A Mile High on Life

Achewa -- Sitting here at my laptop, at the big, smooth wood-slat table that Michael made by hand, on Buffalo Trail way high up on the ridge in Somers, Montana, gazing out across Flathead Lake to the Swann and Mission mountains, and life is good. I hate to brag (yeah, right! I hear a chorus shouting), and I'm sorry if this makes anyone else feel bad about themselves and wish they were here too (laughing heartlessly), but I simply can't contain my joy and just plain happiness every time I look out the window onto this amazing vista.

I dont know why it is, I honestly don't have a clue where this came from, but I feel so peaceful and calm and RIGHT when I am here -- I feel creative and energized and every moment, no matter what I am doing, I actually live in the now, which is normally very hard for me. This place is totally Power of Now!

I just got back from running, and it was a little scary because I saw a big horned animal of some sort dash up a hillside in the woods as I approached. Was it running from me? or from the mountain lions Jane saw in her yard twice last week? I had a can of bear spray with me, but everyone knows mountain lions stalk their prey -- from behind -- and they enjoy it! At that point I decided to turn around and go back the way I came, where other houses were, and hopefully people. I'd forgotten my cell phone and had visions of being found by someone in a pickup truck hours from now, a bloody carcass by the side of the rutted dirt road. Yes, roll your eyes and call me a drama queen if you must, but mountain lions are no joke!

The photos are of the Going to the Sun Road, an incredible ride that snakes up 35 miles to Logan Pass at the top of Glacier, and is only open in the summer because of high winds, falling boulders and avalanches. Lucky for me -- lots of lucky things seem to happen here -- they opened it up last Saturday because the weather was so beautiful. It has been sunny, clear and warm all week -- really unusual and everyone here is thrilled about it.

I now have to finish a couple of scenes in the novel before my workshop starts tomorrow. Liza is scheming her next rendezvous with Henry, and Brian is preparing for a difficult meeting with the lawyers who are handling his case against the priest who abused him. They're all rattling around noisily in my head. Henry is actually starting to stamp his feet -- he can't wait to get his hands on Liza again. Brian is so nervous he's making me sick to my stomach, so I'm gonna do exactly what Hannah R. Goodman says: just vomit it up, get it all out, and worry about the mess on the page later. (See Hannah, I do listen!)

Then I'm headed to the last farmers market of the season in Whitefish, which has live music and is more like a street festival. Joanie, Jane, Alice and I are getting things for a dinner Jane and Alice are throwing here tomorrow night for various friends, environmentalists, conservationists and a few musicians, including Jack Gladstone -- check him out at http://www.jackgladstone.com/. He's Blackfeet Indian and I watched him record his new CD yesterday, The Heart of Montana -- at a studio here in Somers, which was really fun. The national Christmas tree is from Montana this year, and Jack is performing at the lighting in DC in early December. Of course we're gonna have a party for him, so stay tuned!

Nine Miles and OCMS

Just finished our last training run for the Army 10-Miler -- Ginny, Andrew, Elizabeth and I -- nine miles on a crisp, cool, perfect fall morning. And we all felt great! Finished in about 1:40, or 11-minute miles, which is ok because you're supposed to do the training runs up to two minutes slower than your race pace. I'd like to do the race in under 1:40, since my best previous time is 1:41:something, but you never know. Last week I felt lousy during the entire run, today was a piece o' cake. It's always a crapshoot. Last year it was unseasonably HOT the day of the race.

If we have good weather and if I feel good that day, I just might meet my goal. But the big news today is we're DONE -- one more track day left but all the long runs finished. And tonight we're going to see Old Crow Medicine Show at the 9:30 Club: rock me mama like a wagon wheel -- yeehah! I'm not driving, and I'm not getting up early in the morning for any damn long run. No sir, we are done!

And -- as the icing on the cake -- I leave at dawn on Friday for the last best place again. Gonna learn about screenwriting at my workshop; run alongside the rushing river in Big Fork; listen to Jane's friend play guitar at the Whitefish Boat Club; ride at the Bar W; and dance with the wranglers at the Blue Moon -- someone pinch me, I must be dreaming! :)

Not a Bad Way to Go

My across-the-street neighbor Duncan MacLeod died last Sunday. He was 83, a quirky, funny, friendly and sometimes grumpy old Scotsman, a former CIA covert agent and WWII veteran who earned a purple heart and a bronze star at a battle on the Anzio beachhead in Italy.

He'd had a debilitating illness a few years ago and worked really hard to come back from being almost bedridden. He faithfully did his physical therapy, walked and puttered around in his yard -- which he was passionately devoted to -- and eventually worked his way up to riding a bike down on the W & OD Trail at the foot of our street. I used to get a kick out of seeing him go off each morning. He seemed much older and more frail but just as happy as could be, riding along on his big, blue old-fashioned bike. It was one of those ones with the thick tires and wide brown leather seat. He sat completely upright, which I'm sure was easier on his back, and wore his helmet -- most of the time.

But he never carried any ID or a cell phone, and last Friday he apparently had a massive heart attack while riding. It was a beautiful day, cool and clear with perfect blue skies. Our friend Tom Carter was riding his bike to work and saw the police gathered near Bluemont Park, and more officers searching further along on the side of the trail. Even though he'd be late for a meeting, he turned around to see what had happened. I'd seen Tom earlier that morning when we were all out doing our usual Friday run. After a while you get to know many of the people who use the trail on a regular basis, so he stopped to see if anyone he knew was hurt.

The police couldn't identify Duncan, so Tom called me. I went across the street and asked his wife of 58 years, Marcy, if he was home. She cheerfully reported that he was still out on his daily ride. The police came to talk to her, and took her to the hospital where Duncan had unfortunately been put on a ventilator because they didn't know he had a "do not rescuscitate" order. The only good thing about that was it gave his three daughters time to get here from Boston, Connecticut and London. They gathered at the hospital with all their kids and quietly let him go.

Duncan's daughter Wendy MacLeod is a well-known playwright, and playwright-in-residence at Kenyon College in Ohio. She wrote The House of Yes, which was made into a great movie starring Parker Posy that won an award at Sundance. She is an amazing writer, and gave the most wonderful eulogy at Duncan's service. She said that during the past several years, he would occasionally report on an old friend who had died and would say, "He dropped dead of a heart attack -- lucky bastard!"

As our good Samaritan Tom commented later, "Duncan had a great life, and he died at 83 doing something he loved on a beautiful fall morning. There are a lot worse ways to go."

