The Grandma

Many of us remember her from our childhood - that older woman who lived on our street who knew the names of all of the neighborhood kids. She may have baked cookies and handed them out now and then (back in the days before we had to forbid our children to take anything from anyone). She may have taken time to sit and listen to a child rattle on about a whole lot of not very much. Perhaps she had a little dog and would stop so you could pet it when she was out for a walk. She was nice, but she wouldn't hesitate to scold anyone who misbehaved, either.

Remember her? She was the Neighborhood Grandma.

I remember Mrs. Montgomery who lived across the street from us in a brick house. I am not sure how old she was, or if she was a grandma or a mother at all. She was my mom's friend and had known me my whole life. When I was twelve years and we moved away, she gave me a red wallet with the name of my hometown written on it.

Next door to Mrs. Montgomery, lived Mrs. Small. Mrs. Small also lived in a house made of bricks, but it was smaller than Mrs. Montomery's. Oddly enough, in my mind Mrs. Small herself was of a more diminutive stature than her neighbor as well. Hmmm.

It warms me to think of these grandmother-type women who knew me from the time I was born and who, in my mind, assumed the title of Neighborhood Grandma. I am sure that having these woman in the periphery of my life contributed to the sense of security and safety I felt in my neighborhood at all times.

This afternoon after work, I was out in the yard enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I had geraniums to take out (we winter them), tulip and daffodil bulbs to plant, and winter pansies to put in the ground. They continue to warn us about a harsh winter ahead, but I am not thinking that far ahead. I'm enjoying the here and now.

After I got all of my gardening tools out, I set up the pen for Yorkies so they could enjoy the sunshine with me. No sooner had I deposited the dogs in the pen with a treat and one of their favorite chews, than a batch of children ran over to pet the dogs. One little one in particular caught my attention and made me smile.

Her name is Piper and she lives with her mommy and daddy and older siblings across the street from us. I have known her since she was born too. She's a sweet little one, just a touch older than my grandchildren, with a soft heart for my dogs.

Her mommy followed her across the street and we chatted while I showed Piper how to gently pet the dogs. Eventually, it was time for her to go home and as they walked back across the street I heard snippets of their conversation.

"The grandma let me pet her puppies!" said Piper.

The grandma! Oh I had to smile when I heard her say that!

And I thought, not for the first time, that I think Gerry and I are the oldest couple on the block. We are the neighborhood grandparents!  With this realization comes responsibility. I am going to have to make sure I learn the names of all the children on the street, and which house they belong to. I may even have to start baking cookies again!

The thought that one of these little ones might remember me as their Neighborhood Grandma one day made me smile. Life is like that, isn't it?

Circles within circles like ripples on a pond.

Ghosts

There have been ghosts all around me today.

I am in a city where I used to live, where I lived for a very long time as a matter of fact, and took some time this afternoon to visit some once-familiar places. I walked, I drove, I remembered, conjured ghosts of days gone by, the kind of thing I have enjoyed doing in the past.

It was different this time.

I was overcome with a powerful sense of grief; the kind of grief that I remember from many years ago, the kind that hurts physically as well as emotionally. And lonliness.

I can't say what prompted these emotions. I am the kind of person who has always cherished solitude, sought it out even, so I was taken aback by the overwhelming emotion that came over me for no apparent reason. I pushed through it as I have done many times in the past.

Later, I worked for a number of hours on my memoir. I went back in time to the 1970's and found ghosts there as well. I learned that in my writing I tend to gloss over periods of deep emotion and the 70's were, most definitely for me, filled with periods of deep emotion.

So now, at the end of the day, having coped with these ghosts all day, I am exhausted. I pray that I sleep deep and dreamless and that the ghosts have moved on by morning.

Running Away

I am running away from home tomorrow. 

I am going to get up early, when it is still dark, and throw some necessary things into my car. I'll take my Kindle, my Droid X, my laptop, the hard-copy draft of my memoir, toiletries, and a change of clothes. I won't need much else.

