About This Blog

Welcome!

Dancing on Mars ( published by All Things That Matter Press)—is available for Nook at Barnes and Noble online and at Amazon in paperback, Kindle, and audio. To check out reviews or order your own version: http://www.amazon.com/Dancing-Mars-Lucinda-Shirley/product-reviews/0985006617/ref=sr_1_1_cm_cr_acr_txt?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1


One reader says, "Dancing on Mars is a genre-bender, mixing interview, memoir and original poems. It's a feast, not an appetizer!"

Here's how author Cassie Premo Steele describes it: "They say 'the truth shall set you free,' and here it is: a truth-telling memoir about growing up in the small-town, segregated South—politics, sex and religion; relationship, marriage and motherhood; loss, healing, feminism and enlightenment; and the bare beauty of a life by the water's edge. . . ."

There are also some fascinating insights from other women on the subject of living married and single lifestyles— and a sprinkling of original poems to amplify relevant prose.

One reviewer says, "This is EveryWoman's book—every age, every experience. You will laugh, cry and learn through this fascinating, honest and courageous journey to one woman's truth, but you won't put it down." A few wise men have enjoyed it and learned more about women.

You'll find a book trailer here and photos from the hometown in Dancing on Mars. I'll be posting comments and sharing book reviews, writing about themes presented in the book, and sometimes commenting on the events of the day. Humor will be in the mix; it's a high-value aspect of my life.

Please click "follow" to receive new posts from this blog. Also, you can click the Facebook "like" icon if you like what you read. And there's an option to "recommend on Google." Promotional possibilities abound. Would you kindly visit my Facebook author page and "like" it? http://www.facebook.com/pages/Lucinda-Shirley-author-Dancing-on-Mars/189083217857282.

Writers need readers almost as much as we need oxygen, so major thanks for being here. I'll be happy to hear from you!

Lucinda

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Progress Report: Photo Shoot

The lyrics "I get by with a little help from my friends..." were playing around in my head the other day and I thought:  With this book I'm getting by with a whole lot of help from my friends!  I love them dearly, the ones I'll be talking about today and the ones who have helped in other ways.  The friends who were willing to share with candor about their experience being married or living single enriched this book in a major way.  Other women will be able to see themselves and hopefully benefit from what they have to say.

My sister-friend Pat edited the second-draft manuscript as meticulously as any professional editor would have.  Vicki, Paula, and Anita previewed the entire book and offered valuable comments.  Laura helped me set up my first blog and taught me how to upload photos and all the rest -- well,   most of the rest.  They've all done more than their share of listening.

Jodie, Beth, Sandy, Gail, Roz, Audrey, Trisha, Fran, Adrienne, Cora, and Ann read various parts of DANCING ON MARS and offered comments.  Friends who visit the  blog, read excerpts, and leave comments continue to cheer me along.  Indeed, I've gotten by with a LOT of help from my friends.  And they've done it all out of friendship, not for money.  Thank you all!

Paula Hines is working tirelessly on photos that could be used for publicity, to accompany book reviews, etc.  After experimenting with various qualities of afternoon and evening light, she has taken some beautiful photographs.  I'm pushing hard for her to go commercial ; she has done some breath-taking photographic work for charities, friends, family, etc.  Of course I'm not encouraging her to go pro until AFTER the book is done!  :-)

One of Paula's photos is my profile picture on Facebook, at Lucinda Shirley, author, and on my personal Facebook page.  This photography genius knew how to make me look a whole lot better than I really do!

                                                                         * * *

On Monday afternoon I packed three outfits, complete with earrings, for some picture-taking at my faerie goddaughter-friend Laura Lee's house.  Even though she hasn't chosen to go professional, Laura is — among many things —a mega-talented photographer.   Husband Sean recently gave her a camera that totally intimidates me.  Laura, however, can get it to make people look amazing.  She had agreed to take the "author photo" for the book.  I reminded her that in all likelihood the photo would appear slightly larger than a postage stamp, but that didn't stop her from doing it "right."

With the kids settled after school --  the youngest snoozing away and the oldest committed to checking on him -- we went outside to begin.  Ordinarily I'm self-conscious having pictures taken, but we had so much fun goofing around as I posed a zillion ways, using two sets of clothing and borrowing a pair of her really big earrings.  I insisted on planting myself in the children's Halloween graveyard, and she took a couple of shots there, just for fun.  Finally I had to force myself to stop laughing or risk a mascara-run, a "raccoon look" more haunting than any graveyard. 


                                                                    Meet Mr. Right!

Would you be more or less inclined to buy a book with this "graveyard" author photo on the back?  Would you be turned off by it?  OR would you not be likely to notice the author picture at all?  Your comments could help us decide.   Okay,  the grownup picture I chose is posted below.  Which should we use?  Please leave a comment and let me know what you think! 

                                                                               

Laura took a bazillion shots - click, click, click - until I felt like a real model doing a VANITY FAIR cover.  By the way, Laura looked like the model as she twisted her gorgeous self into a pretzel to get the shots she wanted; yoga is a miraculous thing -- that and all the motion that goes with mothering.

I was so into it, loving it all, that I wondered whether  I might become a narcissist before it was over.  Odds were against it, but still it is good to know I'm now capable of enjoying being the focus of attention.  Literally.  Personal growth doesn't always have to be painful!

