Day 59

My mom is a truth teller. That may be her greatest gift to me. She never tried to hide herself away, the way so many mothers do. She was never a mystery to me and that made me less of a mystery to myself.

One day I found a baby book in the bottom of a box of old pictures and keepsakes. It had an ivory satin cover that was yellowed with age. On the front was a faded image of a smiling infant. I opened it to find my name written in big script on the first page. It was the handwriting of a young girl, a girl who, at the age of 17, should have been attending prom instead of tending to a newborn.

I turned to the page marked "First Year." There my mother had written a short paragraph intended to serve as an overview of my first year of life. She said that I was beautiful and smart. Don't all mothers believe their children to be those things? It was the next few lines that caught my attention. She said that she didn't know what she would do without me. I was her whole world.

I have thought a lot about those words in the years since I first read them. I have imagined myself as that baby, walking on unstable legs, not yet weened from the bottle, yet bestowed with the power to save her mother. I was a hero before I could tie my own shoelaces. It was the natural consequence of being born to a mother and father who had been victimized; parents who never had the chance to heal their own wounds.

Recently, through my own writing, I came to see how this pattern played out in my relationship with my own child. I wanted to be the hero in her life. It was, after all, the only role I ever really knew. In order to do that, I had to cast her as the victim. Sometimes I still do.

On Saturday, as I talked with friends about my writing and what it is revealing to me, I saw so clearly how my attempts to rescue Kat, to be her hero, have robbed her of the opportunity to make her own way, to be her own hero. I see her doing that now , despite me, and I realize that it is time to hang up my cape.

Day 58

A few days ago when I tried to transcribe the handwritten pages of my memoir, I was attacked by my inner demons. This is crap, the demons said, the ramblings of a novice hack. I was disturbed by just how vocal these demons had become and the impact they were having on my writing process.

I met for tea with some friends yesterday and shared my concerns. One of my friends asked me a question that opened a floodgate of emotion. I don't recall the exact phrasing, the specific words. It was something like: What do you hope to accomplish with your memoir? Or maybe it was: What is your purpose in writing the memoir? I really don't recall.

What I do recall are the raw, honest internal responses that the question generated. The answers came fast and sharp: I want the memoir to heal me. I want it to heal my daughter. I want it to be published and heal millions of other people. I want it to generate cash from its publication, cash that will bring even more healing to my family.

The eyes of my friends were upon me and I didn't want to speak. I was embarrassed to admit my expectations. I suddenly recognized how silly my fantasies would seem if I spoke them out loud. Realizing that they were nothing more than fantasies, I was ashamed that I had allowed myself to be swept away by them. My memoir was still in the womb and I was already weaving dreams of the ways it would give my life meaning and purpose.

Writing a memoir is a lot like excavating the family grave site. Each bone, each artifact that you uncover carries of legacy of loss and separation. The process is marked by layer upon layer of grief. I guess that in the midst of that pain, I wanted to believe that there would be some sort of reward at the end of the dig, a prize in the form of healing.

I woke this morning feeling dazed and still hungry for healing. Even before my first cup of tea, I scanned Facebook. I was intrigued by a link posted by my Mom. It was the video of a young man named Zac Smith just before his death from cancer at the age of 33. He talked about his desire to live to walk his daughter down the aisle and grow old with his wife. Then he said: "If God chooses to heal me, then God is God and God is good. If God chooses not to heal me and allows me to die, then God is still God and God is still good."

Astounded by his faith I thought about my own. I am not sure what God is. God, for me, is a mystery. I am certain of only one thing: there is a still, small voice that speaks to me. I don't know where it comes from but I know I have to listen and follow. Right now that voice says: WRITE! What becomes of what I write is not my concern. It is none of my business. I am not in control here. I am not God.

Day 57

When I was 5 years old we lived in the projects. A place called Hocker Heights on the outskirts of Kansas City. I was sitting on the stairs talking to my Mrs. Beasley doll when one of the kids came stomping down from above. He carried a whole stack of pie tins, the kind that come from the grocery store with frozen pies inside, only these were empty. That didn't diminish his enthusiasm. He stomped out into one of the many mud puddles that substituted for a yard. He plopped himself down and announced, "I'm making mud pies!"

Soon there was a small crowd of kids: some were making pies, some were selling pies, still others were buying the pies to take home to their make believe children. All of them were covered from head to toe with mud. I was fascinated and repulsed as I watched from me seat on the stairs. I had no intention of soiling myself. Looking down at my pristine red dress, my brilliantly white ankle socks and my polished Mary Janes, I felt superior.

For me, cleanliness wasn't just an empty virtue. It was the thing that set me apart from my poor neighbors. It was the difference between poor and poor white trash.

Day 56

I was driving to Winco one day, not long after moving to Moscow. I had the radio tuned to KRFP, Radio Free Moscow. There were two women talking. Their laughter reminded me of tinkling wine glasses. One of them read a piece from SARK about the relationship between self-love and creative expression.

I became so immersed in the words that I had to pull my car off the road. I sat there on A Street watching the snow fall outside my window as I listened to these two women chat and giggle and read and revel in the joy of being together. I felt included, drawn into their circle of friendship.

