After having been gone for seven months, it is good to have our daughter home again. When she left for university two years ago, the three of us pottered around attempting to navigate a course correction, modifying “the four musketeers” into a more daily, traditional version of three. We mourned the loss of her presence, compensated, made adjustments, talked on the phone, forged a new path. Now that she’s back on back on board, I am reminded of the gap that occurs in relational metaphysics when one of us is away and that, in the following years, the process of releasing our children will begin again. And again. And again.

I have several friends who are being launched into their own “empty nest” journey this year. Since I am only a year away from this rite of passage, I am keenly aware that I stand at the brink of some new exposure to the elements of change within: my role, my place, my future, my self. And, without: our roles, our place, our future, our selves. Whether or not I am up for it, a new country will need to be explored. As with any extended voyage, I tend to get busy. There is packing to do in the form of memories as well as boxes. Plans and dates to finalize. Future visits to consider. Travel arrangements to be made. The opiate of busyness being a blissful diversion to engaging the inner process with intention. Who knows what I might find trodding that path?

Up until recently, events in my life have been mainly measured in “firsts.”  First time to get married.  First girl.  First boy. First: PTA meeting, speeding ticket, school play, night aboard Chrysalis, time across the Atlantic, manuscript rejection, book published. Now, I find myself stumbling into the curious stage of “lasts.” I suspect that “lasts” have always been a part of my life, but mid-life tends to awaken you to their existence. Several future “lasts” bear down like fast moving freight trains.  I brace for impact.

It was unfortunate that two days after Lauren arrived Mike had to fly to Toronto for business. I was initially morose, but spending the last couple days alone with my kids has propelled me back in time. Back to the days when they both were little and Mike spent most of his time at the office. It was just the three of us, then, and we had our little habits, rituals and outings. From somewhere in the sinewy muscles of our brains, a magnetized familiarity is sucked to the surface by the sheer force of our togetherness. To some extent, we revert back to those old days of fluidity. Mother and children practicing the simple and sometimes fragile art of coexisting. Revolving laissez faire breakfasts, study, mid afternoon coffee or tea in the company of snacks and playing cards or Mariokart, walks, chores, shopping, errands, library, dinner followed by television or books. While the routines have changed little, we are adults now and I have to remind myself that I have moved beyond instructor and cruise director and am easing into the realm of fellow sojourner and passagemaker. Even as I do this, I find myself relishing the pleasant mystery that I will always remain their “mother.” However that looks like.

Over Thai chicken curry and rice the other night we spoke of world events and laughed at shared memories. Afterwards, as we amicably cleaned up the dishes, I watched my kids, enjoying the flow of their banter, and wondered silently if this might be the last time we exist as it was in beginning, just the three of us, alone at home. In a few weeks, Lauren will move back up to Vancouver. Next summer, Stefan will embark on his own quest. Then, down the road there will likely be marriage, kids, and jobs. Mike and I will try to recall the initial blending of two lives over twenty-two years ago and from that foundation craft something new.

I walked the beach this morning pondering these things in my heart. On my way home, I ran into a friend and neighbor who is going through similar circumstances; she is simultaneously moving and sending a daughter out into the world. When she asked how it was having Lauren home, I told her truthfully that it was wonderful but I was thinking about how this might be the last time my children and I existed together as in the old days, then tears came to her eyes and she hugged me. Right there in a tree lined parking lot we proceeded to share several minutes of companionable tears, not so much in sadness, but for the bitter sweet journey that is motherhood. Indeed, parenthood.

As I walked home by myself, I thought, ‘Isn’t it interesting that every first is essentially a last.’

Long before there was Elizabeth Gilbert and Eat, Pray, Love there was Rita Goldman Gelman and Tales of a Female Nomad. While it is one thing to gallivant around a few countries for a year, it is quite another to trade in your previous lifestyle for an alternate reality and this exactly what Ms. Goldman Gelman did, packing her bags back in the 80’s after a rather rough divorce (sound familiar?) to live the life of a perpetual wanderer. Fast forward 24 years and she would be the first to tell you that she still doesn’t have a permanent address. The world is her home. With backpack in tow, she has traversed the earth, living largely off the kindness of friends and strangers as her book describes. As travel memoirs go, this ups the ante to a whole new level.

