Things I love: II

The most important love object in my life:

The Charming Man, here with my Charming Mother in Law.

Things I love.

The first year after a big loss is not the most pleasant time of one's life. But there are things that can make getting through the day much easier.

For me, that involves looking around at the world and seeing things I love. And in honor of today, here is the first thing I love.

This is the back of my National Coming Out Day t-shirt. Check that date out!

I love National Coming Out Day. Today is the day to celebrate who you really are. It's doesn't matter if you are a nervous heterosexual, today you can accept that it's ok that you are straight and and maybe realize that GLBTQ people aren't scary at all! 

Come out of the closet. There is a lovely big world out there.

Well, I'm home.

It's been a poignant couple of weeks. There has been a lot of crying, hugging, and sharing but still, I am incredibly fatigued and numb. So yeah, no writing going on.

In addition to the loss of my grandmother, I learned that my family of birth doesn't read my blog. It didn't surprise me - I've always been the oddball of the bunch (and that's pretty darn odd, considering our bunch). But it did sting.

I'm trying to soothe that sting. The best thing I've come up with is that I am free to say whatever the hell I want here. I could write about my intimate secrets - well, ok, not that I *want* to say that much about my private life, but I *could*!

My grandmother believed in me. The Charming Man and my family of choice believes in me. And that goes a long way towards making the world a better place.

Death and other realities

My maternal grandmother passed away early this morning.  She was 94.

This is the second death for The Charming Man and I in one month.

I'm numb with grief. My grandmother gave me my love of history and my love of writing. She was the only one who seemed happy that I chose history as my major and pursued that love to an MA. She was the one who inspired me to study the Ancient World and the Middle East. She also gave me my love of romantic stories.

Everything that swirls around a death - the rituals, the services, the pain, the bizarre family in-jokes, the potential for the eruption of uncomfortable truths - creates a sense of drama and mystery. Life is sharper, fiercer, and more precious than ever.

Someday, I will write a gentle, historical romance story for her.

Thank you, Grandma, for loving me. You never gave up on me.

Moving Slowly.

Last Friday, I visited the Tao of Tea in the Lan Su Chinese Garden. I drank chrysanthemum tea (good for sore throats and allergies), ate steamed dumplings, and then reveled in moon cakes. Moon cakes are a secret obsession of mine.

Outside in the Garden proper, two people were moving through Tai Chi forms. One was a tiny Chinese woman wearing a loose fitting pink martial arts uniform. The second was an older Chinese man who had been playing music for us in the Teahouse.

Tai Chi can be done quickly. But it is usually seen with slow, graceful movements

There is something truly beautiful about moving slowly. I'm always in a rush - afraid to miss anything before death comes for me. This fear drives me to exhaustion - I don't write fast enough, I don't dance enough, I don't give enough to my loved ones. It has ruled me all my life.

The idea of going slowly, of every move being clear and deliberate - is alien to me. I cannot slow down, no matter how much it hurts me.

But the Tai Chi artists outside in the sun- their movements were focused, strong, and deliberate. Somehow, they are getting to where ever it is they are going without fuss or bustle.

What would happen if I slowed down? Just the thought of it fills me with panic.

That panic is a good sign of something I need to try.  Does going slow tie in with my idea of Dare to be Average? Could there be a way to be ambitious without being tense?

I think it's a worthy experiment.

Writing and alcohol

Vino Vixens, 2929 SE Powell Blvd.

Last week, I visited Vino Vixens Wine Bar. A good friend of mine is a bartender there. Between his encouragement, glasses of Monte Velho Portuguese White Wine, and delicious grilled cheese, I was able to get myself back on track.

I really tied one on that afternoon. For me, that means TWO glasses of wine, instead of one. Yeah, I know. Writer's Gone Wild, right here, baby!

I rarely drink. I drink alcohol and write even more rarely (I usually prefer a nice hot chai). On the occasions that I do combine the two, I receive sudden insights into the Lost Generation and their love affair with the lovely booze.

It can silence those endless litanies of your inadequacies.

It can make you feel more relaxed.

It can make you feel like a genius.

However, booze means I can barely read my handwriting. It gives me nasty, sucky headaches. It's expensive. And to top it off, I really love my liver and my brain. So I'll take the gift of grape and yeast, but not revisit it anytime soon.

With all apologies to Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Eliot, and Dos Passos, I'll avoid their creative elixir and write like a romance writer - unstoppable, alive, and with all my faculties.