Christmas Cards

I've been creating my own Christmas cards since 2000, each December choosing a different piece of my artwork for the cover image (the above Venice balcony scene this year) and printing a newsy message on the inside. Composing the letter is more than a writing exercise. It's an invitation to take stock of things, to review the events of the year just concluding and look forward to what is to come. Any applicable major life events - marriages, deaths, births, graduations, changes of job or residence - figure prominently. But I try to add a few personal details for flavor and usually close with a reminder of what Christmas means to us (the reason for the season).

There have been years that I almost regretted beginning the tradition, only because it often feels like a lot of extra work at an already-busy time. Still, I'm convinced it's effort well-spent. I hope our friends enjoy our cards as much as we do the ones we receive. In the long run, though, our own Christmas letters are probably most valuable to us, serving as a permanent record more reliable than my faulty memory. I only wish I had started chronicling our family history sooner.

Aura of Glory

Yesterday morning, I was up unusually early (for me, at least) and sitting at my desk before dawn, ready to get to work on my current writing project. My reward for this singular accomplishment? Another exquisite view of Mt. Rainier through the window in front of me. When I wrote an entry a few months ago about the many moods of Rainier, I neglected to mention this particular phenomenon. The mountain, wearing a heavy coat of fresh powder, appears framed by a radiant halo effect, rather like the bright aura that supposedly surrounds all objects and living things.

I assume this is how it happens: Water vapor and/or tiny snow crystals, whipped high into the air by the winds swirling around the peak, catch the light, producing the glowing atmospheric layer extending what must be at least a couple hundred feet on all sides. The effect is most pronounce when lit up from behind by the rising sun, which is what I witnessed yesterday. It was stunning. But did I think to grab my camera so that I could share a photo instead of just a word picture with you? Unfortunately, not. I just sat and stared, not getting any work done until the sun broke above the Cascades and into my eyes, forcing me to finally look away.

I have noticed this mountain halo before, but for some reason this time it reminded me of a similar effect that I saw occasionally, years ago, sported by my younger son. As a toddler, he had very fine, wispy blond hair. Except when plastered down with water, it tended to shoot from his scalp in every direction, like the rays of the sun, in complete defiance of gravity. And, as with the mountain's example, when back lit, the inch-and-a-half fringe around his head fairly glowed. Here again, I wish I could share a picture of my little angel wearing his built-in halo. Although such photographic evidence does exist, to preserve what's left of his dignity, I dare not publish it. I'm sure I'm skating on pretty thin ice with him right now as it is. Hopefully he won't read this, and I know I can count on you not to mention it, right?

Take Time for Thanksgiving

Right after Halloween (and sometimes even before) our retailers would have us begin focusing on Christmas. They want us to start loosening up our wallets now. "No time to lose. Shop early and shop often." I suppose that's understandable, especially in light of the poor economic times, when the next month and a half will either make or break some of them, or so we are told.

I love Christmas. But I often think it's a shame that in our rush to get to it we tend to overlook Thanksgiving, which deserves to be valued for its own sake, not just as a warm-up act for Santa Clause. Of course, not everyone is glossing over Thanksgiving. In fact, I've been encouraged to see one friend making daily entries on Facebook about things she's thankful for - a valuable exercise.

I'm as guilty as anyone of the bad habit of dwelling on what's not going right in my world, when the truth is that every day I wake up breathing is a day I can be grateful for. God loves me. My family does too. I have a roof over my head and food in the cupboard. I'm in reasonably good health and I have worthwhile things to occupy my time. What more could I ask for?

Okay, I could ask that my books become wildly successful or that I win the lottery. But should I put off being happy until fame and fortune arrive? That could be a while, and I don't want to wait. I think I'll start right now instead. A reader board at a church I pass frequently puts it this way: "GET RICH QUICK! COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS."

Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

It's the things/people we care about most that have the power to give us joy and also cause us pain. I know this isn't an original thought. But it's been on my mind recently, and I think it bears repeating. Certainly none of us gets through life without learning the truth of it. Examples are all around us. The dream of true love might last a lifetime or turn into a true nightmare if the relationship ends badly. The prosperous career may bring satisfaction and financial reward or may crash and burn when the economy suddenly goes south. The cause we've poured our life's blood into may succeed gloriously or fail just as spectacularly.

When my husband and I were first married and discussing whether or not we should have kids, I remember saying that children would probably be our biggest sources of joy as well as our biggest heartaches. Parenthood, I figured, would be worth all the sweat and tears if the kids turned out well. But even if we did everything right (which wasn't likely), things could still go horribly wrong. There were no guarantees. In the end, despite a healthy measure of trepidation at the responsibility involved, we decided to go ahead and have never been sorry. It would have been easier to opt out - modern birth control made that possible - but how much we would have missed by doing so!

The problem is there's no joy without emotional commitment. That's just how we're wired. Yet the more we care, the more we risk being hurt. The same paradox applies to all emotionally risky ventures. It may seem safer not to get involved, not to lay our hearts on the line, especially after having been hurt before. But that would be to opt out of the best life has to offer. In the words of a Bette Middler song, "It is those afraid of dying who never learn to live."