Completely unrelated sidenote: During his last week of life, Duncan had the pleasure of seeing our big silver maple tree covered in a festive display of toilet paper each day as he went about his business. The deed was done over Labor Day weekend while we were out of town. The culprits: young boys on bikes who also drew giant whimsical pictures of penises in the street and on my driveway with shaving cream. According to my next-door neighbor Steve, they set off firecrackers and shouted "I love you!" at the house as they rode off into the night, full of piss and vinegar no doubt, as we used to say in Rhode Island.

One can only assume these sweet declarations were directed at our darling Maddie. Eric, my other across-the-street neighbor who lives next to Duncan, kindly sent me the photo for posterity, and we all had a good laugh about the curious thinking processes of 15-year-old boys -- truly a wonder and a mystery.

Evelyn's ATV Adventure

So yesterday, as I was trying to decide on a theme for my usual melancholy Summer's End post, I got this great email from Evelyn, A-#1 designer, running partner and partner in several misdemeanor capers as well over the years.

I saw the bruises myself this morning, and that girl is lucky she lived to tell the tale, and to run again! We both agreed that getting injured and not being able to run or exercise any more would be a fate almost worse than anything in terms of the quality -- and energy -- of our lives...Here's her story...

Evelyn: I'm doing well, although a little banged up. My fun-loving wacky brother invited us up to his in-law's cabin this past weekend right outside of Berkeley Springs. He was excited to introduce us to the wonderful world of ATV's-having just bought two himself. Since we all went dune buggy riding out in Oregon and thought it was a total blast, I figured this could be cool. And it was, to a certain extent, except for the fact that it is totally FÖÖKIN INSANE! The course was more suited towards say a professional motor cross'r than little 'ol minivan drivin' 'round Arlington Ev and was only one way - no turning back: this should have been a warning sign.

Anywho I'm driving along pretty well, anxiously anticipating the end of this thoroughly enjoyable, bone-jarring, back twisting funfest, when I came upon a deep gully that boggles my novice ATV navigational skills. Going right could potentially mean driving myself right off the side of the mountain ala Thelma and Louise. But remember how the ending didn't show the final hideous conclusion that would have rendered our two heroines into an unrecognizable blend of human and t-bird parts? Instead it conveniently ended freeze frame, car at its apex, occupants off into the great blue, unscathed, free of torment and indecision. I, on the other hand, was not so lucky...my ending would include those missing ingredients...gravity and impact. So I prudently choose the left –

Wrong.

I wind up driving into the chasm, coming to an abrupt stop, falling off...slowly… as the ATV falls with me, resting on my left knee that couldn't move out of the way because my goddamn foot was pinned under the tire tread -- budding triathlon career flashing quickly before my eyes! Luckily, said wacky brother (and this is the sane one) was right behind and quickly removed the offending vehicle. Afterwards he was like "Hey you want to go again?"

NOT!

I went back to the cabin, opened the appropriate alcoholic beverage(s), got on my bathing suit and went tubing down the creek for the rest of the afternoon, happy in the knowledge that once again I've emerged intact from yet another familial bonding adventure.

Karen: Thanks, Ev -- great tale, well told! And most importantly, a happy and injury-free ending. I would be SO bummed if you weren't there on the trail this morning at 5:30 a.m., and all other future mornings as we head toward the dark, cold days of winter, to help me discuss and deliberate and make sense of another season, another election, another job, another year...so let's stick to run/bike/swim Evil Knieval stunts from now on, OK?!

Extra Heads

The thing about people who live in rural Maine is, they hunt. And as a result, they sometimes have extra heads hanging around, like these here. My brother plans to take them to his fishing camp out on Big Beaver Pond -- 200-acres way off the beaten track (far from the maddened crowds of Rangeley, pop. 1000, that is) with just two cabins on it, Mark's and one other guy's. He fly fishes there, and the sound of the loons across the water is haunting and beautiful. But for now, they're just hanging around the office, and are the first thing you see as you enter. A funny little reminder that we weren't in Arlington any more...

The other head is a moose my nephew Byron got when he was 14. He won a prize for biggest antlers in the state that year. I've never been a big hunting enthusiast, but that's gotta be a pretty cool experience for a teenaged boy.

Wide Open Spaces

This country has many incredibly beautiful places, and I've been lucky enough to visit two of them in the last few months. After a week in Montana in late April (and another trip planned for a writers conference in Kalispell in early October), I just spent two weeks driving up through New England again, like last summer. But this time I went to Rhode Island, Cape Cod (Osterville, Craigville Beach, Hiannis), Boston (Newbury Street, the North End, Freedom Trail and Quincy Market), and finally three blissful days in the lakes region of Maine. And surprisingly, two weeks in the car with 15-year-old Maddie and her pal Kelsey was just about the most fun I've had all year.

My brother Mark has carved out a remarkable life for himself in Rangeley, Maine, population 1000. During the summer that number swells with vacationers drawn to the region and all the cool stuff it offers: fishing, boating, swimming, hiking, fresh lobster that melts in your mouth; fields of wild purple lupine and Indian Paintbrush everywhere; sunny, breezy days and cold, crisp nights; small town life with a 10-minute July 4th parade of kids' bikes and carriages decorated like floats; church suppers and fireworks on the lake; and so many stars it's unbelievable -- like a giant twinkling blanket that looks like it's laying right there on top of you, close enough to reach out and grab.

We stayed in an old farmhouse (circa 1865) Mark owns and rents out, which sits on 100 acres next door to Pleasant Acres, his home, forestry business and Christmas tree farm that sits on another 100 acres. Our house had its own beautiful pond, a view of Saddleback Mountain to the left (see the "saddle" in the photo?), and an overgrown road/trail through the fields and woods where I went running. Marie and I drove through a few times to tamp it down a bit; it was teeming with wildlife but otherwise so quiet and still, so private and beautiful and removed from everything. My heart sang as i chugged along, just elated to be there alone in such an amazing place. I know this is so corny, but I couldn't help thinking of that Dixie Chicks song I love, Wide Open Spaces, and how that is exactly how I felt, exactly what I needed this year, and what I seem to be craving on a regular basis lately, as I negotiate through the changes I'm making and into the future.

She needs wide open spaces
Room to make a big mistake
She needs new faces
She knows the higher stakes
She knows the higher stakes.

Well ain't that the truth?!

