Pandora's Book

Yeah so I finished writing my book last week. No biggie. Just eight grueling years of my life; two where I couldn’t write at all, several spent in intensive therapy, and this year, working like a woman possessed, until finally last week….I completed it. Got my first rough draft printed out and sobbed in Kinko’s when I held it in my hands. The sheer weight of it… I wrote all that? I was on a giddy high for about a half hour. I did it! I wrote a book!

Flash forward to a half hour later. Completely depressed and hand-wringing. All this work, what if nothing ever becomes of it? What if I’m not inspired to write anything more? Then what will I obsess over? Oh the misery….

For three days I couldn’t bear to look at it. It sat on my desk, taunting me as I paced circles around it. My husband said he was so proud of me, he wanted to tell everyone. NO! I shouted. Don’t tell anyone!

Uh…isn’t that the point of writing a book? So people will know about it, and uh…read it? He was right. But I couldn’t bear to let anyone know. I have no idea why.

That Monday, I vowed to face it. I would start at the beginning and read it all the way through. I took my manuscript to a café, and sat on the outdoor patio with my editing pen and a glass of Chardonnay. It felt like a very writerly thing to do. I put my reading glasses on, took a deep breath and cheerily started in on my final edits. Chapter one…

By chapter two I was convinced I’d never be a writer. I’d either have to scrap the whole thing and start over or just quit writing altogether. What was I thinking? Eight years of my life? I put my head in my hands, feeling hopeless. Then out of nowhere, a flying beetle the size of a Hummer started dive-bombing me to the point where, after ten minutes of relentless attack I had to leave the café, practically in tears. On the way out I slammed my sandaled foot into the corner of a door and was bleeding all over the place. As I limped, bleeding, into the parking lot I was hustled by a six foot two junkie that looked just like one of my brothers (who is a junkie). At this point I was so stressed I screamed BACK OFF. He actually took three giant steps backward, his hands up in the air and said “Sorry Ma’am”. Just then my phone rang. It was my kid’s summer camp calling to tell me my son was vomiting. After I got home and held my son’s head over the toilet I tossed that damn manuscript in the closet and slammed the door shut. And I haven’t let it back out yet.

Like Dr. Frankenstein, I fear the very thing I have created. I feel like it has a power of its own, like Pandora’s box, or as my husband called it, Pandora’s Book. It’s as if writing the memoir of my childhood has released all these scary ghosts. I mean think about it. My septic system backed up into my yard, crazy people started threatening my family, my kid keeps getting sick, all these issues from my past are being dug up, flying beetles attacking me. It's almost apocalyptic! I don’t know. I’m getting a little freaked out and superstitious. I do believe that words are powerful. Powerful enough to bring a curse on me? Or am I just being neurotic? I swear I can almost hear that thing banging on the closet door, rattling the doorknob to get out.

My stomach is wretching. I grab my side and bend over. This must be what they call writer’s cramp. And then, my angel-friend Amy calls (who is a brilliant, much more experienced writer), and I tell her how insane and neurotic I am. I tell her about my crazy behavior. Is this normal, I ask?

Oh yes, she says calmly, absolutely normal. And you’ll go through it with every book you write. I sit down and exhale.

Congratulations on finishing your book, she says happily, and welcome to the writer’s life.

I slowly open the closet door….

My Addiction

There’s a theory that we’re all addicted to something, whether it be food, drugs, alcohol, sex, work, attention, whatever.

These days it’s writing for me. There were years that I pushed writing away. I was bone dry for any inspiration. Yes, I was a teetotaler.

But now I have fallen completely off the wagon. I’m compelled to write to the point where everything else suffers. On my desk, there is an unopened jury duty notice, overdue car lease paperwork. Neglected deadlines whirr past me. Most days I’m in my pajamas til well past noon. My dogs desperately need a bath. My cats are shedding, puking up hairballs all over the carpet. Dust accumulates on every surface of the house, giant dustbunnies roll past me like tumbleweeds (okay so I’m exaggerating – creative license here.) but I don’t care. I’m a junkie.

I write.

And when I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. Standing in line at the post office, I’m narrating it in my head she stood in line, pensive, shifting from one foot to the other, when suddenly the clerk called her number… Memories flood my mind as I’m driving, showering… dialogue runs through my head constantly. It’s disgusting. My chipped fingernails from constant typing, as obvious as meth sores. Everyone knows…

The phone rings, unanswered.

The first step is admitting I have a problem….