State Fair

Nearly every September, my husband and I go to the Western Washington State Fair. It's the largest state fair west of the Mississippi, I believe. Everybody around here calls it the Puyallup Fair because that's where it's held. People from out of state wouldn't call it that primarily because they have no idea how to pronounce Puyallup. Anyway, the fair boasts the usual attractions: exhibits of 4H animals, produce, flowers, hobby crafts; the midway, where you can pay to play for tacky prizes; overpriced rides and overpriced food; vendors selling everything from blenders to hot tubs; and the grandstand shows featuring rodeo and a parade of "B" list entertainers.

It's pretty much the same every year, and yet every year (as long as the weather's decent) the place is packed. Traffic in the area is hopelessly snarled, parking costs a fortune, the crowds are daunting, and all the walking is murder on the feet (especially if you've chosen the wrong shoes to wear). So why do we keep going back? Maybe it's because it is the same - the same as when we first experienced it as children. I remember I always got to take a friend with me. When we arrived, my parents would designate a rendezvous time and place, give us each some money (maybe $10?), and turn us loose to spend it however we wanted (rides, games, fair food, etc.).

I never played the midway games; I considered them a waste of money (although secretly I hoped some dreamy boy would win a teddy bear for me). I always bought cotton candy and a caramel apple (my teeth hurt just to think of it now). The rest of my cash went for rides, my favorites being the scrambler and the giant swings. Finally one year I got up the courage to try the big roller coaster (actually pretty modestly sized, but it seemed mammoth to me as a kid). Not only did it mean overcoming my fear but conquering my natural frugality (a ticket was an exorbitant $2.50, I think). What a thrill! It was worth the long line and the price, and I've been hooked on roller coasters ever since.

I could ramble on and on ... but I won't. I'll spare you a longer stroll down my memory lane. It's funny. When I started writing this post, I planned to take it in a different direction. Instead, it sort of took me. I guess I didn't realize what nostalgic feelings lay just below the surface.

To Judge or Not to Judge?

I eagerly soak up advice about writing from every source I can find: books, writers' workshops, author blogs, online magazines, critique groups, etc. The information gleaned from these has benefited me and my work tremendously - teaching me some of the finer points of the craft, developing my editor's ear, demystifying the business end of the publishing world, and encouraging me through the experiences of others. However, one piece of instruction that has kept me pondering is this: "It is not the writer's job to judge; it is the writer's job to reveal." An interesting statement, but I'm not sure I entirely understand or agree with it.

I can appreciate the need to avoid flagrant sermonizing. After all, the reader bought your book primarily for entertainment; no need to hit them over the head with "...and the moral of the story is..." On the other hand, it is impossible to write a novel (or live life) in a moral vacuum, however diligently someone may try. What the author believes to be right and wrong will inevitably color the story s/he chooses to tell and the words s/he uses to tell it, at least minimally. Not only is this unavoidable, I think it's desirable. Have you ever read a book or seen a movie where all moral judgement is scrupulously shunned? I'm left feeling cheated. I wonder, what was the point? Nothing was achieved. Nothing was learned. Nothing of value was experienced.

Engaging stories (even comedies) draw us into the struggle of life-like characters against some kind of foe (a person, a monster, an army, circumstance, the elements, or something within himself). It may be an oversimplification to say it's always a battle of good versus evil, but, when boiled down to the essence, that's almost always the case. How those waring elements are portrayed is at the discretion (the judgement) of the author. You may not always agree with how s/he defines right and wrong. Yet, if the author has done his/her job properly, you will always have a reaction - you will always feel something genuine and worthwhile in response. In the end, you are satisfied knowing you have invested your time, money, and emotions well.

My Face on Facebook

I've neglected my blog. Other things have been demanding my time and creative energies. I'm working on my third novel (which is requiring a lot of research), doing yet another rewrite on the previous one (which I thought was perfect but turned out to be improvable), and participating in the usual summer art fairs in my area. Along with these things, and trying to keep up with household responsibilities, I tackled another piece of modern information technology: I joined Facebook.

My son is teaching my how to use it. I'm trying to learn all the lingo, the difference between "my wall" and the news feed page, figuring out how to comment and who will see my comments. I understand the concept that you need to screen who has access to your personal remarks, but is it just me, or does it seem like junior high again when you ask someone, "Will you be my friend?" All the same, I feel the need to acquire more and more friends. I'm new, so I only have about 20 so far, which makes me feel terribly inadequate when I see that other people have a hundred or more. Is this going to be the final measure of a person's worth?!! He who dies with the most Facebook friends wins?

Of course I'm only being facetious. The truth is, I haven't yet made up my mind about Facebook. On the down side, I now have one more website/e-mail account to check each day before I get any serious writing done. And I can see there's a definite danger of spending (or wasting?) a tremendous amount of time if you really get into it. As for a networking tool, it's too soon to tell if Facebook will be a great boon to my career. But, on the plus side, it's already put me back in touch with a few friends/relatives that I'd lost track of.

Part 6: Final Entry

Here's the condensed version of my last two days in Venice:

Friday, June 6 - The Boeing crew needs only an hour or so to wrap things up at work, so we plan a group trip to the island of Murano afterward. Our transportation is provided by one of the glass companies there in the hope that at least one of us is a big spender. First, in the factory area, we watch glass-blowing artisans at work. Afterward we are taken to the gallery/showroom to view objects d'art ranging from weird to wonderful. Along with traditional glassware of every description, we see jewelry, sculptures, and dozens of bizarre Venetian-style chandeliers. Most of it is prohibitively expensive, however. The sales staff is, no doubt, disappointed when we leave without buying anything. Instead, I pick up a few more modestly priced items in one of the many shops lining Murano's main canal. Now it's on to Burano. After a leisurely lunch, we begin exploring the small island, which is known for its colorful houses and for lace-making: more shopping and photo ops. When we've finished, we catch a boat back to Venice and go our separate ways, meeting up a little later for dinner in Rialto. We take a table at an open-air cafe next to the Grand Canal with a view of the bridge (above). The food is excellent and there's a floor show as well: one very loud and jovial Frenchman at the next table. A short walk takes us to San Marco square for a nightcap and a little music.

