off the pier. But he looked like any of us leaving the ship. He was all of us leaving the ship.”

Farm workers in an asparagus delta farm in California, circa early 1930s (photo credit: Frank Mancao).

Farm workers in an asparagus delta farm in California, circa early 1930s (photo credit: Frank Mancao).

The Gratitude Challenge: 7 days of thoughtful gratitude

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Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.
– A.A. Milne, English author and poet, from Winnie the Pooh

I got on Facebook to help promote my writing, but I soon discovered that it connected me with friends both near and far-flung, friends from my deep past to recent acquaintances. I rarely participate  in the chain-letter-type activities that make the rounds on Facebook. I read about the Gratitude Challenge being taken on by a number of friends and was soon nominated by my good friend Laurel Kallenbach. With my participation now concluded, I share my seven days of gratitude here on my blog.

Day 1 – baseball is life, life is baseball
Thank you, Laurel Kallenbach, for nominating me for the Gratitude Challenge. I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. Today, September 21st, is my first day (baseball gratitude theme) and I nominate Jack Beaudoin, Kara De La Paz, and Cecie Uytingco Mendoza.

1. I am grateful for David, who told me to go ahead and go to the baseball game today and he would do the tons of laundry and cleaning today and watch Isabella and her friend Kelly.

2. I am grateful for Jacob, who said, “Mom, I want to go to the game with you.” (Because David and Isabella didn’t want to.) I’m grateful that he still wants to spend time with me, even though he’s a teenager, and that we have more meaningful conversations and discussions.

3. I am grateful that my last regular-season Oakland A’s game that I attended this year ended with a win, which allowed us to celebrate with the crazy right-field bleacher loyal fans. “Never Quit” and “Keep Fighting”

Spontaneous partners in crime: our friends Robert and his son, Sasha, join us in cheering the 10th-inning walk-off home run win.

Spontaneous partners in crime: our friends Robert and his son, Sasha, join us in the right-field bleachers. At the moment all seems glum, but soon we will be cheering the 10th-inning walk-off home run by Josh Donaldson, aka The Bringer of Rain (Photo credit: Mike DeMay – thanks, Mike!).

Day 2 – labor day
I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. Today, September 22nd, is Day 2 (Work gratitude theme, appropriately for a Monday) and I nominate Gordon Hunt, Eric Wicklund, and Diana Manos for the Gratitude Challenge.

1. I’m grateful to have great, hardworking colleagues around me to get the job done. Even though I work remotely, I am part of a great team who appreciates and supports what I do.

2. I’m grateful to work at home and be there for my kids – like the time both had pneumonia two winters ago, separate times, of course, and both were out of school for two weeks each. Did not have to eat up vacation days. Working at home also allows me to walk Isabella to school every morning.

3. I’m especially grateful for my geriatric companion, Rex, who keeps me company in the nearby library. While he’s not a great personal assistant, at least he sleeps most of the day and lets me get my work done. I can’t imagine my work day without him.

Rex ready for a Monday morning.

Rex ready for a Monday morning.

Day 3 – supporting our public schools
I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. Today, September 23rd, is Day 3 (school gratitude) and I nominate Juliet Jamsheed, Daniel Philippe, and Denise Portello Evans.

1. I attended my first Investing in Academic Excellence meeting at El Cerrito High School last night, and I’m really excited to help this important organization raise funds for various school initiatives. I am grateful for the ECHS families who are working really hard for the school – the new families I’m meeting and the good friends whom I’ve known for years and whose end of journey together is less than four years away. I’m grateful that Jacob is off to a great start as a freshman there and has some inspirational teachers and a solid principal.

2. I am grateful for the two years we concluded at Portola Middle School (Korematsu now). We had two really wonderful teachers who have made a lasting impression on Jacob and a hardworking principal. Looking forward to returning there next year, in the new campus.

3. We are finishing up 10 years at Harding Elementary School this year. While I’m excited about finally leaving elementary school, I am forever grateful for the inspirational teachers and the many wonderful families and friends I’ve met and worked with on behalf of the school. I’ve made life-long friends and I’ve watched some pretty special kids grow up with my kids.

A Harding tradition: getting families together for a potluck after the last day of school. Here with friends Tana and Lori after our kids finished up fifth grade, celebrating at Arlington Park.

A Harding Elementary School tradition: getting families together for a potluck after the last day of school. Here with friends Tana and Lori, watching our kids, who finished fifth grade, play at Arlington Park this past June.

Day 4 – or purpose in life: giving back
I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. I just read an article on Melinda Gates and her work with the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation and was inspired by her desire to make the world better. Today, September 24th, is Day 4 (giving and helping others theme) and I nominate Anja Hakoshima, Kimi Ynigues, and Kathy Brackett.