Thanks to each and all of you, my Friends.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

A sample from DANCING ON MARS

The opening of Part 1 - If Wishes Were Horses:

                                                    The Reluctant Thespian

                                                   When were the auditions?
                                                    I didn’t try out for this part.
                                                    The play-- no, I must say
                                                    I do much better with farce.

                                                    This mask chokes off my air;
                                                    Who wrote the script? How long ago?
                                                     I understand that nothing’s fair,
                                                     But I don’t want to do this show.

                                                     When were the auditions?
                                                      I’m really not right for the part...
                                                     The audience is seated?
                                                     Yes, I’m standing on my mark.


                                                                         ***

   
    Everybody except the beach party chaperone had left for the Pavilion by the time my mother and her friend Isabelle finished primping.  The two stragglers walked toward the island's main road knowing their hair and starched cotton didn’t stand a chance in the South Carolina humidity.   When Isabelle wished they had a car, my mother said, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”  And that’s when Isabelle thought of hitchhiking.  You’ll see it was in love’s best interest that social standards were relaxed during wartime.

   As it turned out, Fate sent these beggars a convertible with two fellows in it, students at the University, happy to give them a lift.  They were headed to the Pavilion, too.  My father was the handsome one in the passenger seat, a ringer for young Brando.  

    Later that night “Brando” boasted to his friend, “I’m gonna marry that little girl.”  And he did.  Two days after finishing Midshipman School at Northwestern.  They had a sweet wedding on a freezing night just after Christmas, the church so cold Mama’s teeth chattered through the whole ceremony.  The newlyweds had only a few days together before my father reported for Navy duty,  but three days were all they needed to plant the seed that eventually would be me.

    My father was stationed in California while my mother lived pregnantly at her mother’s house.  After a couple of months, Mama took a train from South Carolina to the West Coast to visit her new husband.  I think it was courageous for a nineteen-year-old with morning sickness to make that long, rattly train trip.  No doubt her courage was fueled by the power of young love.

    When my mother got to California, she and Papa shared a single bed in the basement bedroom of a wealthy San Diego widow.   Mama told me a story about standing for ages at a bus stop one day, waiting for a ride to La Jolla.   A number of buses stopped, but not one to La Jolla.   When their bus didn’t come and didn’t come, they asked a passer-by and learned that a La Jolla bus had come and gone several times while they waited.  They had been looking for a different spelling, something involving an “h” and maybe a “y.”   Babes in the woods, those two.

[Note:  Photos from the town you'll read about in Dancing on Mars are posted at the end of the blog.]

Copyrighted material.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Minor Revisions

How can anything "minor" can take nearly seven hours?  Would minor surgery?  A minor league ballgame? 

The significant thing about today's "minor" revisions to Dancing on Mars -- which I've put through half a dozen serious edits already -- is that when I closed the laptop, I felt satisfied.  Deeply satisfied, knowing I have done all I can at this point.  Next, the publisher's editor will have a go at it; interestingly, I'm feeling no urgency about knowing when that process will begin.  I will attend to the few remaining tasks that are mine to accomplish and get on with other aspects of life.

For now I will be wildly generous with the eye drops and get back to reading The Paris Wife, and -- good as it is -- I doubt it will have my attention for long.

A good night to you all.  Sweet dreams!

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Contract Signed

En route to New York I checked e-mail for the last time, having promised myself a real getaway.  Even left Happy, my laptop, at home.  In my in-box (after over six months of searching for an agent to represent the book I spent a year writing) was a message from the one publisher I had contacted directly:  All Things That Matters Press said they'd like to send me a contract. 

I had visited the publisher's web site and had the feeling they just might be in sync with what I had written.  All Things That Matters Press had published Cassie Premo Steele's first book, so I asked about her experience with them.  After getting a favorable report from Cassie, I queried ATTM with the requisite number of sample pages.  A few weeks later, they asked to see the full manuscript.

After an action-packed good time in the "city that never sleeps" I returned to the peaceful South Carolina Lowcountry and my version of Walden Pond. 

                                           View from NY hotel window at dawn.


                                           View from my window at home.
On September 27, 2011 -- looking out on this amazing lake that keeps me mindful of what's important -- I signed the contract.

I'll keep you updated on progress once production begins; it will be a while before that happens.  And of course I'll be excited to announce when Dancing on Mars will be available!
I'll post a few excerpts here, so please come back.  Meanwhile you can visit http://www.allthingsthatmatterpress.com/  and check out some of the excellent books they have published and the authors who wrote them.

DANCING ON MARS excerpt - Home

                                        
                                                          
      
                             “It is good everywhere, but home is better.”  ~ Yiddish saying




    Home:  May it mirror your passions.  May it be a peaceful sanctuary for love and a benevolent guardian of memories.  May it embrace you and nurture your growth.  
   
   
A friend defines what’s important in his life by asking, “Can it love me?” I’ve borrowed his approach a number of times.  Most recently I asked that question about my home.  You might think I’m certifiable when I say,  Absolutely yes, my home loves me.  I can feel its comfort, its inspiration, its playful whimsy when I’m taking myself too seriously, and its peace when I need rest and rejuvenation.  

    Even though I understand that my true “home” exists as part of me, within me, love of a material home can be a major love relationship.  One that can last a lifetime.  Not really a material girl, I feel my home transcends materiality.   It seems more of an organic entity than a “thing.”   Maybe that’s partly because I’ve loved making it the haven it is.