It was perhaps a year later when I learned that one of the women on the radio was Leeanne, a new friend I made through my involvement with the Compassionate Communication Network of the Palouse. When I met her it was like being reunited with an old friend. Later I told her about how her voice on the radio months earlier had eased my loneliness.

Leeanne called me last night, bubbling over with enthusiasm, as she so often is. She had a proposition. She wants me to do a radio show with her. Something to help spread the message of nonviolent communication. We scheduled a time to get together to discuss ideas. My mind immediately started entertaining daydreams of a relationship advice show with a comedic format.

That is what the creative life is all about: Recognizing those moments of synchronicity that spark our imaginations and offer opportunities for creative self-expression; Allowing our minds to open to the possibilities; Removing the boundaries that normally keep us fenced in; Entertaining dreams and offering ourselves up to them. Creativity is a way of being in the world.

Day 55

A few months ago I started working on a memoir. It is focused on my relationship with my transgender daughter. I completed a few pieces, she read them and gave me her blessing to continue. Since then I have been writing everyday - three handwritten pages.

Recently, as I looked at the compiled pages, I started to feel overwhelmed. Clearly, transcribing and editing all those pages would be time-consuming and difficult. A writer friend suggested that I focus first on transferring the material from the page to the computer. She suggested that I avoid any major edits or rewrites until I am finished with the entire memoir.

I sat down at the computer yesterday with every intention of following her advice. I read the first line. It just wasn't right. I tweaked a few words to improve the flow. By the middle of the first paragraph, I began to find holes in the narrative. Surely it wouldn't hurt to fill in the blanks. By the end of the second paragraph I was rearranging words, adding clarifying statements and sharpening descriptions. I was in full editor mode.

I rationalized my behavior. The transcript was totally unacceptable in its original form. Transcribing it without major edits was like moving a box of junk from an old residence to a new one. Yes, we've all done it, but its inefficient, illogical. Doesn't it make more sense to sort through the box and throw out the garbage before you move?

Then I realized the problem with my logic. When I read what I have written I can't tell the jewels from the junk. I am too attached. I was beginning to see the wisdom of my friend's advice. I need to leave my writing as it is until I have time to separate from it. Once I am a little more detached I can sort through the words and make rational decisions about which which ones stay and which ones go.

Day 54

Sometimes I think that life is just one big classroom. I have been enrolled in a self-study course called Self-Care 101 for about 6 years now. It all started when I lost my job. Losing a job is always painful, but I attached all kinds of other meaning to it that compounded my pain. I was hurt that those above me on the hierarchy (the parents) did not take care of me (the child). The lesson, for me, was that I have to learn to take care of myself.

Around the time I lost my job I put on a lot of weight and I developed debilitating allergies. For years, I have been seeking help to deal with these issues. I have been to therapists and doctors, I even went to a medical intuitive who sold me expensive supplements that did absolutely nothing to relieve my symptoms. In spite of all of the medical intervention I am still fat and full of mucus. I have known for a long time that the real issue is my addiction to sugar.

I think that giving up the sugar is my big test. I need to pass this test to graduate from the course in self-care. I need these credits to move on to the next course. Maybe the next course will be Success 101 or Freedom 105 or Fun 110. I won't know until I pass Self-Care 101.

Day 53

I enjoy Facebook in the way an anthropologist might enjoy studying the artifacts of a lost culture. Even as she participates, she is detached, an observer looking for clues that shed light on the habits and values of the people.

This morning I read an exchange between two people, one of whom I know: a friend and colleague from graduate school. The other person was an apparent family friend, praising her for her academic accomplishments and her intellectual prowess. My friend responded by saying that her mother and grandmother instilled in her a love of knowledge and that her accomplishments were an effort to do right by them.

The statement struck me as inauthentic. It was a sound bite, a rhetorical move, a discursive tent pole propping up a larger narrative. It reminded me of the story of George Washington and the cherry tree. Little George could not tell a lie. Yet the story itself was a lie, concocted in service to a narrative, a narrative intended to bestow a honor upon a man and his nation.

I have always had this longing for something authentic. Even as I write these words I'm not sure what they mean. As a writer, if I decide to write about a pond, I can choose to peer at the surface and report only on my reflection or I can plunge my arm into the frigid water and feel around in the icy depths. I suppose that's what it means to me to be authentic; it means feeling around in the dark and telling the truth about the murky undertow.

Like my friend I just completed an advanced degree. It wasn't for me a quest for knowledge. It was a hiding place, a safe retreat from the world. I used to tell myself that I started college with a noble purpose: to support my family. But now, when I allow myself to go back, to slip inside the skin of the girl I was at 21, I realize that I wasn't running toward a life of scholarship, I was running away from my life as a wife and a mother. I had already failed at home, but school was a place where I could succeed, where I could be a winner; a place where I could put my shame aside for a few hours at a time.

I do not possess many gifts as a writer. I have never demonstrated the poetic sensibilities of Toni Morrison or Kim Barnes, nor am I a master storyteller with a genius imagination, like Steven King. My only gift is this longing for authenticity; this desire to tell the truth. For most of my life I have carried it like a burden. I am learning to treasure it now.