I will stop for coffee before I go too far: a venti soy carmel macchiato. I will plug my Droid into the auxillery jack in my car and listen to the Pandora radio that I recently discovered. Perhaps, after a while, I will switch to the satellite radio and my favorite classical station for something different.

In time, I will turn it all off and enjoy the silence.

Road trips stimulate my brain; I find myself thinking of things I want to write about. That reminds me, I will need to take my notebook and favorite pen along too.

Solitude. It is what recharges me when I am exhausted. It is what I need right now.

I have an appointment to go to on Monday afternoon, but this trip  is also a mini writing retreat. I should arrive at my destination around lunch time tomorrow and will have lots of time to myself. I have a reservation at a nice hotel that I know has comfy beds, quiet rooms, and good writing desks.
 
There is a park not too far away and I may take my pen and notebook and sit by the water for a while. I may go for a walk to a special place I know of; I may take a few pictures. I know I will go to the bookstore. I will probably get a cup of coffee and spend a hour or so browsing.
 
Later, when it gets dark I will go to my hotel room, pull on some comfy lounging clothes, turn on my laptop and bring up the fourth draft of my memoir. I have got a flow going and it's hard to maintain when life keeps getting in the way of writing time. This time alone will be good.
 
Don't look for me at church tomorrow; don't look for me at work on Monday. I am running away to write; I am running away to find someone I have been missing lately.

Losing It

In my memoir, I am writing about a time in my life when I came close to losing it. What in the world does that mean, anyway? Losing it.

For those of us who have lived some or all of our lives as one of the hyper-diligent, the concept of losing control of anything is incomprehensible. As impossible as I knew it would be to do, the thought of letting go of feeling responsible for everything was oh-so-alluring for a season.

Sometimes, these many years past, on a hot, sultry summer night, I remember those nights when my family slept but I wandered the halls, scrubbed the floor, or sat on the patio, and considered what it might feel like to lose my mind.

I wondered how it was done. Did one just decide to let go of all manner of decorum? What would others think?

I was tired of keeping my finger in the dyke; I was so tempted to pull it out and let the flood come.

It was another lifetime. I was another person.

Wendy Ann

It has been another good writing weekend for me.  I'm getting close to finishing the third draft of Two Hearts, One Baby: An Adoption Memoir and I want to be finished this draft in the worst way.  Writing a memoir is not something for the faint of heart. It is hard and emotional work but also, I am trusting, healing and teaching work.

Yesterday I was writing about my half-sister and the "coincidences" that seem to surround our sisterhood. 

The picture attached to this post was taken at Christmas when I was just shy of my second birthday and Mom and Dad bought this doll for me.  We used to say that it looked like I was looking at her and asking "Why don't you talk to me?".  This doll was like a sister to me until my parents adopted a second daughter about a year after this picture was taken.  The name of this doll was Wendy Ann.

One day about twenty years ago, out of the blue, I received a phone call from a woman telling me that I had a half-sister who was looking for me.  The name of this half-sister was Wendy!

When Wendy and I met we learned that for a time we had lived just a few blocks apart and attended the same school at the same time!

Yesterday I was telling my husband about Wendy Ann and Wendy as I was making a desert to take to a Memorial Day gathering today.  I suddenly realized that the recipe I was using had been given to me by Wendy!

I don't believe in coincidence; I believe that everything happens for a reason.  Today I don't know the reason for the coincidence that seems to crop up where my sister is concerned, but I hope one day to learn what it is all about.

Conference Day 1

Yesterday started with a splendid start when I enjoyed breakfast and great conversation with three of the women who will be participating on the blogging panel with me on Sunday - Becky Lane, Nita Lou Bryant, and Judy Miller.

Although it was the first time we met in person, it seemed like we already knew each other, in part because we have gotten to know each other via our blogs and through Story Circle Network, but also because we share a common interest in writing and blogging.

Later, I had an opportunity for some heart-to-heart coaching sessions with Susan Tweit and later with Linda Joy Myers where I gleaned some valuable advice for moving forward with my memoir.