Heartless

So…Dick Cheney is recovering from Heart Surgery. I saw a doctor on TV the other night explaining the procedure. There’s this amazing little machine inside him that’s pumping his blood, which means that right now, Cheney’s doesn’t actually have a pulse. Really? I mean, did he ever? For a man who by all means appears to be heartless, he’s sure had a lotta heart attacks. Count ‘em …FIVE. But still he lives….and lives….and lives. And yet how many have died as a result of his decisions? How many American soldiers, how many innocent Iraqi children, mothers, fathers? But Dick lives. Dick.

Our friend Greg was healthy and fit, and died instantly from one unexpected heart attack.

I’m pissed off. Seriously PISSED OFF. Why does DICK effin CHENEY get to live and Greg gets to die? Why does God spare him over and over, and not Greg?

Why doesn’t Charles Manson drop dead of a heart attack? Or Mel Gibson, in the middle of one of his racist, mysoginistic raves? Why do those who take other’s lives, make others miserable, get to live? Where is karma? Where is justice?

Anyone have any thoughts on this? If you do, please chime in. Because I’m left with this question in my mind….

Is God heartless, too?

Feathers and Faith...

When you see me fly away without you

Shadow on the things you know

Feathers fall around you

And show you the way to go….

- Neil Young

Anyone who's read my blog at all knows that I struggle with my faith. But now let me tell you why I have a hard time NOT believing in something. And trust me, this story is going to test your faith in me.

Today is July 17^th, Vince’s birthday. Vince was my first love, my high school through college sweetheart. I was positive I’d marry him and we’d spend our lives together. But Vince had a painful past that he couldn’t overcome, even though he really tried. His mother had died of alcoholism when he was little, then his black-out drunk father lost custody of the two boys. Vince and his brother Chris were bounced through the foster care system throughout their childhood. When I met him, he had just been adopted at sixteen years old by a nice family.

Things started out bright between us. We were so close, as though we had grown up together all our lives. I can’t explain the bond, but I believe he saved me during a very dark time in my life. Vince was sweet, outgoing, smart, well-liked by everyone, a great tennis player, a big music lover. Above all he had a huge, loving heart. He was looking forward to a new beginning with his adoptive family. But his foster mom didn’t want him there. The Dad had made the decision to adopt Vince, and the mom resented him. Vince tried to win her love, but it was hopeless. And my love wasn’t enough to heal him. After a couple years he spun into a cycle of self-destruction, alcohol and cocaine, that I couldn’t stop. Eventually, I had to get out. We split for good in 1983.

Years later, I was devastated to learn that Vince died from an enlarged heart. He was twenty-nine years old. An enlarged heart….his heart always was too big for this world.

In 2002, on the eve before my first fundraiser for foster kids, Vince appeared to me in a dream that wasn’t a dream. He was there, I could hear his voice in the room. I could see the detail on his clothing. He gave Troy a hug, and told him to take care of me, and that he’d be watching me from “over there”. He was healthy and happy. I was sobbing happy tears. It was an amazing, truly indescribable experience.

All that year as I was working on launching an arts program for foster kids, I felt Vince at my back, and in my house. Strange things were happening. Lights would flicker on and off. The ceiling fan would start to spin on its own. Pennies would drop out of the air. My kids were getting freaked out. My daughter was in High School at the time, and she was not pleased about this intrusion. I remember one night she was screaming from downstairs, “Mom! Your dead boyfriend is in my room! Get him out!!” Teenagers can be so moody….

But the very strangest thing happened one night as I was laying in bed in the dark, trying to fall asleep but thinking about Vince’s death. I was listening to a song “The Long Day is Over” by Norah Jones, thinking Vince must have felt that way when he passed, when all of a sudden my computer turned on, then my AOL signed on by itself, without me entering a password or anything. It said “Hello! You’ve Got Mail!” I just lied there in my bed, paralyzed. When the song was over, AOL signed itself off, and said “Goodbye”. I defy any computer geek out there to explain that one to me.

Even though these crazy things were happening, I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t. It was too …I don’t know….unbelievable. But these strange events and coincidences kept coming. So I read a book by John Edward, a famous medium. He said to ask your loved one for a sign, something specific, to let you know if they are around. So I thought of a feather. But not just any feather. Not a pigeon or sparrow. Too common. It had to be a black feather. That’s pretty rare.

That very night we had friends over for dinner. My friend Lynn, who is a Jewish atheist and doesn’t believe in anything hippy-dippy, brought me a hostess gift, some beautiful stationary tied with a ribbon. On the top she had tied a black feather. She said, “I don’t know why I put that feather on there, it just seemed like you.”