Maddie and Kelsey were great travel companions, if a bit obsessed with capturing all the fun they were having in pictures. Kelsey was the best car-trip kid i've ever met -- whenever Maddie was being a pill Kelsey would agree with me, which drove Maddie nuts but restored harmony every time. She also made two great "Rhode Trip" CDs that we're still enjoying. Our number one best road trip song recommendation? Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show, the hands down winner and favorite new song:

Rock me mama like a wagon wheel,
Rock me mama, any way you feel, hey, mama rock me
Rock me mama like the wind and the rain
Rock me mama like a southbound train
Hey mama rock me.

How in the world did it happen that I love country music now?! -- crazy! Enjoy the photos.

Sharon and the Solstice

It's the summer solstice again, the longest, brightest day of the year. We celebrated this morning by holding a memorial exercise class in honor of Sharon.

It's impossible to believe it was a full year ago that we attended her funeral, a full year that she's been gone. It still often doesn't seem real. It's easy to sometimes get caught up in our busy lives and forget for awhile, although I'm certain that isn't true for Jeff, Laura, Tom and the rest of her family, who no doubt confront the loss anew every single morning the moment they wake.

Our team of 40 to 50 fellow exercisers is running the Army 10-Miler this year to raise money for pancreatic cancer research, in memory of Sharon, as well as my dad (pictured above) and grandfather and many others who've been touched by the disease. The training kickoff was also today, designed and led by Ginny.

Pancreatic cancer is the LEAST funded yet the fourth greatest killer. Virtually everyone who is diagnosed dies, most within just a few months. Symptoms are vague, and diagnosis almost always comes too late for treatment to be effective. Pancreatica.org, the group we're raising money for, supports efforts to find better early detection methods so people can actually have a fighting chance.

Meanwhile, I'm losing another friend this week too, to geography, not illness. Lynne, who I met at the Mad Manor playground when Cassie was two and I was pregnant with Nickie -- almost 19 years ago -- is moving to San Diego with her family. We've been best friends and kindred spirits since day one, raised our kids together, talked literally every day, homeschooled together, shared books and our education, political and religious passions -- when most people thought we were completely crazy and obsessed.

Lynne (above, with me and Ginny the other night) is the friend I could always call and rant to about whatever new outrage had gotten my blood boiling. She is one of the smartest (but also funniest, bawdiest and most self-deprecating) people I've ever known -- reads several books a week and is a virtual library of information on countless topics. We explored many interests together, and most recently she's led the way down a whole new -- and totally eye-opening path -- with her 9-11 truth activities.

Yup, down the rabbit hole we've gone, all right. It's been fascinating to first resist, then read and watch and learn, and now see other people resist when I challenge prevailing views and raise troubling questions about that huge event and what it means for us today. And right or wrong, the journey has been incredibly stimulating, scary and fantastic.

Lynne and Faton and their kids, Ally and Will (who are still great friends with Cassie), and Paulie, our quirky, wonderful godchild (I watched him being born, one of the coolest things ever), moved to DC 10 years ago and over time (mostly because of Paul's particular challenges) our contact became less frequent, but never less important. We'll still have cell phones and email (thank god!) and I now have a great reason to visit San Diego -- their new place is four blocks from the beach in La Jolla. But of course it won't be the same -- no more meeting for a drink at the Four P's or Nanny's (and staying up way too late) on a week night, no more fly-by's or coffee dates, no more book and DVD swaps. No more knowing that even though we were talking on the phone, she's always been just 20 minutes away.

The summer solstice here again, a whole year passed, and more changes -- and loss -- than I can ever remember. This has been a year of incredible challenges, some painful, some scary, some exciting and new. My business continues to grow, my novel is slowly, slowly coming along, and life keeps moving forward, with or without our permission.

I guess it's a good time once again -- as the school year ends and the lazy days of summer lay wide open before us -- to remember Sharon, to hang onto her beautiful spirit, and to do the best we can with the gifts of life and health and love that we are still so lucky to have. Anything less than total gratitude would be a crime, wouldn't it?

Ya Gotta Love Montana

Where else would the daily special be Tuna Melt with tater tots? At Scotties, a cowboy bar and attached casino (all the bars come with a casino) in downtown Kalispell.

Spent a week out there late last month with Jane, worked on my novel and again just fell in love with the place. (The second photo is my workspace at Jane's neighbor Joanie's, where I did my writing every day. Also the Mission Mountains, the saloon Michael built at Angeda and Jane's beautiful Achewa.) There's something about that area -- the scenery and wide open spaces (like my favorite Dixie Chicks song) -- that I'm really drawn too. Already trying to figure out how to get back again -- maybe a writers conference in the fall. Did I mention people consider Kalispell a vortex, like Sedona, Arizona? It seems to draw creative types and people starting over, and everyone you meet is like a long lost friend.

The Color Green

Green's been my favorite color my entire adult life, having supplanted the pink of my tomboy/girly-princess childhood, which remains firmly in second place. My last two cars have been green, my kitchen walls and counters are green, many of my clothes are green. This "Daily Om" message makes me even more happy with my choice. (Photo by Gigi Bate)

Unifier Of Opposites

Green is a combination of the colors yellow and blue, each of which brings its own unique energy to the overall feeling of the color green. Blue exudes calm and peace, while yellow radiates liveliness and high levels of energy. As a marriage between these two very different colors, green is a unifier of opposites, offering both the excitement of yellow and the tranquility of blue. It energizes blue’s passivity and soothes yellow’s intensity, inspiring us to be both active and peaceful at the same time. It is a mainstay of the seasons of spring and summer, thus symbolizing birth and growth.

Green is one of the reasons that spring instigates so much excitement and activity. As a visual harbinger of the end of winter, green stems and leaves shoot up and out from the dark branches of trees and the muddy ground, letting us know that it’s safe for us to come out, too. In this way, green invites us to shed our layers and open ourselves to the outside world, not in a frantic way, but with an easygoing excitement that draws us outside just to sniff the spring air. Unlike almost any other color, green seems to have its own smell, an intoxicating combination of sun and sky—earthy, bright, and clean. In the best-case scenario, it stops us in our tracks and reminds us to appreciate the great experience of simply being alive.

Green balances our energy so that, in looking at it, we feel confident that growth is inevitable. It also gives us the energy to contribute to the process of growth, to nurture ourselves appropriately, without becoming overly attached to our part in the process. Green reminds us to let go and let nature do her work, while at the same time giving us the energy to do our own.