The pre-conference workshop with Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnet previewed a technique they write about in their newest book, Writing Alchemy. I can't wait to try it out on some vignettes I am thinking of using their techniques.

Then last night, keynote speaker Heather Summerhayes Cariou absolutely blew me away. In addition to being a actress and writer (her book Sixtyfive Roses: A Sister's Memoir is being made into a movie), Heather is an inspiring speaker with a sharp wit. I had picked up her book earlier in the day and I am looking forward to three uninturrupted hours to read on the plane tomorrow.

Inspiration abounds here at the Stories from The Heart conference. More to come!

The Power of Memoir

This morning I had something in my mind that I planned to share, but I decided to save that for another day after I came upon the following.

It is an act of courage and personal power to dare to write the truths you hold, to carve a space in the vast realms of time and dive in, using only words as ballast. To enter into memory, to find the body of the child you once were and to dare to listen to him or her–that is courageous, and in this act, new tendrils of self are launched across the abyss from past to present. As we balance on the fine lines of truth, memory, and story, we discover ourselves, we uncover layers that we didn’t know existed. The writing is the key, writing that comes from soul and heart, writing that launches us out from our comfort zone, and into the unknown. There we find wisdom, there we find who we really are.


These words were written by Linda Joy Myers speaking about her newest book The Power of Memoir.  Even if I hadn't read some of Linda's earlier work (Don't Call Me Mother and Becoming Whole) I would be compelled to pick up her newest book just based on this one quote. It inspires me to continue the work on my memoir which is, at times, difficult work.  As I've slogged away on this over the past year I have uncovered new truths about my experience that I had no idea existed before.
I will have the good fortune to meet Linda Joy next week at the Stories From the Heart conference in Austin.  Just one more reason that I'm counting down the days before the conference begins!

Conveniences

I'm working at home this morning. I've got some things to do for the upcoming Stories from the Heart conference, some personal paperwork to tend to, research to do, phone calls to make, and of course I'll be working on my book.

It's quiet up here in my office, where the click click of the keys on my keyboard is the only sounds I'm aware of. I just returned from downstairs with a fresh cup of coffee; down there it's not nearly as quiet as it is in my writing sanctuary.

Downstairs the washing machine bumps and grinds through it's cycle (we will never buy that brand of machine again), and the dishwasher hums quietly doing it's own work. From outside I heard the sound of the garbage truck approaching and when I glanced outside I saw all the green bins lined up on the street like silent soldiers standing at attention.

As I thought about how much was happening while I sat upstairs oblivious to the all of the activity, I realized how blessed I am to be living in this particular place at this particular time. A hundred years ago, my grandmother would have done her laundry and dishes much differently than the way that mine is done today and her trash would not have been disposed of quite so easily. A morning spent only on activities dear to her heart would likely have been impossible.

Certainly circumstances are not perfect in the way that we live our lives in 2010, in fact I dream about a simple farm life where I can grow a garden, have a few chickens, and hang my laundry outside in the sunshine. For today though, I'm thankful for the conveniences that allow me time to follow my passion.

All Consuming

It has taken over my life.

The book that I am working on has begun to consume almost every waking moment.  When I wake up in the middle of the night, as I'm prone to do, I find myself thinking about where in the story I am working and where I'm going with it the next day. 

When I'm in the shower in the morning, I am often reflecting a personal truth relating to my adoption experience.  When I'm driving I'm writing (Not physically, heaven forbid!  I'm planning and thinking.)  When I'm taking a walk, I'm writing.  When I'm cooking dinner, I'm writing.  When Gerry tells me he'll be late coming home, my first thought is that I'll have more time for writing.

I'm learning a lot about myself through this process that I started early last year, some of which I will share as time goes by.  My point this morning, is that writing a memoir is not for the faint-of-heart.  For me, it's not a once-a-month Saturday morning activity.  The experience of writing this memoir has become an all consuming task that I am constantly working on.

I hope that the finished product will be something worthy of all of this effort!