Saturday, June 7 - Since the Boeing job is finished, Ron is free to spend the day (my last in Venice) with me. We've saved the popular attractions in and around San Marco to do together. First, we head for the Doge's Palace, which displays all the excessive grandeur we have come to expect of Venice. The prison next door is not so stylishly appointed. We cross back and forth between the two through the Bridge of Sighs, so named because it's said that the condemned sighed as they caught their last glimpse of Venice from there. Next, we go to the Campanile (the bell tower) and ride the elevator to the top. It's a clear day, so the 360 degree view is spectacular. From this perspective, I notice that all the canals of the city have completely disappeared, concealed by a sea of red tile roofs spread out in all directions. Beyond are the blue waters of the lagoon and its many other islands. Back on ground level, we proceed to the Basilica itself, which has a facade unlike any other church I've ever seen (see photo). The interior (as well as some of the exterior) is covered with intricate mosaic tile work, much of it metallic gold. It's impressive as it is, but it must really shimmer when more brightly lit ... All that remains to complete our Venice experience is the obligatory gondola ride. It may be a little pricey, but we cannot pass up this once-in-a-lifetime splurge. Ron pays the man and we settle in to savor the moment. Nicolai takes us on a 40-minute tour - half on the Grand Canal and half on smaller ones - with mood music conveniently provided by a serenading gondolier following not far behind us. Ah, the warm air, the lapping water, the evening light: enchanting and worth every penny. A waterfront table and dinner for two by the Rialto bridge provides a perfect ending to a perfect day.

Final Note: I left Venice the next day, carrying home a few treasured souvenirs and memories that will last a lifetime. Not that I doubted it before, but this trip has reminded me that there are a lot of tremendously interesting places worth visiting in this world. Yes, travel can be a real hassle, what with airport security, cumbersome luggage, challenging public transportation systems, and language barriers. But now I tell myself (and anyone else willing to listen), "Stop making excuses; get on a plane and GO!"

Part 5: Venice

I've condensed the next four days into one entry, editing many details for brevity's sake.

Instead of having the day off as expected, Ron has to work. So, I head for Venice by myself, planning to explore the Dorsoduro district. I take the vaporetto down the Grand Canal, making the Gallerie dell’Accademia my first stop. The gallery holds an amazing collection of Medieval and Renaissance art by Venice’s most celebrated artists. Then, for something completely different, I move on to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection of modern art. Once her home, where she entertained artists and celebrities alike, the house has been converted to a gallery showcasing the artwork she acquired during her lifetime. The collection features pieces by Picasso, Mondrian, Dali, and Pollock to name a few.

I buy a sandwich (bread rolled up with fresh tomato, basil, and mozzarella inside) at a nearby café and head for the Zattere, the long promenade along the south side of the Dorsoduro overlooking the Canale della Giudecca. It’s a beautiful sunny day. So I sit down on the sidewalk, take off my sandals, and dangle my feet over the water while I eat my lunch looking across at San Giorgio Maggiore (seen above). As I continue on my way, it seems my camera is constantly in use. A sight worth savoring lies around every corner. The city features distinctive architecture, a rabbit warren of cobbled alleyways, a complex network of canals, and boats for every conceivable purpose. The antiquity of the place and the ubiquitous affects of the much-touted “elegant decay” make it especially picturesque ... After a few wrong turns, I find my way to the Ca’ Rezzonico. Formerly one of Venice’s most opulent private homes, it is now a museum displaying the ostentatious lifestyle of the city in the 18th century …

… I set out on foot into the San Croce district. My destination is the Frari church, but along the way, I stop to see San Giovanni Evangelista (the church and the scuola grande). The scuola (means school, but is more equivalent to the Elk’s Club of its day) is in fact so impressive that I at first mistake it for the more-famous one of San Rocco. I’m glad I’ve stumbled on San Giovanni by accident for, despite all its glory, it is not sufficiently grand to make the “must see” list in any of the guide books.

Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari is on everybody’s list, and deservedly so. Over a football field in length, it's majestic in scale as well as in its appointments. The huge nave, the walls of which are lined with the tombs of Titian and other 15th-century celebrities, is separated from the altar area by a 124-seat intricately-carved and inlaid “choir”. A treasure trove of fine art decorates the high altar and side chapels. Unfortunately, as in many other churches and galleries, no photography is allowed. The same rule applies across the courtyard at The Scuola Grande di San Rocco, my next stop. The audio tour guide takes me through this monument to the baroque style. Every inch of every surface (walls, high ceilings, and floors) is decorated to the hilt. The fifty-plus paintings by Jacopo Tintoretto (some of gigantic proportions), depicting the life of Christ, are the real focus, however.