   When people tell me that certain improvements would increase its value, I find myself feeling a little, I don’t know, misunderstood?  Peeved?  It’s silly, I know.  The home-caring things I do and changes I make are strictly for my own comfort and enjoyment.  If it brings greater financial benefit to others when I’m no longer around, all the better.  But I don’t think or plan that way.   I’m staying present to the gift of living in it now.
                                                                              ***
   
    The home Rachel built after becoming a late-life empty nester gives me reason to believe it’s never too late to have a home you truly love.   Like Rachel,  Bev was able to build a home for one, with breathtaking views that bring the natural world to her every day.

    Not everyone is able to build a “dream home,” but home can be created in whatever space you occupy -- house, condo, or apartment.  Monica says her “heart feels its best” in her 600 sq. ft. 1927 vintage apartment with its cozy plant-filled porch.   And Ursula, divorced after twenty-five years, was thrilled to find the bungalow that is now exclusively hers.  She has turned it into a delightful space that, for the first time in her life, mirrors exactly who she is.

    Making a home truly yours is an ongoing education, offering endless gifts of self-revelation.   It brings opportunities for learning, and remembering, what’s important to you.  Like yoga, it stretches you in unimagined ways. Whether you’re starting out or starting over, budget needn’t stand between you and a high degree of satisfaction in your home.  Even if your budget is modest.

    If you live alone, home is your personal canvas; you get to choose the color palette, the furnishings, the textures and the tone.  If you share your living space, it’s important to have your own “home within a home,” a place you can create in your own image.  A sanctuary  where you can retreat into privacy to think,  gather your wits, replenish your energy.  Ideally there will be a door you can close.  And open.

                                                             Home Blessing
           
                                                             I have a knowing
                                                             that this home
                                                             will cradle you
                                                             in peace,
                                                             soften the din
                                                             of marketplace madness
                                                             whispering Find your center.

                                                             I have a knowing
                                                             that this place
                                                             will embrace you
                                                             with coolness
                                                             or warmth,
                                                             whatever is needed
                                                             to balance the seasons
                                                             of your days,
                                                             to soothe,
                                                             comfort
                                                             and tenderly teach
                                                             as you allow.
           
                                                             Love
                                                             that sets no conditions,
                                                             holds no expectations,
                                                             flows easily
                                                             between this home
                                                             of brick and mortar
                                                             and your home
                                                             of flesh & bone.
                                                             Love nourished
                                                             by a wellspring
                                                             of truth, growing
                                                             as you breathe
                                                             in and out,
                                                             awake, fully
                                                             aware,
                                                             and celebrating
                                                             the blessings
                                                             of Home.  
 
                                                                           *** 
                                                
                                                                  Feeling At Home
    
What feels like home is unique to each individual.  Some thrive amid mounds of magazines and newspapers, tabletops covered with bric-a-brac.  Others are happiest in a minimalist environment.  Truth be told,  I’d go stark-raving mad in either.  Sure, sometimes I feel a tug of envy at the zen-like simplicity of a friend’s home or wish I could be okay with stepping over piles of mail and magazines.  But neither would work for me.  It would be like wearing shoes a size too small or too big.

    Having a home I love means being fearless in making sure it’s pleasing to me.  Not thinking of whether it will win the approval of this or that friend, neighbor, or relative.  They won’t be living here.  I recommend getting brave enough to try anything, at least as far as color and furniture/object placement go.   Those things can be changed fairly easily. 

    If, say, you paint a room “Monet Sunset” and it feels like you’re stuck inside a bottle of Pepto Bismol when it’s done, get on back to the paint store!  Paint can be pricy, but for the significant difference it makes, it’s worth whatever it costs.   I believe color is key to making a space uniquely one’s own.  

    Color cards from paint stores can be helpful.  Using the copier, one friend has enlarged a few she especially liked, masking-taped them to the wall and lived with them for a while before making a decision.  And  I’m fond of fabric stores where I’m allowed to bring home, and keep, small samples of appealing textiles.  Never mind that I don’t sew.  It’s all about how the colors, textures, and patterns make me feel.  Fabric swatches help me choose the colors and designs I want to have surrounding me.
   
      In making changes at home, I did myself a favor by giving up perfectionism.  Striving for “the perfect” inevitably leads to analysis paralysis where I’m frozen in obsession, endlessly weighing options.  I remind myself and you:  Trust your instincts.  Build self-trust with every decision you make, and celebrate each small success.   For me, a decorating project or purchase is a huge success if it makes me feel really good once it’s part of the household.  When I’m not too entrenched in an idea of what I want,  whatever I need is more likely to find me.  And I’m likely to love it.  It’s all about staying open and aware.
   
      Of course the equation changes if you’re sharing space, especially with someone whose tastes are vastly different.  If need be, you can always call in a “decorating coach” to help find a good compromise.  Most designers are willing to consult on an hourly basis to resolve specific problems.  Or you might arrive at the solution you need by recruiting a friend to brainstorm with the two of you and serve as a mediator.  Living solo or partnered, don’t torture yourself and spoil the fun by making molehills into mountains. 

                                                                                    ***

    If you don’t know what feeling truly “at home” means for you, wouldn’t you like to find out?  If so, you might begin noticing how you feel in other people’s homes.   If you are especially relaxed or suddenly energized, ask yourself whether the surroundings are affecting your mood.  Can you identify what triggered the feeling?

