I heart love <3

I have a secret. Don’t tell anyone: I really believe in true love (aka 'to blave'). I believe, like a twelve year old girl, in The Last of the Mohicans kind of love that yells across a chasm “I will find you, no matter how long, now matter how far...I will find you.” I believe in the Princess Bride kind of love where true love speaks the dialogue of Wesley and Buttercup:

W: I told you I would always come for you. Why didn't you wait for me?

B: Well, you were dead

W: But death cannot stop true love...All it can do is delay it for a while.”

I believe in the Moulin Rouge! kind of love that sings to me, despite my worst flaws, “I will love you, until the end of time.”

Somebody please slap me...right? After all, I’m a forty year old woman. I should know better. Funny thing is, I’m not really alone in my love of love...have you seen the lines queuing up outside of New Moon? They’re just hoping to get a glancing brush up against that kind of love.

I always believed my parents had that kind of love. A love that turns a blind eye to the everyday pettiness of boorish behavior and failed expectations. A love that stands in the face of vicissitudes of nine kids, war and the death of a child. A love that would transcend death. I guess that’s why I kind of fell apart when my mom died and my father found comfort in the companionship of other women within two months of her death. This did not fit into my ideal of love. No matter how many people tried to explain, in logical, statistical, sociological terms, how this was a common occurrence among men who had enjoyed a healthy marriage, I just couldn’t hear it. My parents were different. They had the kind of love that comes along once in a lifetime. The kind of love I believe in.

I still couldn’t get used to it even eight months after her death. By then, he had already dated three different women. You’d think I would have pulled on my big girl pants and gotten over it. At the time, I went to the play Mama Mia! and my heart crumbled when Donna, played by Louise Pitre sang the song “The Winner Takes It All”. First of all, Ms. Pitre has this beautiful, deep, rich voice that reminded me of my mom’s singing voice. Earlier in the show, the writers had already set me up with the mother/daughter ballad of time lost, “Slipping Through My Fingers”, causing me to imprint on Donna as mother figure. So when they clobbered me with left hook of, “Tell me does she kiss you like I used to kiss you.” I couldn’t help feeling wounded for my mother. I imagined her asking that of my father. I couldn’t fathom how a love of such great consequence could have been so easily replaced. The loss of love had me weeping in the loge, grateful that it was dark in the theater.

I’ve had years to come to grips with my childish expectations of my parents and have done just that. But lately I’ve been having a few flashbacks. My friend has recently experienced the loss of the last bit of hope that she had for her marriage. Like me, she believes in love. She hoped, against all hope, that somehow the fairy tale would turn back on itself and erase years of hurt, misunderstanding, neglect and waning affection. Many people, when trying to speak encouraging words into her situation, assure her that “This is for the best. Now you can move on. You were suffering for so long.” In the face of such encouragement how does one articulate profound and unshakeable sadness? “If this is such a good thing then why do I keep crying?” Why do lines like " building me a home, thinking I'd be strong there", "somewhere deep inside you must know I miss you." and "I don't want to talk— because it makes me feel sad" pierce right through the fragile veneer of control into the ache? Because the loss of hope for true love is just. so. sad.

I have another secret. This is for anyone who has lost that last bit of hope in true love: It does exist. I have found it. With no disrespect to the wonderful marriage of eighteen years I’ve enjoyed or the four outrageous gifts of children I’ve had the privilege of nurturing, this love is bigger than all those relationships... combined. This spiritual relationship never fails when everyone else does. Even when I die, this love will not falter. It never disappoints and is not disappointed in me. In fact, the place inside of me that recognized this love in The Last of the Mohicans, the Princess Bride and Moulin Rouge!, is exactly the size and shape of the relationship that filled it.

In the book, Night of Grace, I explore the realization of this love when a mysterious stranger declares himself to young Grace, a woman who has come to her last shred of hope and has left it lying face down on the beach at the tideline. The stranger comes and plucks that last shred up from the place where sand meets sea. A third of the way into the book, he makes his declaration:

"Grace I am wildly, deeply, madly in love with you. I have walked across a sea of stars to reach you, changed my form so you could comprehend me, accepted death on your behalf and stormed through hell and back again just so we could be together. You are beautiful to me. You are the love of my life. I could spend an eternity with you.”