After leaving San Rocco, I pass through Campo San Polo on my way to the Rialto market district, known for its fresh fish and produce. Only the smell of the fish remains by the time I arrive, but the produce stands are still open for business …

… Today I am going to explore the Castello district, east of San Marco. My first stop is the Diocesan Museum directly behind Basilica San Marco, a small gallery with a collection of lesser paintings, large carved crucifixes salvaged from area churches, and a room full of gold relic cases and other ancient religious paraphernalia. For the short walk from there to San Zaccaria, I need my umbrella for the first time since my arrival in Venice. I am disappointed to find the church closed, however. Moving on, I wind my way north to Santi Giovanni e Paolo. This one is open and even allows photography inside. If this great Gothic cathedral sat anywhere in the US, its beauty and grandeur would be widely celebrated. But here in Venice, it has too much competition to attract the attention it deserves.

I turn east to visit the Scuola di San Giorgio degli Schiavoni, a scuola of more modest proportions than the other two I have seen. The intimate scale of the place appeals to me more than that of its grandiose counterparts … I decide to cross the canal to visit Santa Maria della Salute. This octagonal cathedral, with chapels on every side, is crowned by an enormous dome worthy of any state capitol building. Afterward, I get on the vaporetto, thinking it will take me homeward. Wrong. I should have studied the route diagram more carefully. Instead of a short boat ride back to the bus, I go the long way around, all the way to the island of Lido before returning to Venice. Due to another public transportation snafu (I get off the bus too soon and have to walk the last stretch), I arrive at the hotel tired and later than expected. I would have been perfectly content to not stir again for the rest of the evening. However, some in our group have taken the notion to drive to Padua for dinner and to see what we can see …

Part Four: Arrive in Venice

This is part four of my travel diary revisited. Next stop: Italy!

Saturday, May 31 – This morning I bid farewell to England and embark on the next leg of my journey. Another ride on the Hoppa Bus shuttles me back to Heathrow. Apparently, this airport has a shortage of gates. Consequently none of the flights have one pre-assigned to them: no reserved parking spots. It’s sort of a “first-come, first-served” arrangement. This leaves the flying public waiting in a central holding area, staring at overhead screens until their flights are finally given gates (roughly 30 minutes before departure, or in the case of my flight, even less). Imagine my surprise when I at last go to my gate to find, not a plane, but a bus waiting. The bus takes us on a fascinating, round-about tour of Heathrow’s underbelly on the way to our plane, which is parked out on the tarmac with no gate to call its home. No modern Jetway ramp for us. We get to climb the old-fashioned roll-away stairs: another new experience.

The flight itself takes only two hours. I once again have a window seat, which gives me a bird’s-eye view of the lagoon and the city of Venice itself on our approach. After my solo adventures, it's wonderful to find my husband waiting for me when I arrive. He carries my bags and drives me the short distance to our hotel, showing me to our room before returning to work. The plan is that I will settle in, have a nap (I am still operating in a seriously sleep-deprived state), and then we (Ron, his coworkers, and I) will all head in to Venice for dinner. Since I will be exploring on my own much of the time while I’m here, Ron and his friends – who have had a 3-day head start – are going to show me how to get around. After some rest and a change of clothes, I am introduced to Kim, Dorothy, Wendy, George, Jason and Jim. We catch the bus for the 30-minute ride from the mainland to the islands of the old city via the causeway. Once there, we board the practical, all-purpose water bus, called the vaporetto.

I’m sure I will always remember my first ride down the Grand Canal. It's truly magical. The temperature is perfect. The beautiful architecture, utterly unique. And the unusual quality of the late afternoon light robes everything in a warm, incandescent glow. No matter where I look, there’s a scene worth preserving. I drink it all in. After the stress and rushing around of the last few days, it feels fabulous to be at my final destination with plenty of time to enjoy it. We stroll through the famous Piazza San Marco area by twilight and cap off the night with a two-hour dinner at an open-air café. Life is good.

Part Three: Hampton Court, Sonehenge, and Bath

Here's the third part of my travel diary, pared down to a manageable length.

Friday, May 30 –
This is the only full day I get to spend in England on this trip, and I have booked a tour that takes in Winsor Castle, Stonehenge, and Bath. Unfortunately the publicized hotel pick-up does not include my hotel, so I have to make my own way into downtown London. I've been told a taxi there and back would run around a hundred pounds (that’s in the neighborhood of $200 and more than the price of the entire tour!). The only alternative is public transportation: the city bus and the train. I'm assured it's all very simple. OK. I’m a grown-up. I can do this. So, I double the time I was told it will take and set off early in the morning on my adventure.

Back to the airport and down to the subway station I go. The man at the ticket booth tells me I need to take the Piccadilly Line halfway, get off, transfer to the District Line and ride that to Victoria Station. Once on the train, I'm surprised to discover that much of the “underground” is actually not underground, affording a more scenic trip to London than I had expected (although most of my attention is taken by the colorful people collecting around me). I narrowly avoid making a fatal error when I change trains and, to my own surprise, I emerge at Victoria station with enough time left to walk to the tour company ... if only I knew which way to go. Once again, total strangers eventually points me in the right direction and I arrive with ten minutes to spare.

The first news I hear is that our visit to Winsor Castle has been cancelled; the Queen apparently doesn’t feel like having company today. Hampton Court Palace is substituted. And it is indeed impressive – vast, manicured gardens; bricked courtyards with clock towers; a chapel with the most exquisite ceiling; rooms and staircases designed and decorated sparing no expense. My overriding thought, however, is that Henry VIII (and most of his seven wives, presumably) walked these very halls long before me.