Two Trunks

I've got two of these.  The first, the larger of the two, is the keeper of many childhood memories I hold dear.  I can easily spend an hour or more poring over it's contents, and it's very likely that tears will flow before I reluctantly replace everything and close the lid.

Tucked inside are treasures like Mom's wedding dress, Dad's army uniform, love letters from Dad to Mom, pictures, baby clothes that I wore and that my children wore, and funeral books and cards from Mom and Dad's funerals.

The second one is smaller and came to me more recently; it belonged to my birth-mother.  It too contains a wedding dress, letters, pictures and baby paraphernalia. Truthfully, I have never thoroughally looked through everything that this trunk contains.  I've looked at faces in pictures, most of whom I don't recognize; I've looked slips of paper with my birth-mother's handwriting; I've read letters that have revealed surprises; I've touched her wedding dress, but never held it up to get a better look or tried it on the way I tried Mom's on.

The second trunk is a Pandora's box of sorts.  When I first received it I was reluctant to open it, yet it called to me like a siren calls to a sailing ship, and so I forced myself to take a deep breath and lift the heavy lid and smell the moth-ball scent that wafted from within.

I was surprised to find that having in my posession all of these items that belonged to the woman who gave birth to me meant little. Perhaps I hoped that I would find the essence of who she was and was disappointed when it wasn't there.

I remember being somewhat numb and disappointed as I looked through the trunk, about to give up, when I found something in the bottom that I knew was meant for me to have.

Sister Surprise

As an adoptee, I have often speculated about whether who we are is influenced more by the environment we grow up in or our genetic makeup.  This week my mental tally of votes for each court received another vote in the genetic makeup category.

I met my birth-sister Wendy when I was about thirty years old.  She came to my home and we spent that first night sitting up all night talking. I couldn't stop looking at her face that had many similarities to my own.  We learned that we had much in common, and were stunned to learn that we had lived in the same city for a number of years as children, lived just a few blocks apart, and even went to the same school at the same time.  It's very likely that we could have passed each other in the hall or come across each other on the playground.

Over the years both of our lives have taken unexpected twists and turns - some good, many not so good.  We've kept in contact with one another, although sometimes a long time as gone by between phone calls or emails. Every time we connect we immediately pick up where we left off last time though.

As I worked through the last pages of my memoir last weekend, my thoughts turned to my sister and I gave her a call.  We caught up on each other's lives and had some good laughs.  I hadn't told her about my book yet because I was waiting until it was in more of a finished state so I could share some pages with her before sending it to anyone else.

As the phone call was winding down Wendy said something that stunned me.  "I've written a book."  My talented sister has written a book about her experience with breast cancer.  Neither of us knew that the other was working on a book, neither of us knew that the other had a desire to write a book.

You tell me: nature or nurture?

Weekend Wrap-up

With Gerry away for the weekend, the girls (Chelsea and Maya) and I have been enjoying some girl time. We've spent most of the weekend enjoying the sweet solace of silence. I'm convinced that for me, it's the best way to connect with God. It's only in the quiet that I can hear that still, small voice, that whisper that directs and guides me.

It's been a productive weekend.  As you can see by the picture I've got my memoir ready for the next round of revisions and rewrites. There is a huge sense of accomplishment as I look at a hard copy of this document that I've worked so long on. In hard copy form it seems more like a tangible piece of work that is one step closer to publication.

It's been a relaxing weekend as well.  I picked up some Sugar 'n Cream Twists yarn and I've started on a dishcloth.  It's something I can work on that calms me and allows me to justify time spent sitting still.  Last night we also enjoyed a Hallmark movie called The Note.

I'm finished work for the day and now I'm off to curl up with a quilt and see what I can find on the Hallmark Channel.

Oh yes, and if you haven't yet left a comment letting me know why you come back to My Own Velvet Room along with your demographic info, please do.  I'll be drawing a name from everyone who leaves a comment with this info on December 15.  The winner will receive their choice of books from the recent reviews on the Story Circle Book Reviews site.