They say that a writer’s first book is generally a thinly veiled autobiography. I would contend that any character in play, book, song or movie that we identify with can be twisted into autobiography. We rewrite our own circumstances onto those villains, heroines, lovers, saviors that we encounter along the way. So, in the same way I have found the echoes of the love I longed for in Buttercup and Wesley, Hawthorne and Cora and Satine and Christian, maybe another reader will find a secret treasure of recognition in the relationship between Grace and her Mysterious Stranger. I can only hope. Good luck storming the castle. It'll take a miracle.

The Chair That Made My Day

Sometimes circumstances converge to make a perfect storm of creativity. Today was one of those days. Remember Laurie The Queen of The Baked Goods? The other day she brought me an old chair, asking me, "Do you think you can do anything with this?" Lots of people think of me when they have castoffs to get rid of...I choose to take it as a compliment. This chair (again I've neglected to take a before picture) was full of promise: it had orangey red paint chipping off the wood and the seat cushion was upholstered in tan naugahyde...it looked like a giant Nilla wafer. Can't really go wrong with the Nilla Wafer.

Repainted in a richer shade of claret red, the chair was already beginning to show its goodness. There was just the matter of the Nilla Wafer. I thought I had some remnant fabric to redo the chair and was frustrated not to be able to find my stash. I thought I'd have to cave in and go buy a remnant from Calico Corners ...not exactly a sad thing—I LOVE going to the fabric store to see what's new in the rich world of textiles.

Against my will, I was cleaning my bedroom this morning when I happened upon one of my secret baskets. I keep baskets around the house where I store treasures...almost like I have an ongoing scavenger hunt with myself. Often I don't remember what I've put in the baskets. Today's hunt revealed an old Peruvian sweater that I have been holding on to for the past nine years. It is the first sweater my husband ever brought back from Perú to my Mom at the beginning of our engagement, nineteen years ago. For nostalgia's sake, I took it from her closet when she died, though I knew I wouldn't wear it because it didn't fit me well. Did I mention my love of all things Peru? Did I mention how I miss my mom? I just couldn't bear to let it go. I knew it would find a way to be redeemed from it's frumpy oblivion.

Epiphany! I pulled it out and ran upstairs, grabbed the staple gun and began stretching it over that Nilla wafer. The pieces all fell into place, like it had been planned from the beginning of time (a wild exaggeration perhaps for a small scale chair refurbishment but that's how it felt)

It made my day. Redemption. Did I mention we needed extra seating for Thanksgiving?

LOCAL CRUSH: THE BUTTERMILK TRUCK

I have this friend Laurie who could bake you a mouthful of heaven if she wanted. I kid you not. She makes a scone that has changed my world view of the scone. Before Laurie, I used to think the scone was a cruel dry punishment the British had meted on the colonists for our minor insubordination. Now I love the scone dearly...well the 'Laurie Scone' anyway.

Don't get me wrong, she's no mindless baking robot, I could list her attributes all day long: perfect skin (jealous), gorgeous eyes, great nailbeds (envy again), sense of humor for days, compassionate, courageous, intelligent, a great mom and the best friend a girl could find. She volunteers tirelessly and is funky and artistic....just like I like 'em. She has taught me much of what I know about the garden—the garden happens to be one her artistic playgrounds. Her gifts are many but her genius is baked goods. In short, the confections she contrives could easily make your knees buckle. She's the Soup Nazi of Baked Goods...minus the Nazi part....and the Soup...just add Queen. Translation: Queen of Baked Goods.

I wish I had some pictures of her delicious baked goodness so I could make you drool. She has a daughter who is a fantastic photographer. Hopefully that young lady will one day decide to take some snaps of her Mom's art and I will be honored to post them on my blog ( Hint Hint Rachel)

Anyway I saw this post about this incredibly delicious looking business in LA and thought of Laurie and reposted. When she starts sharing her baked goodness with the world I want to be there: I hope I will be the first to blog about it. Maybe she'll let me drive the truck!...or man the counter....or carry her bags. Whatever.

LOCAL CRUSH: THE BUTTERMILK TRUCK

Posted using ShareThis

New Door

Sending a shout out to RW Garage Doors located in Vacaville, CA. I am so thrilled with my new garage door. In fact I am extremely pleased with every aspect of our experience with this company.