Next, our group reassembles on the bus to set off for Stonehenge. It is a gray day, much the same as I left behind in Seattle. And the countryside doesn’t look that foreign to me either - richly green open fields, low rolling hills, birch and other mostly-deciduous trees. It reminds me a lot of western Oregon. We lunch at the Stonehenge Inn and then tour the monument itself. This place has never held any particular fascination for me, but even so, I feel a certain awe as I walk around it. If it was built in an attempt to honor a primitive idea of God, I can respect that. If not, I can at least appreciate the engineering feat required to move and erect the enormous stones with manpower alone.

Now, on to Bath! This is the real reason I signed up for the tour. I want to see for myself the places Jane Austen mentioned in her books, to walk on the cobbled streets she knew so well. I crane my neck and catch a glimpse of the Pultney Street Bridge over the Avon as we come in to town: the first "check" on my list of must-sees. The bus parks behind the Abbey, and our guide instructs us when we need to be back aboard. I want to scream in protest. There's nowhere near enough time for all I had hoped to do! I hurry through the Roman Baths, finding out what I can about how the place looked in 1800 (check) from the on-site guides. The Pump-room (check) looks just the same as it would have then. I sample the mineral water served at the bar (check), which is very warm but not nearly as redolent with sulfur as I expected. Next, I cross the churchyard for a quick tour of the Abbey (check). I gape at the soaring ceiling, take in the magnificent stained glass windows on all sides, and pause in a pew for a prayerful moment before reluctantly moving on.

With a glance at my watch, I decide to head in the direction of the Royal Crescent. Along the way, I have the presence of mind to turn and look for Beechan Cliff (check), which peaks over the tops of the Georgian-style buildings. I luckily stumble across the Jane Austen Center (check) on my way up Gay Street. Wishing I had an hour to spend, I pop in just long enough to purchase a couple books. A little further up the street, I enter into The Circus (check), a circle of connected town houses in three segments with a large green in the center. I wonder if the same trees stood there in Jane Austen’s day. Exiting the Circus to the left, the Royal Crescent (check) finally comes into view with its expansive front lawn and famed gravel walk (check, check). I admire the view, take a few pictures, and then turn to run for the bus. My feelings are mixed as we drive away, heading back to London. Although it's heartbreaking to leave when there's so much more I want to see, I'm glad I came and amazed how much I've been able to take in.

Part Two: London Arrival

Here's the next installment on my travel diary:

Thursday, May 29 Somewhere over the Atlantic, it becomes Thursday. And when we touch down at Heathrow, we are informed that it is a little after noon. Once I deplane, claim my bags, and breeze through customs, I begin following signs that I hope will take me to the shuttle for my hotel. How hard could it be? After all, everything's in English. It’s about this point that I’m learning two very important lessons simultaneously. First, Heathrow is a large, disorganized, spread-out kind of an airport with a lot of walking involved. And second, luggage without wheels becomes heavy alarmingly fast. (Note for future reference: select different bags next trip or travel with strong husband to carry them.)

With a little help from a gal at the information desk, I arrive at the shuttle (called the Hoppa Bus – very clever) pick-up point. A bus pulls up only minutes later. Great! I’m dead tired and anxious to get to my hotel asap. Just to be sure, I ask if the bus will take me to the Holiday Inn Ariel. The driver, obviously an immigrant from a foreign land (perhaps Pakistan or India?), shakes his head and points back toward the terminal saying something that sounds for all the world like “hedge seeks.” He repeats it several times with no further clarification resulting. All I get from this exchange is that his bus is definitely not the right bus for me. I wander away wondering where I went wrong and what the "hedge" he was talking about. After asking around some more, I finally piece together that what the driver had been trying to tell me, utterly unsuccessfully, was that I needed to get on the H6. Right stop; wrong bus.

When I made my last-minute travel plans, I didn’t have many options available to me. I felt lucky, then, to be able to book a route through London, which had at least two advantages. Not only did it allow me to get the most out of my trip by making an excursion while here, but, being an English-speaking country, I expected less difficulty finding my way around. I seriously overestimated the benefit of the latter. The bus driver’s is only the first of assorted challenging accents I encounter. It seems that nearly everyone who works in London's transportation and hospitality industries is from somewhere else.

Despite the confusion, I arrive safely at my hotel, only a little the worse for the wear. A shower, a nap between crisp clean sheets, and a meal of fish and chips revives me. I spend what’s left of the evening reading and studying up for tomorrow’s sightseeing tour.

Travels Revisited - Part One

We have been enjoying fabulous weather for the last week or so here in the Pacific Northwest, with far more sun than we normally expect in May and June. Still, I can't help remembering that at this time last year, I was in Europe. My husband, Ron, was sent by Boeing on a business trip to Venice, Italy. Being a supportive wife, I naturally felt it was my duty to join him there (such a sacrifice!). I had to make my own travel arrangements though - all very last minute too. When I found a flight that went through London, I couldn't resist the opportunity to make a stopover in England on my way to Venice. It was quite an adventure and I had a marvelous time. I admit it; I'm still living on the afterglow of that trip. So, let me share with you some excerpts from the diary I kept along the way.

Wednesday, May 28 Ron left for Venice by way of Frankfurt yesterday on the flight scheduled for him by Boeing. His dad, who is going to house-sit for us while we are gone, comes early this morning to drive me to the airport. I’m excited, nervous, convinced I’m forgetting something important, and a little terrified to be traveling so far by myself. Roger drops me off outside the terminal, gives me a good-bye hug, and drives away. I’m on my own with only the butterflies in my stomach to keep me company.