Okay. So that was a really, really weird coincidence. In all the years I’ve received gifts, never has anyone tied a feather on top. But still I couldn’t believe it. Then I started finding them everywhere. On my car, in the street. And one morning my cat greeted me carrying a huge 10-inch black feather in his mouth. He’s an indoor cat! And still I thought, what a weird coincidence.

A few weeks later my husband Troy and I were hiking in the mountains. Troy was about to get on a plane that day, the first time he’d flown since the 9/11 disaster. I was stressed about it, worried and crying. Troy was trying to reassure me when saw something glittering in the dirt.

“Look… a good luck charm,” he said.

He bent down to pick it up, and lo and behold it was sitting next to a big black feather. I thought it was a poptop from a tin can. It was all encrusted in mud, but as he dusted it off, I was stunned. There he held in his hand a diamond infinity ring. In the middle of freekin nowhere, up in the mountains.

“See? This is a sign…” Troy said. “You never have to worry.”

Troy slipped the ring onto my finger, and it’s been there ever since. Now….can anyone explain this? I mean, I’m as skeptical as the next guy, but this was pretty hard to shrug off.

But I figure, I mean, if I have a guardian angel who’s dropping jewelry from the sky, I shouldn’t question it, right?

I believe…

I believe…

I say SCREW YOU to "The View"

Yesterday I was on the treadmill watching The View (my daily ritual) and they were talking about this whole Mel Gibson thing. They were criticizing the wife, Oksana, for going to the media with the tapes, and some of them were painting her as the problem. Okay, HELLLOOOO? Did you listen to those tapes? She is the victim, not the problem, that much is clear.

Whoopi was saying Oksana should have gone to the police instead of the media. Gee Whoopi, you must really have a lot of experience in this arena…because let me tell you what happens when you go to the police after you’ve been threatened with violence. NOTHING. I know this from first-hand experience. I’ve also seen this happen with friends who were threatened by exes. The police do NOTHING to protect you. So then you get a restraining order (which Oksana did) and let me tell you what that does to protect you. NOTHING.

In 2001 I worked with Denise Brown (sister of Nicole Brown Simpson) on a Domestic Violence awareness project. Believe me, she would have been all too happy if Nicole’s 911 tapes and photos of her bruised face had gotten out BEFORE the incident. If the whole world was watching, OJ may not have felt so brazen that he could get away with murder. If the whole world was watching, maybe the neighbors in Brentwood would have come outside to investigate when the dog was barking like crazy. Maybe they would have peeked out their windows more often, kept an eye on her, walked her to her car at night. If only the world had been watching….

One of Gibson’s threats to Oksana was that he would bury her in the rose garden. That is not a statement to be taken lightly.

Of all the women who are murdered every year, 75% are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends. Every nine seconds in America a woman is beaten. How many have fallen victim just in the short time you’ve been reading this blog? Hell yes, go to the media. And if you’re not a big star with media access, tell everyone you know. Tell your neighbors, your family, the police, the courts. Tell everyone. Do not let these sick sociopaths operate in secrecy.

It makes me angry when women don’t support one another. You may not agree with Oksana’s decision to release those tapes to the media, but have you walked in her shoes? Can you even begin to imagine how scary it is to be married to a man like that? Who’s going to protect you? Who’s got your back? She’s doing what she has to do to protect herself and her child. In my opinion, it may have just saved her life.

For more information on Domestic Violence, see www.nicolebrown.org

Addendum: After I posted this blog, I was doing yoga in my bedroom. Hanging upside down in Downward Dog I happened to spy something under my bed. It was a button that was given to me nine years ago by Denise Brown...it says "Remember Nicole".

Wow. What do you think guys....coincidence?

I've Been Boggled!

So I was playing the game Boggle with my four-year-old Evan. You shake up these letter cubes, then try to find how many words you can make out of them in one minute. What a great learning opportunity for him, I thought. Have a good time playing, learn some new words…

Evan: Look Mommy! Here’s the word TOP.

Me: Great job honey! What else can you find?

Evan: TROT.

Me: Yes, very good. And look here, the word STOP.

Evan: Yeah, and the word, MO.

Me: Good try honey, but MO isn’t a word.

Evan: Yes it is, Mommy!

Me: No, sweetie…sorry.

Evan: It’s a character in the Japanese alphabet, Mommy. See? Let me show you…

He proceeds to draw this character, which looks something like a lower case t crossed twice. So I looked it up online, and as usual, he’s right.