1. I am grateful for the work that my friend Jane Fischberg and her colleagues do at Rubicon Programs, whose mission is to “prepare low-income people to achieve financial independence and to partner with people with mental illness on their journey of recovery.” Especially in this current political climate, supporting both groups is not very popular, making their work even more challenging. But my friend Jane has a big heart and strong resolve. In an interview with me, she said, “I really do believe in giving back and I feel like a life of not giving back is not fulfilling. I’ve always felt the reason for living is to be of service, so that informed what I’ve always done.”

2. I am grateful for the work that my friend Alissa Hauser and her colleagues do at The Pollination Project, whose mission is to “expand compassion to the planet, people, and animals.” The Pollination Project’s mission aligns with Alissa’s philosophy: “What I’m most committed to is creating more kindness and compassion in the world,” she said. “There are so many ways to do it; there are so many ways I have done it. But at the end of the day, I just want to be a person who inspires other people to be nice to one another, no matter who they are or what they’ve done.”

3. I am grateful for my daughter, Isabella, who also has a big heart. She and her friends have baked cookies and made lemonade to sell at various parks to raise money for the Milo Foundation. She talks about wanting to save endangered animals, rescuing dogs from being put down, saving the earth from the harm that we do to it, and more. I want to continue nurturing in her that desire of giving and helping others.

Isabella and her friends have been selling cookies and lemonade for the Milo Foundation.

Isabella and her friends have been selling cookies and lemonade for the Milo Foundation.

Day 5 – our Indian summer fall
I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. Today, September 25th, is Day 5 (Nature theme) and I nominate Rose Cee, David Bruce-Casares, and Claire Richardson.

1. I am grateful for the rain that woke me up early this morning. While we have a long way to go to erase California’s drought, it’s a start, an early one at that.

2. I am grateful for the maple leaves changing color, announcing autumn’s return. The display is definitely not as spectacular as the leaves changing in the Northeast or other parts of the country, but all I need is a golden ginkgo and a flaming red and orange maple tree and I’m ready to celebrate one of my favorite seasons.

3. I am grateful for the small resurgence of my garden, which was stricken with powdery mildew in late July and pretty much petered out and left me with charred buds and dried-out sticks. However, with our Indian summer in full force, the carnations, fuschia, scabiosas, and poppies are bursting from their pots – a final send-off and blast of cream, purple, pink, red and white ripples.

Indian summer autumn bouquet.

Indian summer autumn bouquet.

Day 6 – TGIF
I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. Today, September 26th, is Day 6 (TGIF theme) and I nominate John Buettner, Julie Redlin, and Maria Francesca.

1. I am grateful for my pumpkin-spiced chai latte that gets me through the mornings. My day starts on East coast time, so by the time I sit down to eat my breakfast and begin work again, I have already gone through my work e-mail and immediate, deadline-oriented work tasks, done my exercises and ridden my bike, walked Rex, and dropped off Isabella at school. The moment I settle into my office chair and sip my chai latte, I literally catch my second wind.

2. I am grateful for the mellow glass of red wine that will help me unwind in the evening. It’s something I look forward to when Friday evening hits and the work week is behind me.

3. I am grateful for a quiet Friday evening, watching the A’s win and now enjoying the rest of the fall evening with David and Isabella.

Even Rex is chillin' on an autumn Friday evening.

Even Rex is chillin’ on an autumn Friday evening.

Day 7 – a writer’s heart-felt thank you
I was nominated to list 3 things I’m grateful for every day for a week and nominate 3 people each day to do the same. Today, September 27th, is my last day, Day 7 (writer’s gratitude), and I nominate Yoko Morita, Alex Davis, and Nancy Donovan.

1. I am grateful for discovering and embracing the written word and the many gifts it brings – the sentence that dances, the character who enrages you, the places you can taste and touch, the moment created that brings you to a moment of truth in your past, the page that keeps you turning it, the book that leaves you bereft because the magic has ended.

2. I am grateful for the community of writers I have met throughout my life and call my friends, mentors, fellow writers, and careful readers – you know who you are, but a special shout out to Jack Beaudoin, Laurel Kallenbach, John Farrell, and Sands Hall.

3. I am grateful for my non-writer friends and family who have nurtured me in so many different ways – as careful readers, muses, emotional supporters, and more – you know who you are, too, but a special shout out to Kathy Brackett and David, always.

John, me, and Jack with our "author poses" at the Orange Grove, Syracuse University, 1990.

John, me, and Jack with our “author poses” at the Orange Grove, Syracuse University, 1990.