    Over time I discovered that my spirit needs cheerful, nurturing surroundings.   Some traditional furnishings and warm wood tones are important for my sense of security.  They seem to “ground” me.   A couple of family heirlooms give me a sense of life as a continuum.  They connect me to my roots.  Some dramatic touches reflect and feed my passion, and there’s some whimsey to make me smile every day.   Examples would be the bodacious mermaid painted on an old shutter and “The Grapes of Laugh” featuring three of my favorite things:  laughter, wine, and a crow.  I need warm, bright color and candles, always. Soft lighting for ambience and good, focused light for reading.  Of course a comfortable place to sit and to sleep are bottom-line basic.  And art and special photographs that please me are a must, as well.   For Christmas I gave myself an electric fireplace insert; it’s amazingly realistic.  Puts out minimal heat but adds the ambient warmth I wanted.  

    I’m no expert at feng shui, but a friend who is reminded me that bedrooms are for peaceful rest and intimacy.  No electronics.  No bill-paying therein.  No work. There’s a battery-operated brass clock at my bedside rather than digital; no TV.   Sometimes I do cheat and allow Happy, my laptop, into bed --for writing, as I am doing now. When writing or editing begins to feel like work, I’ll head to the desk.

    Maybe describing a room would illustrate the art of the possible when it comes to creating spaces in sync with who you are.  Telling you about one of my own rooms might show that getting the look, the feeling, you want in a room or a house can be done without spending a lot of money.  Welcome to my bedroom.

                                                                      


    A four-panel Japanese screen owns the wall opposite my bed; it’s an original, painted by an artist in Kyoto.   A signature chop is imprinted in the left-hand corner of the golden hues that
underlie bamboo trees and flowers blooming in deep orange and white; there’s a little bird nearby deciding on his next move.  That I was drawn to this screen was surprising.  Oriental art never has been a favorite.  Had it not been in a thrift store, I wouldn’t have given it a second look, probably wouldn’t have seen it at all.  This original art would be worth no telling what.  I’ve seen similar prints, not half as lovely as this original, for over $500.  And for what became the centerpiece of my bedroom -- the golden, sun-washed beauty I see when I open my eyes every morning -- I paid $30.  I cherish the serenity I feel looking at it.

    There are gems out there waiting for you, too.  It’s just a matter of looking around, sometimes in unlikely places, and returning often to benefit from rapid inventory turnover at low-cost consignment and thrift stores.  The screen was a lesson in staying open to change and having the willingness to revisit my preferences.  They have evolved over time, changed as I have changed.

    Quite a few household treasures have come from thrift or consignment stores,  flea markets, and garage sales.  In the weeks after the screen came to live in my bedroom, a beautiful Paprika silk comforter called to me from a red-dot clearance bin at World Market.  I was able to get the comforter and matching pillow shams for under $60.  Had been over $200.   
 
    At the double windows are white paper shades and sheers in two tones of striped cream, a pattern reminiscent of bamboo.  They soften and lighten the room.  Understand,  I didn’t know they would serve such a purpose when I saw them.   I got them because I liked the way they look.

    Under the windows is a narrow, distressed wooden bench in medium green built by a local craftsman. I found it at a resale store at the beach.  At this moment the bench holds a meditating Buddha (about the size of an accent lamp), books, and a small vase of flowers.  I always I always enjoy fresh flowers or greenery in my room.  I’ve loved and lived with my Buddah  ever since I saw him in an  antiques, collectibles and junk co-op probably fifteen years ago.   (At the same place a few years later, I found an African drum with a face mask carved in the base for $30.  Too high-energy for the bedroom, but it’s a star in the living area.)  Atop a few books lying down next to Buddha is a brass bird I call “Buddha’s bird.”  The day I received it as a gift I had no idea what I would do it.  I love birds, real ones, but--.  Now he’s precious to me as the friend who gave it.  It all comes together in time.

    Under the screen is a simple, narrow sofa table from Goodwood and stained by me.  I remember my friend Pat would not be defeated the day she took me to pick it up.  She willed it to fit in her car and, miraculously, it obliged.  It holds, at one end, a lamp and a little gold and natural straw letter basket, perfect with the screen and lamps, was fifty cents at a thrift store.  At the other end, a framed picture of granddaughter Emmalee playing dress-up, a small bronze mermaid, and a candle.  There’s a golden-brown wicker rocking chair with a cushion and throw pillow next to the end of the table where the lamp is.  A small cane-bottom chair that belonged to my grandmother is at the table,  with a big basket holding magazines underneath.  A majesty palm -- relating to the bamboo on the screen, the lucky bamboo plant, and the pattern in the sheers -- is happy near the windows at the end of the bench. 
    
Matching traditional bedside tables were given to me by my mother; they hold brass lamps -- different designs from different times and places -- on either side of the cherry sleigh bed, queen-size.  A  corner hatrack is home for my beach hats and a bike helmet I’ve never worn for biking, but keep in anticipation of a tornado warning.  There’s a second large basket in the  room, holding books under my bedside table.  Reading material is close at hand everywhere in the house.
    
In “Return to Eden,” the framed poster over my bed a man and woman, who could be Mayans, have found sanctuary in a garden with huge yellow hibiscus blossoms and palm fronds.   They sit close together, heads touching at the temples. They are sleeping, their faces radiating innocence and peace.  I found “Eden” at a consignment store, framed, for $12.
   