I manage to find the United self-check-in machine, print my boarding pass, and check in my bag. So far so good. The next stop is security where my first blunder is discovered; my tube of sunscreen is over the 2 ounce limit for liquids and cosmetics in carry-on bags. Astutely judging that this violation is the result of inexperience rather than sinister intentions, the nice TSI employee lets me off with a warning and even allows me to keep the contraband item. Mental note to self: transfer the sunscreen to checked bag at London stop-over.

After repacking my lap-top and retrieving the rest of my belongings, I look for the United Airlines VIP Lounge (or whatever they call it). Ron has told me that, because I am flying business class, I will be able to hang out there – where the chairs are cushy and the complimentary refreshments yummy – until my flight is called. I look for it, but I never see the place. So instead I end up grabbing a gourmet breakfast at the McDonald’s counter and settling into a molded plastic chair to wait near my gate.

I have allowed plenty of time (the last thing I wanted was to add to my not-inconsiderable stress level by having to run for my plane) so I’m feeling pretty good. The knots in my innards begin to unwind. I calmly take out my book to read. It’s a long book, and a little dry actually. In fact, I’ve had a hard time getting through it. But I am determined, and I’ll have plenty of time on this trip to finish it. I have more time than I thought right now because they’ve just posted the fact that my plane is delayed.

The first leg of my journey takes me to Denver. My United Mileage Plus card notwithstanding, I’m not a frequent flyer by any means, a fact I cleverly try to hide by maintaining a nonchalant manner, as if I do this kind of thing all the time. Any chance I had of pulling off this charade is lost when our lunch is served and I have to ask the guy next to me where to find my tray table. Additional note to self (and other inexperienced travelers): in first class, it’s usually inside your armrest.

Due to our late departure from SeaTac, our flight is an hour and a half behind schedule. As we approach Denver, the pilot begins calmly giving information to the passengers over the PA system about connecting flights. He starts by instructing “those of you who still have a reasonable chance of making it” what gate their plane is slated to depart from, presumably so they will know in which direction to run when we land. I have no such worries. My awkwardly-long six-hour layover at Denver International has just been revised into a much more-manageable four and a half hour stay. So really, for me, it’s a good thing. I’m on vacation, so I’m thinking the glass is half full. More good news: this time I find the United Red Carpet Club and make myself comfortable there. Then, I’m off again. Next stop: London.

Speaking Well of the Dead

Have you ever noticed that when someone is reported on the news to have been killed due to accident or crime, they are always well spoken of? The reporter imposes on relatives, neighbors, coworkers, etc., hoping to wring a little more sensation/emotion out of the event. And regardless of the circumstances - even if the the person died during the commission of a horrific crime - those who knew him/her invariably give a charitable comment about the character of the deceased. "He was a good neighbor - always ready to lend a helping hand." "She was the most generous woman. She would do anything for you, whether she knew you or not." "He had really turned his life around and was going to do great things." "He was such a wonderful husband and father." No doubt such praise is often well deserved. But not always. It's either part of our human nature or subtly drilled into us from an early age the we mustn't speak ill of the dead. I guess that's only fair since the person cannot possibly defend himself against attack at that point. Still it is an interesting phenomenon.

In her novel Emma, Jane Austen made this wry observation: "A young person who either marries or dies is sure to be kindly spoken of." Borrowing a portion of one of her more famous lines, I opened my first novel (The Darcys of Pemberley) with a similar thought: "It is a truth universally acknowledged that even the most ignoble person on the face of the earth appears more praiseworthy after death." In the story, this proves true as the significant defects of the man's disposition (the recently deceased) are quickly forgotten and everyone remarks how fond they always were of the man they previously could not abide.

Come to think of it, this theme is echoed by the poem I shared earlier (see Feb. 8th entry). I suppose it is a comfort to know that, although our personal detractors may have few scruples about slandering us while we live, we have the ultimate hope of much better reviews in future.

Different Seasons

As kids, we entertain all kinds of dreams and ambitions about the things we will do and be when we grow up. The possibilities are limited only by our imaginations at that stage. I remember at one point (probably after watching the Winter Olympics) wanting to be an ice skater. At another time, I thought I might like to become a nun (never mind that I wasn't even Catholic), chiefly because of how they were portrayed in the movies. According to my observations, every nun was, without exception, beautiful, serenely happy, and could sing like an angel. What's not to like?

As you may have guessed, I changed my mind about entering the convent and my dreams of skating off with a gold medal were never realized. Somewhere along the way, I adjusted my sights to a more down-to-earth view of my future. I went to college, found a nice practical job, got married, and raised two children. This is the exhaustingly-hectic-yet-uniquely-rewarding stuff of real life for most of us. But I wondered, "What comes next?" My sons were nearly grown. Would I suffer some sort of empty-nest crisis when they left?

I found that, for me at least, there were compensations. Suddenly, I had time to rekindle some interests from the past, embarking on my own personal, small-scale renaissance. I started playing the piano again, began experimenting with different art mediums, and returned to my love of literature - all things left long neglected due to the demands of everyday life. My decision to read "the classics" led me to discover (somewhat belatedly) and promptly fall in love with the novels of Jane Austen. Her writing subsequently inspired me to take up the pen myself (okay, so I use a laptop computer instead). If I were already a famous, wildly successful author, I would say, "and the rest is history." But that chapter has not yet been written.