Isn't that cool? I love the Daily Om. http://www.dailyom.com/

Spiders and Sick Kids

I got back from Haiti a week ago and once again it was a grueling trip with lots of rewards and intense experiences. But before I get into all that -- the desperate needs of that poor messed up country, etc. -- can I get a little shock and awe for waking up to find this freaking monster crawling across my bed last Thursday morning?! I had gotten up before dawn to take a (cold) shower and wash my hair for the first time since we got there. When my flashlight caught that thing, I literally almost passed out. Had it been there while I was sleeping? Did it crawl across me and inspect me during the night? The thought still makes me nauseous.

Evelyn looked it up this week and said it's a Chilean tarantula, and Haiti is about as far north as they roam. I have to honestly admit that the instant I saw that creature a very firm resolution formed in the core of my being. Someone else on our committee can have a turn next year. I am no Paul Farmer. I'll continue working and writing grants for our clean water projects, which I've come to believe are the very most important thing we can do for the village and people of Medor, from right here stateside for the next while. I had to get back in that bed and sleep one more night there -- after inspecting every inch of my room with my flashlight first, of course -- and I barely slept a wink before hiking 2 1/2 hours back down the mountain and driving the rest of the day back to Port au Prince on Friday.

Now a few people have asked me how I had the presence of mind to take these photos anyway. Well I didn't at first. I fled the room like any sensible person, and since everyone was still asleep I went and took my shower. When I came out the spider was gone, which as you can imagine was even worse than if it had still been there. I had to go to an early mass that Pere Leroy had organized as a special treat for us, because getting up at dawn and working all day until dark wasn't fun enough, I guess. When we got back from mass, where I obsessed about how to find and get rid of the monster, it was back hanging out on the side of the bed. I took the photos because for some crazy reason my closest friends and loved ones think I'm prone to exaggeration. I prefer to think I just expereince life a bit more vividly than some people. I knew they would never believe how big this sucker was if I didn't have proof. So I took the pics and then Lori, who grew up on a farm in Iowa and thus is completely impervious to fear of animals of any kind, grabbed it in a plastic trash bag and took it outside. Unfortunatley, the wiley bugger escaped and was NOT in the bag, so we screamed, ran back inside, found it again, Lori grabbed it again, this time really showing it who was boss, and we brought it outside.

Heidi, a yoga and peace-loving Filipino who meditates every morning and has her favorite chants on her I-Pod, but who nonetheless has happily eaten cat, dog, crickets, cockroaches and other bugs, brains, stomach, intestines, frogs, snakes and just about anything in the world that lives, was compassionately saying "Don't kill it!" She also rescued a moth that landed in Mark's soup at dinner one night, dried off its little wings, took it outside and set it free. Did I mention this woman eats anything that crawls, walks, swims or flies?? And I mean anything. Too funny.

OK, so aside from mutant spiders, we also saw 825 sick children in four days at our makeshift clinic, which we set up on the ground floor of the rectory. The second day we woke up to 200 people below our windows at 5 a.m., lining up to get in. Heidi, who aside from her unashamed relish for kittens and puppies au jus, is an incredibly smart, hardworking, calm and most important, funny, pediatrician, organized everything and had me triage all the kids: name, age and complaint. Mark, who works in computers at USA Today, was the mad scientist pharmacist, and did an amazing job. Lori, a nurse who hasn't practiced in 15 years while raising her kids, got a crash refresher course and could probably head up an E.R. now. Bill manned the door with help from Sister Elita, who whipped the storming hordes into shape with numbered cards and a switch in her hand, bless her heart! It truly would have been chaos without her. We left her all the leftover donated meds we brought for her school kids -- ten 50-pound suitcases that a bunch of helpers carried three hours up the mountain on their heads, many of them barefoot. They hiked way faster than we did, and hauled those huge bags like they were full of cotton balls, it was unbelievable.

I now know many Creole terms for cold, cough, fever, earache, headache, stomach ache, diarreah, chest pain, skin rash, worms and poor appetite, otherwise known as malnutrition. We saw adorable 17-day old twin babies, and a 7-day-old newborn who was perfectly healthy and had no business being around all those sick kids. We saw some very serious cases too, such as a girl with a large lump of what was probably bone cancer growing out of her spine; a boy with stick thin legs bowed by polio; a boy who was blind in one eye and didn't even know it; several cases of pneumonia (including one dehydrated boy with a 105 fever who threw up all over Lori); and a girl (about 10) whose kidneys were failing. We had to tell her poor, bone thin and exhausted father, as he held her in his arms, that he had to carry her to the nearest hospital right away, a seven hour walk. He broke down and sobbed.

The vast majority of the illnesses, however, were caused by dirty water (and not enough food). The colds, coughs and fevers, the skin rashes and infections, the chronic diarreah, the failure of babies to thrive and learn and grow, would all clear up if they only had clean water to drink, cook with and bathe in. Watching the hundreds and hundreds of people wait all day long, just for the opportunity to be seen and touched by a real doctor, I often felt as though we were spitting into the wind. We were helping relieve symptoms, but once their vitamins, skin creams and antibiotics ran out, they would be sick again with the very same problems. Until we get all the water sources in all the farflung chapels cleaned up, these will be chronic problems.

Our driver/translator Monty was great -- a fun, cheerful reggae lover with dreads who laughed his head off as he careered over the bumps and rocks on the crazy Haitian roads while I hung on with white knuckles and slammed on my imaginary passenger-side brakes again and again, blurting out 'Oh no!" and "oh my god!" and "watch out!" over and over very helpfully. Check out his website at http://www.thespiritofhaiti.com.

We parted on a very awkward note, however, after Monty insisted that our rental car -- a brand new SUV with the plastic still on the visors -- took diesel fuel. Mark and I both were sure it took regular gas, as did the Haitian gas station attendants when we stopped to fill up on our way back to the airport Saturday morning. Monty insisted, saying he had driven this car before. So we filled it up with diesel and the car died half a mile later by the side of the road. Pepe, our second driver, dropped off the rest of our group and came back to get us. It was 7 a.m., Avis didn't open until 8, and we had to get through the long security lines and onto our 9 o'clock flight.

I had rented the car with my credit card. Monty was horrified by his mistake and shut down completely. He couldn't apologize and barely said goodbye. I told him I was counting on him to straighten it out, that I didn't want to be charged for the repairs. He was noncommital. So far there's been no charge at all to my Visa card, and Avis is trying to track down what happened. Hopefully it will all be OK. It was sad to end things on such a weird note after the great week we all had together.