C'mon don't be shy, let me know why you come back.  Whether it's your 2nd visit or your 254th visit (yes, that's how many posts I've done here) I want to know!

Ancestors and Descendents

Recently I heard someone say that not only are we descendents we are also ancestors.  I had to think about that for a minute when I first heard it before I understood what the speaker was saying.  We are the ancestors to our grandchildren and great-grandchildren and all of those who will come after us. 

I know how much I treasure little snippets of the past like letters that Dad wrote to Mom when they were dating, an aunt's diary from when she was a child, recipes that my grandma used with little hand written notes on them.  I have to believe that my descendents will be interested in similar snippets of my life one day.

Becky has a great post on her blog called Seasonality about this topic. I agree with Becky and Susan Albert in believing that we all have a story to tell, and that there is someone, somewhere, sometime who will treasure those stories.

Do something special for your descendents and write your own stories.  It can be as simple as a few pages about your favorite teacher or best friend, or an entire book about your life.  Whatever you write, believe that your words will be treasured and that you are giving someone an opportunity to know you better.  What a wonderful gift!

Elevator Woes

Writers sometimes refer to it as the "elevator synopsis". It is a concise summary of their book that they have prepared in advance. The reference to an elevator means that the description has to be short enough so that it could be used if the author was asked about his piece while in an elevator with someone (like an agent or publisher!).

I've been thinking about my own elevator synopsis for the memoir I am working on. I am finding that it's a good exercise to help me focus on why I'm writing, who I'm writing for, and what to include in the work.

I've also been thinking about an elevator synopsis for My Own Velvet Room. That seems to be a bit harder to come up with. Like many of us, my reason for blogging has changed and morphed into different facets during the time I've been here. To narrow all of that down to a concise sentence or two seems daunting.

My Own Velvet Room is where I share a bit about family, my experience as an adoptee, my ancestors, books I enjoy, my writing experiences. It's sometimes introspective, sometimes humorous, sometimes poignant, also contains the occasional rant. There isn't a single theme or focus, in fact it's quite eclectic in content.

To explain all that my blog is during an elevator ride, I would have to resort to pushing the buttons for all of the floors so that it would stop at each floor, thus prolonging the ride to the desired floor. Likely not the way to win friends.

I'll keep thinking about it, and I welcome any and all suggestions!

Why am I writing my memoir?

I have to confess that I feel a bit awkward telling anyone that I'm working on my memoir. There's a little voice inside of my head that whispers "You're no one important. Why do you need to write a memoir?"
It's true that I am just an ordinary woman who has lived a relatively ordinary life, yet I think about the women who I come from who also lived relatively ordinary lives, and how fascinated I am by their stories.
When we emptied out my Grandma's house before everything was sold, I found this little diary that had belonged to my Aunt Edie, who was also just ordinary woman. I loved her dearly and I am fascinated by this little diary and the window it gives me into her life.
There is no one left alive who has known me for my entire life. There are stories from the past that no one knows except me, and there are tales that I have learned about my birth family. If I don't tell them, they will be lost forever, and so I write for my children, my grandchildren, and my great-grandchildren.
I have come to belive that anyone with even a glimmer of desire to write a memoir should pursue that goal. Do it for those who are yet to come! What a wonderful opportunity to teach and influence future generations!
Sixty years go when my Aunt was a young girl and wrote "Went to the show with Laura and Ed. Road to Rio, Bob H, Bing C, Dorothy L. Then we went to Menard's. I slept there" she never dreamed that someone who wasn't yet born would read those words. She could not have imagined that someone not yet born would treasure the opportunity to step back in time.
That is why I am writing my memoir.

Perception is reality

Yesterday we woke up to very cold winter weather. There was a lot of snow on the ground and the temperature on our car thermometer registered -11F/-24C. Believe me it was C-O-L-D.

Today we're back at home, and the sun is shining and my daffodils are about to bloom. The temperature outside this afternoon was 45F/8C.

What a difference a day makes!