It seems every season has its different challenges and rewards. I'm grateful for the blessings of each and for what I've learned along the way. Hopefully, the best is yet to come.

Found Images

As my title bar indicates, I'm a bit of an artist as well as an aspiring author. And it's about time I said a little something about that side of the picture. Much as I love writing, I cannot resolve to confine myself to only that one creative pursuit. Why should I? Variety feeds the soul, and there's so much that interests me. The same principle applies to my artwork. To be limited to one style or subject would be stifling. So, I experiment with many different mediums (watercolor, acrylic, pastel, pen and ink, collage) producing work ranging from realistic to totally abstract. The two examples I'm showing you today (titled "Tuberose" and "Cave Painting") belong somewhere in the middle. When I started each of them, I had no preconceived idea of what they would become. I just began by pouring paint on the paper, letting the colors mingle and run where they would. As a pleasing image suggested itself, I enhanced it enough to be recognizable, hopefully without destroying the free-flowing simplicity of the original design. It strikes me now that this might be a pretty good metaphor for how children should be raised. Rather than forcing them to conform to an artificial pattern laid out for them ahead of time, we would do well to instead gently guide them along positive channels, allowing their own unique beauty of body, mind, and spirit to emerge. Pardon me for waxing so philosophical. But you were warned. After all, this blog's title tells you that this is home to my "collected ramblings." I figure that gives me a free license.

What if?

We've all asked ourselves that question (or something similar) at one time or another. What if I'd gotten that job/promotion/lucky break? If only I had/hadn't done/said this or that. How might my life have turned out differently? It's not always a question of regret, though. Sometimes it can be the opposite - an opportunity to appreciate how good we have it when we realize how easily things could have gone wrong. Perhaps you narrowly escaped what would have been a deadly accident, or you were saved from going down the wrong path by someone who cared enough to set you straight.

I've always been intrigued by the "what ifs," especially as it relates to finding a mate. There are any number of things that could prevent two specific people from meeting and having a chance to fall in love, and just as many variables that must line up exactly right in order that they will. For example, my husband and I met in high school. But, if his parents had bought house "A" instead of house "B" when he was a kid, the two of us could have ended up in different towns. In that case, would destiny have seen to it that we found each other anyway, or would we each be happily (or unhappily) married to somebody else today?

These kinds of questions are at the very core of the book I'm currently writing and even appear in the two I've already completed. In For Myself Alone the heroine expresses this thought in the final chapter: "I marvel when I think that this auspicious outcome hinged on the unlikeliest string of circumstances ... Indeed, had events not unfolded exactly as they have, my lot might have been quite different." She's in a count-your-blessings frame of mind. Taking a more negative view is Mr. Wickham in The Darcys of Pemberley: "Had it not been for a cruel accident of birth, I should have been the master of Pemberley instead of a lowly tenant." Elizabeth wisely counters with: "By the same logic, Mr. Wickham, you or I could just as easily have been born beggars. Speculation of that sort is pointless." Pointless perhaps, but it makes for an interesting discussion or story line.

Looking Up

Recently, I had an opportunity to travel to Venice, Italy. And, since I'm such an Anglophile, I couldn't bypass the chance to make a stopover in England on the way. It was a marvelous trip, the memories of which I will treasure always. Fortunately, I have more than my faulty memory to rely on in that regard; I have lots of pictures. As I looked through those photos again today, I was reminded of something that impressed me relating to the architecture both in Venice and in England: the ceilings. It's not that the walls and floors of the Renaissance and baroque cathedrals aren't equally striking; they are. But then we often find that in more modern buildings, even in this country - beautiful tile work, inlaid hardwoods, fine paintings and draperies. The ceilings, however, are often entirely ignored. Whether those artists long ago simply ran out of space and, therefore, had no choice but to move higher, or whether it was a conscious decision to place some of their finest work there in order to inspire us to look heavenward, I don't know. Either way, it's well worth a kink in your neck to admire it. Here are two examples (a side chapel in St. Giovanni e Paolo, Venice, and the Abbey at Bath, England).

Perspective

I wish you could join me on my back deck right now. My breath billows out in puffs of smoke as I exhale the crisp, March morning air. The mountain (Rainier) stands out as a gray-blue silhouette against the pale sky, with the foothills one shade darker and the trees almost black in front of them. Fog forms a thin film of frosting between each layer of the picture, and remnants of yesterday's snow hide in the shadows. The air is alive with the sound of birds - the honking of Canadian geese and the singing of songbirds returned from their winter roosts.

I know the economy's in the dumper and suffering abounds. But in the face of all that, the scene before me keeps whispering, "God is in His heaven and all's right with the world."

Discretion: the Better Part of Valor

OK. Remember when a few weeks ago I was so excited about all the new stuff I was learning, confident that I was able to do just about anything I set my mind to? If not, revisit Feb. 6th post "Old Dog Learns New Tricks." Well, since then I've learned one more new thing: it's best to temper that jump-in-with-both-feet attitude with a hefty dose of discretion. I looked the word up. It means the exercise of good judgment or common sense in practical matters; circumspection; foresight; prudence.

After hours and hours of work building my website, I was very pleased with it (and with myself for the accomplishment). I successfully launched it and announced it to the world. There probably weren't too many people listening at that moment, which is just as well because I soon had to publish a retraction. The website was malfunctioning and I had no idea how to fix it.
Here's where discretion comes in. I decided that it made more sense to hire an expert to correct the situation rather than sink any more of my blood, sweat, and literal tears into the project. That leaves me free to use my time more productively, doing the things that I do best.