The internet was down in Medor so it was fun to return to all the news we'd missed: Elliot Spitzer, Cuban soccer players defecting, Obama and Hillary, etc. Like last time, stepping into Miami airport, so clean and bright, with hot water and good food and news and magazines, was heaven. I admit it, I am so tremendously grateful that through a simple accident of fate, I was born at the top of the heap in the developed world. Besides offering the chance to help people who really need it and experiencing something so different from our own lives, Haiti very quickly puts your own cares and troubles right into perspective. That is its greatest gift of all.

Doubting Liza and Back to Haiti

My writers group critiqued my next 50 (or actually 60) pages last night and guess what -- they did not hate it! I'm so excited! Last time, during my baptism in this particular brand of self-inflicted torture, they ripped my precious baby apart, couldn't stand Liza and found Henry insufferable. When I told them the book was also about the pedophilia scandal in the catholic church, they all burst out laughing -- that's how NOT likely it seemed from the first four chapters.

Last night it was just the six guys in the group and me; our two other women members, Jackie and Juhi, couldn't make it. I’d sent my pages in earliest and so was up first on the docket. And at the risk of sounding as goofy as Sally Fields, they liked it! They thought it was well written and really started cooking with the story line about Brian being abused. A couple of the guys actually liked the early scenes, in which Liza has lunch with Henry, the best, which is a real surprise and gives me hope that it isn't just Chick Lit after all, although the other guys definitely preferred the scenes about Brian.

One of the guys thought I revealed Brian's past too quickly, and suggested I drag it out more to maintain the tension as Brian falls off the wagon and makes a general mess of things. I think that's a good idea -- I do tend to rush all the good parts when I'm really getting into my writing. Very reflective of my own nature, but not so good for a novel. I totally rushed the steamy sex scene Hannah had me write last month, and my assignment now is to slow it down and savor the details. Waaaah -- that's so hard for me, especially for this scene!

Of course, Hannah must be thinking I fell off the earth lately, since a month has passed since she gave me that assignment. I have been hugely distracted by other things in my life, but it’s coming, Hannah – I’m getting back in the saddle and need another 50 pages for my next turn with the group at the end of April. It’s amazing how a little praise can go straight to my head – sad, really, but I’ll take the motivation anywhere I can get it.

Off to Haiti again on March 8th for a pediatric health clinic in the village of Medor. We’re (Heidi, the actual pediatrician and four willing assistants) going to see as many as 700 kids in 4 days – should be a blast.

I’ll also be looking for more inspiration and information for my next novel, about a seriously doubting catholic priest, a 40-something woman searching for meaning in her life (ha ha!) and the virtual enslavement of poor Haitians and other nasty doings on a sugar plantation in the Dominican Republic.

Rhode Island Retreat

I just got back from a week in Rhode Island, where I went to meet with my writing coach and kickstart my novel again. I stayed (blissfully alone) at my mom's condo, which sits right on Narragansett Bay next to historic Pawtuxet Village, site of the "first blow for freedom" in the Revolutionary War.

Pawtuxet Village, in Warwick, was the site of the burning of the Gaspee, a British revenue ship that ran aground while chasing a packet boat, the Hannah. Locals, fed up with the Brits' heavyhanded tactics and unfair levies, attacked the boat and burned it to the water line in 1772. The incident led to the forming of Committees of Correspondence in Boston and Virginia, and eventually to the Battle of Lexington and Concord.

Makes my little Rhody heart proud -- ironic, I know, coming from an avowed pacifist. Ah well, it's hard not to be inspired by that kind of historic event, even if the reality was probably far less heroic. Those actions (as described in many a book on war) often involve more happenstance, dumb luck and selfish motives -- usually about money -- than far-sighted visions of a new republic. But it's still a great story. The village stages a reenactment each year where they burn a boat in effegy, along with a festive parade and arts fair celebrating the town's early role in the revolution.

Anyway, it was wonderful to spend an entire week quietly working away on my book. I don't think I've spent that much time alone in 20 years. I wasn't a total hermit, enjoyed several dinners with family and friends too. But first I had a great meeting with Hannah, where she basically told me she couldn't stand my main character, Liza. Too perfect, not enough flaws, not enough struggle, and therefore not at all likable. I needed to make her more real, have her make mistakes and get messy. So that's what I spent most of the week working on, and it was a blast.

I also researched locations in the story: the Cathedral and chancery, where the Bishop's office is, as well as the town of Portsmouth, where Liza's husband Brian confronts the former priest who abused him when he was a young teen. My last afternoon, Denise chauffered me around the neighborhoods and along the beach roads as I took notes and searched for the right streets, right houses, right dive bar, right beach.

I had no internet access at my mom's, so I went to a cafe in the village each day to check my email and check in with my clients. It was a small, cozy place where everyone was very friendly and nice. It snowed on Monday, closing schools and covering everything with about three inches -- just enough to be beautiful without making running, walking or driving difficult. I discovered, again, that I could easily get used to small town life, at least for periods of time. As long as it's a real town, with shops and news and good coffee and a couple of pubs within walking distance. All of which Pawtuxet Village has. Despite being situated along the waterfront, with streets leading up to the main road lined with houses dating back to the 17th and 18th centuries, it still has a low-key, working class feel, really charming.

Now that I'm back the trick will be to keep the momentum going, to continue working and writing every day. Seeing the locations with my own eyes, and inspired by Hannah -- who has agreed to work with me one on one from here on out -- I'm excited to get back to the story. I'm also sharing the next 50 pages with my writers group in early February, and unlike last time, I'm not terrified to hear what they think. Like Hannah's, their feedback last time -- as painful as it was -- has been amazingly helpful. I had to mull it and wrestle with it for awhile, but have realized that most of their advice was right on the money. Liza was a bit of a twit, and I wasn't giving the reader much reason to like her.

Now I've got her messing up royally. Hannah even had me write a steamy sex scene -- that was a first and SO hard to do. But tons of fun, and definitely sending Liza down the wrong road just when Brian needs her most. Hmmm, let's see where that leads, shall we? Haha!

Winter Solstice

Today is one of my very favorite days of the year -- the winter solstice -- because from now on every day gets lighter just a little bit earlier. So each freezing cold morning as we head out to exercise in the dark, we know that we are now on the upswing toward warmer dawns, until June when we actually begin in daylight and it is downright hot and muggy, even at 5:45 a.m. Then the whole cycle starts over again, only then it's in the opposite direction, toward darkness and cold, which gives the summer solstice a bit of a sad quality...