On the narrow wall between a pair of white louvered closet doors are three dark frames hanging in a vertical row; two are shadowboxes.  One is a collage I was inspired to make while corresponding with an artist,  exchanging my poems and pictures of his artistic creations electronically.   In the collage are lush green images, an ancient wooden door, lines from a poem I wrote, words from Rumi, and a large, rustic key.  That collage is my best memory of a short-lived relationship, lovely in the pen-pal stage.  Another frame holds three very old keys whose history I don’t know.  Must have been a bargain.  Last in the trio is a framed postcard, a charming village in Italy, sent by a friend visiting there.

    The walls in my bedroom are a soft yellow.  There’s no overhead lighting, just a vintage white ceiling fan.

    I like to incorporate the five elements in a room whenever possible.  In this case I have Earth with the palm, bamboo, and cut flowers.  Fire is symbolized by the orange comforter, shams, tabletop candle, orange flowers in the Japanese screen and Eden poster.  Metal is in a vase, the brass lamps, and light switch plate.   The furniture and the carving of the lovers represent wood.  Water?  Of course there’s water in the flower vase and bamboo, but, best of all, there’s the beautiful lake I can see from the bedroom windows.  
  
Good memories are associated with many items in the room and the love of friends and family is in objects they’ve given me.  My granddaughter lives too far away, and photos make it easier to feel closer to her.  That’s a lot of detail, but bear with me.
 
Under the windows is a narrow, distressed wooden bench in medium green built by a local craftsman. I found it at a resale store at the beach.  At this moment the bench holds a meditating Buddha (about the size of an accent lamp), books, and a small vase of flowers--always enjoy flowers or greenery in my room.  The peaceful Buddha has graced my life for 15 years,  ever since I saw him in an  antiques, collectibles and junk co-op.   (At the same place a few years later, I found an African drum with face mask carved in the base.  Cost:  $30.  Too high-energy for the bedroom, but it’s a star in the living area.)  Atop a few stacked books next to Buddha is a brass bird I now call “Buddha’s bird.”  The day I received it as a gift I had no idea what I would do with it.  I love real birds, but this....?  Today he’s precious to me as the friend who gave it.  It all comes together in time.

 Beneath the screen is a narrow sofa table gotten ages ago from Goodwood and stained by me.  (I remember my friend Pat would not be defeated the day she took me to pick it up; she willed it to fit in her car and, miraculously, it obliged.)  It holds, at one end,  a lamp and a little gold and natural straw letter basket, perfect with the screen and lampshade and fifty cents at a thrift store.  At the other end, a framed picture of granddaughter Emmalee playing dress-up, a small bronze mermaid (a gift from my friend Laura), and a candle.  There’s a golden-brown wicker rocking chair with a cushion and throw pillow next to the end of the table where the lamp is.  A small cane-bottom chair that belonged to my grandmother is at the table with a big basket holding magazines underneath.  A majesty palm (relating to the bamboo on the screen, the lucky bamboo plant, and the pattern in the sheers) is happy near the windows at the end of the bench. 

 Matching traditional bedside tables were gifts from my mother; they hold brass lamps, different designs from different times and places, on either side of the queen-size cherry sleigh bed.  A  corner coat rack is home for my beach hats -- and a bike helmet I’ve never worn for biking.  I keep it in anticipation of a tornado warning.  There’s a second book basket under my bedside table.  Reading material is close at hand everywhere in the house.

In “Return to Eden,” a framed poster over the bed, a man and woman, who could be Mayans, have found sanctuary in one another, resting in a garden with huge yellow hibiscus blossoms and palm fronds.   They sit close together, heads touching at the temples. They are sleeping, their faces radiating innocence and peace. This couple, and Eden with them, came from a consignment store, framed, for $12.  

With all my heart, I believe you can create a home that mirrors you, using furnishings that have meaning.  A home that makes you feel very, very good when you walk in the door.  So good you might be reluctant to leave!


Go slowly.  It all takes time, and it would spoil the fun if you did it all in a hurry.  It’s fun to add things as you go along -- souvenirs from travels, special art that finds you, gifts from people you love.  If you want immediate change but can’t manage a large project for now, choose one corner in one room -- a new table or lamp, or a painting you might consider moving from one place to another.  You might be surprised by the impact a small change can make.

                                                                               *** 

I’ve found it’s important to keep my surroundings up to date.  I’m not talking about trends here.  For me, updating means checking in with myself periodically to see whether this or that item or aspect still has meaning.  For example: Does it still make me feel good?  Is it comfortable, functional?  You might ask yourself whether the colors on your walls are the ones you need at the present time.   Maybe you’ve gotten over the monochromatic look and would enjoy living with more or different colors.  Sometimes it’s good to take a how-much-do-I-love this-or-that-aspect-of-my-home? inventory. 
    
Here’s an “inventory” example from my own experience:   At some point I bought a poster-size print of a little girl, maybe 6 or 7, standing beside a brass-potted  hydrangea.  The girl had red hair, and the light in the painting was exquisite.  I splurged to have it framed beautifully.  It was perfect for my dining room.  After some time passed, I began to look at the painting less and, when I did, it was with a twinge of sadness.  Indeed, the girl’s face was sad as she stood there in her starched white dress, knowing she must be careful not to get dirty.  She seemed to be staring into the middle distance.  Sometimes I’d look at the portrait and feel angry.  Angry!  What was that about?  It was a nice painting.  I had liked it enough to buy it not long ago, hadn’t I?
   