This exercise made me realize how many things, events, and people I am grateful for every day but oftentimes in the rush of the day I don’t reflect fully or give appropriate props. I’ll remember this challenge and remind myself every evening, during a quiet moment before I retire for the night, to look back on my day and give gratitude. Thanks again, Laurel, for the nomination!

In praise of a good story.

In praise of a good story – both reading one and writing one (door sign given to me by my college and good friend Susie Merrill many, many moons ago, which still holds a prominent place in my office).

All-summer-long vacation comes to a close

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Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
– John Lubbock, banker, Liberal politician, philanthropist, scientist, and polymath, from The Use of Life

It’s been almost a month since I last posted. When I began my blog back in December 2012, I diligently posted three times a week, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Even when I was on work deadline and/or sleep-deprived, I never failed to post on the appointed days. Earlier this year, I dropped down to blogging two days a week – Tuesdays and Fridays – so that I could transfer my writing energies to my fiction. Then summer hit, and suddenly I went on vacation in every sense of the word. Though my anal-retentive side of me engaged in a fair amount of hand-wringing in the beginning, I soon gave way to what I call my all-summer-long vacation in which rest was the destination.

For the first time since I was a student, when the last day of school ended in early June for my kids, I, too, entered summer vacation. In past years, when I picked up the kids and headed to a park for a picnic lunch gathering with other families, my excitement over school ending died quickly as I realized that while my kids had a nearly three-month break from schoolwork and homework ahead of them, I had to keep working. And taking them to their day camps or dropping them off for their sleep-away camps.

When the garden was overflowing earlier in the summer.

When the garden was overflowing earlier in the summer.

I enjoyed putting together the courtyard in the back of our house. Once it was done, I took leisurely weekend breakfast under the umbrella. I got the kids to eat lunch outside with me during the week – and they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. We ate dinners while listening to Pandora stations or Oakland A’s baseball games. I gardened and gardened to my heart’s content – until the fog and powdery mildew shut down most of my flowers. Still, I watched over my garden, pruning, weeding, hoping against hope that one more bloom would burst open and surprise me.

Jacob at bat in a Fremont, CA, tournament.

Jacob at bat in a Fremont, CA, tournament (photo credit: Robert Milton, Hornet dad and fantastic photographer and team chronicler via the lens).

Moms enjoying Hornets baseball in Fremont.

Moms enjoying Hornets baseball in Fremont – always wear your fashionable hat for protection against the sun (photo credit: Robert Milton).

We went to a lot of baseball games – my son’s travel ball games and, of course, the A’s. We sat in the sun and cheered as if there were nothing else in the world to do. No housecleaning or deadlines. No errands to run or bills to pay or laundry to do. Nothing else mattered.

A's win! Okay, well, this was back in July....

A’s win! Okay, well, this was back in July….

I didn’t feel like blogging. I especially didn’t feel like styling outfits and photographing them. I lived in t-shirts and shorts most of the summer. I didn’t feel like going back to my research. Yes, guilt crept in. Time was flowing. I don’t have the luxury of time. I tried to do push myself to blog and research. But my heart wasn’t into it. I was, after all, on vacation. I came across John Lubbock’s quote, and it seemed timely to find it while I was wrestling with myself. I have always struggled with rest and relaxation. And being older, I have witnessed the struggle becoming more fierce.

Obviously taken before my haircut. When not in t-shirts and shorts, I can still be comfortable and dressy at the same time.

Obviously taken before my haircut. When not in t-shirts and shorts, I can still be comfortable and dressy at the same time.

But being older means – hopefully – being wiser and mellower. Rest and you will be fresh and prepared for the next long-distance race. Clear your mind and when you sit down to write the words will be thoughtful and full of clarity.

Vintage pearl earrings, Sundance bangle, flower ring, and necklace.

Vintage pearl earrings, Sundance bangle, flower ring, and necklace against a textured flowery t-shirt.

Interesting textures and shapes in earthy shades.

Interesting textures and shapes in earthy shades.

As August heads to its end, alas, the race looms. Summer is coming to a close. On Monday, my daughter will enter sixth grade, the last year of elementary school. My son will enter high school. They will begin their separate milestones. Sadness is mixed with a little anxiety and desire to see friends on a daily basis. And for me? My summer is coming to a close, too. We had our family vacation in early August, which I’ll chronicle in a number of blog posts this coming week. But I wanted to preface these vacation posts with an explanation of my “absence” and an affirmation for all-summer-long vacations being good for the heart, mind, and soul.

Summer outfit with fall shades in mind....

Summer outfit with fall shades in mind….

A Tiny, mighty change: 8th grade graduations and promotions

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True life is lived when tiny changes occur.
– Leo Tolstoy, Russian novelist and short story writer

Pre-ceremony moment with Number 1 son.

Pre-ceremony moment with Number 1 son.