Anyway, I recently got the idea to schedule a special holiday family outing just for us five, since we rarely do anything all together but by ourselves anymore. So I got tickets to Spamalot at the National Theater, and we went out for a nice dinner beforehand.

The play was silly and funny and the girls loved it, but in the end I found it more than a tad disturbing. It may be just me and my recent disgust with the state of the world lately, but I found the final message in the play, that we should "always look on the bright side of life" even when things appear to be all wrong, a little creepy. It reminded me how entertainment -- like religion -- has become another opiate of the masses.

Because while the Bush administration has been chipping away at our civil rights and undermining the very nature of our democracy in its increasingly Big Brother way, the American people are distracted by news of Brittany Spears and Branjelina. We are spoon fed more and more entertainment news – on all the major networks and in the major newspapers and magazines – instead of real news all the time. This is a classic tool of fascism. Numb people with fake, happy news and entertainment while doing your dirty work on the sly.

So I sat watching the play's finale, whose entire tone changed at the end of what had been a satire, and all the people in the audience were clapping and nodding like kindergartners at the school recital, and it was just sort of chilling. Because that message was exactly what the bad guys want us all to do – remain fat and happy, spend $500 to take our families to these silly shows, and don’t worry our pretty little heads about the fact that they are secretly wiretapping anyone they choose without a warrant; that they can lock anyone up as a “national threat” without public charges, a right to a lawyer, or a public trial; and they are trying to foment hatred and fear of immigrants and gays as yet another distraction from what's really going on -- instead of standing up and protesting their clear destruction of the Bill of Rights.

And meanwhile we continue sending money and young people to a losing war that was based on their lies and deception, and the whole presidential election race is a big fat charade too. They -- including the mainstream media -- winnow the field by creating a horserace between their acceptable choices, while marginalizing the only ones (Dennis Kucinich and Ron Paul) who are really telling the truth.

But what's a busy, stressed, well meaning voter to do? Even if you had the time and passion to try and fight, the big money interests can bury your feeble efforts through all their high-priced powerful lobbyists, who buy the politicians. That’s why Hillary and Obama and Edwards offer no different choices at all – they all feed at the same exact trough as Bush and co. Kucinich and Paul are trying to buck the system, but the major media – who actually are OWNED by the same big-money interests as the pols – marginalize them totally so no one will take them seriously and “throw their vote away” on a candidate who doesn’t have a prayer of winning. And thus, they have no prayer of winning! That’s where the system is truly corrupted, and there’s just not much we can do about it until people wake up and realize they’re being had. So discouraging.

As long as the vast majority of Americans get their news from Fox and CNN – propaganda machines that the Kremlin would envy – we're all just sheep to the slaughter. Do I sound like a conspiracy theorist nut job? Well I guess I am then -- guilty as charged.

P.S. I did actually enjoy the show and the time with the fam! :)

Branes, quantum physics and the nature of god

I was most thankful this holiday for being seated as usual with cousin-in-law Brewster, a lawyer who reads Plato for fun, and his Presbyterian minister brother Christopher, who after our great conversation last year sent me the transcript of a debate between an atheist and a Christian scientist on whether God exists. This year they took the conversation to a whole new level as we discussed quantum physics and the nature of God.

I should say they discussed and I struggled to even understand what the hell they were taking about, but it was fascinating and gave much food for thought. Brewster, like me, leans toward a view that if there is a god, it is more an energy or unity of the universe, man's quest for transcendance, than a personal deity that actually causes things to happen or cares what happens. Christopher believes God is separate and beyond us humans -- that when we transcend, we actually find and experience God.

Brewster has also come to believe that quantum mechanics, and in particular something called brane theory, supports the existence of god. This is the part I would love to to know more about, although a cursury googling brought up articles on M Theory and superstring theory that I fear might be just a teensy tad beyond my ken. (OK, so I took the History of Biology in college to avoid having to learn any actual science like chemistry or physics, which I did miserably on in high school.) But it IS very cool.

I am also thankful that my chiropractor gave me (and 20 other clients) a beautiful 15-pound turkey on Tuesday. Since we go to Gigi's for dinner every year and never have any leftovers, I decided it was high time I finally cooked a whole bird, stuffing and all -- yet another first for me this year. I brined it overnight, after defrosting it and pulling out those gross bags of innards which I'm still trying to decide how to use. Truth be told, I want to throw them out but feel that would be wasteful and sort of giving up on some important and earthy tradition of using everything on an animal that has given its life to me and my family -- no matter how vile and disgusting.

I had to include the photo because let's face it, that is one greet looking bird, isn't it? A couple of hours after feasting on turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce for lunch the next day, Maddie asked what was for dinner. I said turkey, of course. "But we had it yesterday and today already," she replied. Isn't that funny? Silly dear doesn't realize she will be eating turkey sandwiches, stew, soup and salad every meal for the next week at least.

Finish a Marathon: Check!

We did it! Jane met her goal of finishing in under five hours (4:57:46) and I met mine of finishing, period (5:48:28). I ran the practice one in about 5:30 a month ago, but I totally peaked then and yesterday -- at the risk of exagerating and being overly dramatic, which you know is so unlike me -- was a nightmare of agony and misery.

My right knee and foot (which I somehow injured a month ago during the practice marathon) started hurting at about the 10th mile, so the next 16 were just a very long and NOT fun slog of steadily worsening pain, lots and lots of pain. Several people had suggested I put my name on my shirt, and although I feared hearing strangers shouting my name would be annoying, it actually provided a huge boost. The only problem was I couldn't tell when people I do know were cheering me on from the sidelines, so I missed waving to several, including my wonderful cousin Brenda who waited for ages on an overpass with a neon pink sign, and also almost everyone at the end.

Denise came down for the weekend from RI and was a huge help. She made me a delicious fish dinner Saturday night, got up at 5:30 in the morning and drove us to the metro, and helped me get ready. She also told me of a study she'd just read about in which people who counted the things they were grateful for each day were healthier, happier, more althruistic, and had much better relationships. So all through the endless miserable miles, I said to myself, "I'm grateful for the beautiful, cool weather; I'm grateful I had the time to train for this; I'm grateful for all my friends and family who've supported me; I'm grateful I could afford good shoes and the chiropractor and health insurance for my orthotics;" etc. But honestly, underneath all that gratefulness was a steady and much more sincere mantra of "this f&%^ing sucks, this f^%&ing sucks, this f%&^ing sucks..."