Finally I understood that the girl might have been me as a young girl,  me throughout most of my life, poised for action when cued by one of the people I lived to please.  And, like me, ever apart from the rough and tumble world of fearless children.  Staring at the little girl I could hear echoes of “Be sure to get home before dark!”  “Are you dressed for Sunday School?”   Like this girl, I was always “standing by” on the periphery of others’ lives, waiting.

Exploring my feelings about that painting was the beginning of saying goodbye to that passive, people-pleasing aspect of myself.  To the little girl in me who was weaned on fear.  The experience helped me see that I still was giving fear too much power in my life.  Waking up to that truth has been a significant part of my growth.  It’s all about awareness and what we do with our “seeing” once awakened to a new aspect of our own truth.

I took some quiet time to honor the sad, fearful girl I had been, and then I let her go.   I donated the print to a charity shop.  Later, I painted a bright, bodacious abstract to go in that frame.

                                                                               ***
 

Home is one of the significant loves of my life.  In the South Carolina Midlands I lived in a well-loved home for twenty years.  I said many times that the only way I’d leave it would be “feet first.”  A lot of life was lived in that house.  Son Neal lived there with me during some tough teenage years.  My two dogs lived and died while I was there.  It was a place treasured friends felt
comfortable bringing their tears and laughter.  I had opened myself to the possibility of a “love” relationship there, and it was there I began coming to terms with my solitary life.

The house was on a beautiful street across from a lake.  I could see a sliver of the lake from the big shadowbox window in the kitchen, could see more in winter when the trees were bare.  Mine was a small house in a neighborhood of increasingly huge, expensive homes.  People across the way had torn down a charming, spacious house and replaced it with the most ostentatious piece of real estate you ever saw.  It was far too big for the lot; I half expected it to sink into the water.  The house screamed “nouveau riche” and completely screwed up my postage-stamp view of the lake.  I now faced a wrought iron fence topped out with spears; it spoiled the peaceful landscape.
Then the house next door to that one was sold and gutted.  In that case, the one they demolished could have made Architectural Digest.  Old money this time, but still it wasn’t as nice as the house they ruined.  As my mother would say, “Some people have more money than taste.”  My older neighbors had died out and taken all the good taste with them.

Understand, I loved my familiar city and the longtime friends and happy acquaintances who live there.  I liked the location -- about ten minutes from my downtown office, three minutes from a wonderful shopping area.  Not a behemoth mall, but a shopping center with good restaurants, a fantastic Fresh Market, ice cream parlor, and Hallmark Shop.  Also, a book store, post office, Chico’s and Steinmart.  The public library was within walking distance. Perfect!

 So why in the world did I decide to move?   I fell in love, that’s why.

Sharing a few photos from the Midlands home with blog friends:




                                                                       


Copyrighted material.


Excerpt from Dancing on Mars: Notes from a Recovering Victorian

    Many centuries ago, the story goes, a woman consulted with the moon about not having slept with a man for several years; the Moon said it had been far longer for her, but she didn’t believe she was missing very much.

    Those words could have been expressed by women in my grandmother’s generation and beyond.  Case in point:  My mother’s Aunt Ellie married a minister who looks in faded photos as if a smile would shatter his solemn face.  When asked whether she loved her husband,  Aunt Ellie answered without hesitation, “Not at night.”  The couple’s eight children are evidence that the reverend believed in sex.  But I’m thinking he might not have excelled in the art of lovemaking. 

     From what I understand, marital sex often was considered just another chore in those days.  It was to be borne stoically, like childbirth.  Back then, if you heard the old mattress
creaking deep in the night you’d hope he wouldn’t be reaching for you.  You were exhausted.  But you were supposed to be there if he wanted you.  And if, every time he reached out, there was a strong chance you’d be getting another baby, how turned on would you be?

     Sex-as-marital-duty relates to the thinking that women “belonged” to their husbands, just a piece of -- well, real estate.  The women-as-property craziness has lessened over time, as we’ve wised up and fought it.  But the attitudes of Aunt Ellie’s generation didn’t vanish with my grandmother’s and not entirely with my mother’s.  After all, even in “her day,” the 1940’s and 50’s, birth control methods still were undependable.  My mother had four babies and no pill to prevent unintended pregnancy.  Condoms were, still are, less than reliable.

    While most of my female relatives appear to share my repression, two or three have taken the fast track in the opposite direction.  I sometimes wonder whether they are overcompensating for the rest of us -- and our failure to live as sexual adventurers.  I also wonder whether these happy wanderers got free passes in some twilight-zone lottery, while the card I got said “Do not pass go.”

***   
   
     A role model for authenticity and the sexual art-of-the-possible came along when I was about forty.  Eva became my aunt by marrying my father’s oldest brother.  She was in her sixties then; he was closer to seventy.   It was a second marriage, after less-than-good first marriages ended with the death of their spouses.  Eva’s invalid husband had been in her dutiful care for nearly a decade before he died. 

     Eva and Uncle Ed lived in Florida and sometimes paid a visit on their way to or from the North Carolina mountains.  I felt a connection the first time I met Eva; I trusted her instantly. Later,  I realized it was her authenticity I was sensing.  She was warm, likable, and obviously comfortable in her own skin.  She was who she was, the real deal.

      After that first meeting she sent what would become one of my favorite books, The Education of Little Tree by Forrest Carter.  She inscribed it, “I’m glad we are kindred.”  So was I.