Prior to Jacob’s 8th grade promotion ceremony last night, all week I had been adrift in reminiscing. I remembered my own 8th grade graduation as I rejoiced and also felt bittersweet about his minor rite of passage, with the swift feet of time luring him away from me. I couldn’t find any photos of my graduation, but I distinctly remembered details so vivid it startled me. My Auntie Leonora, my mom’s sister-in-law, sewed my maxi dress of tiny blue flowers against a cream background, with the bodice trimmed with lace and petite luminous blue buttons. June 8, 1976. As we were getting ready for the event after dinner, my mother made her way to the bathroom with a fish bone stuck in her throat. I ran down the hallway, panicked that she was choking to death. She was fine after coughing up the bone, but I realized at that moment how much she meant to me – despite our cultural and generational differences at the time. My mother meted out tough love but only because she wanted me to work hard and succeed.Mr. Vangsness, our choral teacher, conducted us as we sang Morris Albert’s “Feelings,” a popular 1975 song, and a dog understandably howled in the background. Nobody snickered or laughed out loud, but I was embarrassed nonetheless. [Don’t ask why an elementary school choir would sing a song about a heartbroken man at an 8th grade graduation.]

Some of my mementos from elementary school - awards, a cassette from honor choir, hand-drawn "photos" and handmade letters for my cheerleading sweatshirt - I know, even my own son was surprised at this revelation.

Mementos from elementary school – awards, honor choir cassette(!), hand-drawn “photos” and handmade letters for my cheerleading sweatshirt – I know, even my own son was surprised at this revelation.

Spurred by my memories, I took to the attic and dug into the big plastic tub that holds my journals and mementos of my life up to college. I’ve sifted through this tub before to flip through my journals and other writings, but I haven’t gone through the letters, my certificates of perfect attendance and scholarship, report cards, school reports, my overwrought prose from my English assignments in years. I was astonished to find that I still have my 8th graduation program, which is in pristine condition.

Terra Bella, my hometown and home to my K-8 elementary school, wasn’t big enough to warrant having a high school. There were two high schools in the next town over, Porterville, and where you lived relative to the train tracks determined which school you attended. Mostly everyone attended Porterville High School because a greater percentage of the town’s population lived on one side of the tracks. I chose to follow my two sisters, who were going to the newer high school. But that meant I would be separated from all my friends. It meant I would be a lone wolf until I made new friends. Another girl from my school ended up going, but we weren’t close and didn’t hang out in elementary school. I sheepishly asked my middle sister, a junior, if I could hang out with her. She begrudgingly agreed, though I had to walk behind her and her group of friends, no doubt because she had been telling people since she got to high school that she was an only child.

Four bouquets from our garden for Portola's 8th grade promotion ceremony.

Four bouquets from our garden for Portola’s 8th grade promotion ceremony.

Styling the dress before the big haircut.

Styling the dress before the big haircut.

I was scared of high school, though I had outgrown being at the same rural school for nine years and being with the same kids for almost a decade. At the same time, I was curious and excited. I had the rare opportunity early in life to reinvent myself in a new environment. Nobody knew me. There’s a certain freedom in anonymity, in not being encumbered by complicated friendships and loyalties. I was ready to bust out of my little hometown. I was ready for a bigger school, a variety of classes – I had a thirst for pure knowledge and learning – new friends, and new experiences and adventures. The proverbial bigger pond.

This stunner of a dress only needs simple yet elegant accessories: equally stunning Personal Pizazz drop earrings (Berkeley, CA), Elizabeth Ng antique button ring (Abacus, Portland, ME), and vintage bracelet (eBay).

This stunner of a dress only needs simple yet elegant accessories: equally stunning Ben Amun drop earrings (Personal Pizazz, Berkeley, CA), Elizabeth Ng antique button ring (Abacus, Portland, ME), and vintage bracelet (eBay).

Graduating from my elementary school, really, was the beginning of the journey for me. With each step, graduating from Monache High School, Porterville Junior College, UC Davis, and Syracuse University, along with my two years as a Jesuit Volunteer in Alaska and San Francisco, the world continued to grow bigger and bigger. As I, as an 8th grader, walked across the concrete stage to accept my diploma in front of the grassy area filled with families of immigrant workers and farmers on a warm June evening, my excitement was palpable. Life was opening up.

And so it will for Jacob. Happy 8th grade promotion. Tolstoy nailed it: we experience tiny changes, necessary changes, on the way to a true life.

Close-up: beautiful details, including sequined clutch complementing the dress and jewelry.

Close-up: beautiful details, including sequined clutch complementing the dress and jewelry.

Celebrating Jacob's tiny, mighty change.

Celebrating Jacob’s tiny, mighty change. Now to go confidently into this world!