This humbling experience hasn't dampened my enthusiasm for learning new things, however. I'm still determined to expand my intellectual horizons. Fortunately my Italian lessons are going much better than my brief, ill-fated foray into web design. A presto. Ciao!

Writing Exercise

I just returned from a small writer's workshop/retreat at the ocean. It was a time to recharge the creative batteries and learn new things about the craft. In one session, the instructor said she was going to give us (me and at least a dozen other people) a single word, and then we were to write about it for twenty minutes. I'm not sure exactly what I expected, but the word turned out to be "Conan." Conan? What was I supposed to do with that? At first all that came to mind were images of Arnold Schwarzenegger as the famous barbarian. Then another possibility occurred to me. Here's part of what I wrote:

Conan. That's what the want-ad said. I needed a job, badly, and I was past the point of being too picky. So, I read on. Wanted: trustworthy person to job-share a position serving as nanny to 3 angelic children. Hours flexible. Benefits negotiable. Experience with preschoolers required. "Oh, I get it. Conan means co-nanny." ... I flipped open my phone and made the call. "After all, what's the worst that could happen?" I thought, trying to banish visions of Sesame-Street-gone-bad from my head.

It was a fun exercise with surprising results. Even though we all started with the same, very-specific word, we each came up with something completely different. No two interpretations were at all alike. Who would have thought Conan could be so inspirational?

The Many Moods of the Mountain

My husband and I have lived for many years with a beautiful view of Mt. Rainier out our windows. Although we have gotten used to it, we never tire of taking another look. "The mountain," as everyone living in this area calls it, is always impressive (when the rain stops long enough for us to see it). But it rarely looks the same twice. It's surprisingly versatile in its costume: sporting a new coat of fresh snow or stripped down to the bare essentials of rock and glacier; hat-less or wearing that strange stack of pancake clouds on its head; silhouetted against a sunrise or reflecting the alpenglow of a pink sunset; standing out stark against a deep, blue sky or peeking through a misty shroud. Sometimes the elements combine for more unusual effects. Occasionally, when conditions are just right at dawn, the sun projects the inverted shadow of the mountain against the underside of the clouds above. Spectacular. At other times, evening fog settles into the valley in front of the mountain creating the illusion of a lovely lake (as above). The show doesn't last long, so we keep our cameras handy. Even after all these years, I still marvel at the mountain's ever-changing beauty.

The Enigma of Poetry

Poetry is a great mystery to me. It's one of those things that I think I should be interested in more than I actually am interested. I wish I could say I'm deeply moved by it (or at least that I enjoy it). Yet on those infrequent occasions that I read poetry, it tends to bore me. And on the still more infrequent occasions that I try to write any myself, it comes out comical, like a limerick, instead of being profound or insightful or even serious. Example:

A Modest Man's Lament

When I am gone, my fellow man
With charity will cry
That such a good man, such a saint, did not deserve to die.

The eulogy will be quite grand.
Of this I have no doubt.
Every fault will be forgot, each virtue will sing out.

I think what gives me greatest pain,
In these my final days,
Is knowing that I’ll not be there to listen to the praise.

My friends will mourn me and lament.
No foe will dare oppose.
And secretly they’ll all be glad it’s me, not them, that goes.



I'm sure this must indicate some major character flaw (or intellectual weakness at the very least), but I will leave that analysis to someone with greater discernment than I possess.

Old Dog Learns New Tricks

We've all heard the saying, "You can't teach an old dog new tricks." Baloney! Although I may not be exactly old, I'm undeniably middle-aged. And I think I've learned more in the last few years than during almost any other period of my life. For example, I've learned a tremendous amount about the art of writing - something I had no formal training in before. I've discovered what's involved in trying to get a book published (agents, editors, query letters, literary conferences, etc.). I decided to study Italian after a recent trip to Venice. Perhaps most challenging of all, however, I've tackled some of the mysteries of the electronic age: mastering e-mail and my laptop, starting a blog, and constructing a soon-to-be-launched website. Those of us who didn't grow up with these technologies are at a distinct disadvantage, I admit. But with enough time, determination, and a little patience from the younger generation, we can march into the 21st century with our heads held high (which is much more dignified than being dragged, kicking and screaming, after all). "Is it worth the extra trouble and effort?" you may ask. Yes, it's exciting to learn new things and, even if nothing else comes of it, we're keeping brain cells alive! That's pretty important for old dogs.

What's in a Name?

Why Heatheridge House? The name has a long history for me. "Heather Ridge" was the apartment complex in Kent, Washington that my husband and I moved into when we were first married. The place was nothing that special, but I loved the name. I thought, if I lived in England where houses and estates have names rather than addresses, that's what I would call my home. Years later, when I applied for a business license and had to pick a name to go with it, I finally got my chance to use it: "Heather Ridge Arts." Fast forward a few years more to when I became serious about writing. While working on my first novel, "The Darcys of Pemberley" (a sequel to Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice"), I took delight in naming everything along the way - people and places too. So, when the Bingleys moved to a new estate in Staffordshire, I called it Heatheridge House. I will probably never have a chance to live in England myself, but my imagination spends a lot of time there - often in an old stone manor happily situated on a hill overlooking woods and water.