       It was a joy seeing Eva and Ed together.  Besides their strong chemistry, mutual love and respect fairly radiated from the two of them.  They grabbed the brass ring of a second chance and never let go.  Ed had money, so they were able to travel the world, play lots of golf, and enjoy good times with friends and family.  Years later, Eva loved Ed through his struggle with cancer.  And when he died, she grieved the loss of her  sweetheart deeply. 

    Rather than go down for the funeral, I promised to visit when things got too quiet around her house.  And I did that.  We had a wonderful time sharing confidences, tears, and belly laughs. She told me their love story, adding:  “Never believe you’re too old to fall in love and have a fabulous, intimate, sexy life.  We just need to get more creative about sex as we get older.”

    She was comfortable with her sexuality, a “first” for me to observe.  I had cringed watching women her age convince themselves they were still in their twenties.   Those women used “baby talk” or hushed, sexy tones when they flirted with boys the ages of their grandsons. 

      It was not at all that way with Eva.  I think the difference was that she wasn’t confused about who she was.  Eva was fully aware and comfortable about being whatever age she was.  You could see her confidence in the way she moved her body and the way she dressed -- always tasteful, feminine and sexy -- into her eighties.  She didn’t allow an aging body to sabotage her sexuality.  And, as long as she lived Eva, continued to own her personal power.

    If only she had been in my life during my teens and twenties!   I wonder whether her early influence might have altered my attitudes about sex.  I also wonder whether I’d have grown into my own authenticity sooner.  Of course I’ll never know for sure -- but I’m leaning in favor of “yes” and “yes.”

***

Copyrighted material.

Excerpt from DANCING ON MARS: Married or Single?

*********************


Married:  To Be or Not to Be? 


The best things about being married are having someone

  *to co-op the contempt of your teenagers.

  *to roll the garbage cart to the curb.

  *to be your surrogate car-shopper; he won’t automatically be seen as  “another sucker.”

  *to sound like an idiot describing to the mechanic exactly what noise the car was making.

  *who will let you know, when you’re out in public, there’s spinach   between your front teeth--if he notices next time.

  *to father your children--someone they can meet once they’re born. 

  *whose name will be your thankless child’s first word after you carry him 9 months, go from sick as a dog  to a blimp with legs, then twelve hours of labor. 

  *who’s frozen with fear, just like you, when there’s a strange noise late in the night...who’s as scared as you are of the big, ugly spider, but his pride is stronger than his fear, so he takes it out.  No, he doesn’t kill it.  He takes it outside because you insist.

   *to drive you home from a party.  Unless, of course, he needs a ride home.

   *to take care of things when you’re loopy after the colonoscopy.  He’d   better come through on this one.

   *to haul the Christmas tree home from the lot, banishing most of your fear that it will fall out of the trunk and kill an old lady and the good Scout walking her across the street.

   *who doesn’t need batteries for handy sex.

   *who will de-ice the sidewalk on outrageously cold mornings.

   *who can reach the top shelf or stand on the tall ladder that gives you      vertigo.

   *who will say you look “fine” even if an outfit makes you look fat.

   *who can find the itch between your shoulders in a split second.

   *who validates your starting sentences with “My husband...”

   *who gives you reason to buy the big pork roast instead of one chop.

  *who calls you a pet name in public.

  *who  takes on some of life’s burdens and a little of the blame.

  *who sometimes gives you incentive to make dinners that involve more    than three ingredients.

  *who can do the heavy lifting and schlep around the luggage.

  *The very best thing about being married is having a wonderful guy who loves you.  And sometimes, as my friend Bev says, you just need someone around to open a jar.


*********************

On Being Married


When we’re young, we are blissful in the belief that love really is all we need.  Love and the intertwining of our life with the object of our love-lust.  For youthful unions, courage isn’t always an ingredient in the prenuptial mix.

But later in life, especially in second or subsequent marriages, emotional courage is what we need most.  With each passing year, life grows more complex.  It’s layered with questions to consider before we enter into an emotional and legal commitment to another.

By mid-life we’re driven more by who we are and what we want in life than by hormones and love songs.  By now there often are children, careers, financial complications, pets, stronger lifestyle preferences,  passionate opinions and commitments, more solidified values.  In other words, we are no longer quite so malleable.   Although we continue to grow, at a certain point in life our compass is pretty much set; we’ve identified our North Star.  As more mature, self-actualized beings, we aren’t as likely to be seduced into taking a different direction.  So, I think it takes commendable courage to risk losing one’s compass, to risk the possibility of deferring significant goals or watering down one’s own passions in favor of supporting a partner’s. 

My friend Ursula said something that bears repeating: 

The bottom line for me on relationships and marriage is that both people should be better in them than they are alone—not just happier but better.  Being in partnership should help you explore different aspects of your self in a safe place; a partner should give you peace, comfort, support, confidence to do and be more than you would without that partner.

My own life as a married woman is like a dream not quite remembered or a painting left outdoors and faded by the sun.   Today I usually experience marriage flashbacks with a curious sense of detachment.   The intense emotion that once accompanied those memories is gone.  Sometimes it’s hard to believe I ever was married.   If someone had told me, in the early months after the divorce, that I’d feel this way now?  Probably I would have been angry.  I definitely wouldn’t have believed them.


Voices from a Longtime Marriage

He:

I always knew, down deep, that I didn’t want to be married to a woman I could dominate, who would allow the man to have the upper hand.  Starting in high school, I’d pull away from girls I thought were meek and mild.  I didn’t want someone who’s totally dependent.