Our garage door fell apart in September— grrrr so frustrating. I could write volumes about not having access to my garage from the outside for two months but will hold back. Adding frustration to frustration, we couldn't seem to get any of the local garage door companies to take an interest in our problem. After making contact with several companies and receiving no follow-up, my exasperated husband accidentally happened upon an ad for RW in a home improvement magazine. Much to our surprise, the estimator was dispatched right away and he was efficient, professional and very friendly. Who knew? He walked us through the gallery on RW Garage Door website and helped us make the right choices for our house. That was two weeks ago. In the interim we visited the showroom in Vacaville to pick out the stain for our new door. The people there were, again, incredibly helpful and patient with my inability to settle on "exact" color. Listening carefully to my list of preferences, they finally found the perfect sample. Yay!

Today our old door was taken away and a new one installed by a team of, you guessed it, efficient professionals. The result is exactly what I had hoped for. I never wanted my garage door to break. I loathed every moment of not being able to use my garage. But if I had it to do again, I would probably kick the old door down myself knowing this would be the result:

Leap Of Faith

Doing something new always scares me. I remember in the fourth grade, I walked into Mrs. Modica's class and was so startled by her appearance and discombobulated by the new environment that I neglected to read her instructions on the blackboard and committed the faux pas of sitting at the back table where my name card rested. I was humiliated at being called out by this giant woman, dressed all in black and purple, huge black beehive perched atop her giant head, shocking emerald shadowed eyes blinking at me in consternation, multiple layers of crimson lipstick admonishing me to "read the instructions" which explained that each student should take his or her name-tag from the back table and choose a seat. I was overwhelmed by this teacher's appearance, she must have measured six foot two and weighed at least two hundred fifty pounds, a linebacker in a dress. Her hair alone was enough to strike fear in the heart of any trick-or-treater, Bride of Frankenstein step aside. Panicked at my first misstep, I grabbed my name card and sat at the desk nearest the back table so nobody would notice me. Turns out Mrs. Modica was one of my favorite teachers, kind and informative, smart and supportive. But I had relegated myself to the back of the classroom for the whole first semester because of those first minutes of fourth grade.

My life has been punctuated by similar events. Sometimes, I end up doing a thing by default because my first fearful steps put me on a path and I remain on the path pushed along by the inertia of fear and self-consciousness.

Today I decided to take a wild leap off the path into the great unknown. I sent a submission for "Night of Grace" to an agent who is opening his inbox for unpublished authors. Kevin Kaiser is the agent for New York Time's Bestselling Author Ted Dekker whose books I've enjoyed over the past few years. This summer, while reading one of the books, maybe Adam, maybe Showdown, I thought, "This guy's agent could wrap his mind around the strangeness of Grace." So, for the umpteenth time I sent an email to an agent and after countless automated replies from others, he sent me my first actual response. He informed me about this opportunity coming up for unpublished authors. Exciting and suddenly terrifying, contact had been made and the realness made it very scary. What if I do the wrong thing? What if he hates the book? What if I fail? I've decided that I'm not going to let Grace get stuck at the back table for the rest of her fourth grade year just because I'm afraid that somebody will look at me cross-eyed.

On the way, I thought I'd pass the word about this opportunity, for anybody who has a suspenseful thriller of a manuscript hiding in a dusty drawer. One day only, the opportunity begins and ends today.

The Garden

After the Fall

remnants

of
a
disaster

Learning about Book Promotion

I am doing an experiment in understanding book promotion by becoming a "fan" of books that catch my eye and watching the process by which they promote. I encountered this offer along the way: The folks who published "Her Fearful Symmetry", a book I mentioned in my last blog, are running a promotion to give away copies of this book. About eighty pages in, I am being slowly beguiled into relationship with each of Ms. Nifenegger's bizarre characters: Dead Woman, Mirror Twins, Cemetery Curator, Grieving Widower, Dead Woman's Estranged Twin, Obsessively Compelled Neighbor. I think I will enjoy this experiment on so many levels.

Tomorrow is the last day to enter to receive a free copy, or a rare advance copy, of what seems to be a promising book. Go to this link for details: Her Fearful Symmetry on Facebook

Pride Before The Fall

I was feeling pretty good about myself yesterday...just before “The Fall".