My daughter Maddie and nephew Byron jumped in and ran the last mile with me, which was great. I had to run up the final hill and through the shoot alone, and crossing under the big balloon-arch finish line was definitely up there among the greatest moments of my life. When a heartbreakingly young and handsome marine draped the medal around my neck, and another one wrapped me in the blue and silver foil blanket, and another one handed me a can of pinapple-orange juice, I just broke down and sobbed. So queer.

The medal is HUGE and heavy and pretty darn tacky but I don't care -- I wore it all day and then hung it up in my kitchen window. At long last I can check this one off the list -- yeah baby! I can safely say that I will never, ever, EVER do this again, and as I sit here nursing all my aching muscles and joints, you can take that to the bank and cash it.

All my love and thanks to Jane for training with me these past many months -- now that I've done it, I can't believe I asked her to do such a ridiculously time consuming and difficult thing AGAIN. You're amazing, Jane! Thanks to Jadie for the photos, to Pancho and Denise for carrying all our stuff and getting everyone there (among many other nice things), and to Ginny and Andrew, Lynne, Jadie and Leslie, Byron, Maddie, Nancy and Tom, Brenda, and Evelyn and Stephen for coming out to cheer me on, and to Martine and Bruce for offering to have a party and for joining us (Mel too) at Iota after. I promise to stop talking about this now, and to finally stop celebrating my birthday, I swear!

And then to top it all off, the Red Sox won the World Series -- again. Unbelievable!!!

Back to the Novel, Back from Big Sky

After a three month hiatus, I'm working on my novel again. I started a new workshop with Hannah this month and have homework due tomorrow which I actually haven't done yet -- not a good sign. This is why I need Hannah -- to make me get going again. I finished 100 pages, took a break to get the girls off to college and focus on my business, and now am finding it really hard to get back into the story.

I also joined a writers group in DC, and next week they will critique my first 50 pages. I am quaking in my boots. I realize this is not the great american novel, or even deep enough to be called contemporary american fiction. It is probably best described as a beach book, or a bike book, as my friend Meg said, because it would be a good story to ride your exercise bike to. I was deeply disappointed to hear this, mind you, but consoled myself that beach and bike books aren't all bad. I decided this will be my starter book, my novel "lite," and the next one will be the real McCoy. I wishfully think I have it in me - it just isn't ready to come out yet.

So I let Meg read it this summer -- she was the first. Her feedback was good and helpful, but having these strangers read it and comment on it with me right there in the room next week is terrifying to consider. So let's change the subject, shall we?

I just got back from five days in northwest Montana, and I now understand why they call it big sky country. You look up and the sky is so vast and endless, from horizon to horizon, all around you. It's just so damn HUGE. Ringed with the Mission Mountains, the Swann Mountains, Glacier National Park, Blackfeet Reservation, and all the way into Canada, it just goes on and on and on. It is stupendous. I will never do it justice, but here are just a couple of the amazing views. One is of the vista at Many Glacier, an old inn inside Glacier that we drove eight hours round trip to see.

The sunset picture was taken right off Jane's deck in Somers, at her beautiful mountainside home called Achewa that overlooks Flathead Lake. We ate fantastic meals, ran up and down her neighbors long, steep driveways (at about 4500 feet altitude, I think), rode horses at the Bar W Ranch in Whitefish, visited Kila, where her friends Alice and Michael homesteaded the most magical 80 acres I've ever seen, and hung out in the hot tub, looking up at bazillions of stars in that great big sky. It was glorious.

To check out Achewa and Michael's incredible woodworking and life story, visit www.achewa.com. I simply cannot figure out how these darn links work.

I Ran a Marathon Today!

26.2 miles baby, yes I did! It was the most beautiful, cool, crisp fall day, not a cloud in the sky. We started at 6:35 a.m. and I finished about 10 -15 minutes after Jane at 12:05. I can't believe I did it, and it was just NOT that bad. I felt healthy and well prepared and just did it. My feet and lower legs were really sore but now I feel great.

Maddie's getting ready for homecoming so I'm taking her to another girl's house for pictures and then was gonna come home, have a quiet night and watch a movie with Ginny. (Pancho and Cassie are at Nickie's family weekend at Elon.) Jane said, "You mean you're not going out to celebrate with some drinks? That's what I'm doing."

I suddenly realized, duh, I could brag about this all night! And as anyone who knows me is aware, I am not exactly one to hide my light under a bushel, so I have reconsidered. Drinkypoos (possibly free ones due to my amazing achievement!) at someplace fun are definitely now in the plan...

23 Miles, and Doubt Revisited

OK, I know I promised not to dwell on my boring running regimen anymore, but I just have to write down the momentous event that happened in my life today: I ran 23 freaking miles. Technically, I ran/walked 23 miles, but the important point is, at mile 21 I truly believed for the first time that I can finish the marathon and meet my most challenging goal in this midlife-crisis year.

I also decided today that this is the most challenging goal I've ever set for myself, and running 23 miles was definitely the most difficult thing I've ever done. (Maybe having babies is up there, but such a distant memory it seems all soft and nice and lovely now.) At mile 15 I almost gave up, because I've been sick for over a week with a bad summer cold. Please excuse the graphic details, but I have mucus in my head and lungs which definitely affect my aerobic capabilities. Last weekend I ran the Rock & Roll 1/2 Marathon in VA Beach -- which by the way is a BLAST! -- and I really struggled then too.

Today, I think I learned what it means to "dig deep." I finally understand what the word 'endurance' means. Whenever I heard or read people saying you have to dig deep before, I automatically thought, 'Oh I am so not the kind of person who digs deep.' I'm a total wimp -- if I hit the wall, I simply decide it's time to call it a day and that's that -- no big internal tug of war; no guilt or sense of shame at quitting. I've done my best and now it's time to stop whatever it is that's making me so damn tired.

But when I almost quit at 15 miles, good ol' Jane said, "OK, I think maybe you're right. You'll just have to do it next Friday while I'm out of town, because you have to do the whole 23 before we do 26, our final training run, in three weeks." I went into the community center, got some water, ate some Goo, and thought to myself, "There is no f$%^ing way I'm coming out here next Friday ALONE and doing this again. If I have to crawl or drop dead on the trail, I've simply got to do these last eight miserable miles today."

So I did. And it really sucked. But the amazing thing is, it wasn't that much worse than all the other long runs we've done. I now actually believe I can do this -- as long as I don't get sick or injured, knock on wood. A big day. And now that's it -- even I'm sick of these nauseating stories about running.