Me: Oh. Well….duh. I coulda told you that. I didn’t know we were using Japanese alphabet characters…( I didn’t really say that, but it would have been funny if I did)

But what I really said was – Where did you learn that Honey?

Evan: I looked it up on YouTube on Genki-Japan.com (Of course!) But it’s the Hiragana alphabet, not Kanji. (In case anyone was wondering.)

And once again it was ME who ended up learning something by sitting on the floor playing with my kid.

Ain't no Sunshine when you're gone....

The sun has not shone in Los Angeles since our friend Greg Dawson died last week. It is the middle of July…in CALIFORNIA…and the sun has not shone. Coincidence? I think not.

Yesterday at his funeral, the sky actually opened up and wept with all of us. I’ve lived in California all my life. Never before do I remember it raining in July.

It was a beautiful but heartwrenching service. His friends and family who spoke did so with such eloquence, but endless tears. My husband Troy played guitar while a friend sang one of Greg’s songs. The service was two and a half hours long, standing room only. I would have expected nothing less.

This was a man who was absolutely beloved by every single person who knew him. Each person who spoke said they never heard him say a bad word about anyone. That was confirmed by all of his family members in their eulogies. What a legacy. If nothing else, I would like that to be my legacy, too.

Troy had to perform in San Diego immediately after the service. It was unbearable to drive away in separate cars. We talked and cried on our cell phones, driving opposite directions, until I was pulled over by a cop (against the law, I know.). When he saw me crying, the memorial photo of Greg on the front seat and the pile of Kleenex, he let me go.

Every time I turned on the radio, it was a song meant especially for my ears. The first was “Miss You” by the Stones. The second song was “Carry On My Wayward Son”….complete sobfest. I turned off the radio.

I drove two hours in silence, thinking, remembering…All these scenes ran through my mind. A few years ago at our friend Cam’s Christmas party, I got up to sing a Gladys Knight song …All of a sudden Greg and Cam and a few other friends jumped up to be my “Pips”. They had never heard the song, but they started making up background parts and dance steps. It was hysterical, and they were actually GOOD! That’s how Greg was. Fun, outgoing, silly, up for anything.

Maybe one of the reasons this is hitting me so damn hard is that Greg was so much like my husband. He was kind, sweet, sunny and good-natured, loved by everyone who knew him, caring, funny, creative, talented, adventurous, spontaneous. He was the kind of person you just felt good being around. Everyone talked about his hugs, and how wonderful he was with children and animals. I mean, really….how many freekin people like that exist in this world? Now Melanie is without him, and Connor will grow up with only photos and memories. With one switch of fate, it could have been me in Melanie’s shoes. I held Melanie’s hand as I promised to be there for her on the long road ahead. In her eyes was unbearable, soul wrenching pain. I felt it rip right through me, my heart pierced, my mind repeating it’s mantra…why, why,why, why…..

Sadly, today also marks one year since Troy’s best friend Dave lost his twelve-year-old daughter Alanna in a car accident. Last July was just as unbearable. Such unimaginable grief. One year without Alanna, the little girl who everyone said was the kindest, most loving girl who accepted everyone. It’s always the good ones….No, the sun should not shine today. It should not.

Lying in the dark last night, I remembered a time that Troy and I were in New Mexico visiting our friend Joe, who is a rabbi. We were sitting outside at night under that huge New Mexico sky full of stars, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, and talking about the mysteries of life. Joe shared with us a philosophy of the Jewish Faith. He said when each of us dies, we must leave a little bit undone, something for the next generation to pick up and continue.

I was so heartbroken that Greg had died with music still in him, dreams unfulfilled, work unfinished, a child yet to be raised into a man. But remembering Joe’s words, I realized it’s up to us now to pick up the loose threads of his life tapestry, and continue to weave.

So many threads he left… of kindness, creativity, hope, love, music, friendship. He left us all the gift of each other, the friendships we have formed through him. He left us the work he hired us to do. He left us Melanie and Connor.

We are weary and hurting, but we will pick up and carry on, just as Greg, and Alanna, would want us all to do. We will try our best to remember their lessons of kindness and acceptance. I will strive to leave a legacy of “never saying a bad word about anyone”.

Every one of us has lost someone we loved at some time in our lives, but we are still here. We live. We walk the Earth with their stories alive inside us. Love can never be erased. Memories can never be taken away. We are richer for having loved them.

Let us pick up those threads, and continue the work ….