The weather has gotten chilly, and to a girl who has gone soft in the milder climes of the Bay Area, that means I want to snuggle down and read a good book. Inspired by rain on Friday, I bought a new book, solely on the strength of its jacket art, called “Her Fearful Symmetry”, by Audrey Niffenegger the author of Time Traveler’s Wife (didn't read it, saw the movie- don't get Eric Bana). This weekend, I had a chance to sneak a peek at the opening pages and, as usual, my ability to judge a book by its cover is unerring. At first I thought that Ms. Niffenegger was British because her story begins in London and she writes phrases like “hooliganish glamour “ and spells the word ”marvellous” rather than “marvelous.” But she hales from Michigan. She is just a sneaky genius.

All my life, raised on the words of CS Lewis, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, I wanted to spell the words colour, armour, and honour with their British spelling. (see I just did it) I wanted to be able to say indolent instead of lazy without feeling self-conscious. There is something about the cadence of a British writer that is lyrical and nearly over the top without trying to be something it isn't. P. D. James and John LeCarré are allowed to use words like “ingénue” complete with accent aigu and feminine agreement without feeling pretentious—after all, France is just a Chunnel away. Sigh, I’ve always wanted the tool belt of the British writer. Somehow, even when I use these implements in what seems like a natural, offhand sort of way, under the critical eye of my read back I think, “affectation much?” and viciously edit the brit out of my writing. You see, I dare not be associated, even loosely, even in my own mind, with that class of nincompoop American soccer commentator that says words like “pitch” and “boot” and “nil”, making me yell at the telly on a Sunday afternoon, “For the love of honey Phil Schoen, have some self-respect, you’re American. That’s what Ray Hudson is for.” My husband and his compatriots call this particular affliction “huachafa” and I would like to avoid that nasty little indictment if possible.

Envy, my name is Meghan. Ms Niffenegger has managed where I failed. By setting her book around High Gate Cemetery in London (where it seems, according to her biography, she once worked though she now lives in Chicago) the author has come up with a device by which she is allowed to use all those coveted Limey tools. Absolutely brilliant! And with my not- so-thorough background check on the author in hand, I am anxious to read more of her book. What to do? Should I draw (see how I did that?) a nice hot bath and settle in for a chapter or two? But what about the $1000 overuse penalty on my water bill that came last month as a result of the Incident of the Leaky Toilet? At our home, we need to prove to the Water Co. that we are not profligate water wasters, so until that matter is settled, no long baths. How about a cozy fire, some hot tea and my book? No tea. No matter how I try, I can’t get used to the feeling of drinking potpourri. I’d like to be a tea drinker but there goes another Anglicism thrown into the Boston Harbor. Also, no luck on the fire—I think it’s a “Spare the Air” day, so no profligate wood burning either.

All this naysaying decides me: Forget the book, I should go ahead and tackle that chore list I had already prepared for today. Blecccch. So, I don my blue coverall (this was a genius purchase) and begin to finish the very last parts of my deck renovation. Although the entire project has taken a ridiculous amount of time, I finish up the last bits rather quickly. Spit spot as Mary Poppins would say. So I tackle the sanding and refinishing of the deck furniture. This takes a surprisingly short amount of time and now I’m on a roll. During the application of rosewood oil, I get to phone chat with my sister Wendy. We successfully solve many of the world’s problems. At one point she reminds me, “It’s interesting, even when we are doing charitable or selfless things for others, how easily we can become focused on our own awesomeness in doing those things.” I nod wisely, feeling sorry for those poor oafs who can't get out of their own way.

I should have known things were going to take a turn for the worse when the garbage man did not pick up my garbage. I love to have my garbage hauled away. It is so refreshing: like starting all over. I call the Waste Management Company and leave a message. Then I confront the next item on my chore list. My roof tiles, on the southern exposure of the house, are starting to lose color in spots. Readying for this task, I have already bought two different colored concrete stain samples for testing. So I climb up the ladder to the roof. The phone comes with me, just in case the garbage man comes a-calling: would not want to miss him. A little way into stain swabbing, the phone rings. Caller id tells me it's my sister Jessica. Having enjoyed keeping company with my other sister on the last job, I decide to keep up the trend.

Jessica: “Hey what’s up?”

Meghan: “I am” (witty)

Jessica: “What?”