I was thinking about gardening and enjoying the sunshine as I walked the dogs this afternoon. My daughters back in Calgary may have been sitting by a fire with a book not daring to venture outside in the frigid temperature. Some number of years from now if you asked us about February 27, 2009 we would have very different stories to tell about the day. Though our stories would be vastly different, neither of us would be wrong. Though our story would be about the same day, the way that we experienced the day would tell a uniquely different tale.

I suspect it may be the same way with personal memoirs. As I have been thinking about work on my own memoir, I have been wondering about how to reconcile the differences between my own perception of various events and those of others that may be different.

The conclusion I draw today is that my perception is my reality and my memoir is the story of my own perception. That is the reality of the story of my life.

More power in a memoir

I just started rereading The Heart and Craft of Lifestory Writing by Sharon Lippincott and last night I was struck by the following phrase. "It takes courage to bare your soul for the examination of future generations, and making the effort to share yourself with them is an act of great love."

Working through my writing class in recent weeks, I have found that it also takes courage to bare your soul for examination of the current generation. One of my assignments in particular took courage, not only to write, but also to share, and yet I found healing in myself by sharing it. In writing some things down, there is something amazing that happens as the situation loses it's grip on you and to frees you to move ahead.

Since I finished with that particular piece, my mind has been filled with other stories that I do want to share with future generations. It's almost like a dam has broken free.

For me, writing out that particular incident was in some ways an act of love in that it has allowed me to move on and make progress on that memoir I'm planning. I don't know if I'll ever share that story with anyone else, but in some ways it's the most important thing I've written to date.

The power of a memoir

I am taking a writing class called From Memory to Memoir with Paula Stallings Yost and I just finished the first assignment. In this assignment I wrote a story of my family tree that included my birth-mother, Mary.

Those who have been with me for a while on this blogging journey may remember the "This Little Girl" series that I was working on last year, and my struggle with trying to write about my birth-mother. Predictably, this new piece brought up old hurts and unforgiveness toward this woman once again.

I struggled for days to find a way to present Mary's story, all the while dealing with unresolved feelings about her. In the end I found a way to turn the story into something uplifting and even positive.

I realized, as I worked through this conflict, that the power of a memoir is not only in creating something for future generations to read. The power of a memoir is also found in providing a means to healing old wounds and empowering oneself to forgive and understand choices made by those who have gone before.

There is much more that I have to come to grips with in my birth-mother's story, but I have made great progress this past week.

Wedding Quilt

This is a picture of my daughter and her husband on the morning after their wedding, with the quilt that I had made for them to honor the occasion.

Making the quilt was such a pleasure, as I worked on it I was able to spend time thinking about how much I love the kids, and praying for their upcoming wedding and future life together. By the time I had finished the quilt, having spent so much time and effort on it, in some ways it was like giving a piece of myself to them.

In much the same way as making this quilting, sharing stories about our lives gives us an opportunity to share a piece of ourself with those we love. I am looking forward to one day having some stories organized in such a manner that I can give a gift to my children and grandchildren.

This is one of the reasons that I write.

What reasons do you have for writing?

What would you say?

What would you say to your younger self if you had the opportunity to speak to her? This is a picture of me at 22 years of age. If I could speak to her in a way that she would listen (ah...there is the key) what would I tell her?

I would reassure this young woman that her children will turn into strong, health and loving adults. I would tell her to spend more time with her parents, because too soon they will be gone.

"Listen", I would say, "there is a voice that is trying to get through to you. Stop trying to be so strong, and just listen."

I would tell her that the right road is not necessarily the easy road, and that it is not too late to take that road. I would tell this young woman, that there is heartache in the years to come, and that she will feel that she will not survive the trauma, but I would reassure her that she will not only survive, but she will find strength within herself that she cannot imagine she possesses.

"Listen", I would say again, "you cannot change the past, but you can most definitely influence the future."

I would tell her that she will come to appreciate the lessons that sorrow teaches her, and I would reassure her that she will find happiness, contentment, fulfillment, and peace eventually.

"Be patient", I would say, "you will be okay."

What would you say to your younger self if you had the opportunity?