To me, the most important thing in a marriage is that, even though you’re a couple, you’re still individuals.  We spend time together, do things together, and each of us also has interests independent of each other.    For it to work, people need to have their own emotional space...they need to maintain and develop their own interests and their own life.  You can’t get married thinking that’s going to end your responsibility for being an individual and developing yourself.   At any given time in a marriage, I think we need to be at a point where we can still survive without the other person.  Even though you can’t imagine doing it and it seems like the worst thing possible....

When the two of us talk about “why it works” I remind her that from the first time we met, she had my admiration and respect.  She said it’s been the same for her.


She:

Marriage is a humbling thing, and I don’t know that I’d give advice.  All the things people tell you after they’ve been married fifty years, like not going to bed mad and all that, and I think of course I’ve been to bed mad.  I’ve gone to bed in a separate bed!

For me, the critical thing is respect.   The bottom line isn’t about love and all the romantic notions; it’s about respect being at the core.  If your partner’s not somebody you respect, then you can’t trust them; you won’t care about them forever, and you won’t treat them in a way people deserve to be treated. 

One of the things that humbles me about marriage, something you can’t possibly tell people who are about to get married:  You can’t imagine how hard it can be.  You just can’t.  It’s worth it, but it’s work.

Humor helps a lot.  I like his sense of humor, and we can laugh at ourselves.

* * *

Married Again, With Children:

People with young children, when considering re-marrying, are likely to understand that there will be challenges involving the children.   But those entering later-life marriages don’t always anticipate that adult, sometimes middle-aged, “children” will be a source of stress.

Elaina is 66, feels 40; she’s been married nearly nineteen years this second time.  For her, the best things about a married lifestyle are having a partner in bed, and having a travel companion, dance partner, someone to cook for, share meals and laugh with.  She, like other married women I know, enjoys feelings of stronger financial security with combined retirement incomes.

Pitfalls, challenges?   Adult children have presented the most serious problems, bringing some jealousy and resentments into the situation.

Elaina says she often does things she doesn’t really want to do, like watching too much TV, in the interest of the relationship.  While she does pursue independent interests, she’d like to do more on her own, and she’d enjoy having more space and quiet time for herself.   Her husband doesn’t seem to have the capacity for deep feelings. He shows little compassion when Elaina experiences sadness, disappointment, or pain.  He doesn’t want to see her rare tears or hear about problems from his well-balanced and healthy wife.   She has stopped wishing he were different, has accepted him as he is, and focuses on positive aspects of the partnership.  Elaina has no desire to restructure her life at this point, so she chooses to remain in the marriage.  She gets support, when she needs it, from friends and a support group.

If she found herself single, would she want to marry again?  She would not.  ...Maybe a live-in partner...or, better yet, a weekend ‘guest’ would leave me more free time and space.

The way I see it, marriage is like a scale--you have good and bad and you have to try to keep it balanced.  There will be times when the scale will tilt one way that you don't like and then, days later,  it will tilt the other way, which you will love.  I guess that’s where ‘for better or worse’ comes in.

                                                                               * * *    

Sandra is a woman I got to know while shopping at her consignment store.  One day I stopped by and could tell that something was afoot.  Sandra was radiant.  I could swear she was vibrating, could almost feel it from across the store.

Lucky for me and not so lucky for the business,  we were the only ones there, so we were able to talk.    I knew before she said the first word that she was in love--and she was--with the best, hottest, sweetest man on the planet.  He had two daughters,  twelve and fourteen, who lived with him.   From things she said and a phone call from one of the girls while I was there, it was obvious they were crazy about her.   I shared Sandra’s happiness and fairly floated home on her good news.    When I saw her a few weeks later,  she was still glowing as she made plans for a small family wedding. 

Flash forward several months:  I was in her store searching for jeans that would allow for breathing, and it looked as if Sandra had been crying.   She was tallying up a sale.   When she was free, she told me--and I will paraphrase for brevity--that Prince Charming had become a toad not long after the “I do’s” were exchanged.   The daughters had been absolutely hostile and were undermining her at every turn.  They had said, to her face, that they hated her.   (Having had no experience with teenagers, Sandra was not familiar with the “I hate you” mantra.)   She had tried everything...and she had thought they had actually loved her.

And he...well, he must have been one hell of an actor.  That SOB had been playing the Prince when in reality he was polar opposite of Sandra, with her kind and generous nature.   The details would probably bore you or bum you.  So, I’ll just say she has a heart to mend and a life to rebuild.  The total lack of cooperation (from her man and his daughters) in her efforts toward peace, love, and understanding finally turned in her favor.  The sadness that wore her down, turned into despair, and finally became indignation.

Alone in the house one morning, Sandra gave in to an impulse to throw her toothbrush and makeup into the laundry basket.  Then, she snatched her clothes from the crowded closet and got the hell out of there.   Last time I saw her,  she was getting back on an even keel, still disillusioned and disappointed but no longer devastated.  Divorce in process, self-respect off life support.  She regrets giving up her home to move into his, but she has a small condo near the beach now.  

When Sandra tells me she painted her kitchen floor purple, the light is back in her Irish eyes.   I know she’ll be okay.



                                                                          --End Excerpt--

Note:  You'll get insights and perspectives from other married AND single women in Dancing on Mars.

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