Meghan: “I’m up here on the roof, staining my roof tiles.” In conjunction with being on the phone, this very sentence should have given me pause. Sadly, it didn't.

Jessica: “Boy you are really handy”

Meghan: “Pshaw....shucks I’m bashful.”(eedjit)

Jessica : “No really that’s pretty impressive.”

At this point I start to think she might be right. After all, I could have been lying in the bath, in front of the fire, enjoying my brand new book. Instead, I’ve saved water, spared the air, gotten beaucoup work done and now I’m on the roof. Booya! I’m awesome. Should have known better. Should have hung up the phone right there.

Meghan: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I fell?”

Jessica: “Chuckle” (she actually says the word)

Meghan: “Gasp!” (ditto)

Jessica: “Oh no! Did you fall?”

No such luck. Instead of me falling off the roof, the entire container of Terra Cotta concrete stain falls everywhere, I mean ev-ree- way-r: all over the driveway, deck and the arbor that separates the two. Horror bull. If I were a true blogger I would have the quick wit to take a picture so people can know what a catastrophe this is. At this juncture, I can go one of three ways:

• Emotional Outburst- nix
• Stain the Entire Driveway- tempting...very, very, tempting but the stain is the wrongest color you ever did see: less like Terra Cotta and more like Terra Loompa (land of the Oompa Loompa just in case you didn’t figure that out) In an unprecedented act of self-restraint I move on to door number three.
• Haul out the Pressure Washer- I hesitate for just a moment, “What about the the water police?” But I really have no other choice. And so, I spend the rest of the afternoon pressure washing the remnants of my pride off of....ev-ree-thing.

Editor's Note: The yellow paint splatter picture came from: http://ooyes.net/blog/how-to-mold-paint-splatter-to-a-face-in-photoshop. A very cool tutorial on how to make this image with photo shop

Fighting Back at Panic Attack

I love, not like, love the show So You Think You Can Dance. It’s the reality talent contest I look anxiously forward to every week because the contestants are ridiculous—ree-dik-you-luss—talented. I wish I could do any of that. It speaks to the part of me that loves all old time musicals and Fred Astaire movies, and the newer variants like Moulin Rouge (I have a tiny crush on Ewan McGregor) and Glee. Even the judges on SYTYCD, though they could easily cut their florid babbling critiques by half, have grown on me. Mary Murphy has burrowed a way into my heart despite, or because of, her botox drunk mouth screaming her piercing approval. She reminds me of a crazy old lady from church who everybody suspects has been sipping the communion wine in the narthex. Somehow that makes me feel affection.

Although the banging hip hop numbers are my usual faves, once in a while I am really moved by the serious work of one of those kooky choreographers. Last season, I cried when dancers, Kupono and Kayla, were asked to depict a girl’s addiction to drugs by that freakshow known as Mia Michaels. Having, in my misspent youth, been oppressed by the crushing effects of a brief but paralyzing addiction, I thought the choreographer really caught that truth and made her dancers share it. Last night, for the first time this season, I got the chills watching a depiction of a woman’s struggle with her fears. In the middle of the dance, I had to make sure it was being recorded. Why? Because it was true. There are a slew of woman out there who would be moved to know that their wrestling match with fear is not an anonymous struggle—alone and in the dark.

What is it about our race of sisters and the fear that wants to crush our hopes and dreams? Panic attacks wait outside the door of a PTA meeting. Dark clad, “What if I fail my children in some way?” hides in our closet while the monster of marital distress lurks under the bed. Our legs are gnawed by the triple-headed demon dog Cerebrus aka Am I Working Too Much and Neglecting My Family? Am I Working Enough, Ensuring My Independence and Strength?? What Is It All For anyway??? The list of fears that finds us and haunts us is endless to the point of minutiae, “Is my house clean enough?”, “Is my butt too big?”, “Do I have cankles?” “Didn’t I used to be smart?”...to the enormously plaintive, ”THIS IS NOT WHAT I THOUGHT MY LIFE WOULD BE.”

Please allow me to let Stacey Tookey and her dancers speak the words more eloquently than I can write them (don't let the introduction throw you off- wait for the dance, it's worth it...and feel free to stop watching after the dance is over because these judges like to tawk)

kathrynlegacy 18 @ Yahoo! Video

"But Perfect Love drives out all fear." St. John