So on a completely different topic (and my personal favorite -- religion), recently released letters reveal that Mother Theresa, the soon-to-be saint of Calcutta, spent the vast majority of her adult life doubting the existence of God. She wrote of her complete sense of loneliness and isolation, her belief that the God she prayed to every day (and who she had of course "married" when she took her vows as a nun), very likely wasn't even there. Her doubts and the despondency they caused are shocking to believe, especially when you think that despite them she continued doing the most difficult, selfless work for the most marginalized untouchables in the world until her dying days.

This may be sick and twisted, but I find the fact that one of the most admired, truly good people in the world, who is often held up as an unquestionnable example of a modern saint, had massive doubts about the whole works: Jesus' divinity; whether he was really listening to her in any kind of personal way; whether she had a soul; or whether it was instead just a bunch of stories.

I find Mother Theresa's doubts enormously satisfying. They make me like her and admire her far more than I ever did before. They make her real, and they also of course point out that if someone like MT doubted the existence of God, then how is it not perfectly understandable that we mere mortals ask the very same questions.

On that note, I'd like to share an interesting tidbit I found recently, although I can't remember where. It's called God is Clincally Insane:

According to two senior Church of England bishops, recent terrible floods in the UK are expressions of God's wrath at excess consumption -- or possibly excess ‘gay friendliness.’ "We have a responsibility in this and God is exposing us to the truth of what we have done," the Rt. Rev .James Jones, bishop of Liverpool, told The Telegraph.

"We are reaping the consequences of our moral degradation, as well as the environmental damage that we have caused." said the Rt. Rev. Graham Dow, bishop of Carlisle. "The sexual orientation regulations [which give greater rights to gays] are part of a general scene of permissiveness. We are in a situation where we are liable for God's judgment, which is intended to call us to repentance." According to the Telegraph, Dow "expressed his sympathy for those who have been hit by the weather, but said that the problem with ‘environmental judgment is that it is indiscriminate.'"

Now just hold on a minute here. God left thousands of innocent Britons homeless-- to say nothing of other recent flood victims from Texas to Pakistan -- to make a point about something those people had nothing to do with? A point no one, except a handful of clergymen, seemed to get? If God is powerful enough to cause floods, why isn't he powerful enough to target his smitings to, say, the annual meeting of Exxon shareholders or Friends of the Incandescent Light Bulb? Surely God is aware that environmental catastrophes hit the most vulnerable hardest. The CEOs and superconsumers in their 4000-square-foot mansions have insurance, to say nothing of Hummers in which to make a quick escape to their condo in the city.

As for the gay thing, if a human being somehow managed to flood whole neighborhoods, destroying the lives of multitudes, and when asked why replied that he was furious, just furious, at growing tolerance for homosexuality, we would think he was insane. And he would be.

So maybe God exists, but is clinically mad. That would explain just about everything.

Twenty Miles!

I did it. Felt pretty good through 18, slowed down quite a bit for the next two, but finished strong. That's all I'm gonna say -- I ran/walked 20 long, hot, seemingly endless miles this morning -- in four hours and seven minutes. Now I'm going to eat, take some advil and take a bath.

Mood: Melan

It's hard to believe less than two months ago I was celebrating the summer solstice with such good cheer and optimism. August isn't half over and I feel so melancholy, which I always do as summer draws to a close. It just seems to be happening earlier this year.

Two of my girls leave for college in less than two weeks -- I cannot imagine life around here with both of them gone. Cassie's absence left a gaping hole last fall, but with Nickie in her senior year, she and her friends filled the house with their laughter and activity, and her and Maddie's busy school and social lives were a constant distraction and joy (when they weren't keeping me up at all hours, trashing the house and making me nuts). With her and all her great pals leaving soon (including Hannah and Brian, who showed up for breakfast and a chat an hour ago and are watching TV in the other room as I write this), it will be so very quiet for us and Maddie, our now-only child. I honestly cannot think about it for more than a few seconds without deep sadness washing over me and my eyes filling with tears.

It's also much cooler and crisp today, almost fall-ish, or like summer in New England, which is how summer is supposed to feel. That too makes it seem like the season is coming to a close -- that and the fact that camp is finished, fall sports are about to begin, and I've already started buying books and uniforms, getting physicals (and their endless forms) completed, and helping organize and pack two kids to move away.

I remember even as a child, the last couple weeks of summer always felt sad and bittersweet, the melancholy end of one season and the beginning of a new year. Fall seemed much more like the true time for resolutions, the chance to start fresh -- that's why you got a new outfit, new shoes and new supplies for that all-important first day.

Still now in the workaday world of adults, in politics, on Wall Street, on farms and in factories, people come back from their August vacations ready to start anew -- we all still seem to follow the school calendar, long after grades have been posted and degrees handed out. People move, thousands of young people return home after working at the beach or in another state or country for the summer. Folks begin new jobs, or shift to accomodate the next season's different priorities and demands.

I've signed up for another writing seminar with Hannah, trying to get re-motivated and finish the novel by the end of the year. I've joined a writer's group downtown also, and will have to share 50 pages with them at some terrifying point in the near future. I'm also exploring -- with Evelyn, my graphic artist colleague and friend -- creating a training workshop to help nonprofits with their communications programs. We'd present it at conferences around the country and get to travel a bit, as well as hopefully attract new business. These are my fresh starts for Fall.

But as I listen to the sounds of my neighbor working in his yard, of water trickling into the pond outside my window, and feel the first cool, unmuggy breeze in weeks, I realize again that life is about to change around here in very big ways. Two daughters gone, one still here. Only one schedule to keep track of, one child's sporting events to attend. Only one child to wait up for at night, and even that rarely since Maddie is not quite 15. My parenting responsiblilties cut by two-thirds.

As much as I've looked forward to this day since they were born, prepared for it and pushed them toward it, knowing my job was to teach them how to be independent, it feels like one of my major reasons for existing is being taken away, like an arm or leg, an eye or ear, or some other vital body part that I don't feel I can live happily without. I'm sure I'll get used to it, like you get used to disappointment, bad news and other challenges. It will have its upsides as well, I know.

But right now all it feels like is sad. The end of an era, the end of a lifestyle -- no longer the busy mother of three girls. That version of me -- that exhilarating, intense, all-consuming, exhausting, source of unending worry and happiness and identity and pride, is passing away. Like these final quiet, slow, lazy weeks of summer, its days are numbered. I want to hang on, to cling like a leech to every one.