Last spring I met Rita through email when she graciously agreed to offer an endorsement for my own travel memoir, Charting the Unknown. Through the exchange of several messages I discovered a generous soul who shares, as I do, a passion for travel and its potential to expand our knowledge of ourselves and the world. Her new endeavor, “Let’s Get Global,” encourages young people to take a gap year of travel with the goal of exposing themselves to cultures outside the realm of their experience, broadening their perspective. Having made pilgrimages with my own teenagers to places beyond our ken, places like Zambia, Morocco, Israel, and Egypt, I can attest to the value of this kind of exposure. Europe, Africa, the Middle East, indeed the Arab world, is no longer some distant location “over there,” it is a place whose residents walk, talk, and eat alongside us in our memories.

It was with pleasure that I discovered that Rita has come out with a new book, an anthology of women travelers, The Female Nomad and Friends: Tales of Breaking Free and Breaking Bread in the World. The other day I picked it up and found myself reading about three of my favorite things: friendship, travel, and food. Can it get any better than that? The places and personal stories are as diverse as the recipes. Been hankering for some Mousse au Chocolat Truffle? (You bet!). How about some Sun-dried Mopane Worms? (Not so much). Maybe a little Peruvian Ceviche? (Never made it before, but I’m game). All come with a tale of roving souls whose voices, spanning the globe, lend fresh insight into what it means to let go and plant yourself somewhere “foreign.”  In Rita’s own words, “Some stories will make you laugh out loud and others will bring tears to your eyes. They offer rapture and rape, the bizarre and the beautiful, insensitivity and tenderness…I hope they will inspire you to break free, break rules, take risks, and take off.”

But perhaps the most inspirational aspect of the book is that the profits go into a fund that sends high school graduates from the slums of New Delhi to vocational schools. Not one author, including Rita, will make any money on this project. This reminds me that in regards to my favorite things, yes, it can get better. Along with friendship, travel, and food, I add helping those less fortunate. All are encompassed here.

“One thing at a time, is my motto – and just play that thing for all it is worth, even if it’s only two pair and a jack.”   Mark Twain

This is not the plushy book tour I had imagined when I was thirteen years old and decided to be a writer. There are no limos with champagne. No waving fans. No lineups. No upgrades to first class or executives suites with bars that warm up thick Turkish towels. No long stem red roses. At the hotel reception desk there is no smiling lady-in-waiting saying, “Why Ms. Petersen! So nice to have you!” There’s only, “Let’s see here…Peterson, Peterson…nope I can’t seem to find your reservation….”

I tell her, “Try Peterson with an SEN at the end.”

“Oh yes…here you are. Standard room no smoking. You’ll be on the first floor.”

I haul two bags of luggage, heavy with my own books, down the hall to my room. Flop into bed, exhausted. Lead a seminar or two over the weekend. Shake hands. Smile and scrawl my name on a few copies. Arrive at a big box bookstore for a signing at which the assistant manager pushes together a couple of tables from the attached coffee shop, throws a blue tablecloth over them and says, “have at it.” Return home with nearly the same amount of books and a parched credit card.

This is because I’m a newbie. A greenhorn.  An upstart. It’s what they call, “paying your dues,” “pounding the pavement,” “schlepping.” I am quickly mastering the art.  I am not complaining, mind you, only stating the obvious.

As I begin to prepare for the next conference, another fact becomes painfully obvious. Planning for each of these events, designing power point presentations, jet travel, drumming my fingers in an exhibition hall, diverts me away from the occupation of writing.  Writing, I am assured by the masters, Dillard, Emerson, Goethe, Updike, Eliot, Oliver, is what I must focus on if I ever hope to succeed as an author. Learning to write well, they tell me, takes practice. Single minded concentration. Each sentence must be shot out repeatedly from a bow toward a bulls eye.

Every night I spend in a hotel, tarmac on which I dally, bookstore table I wait upon, marketing plan that I ponder, is one less hour I am practicing the craft of writing. The weight of time lost causes the crease between my brows to deepen because I know that writing is much like playing the piano. This I did for fifteen years, playing competitively. I am well aware of the fact that if I get lazy or distracted and skip practicing a day or two, a week or a month, I must go back and retrain my brain, my fingers, to work their magic all over again. Even now, writing this blog post, the words drip out through creaky pipes. I wear myself out just priming the pump.

On the other hand, I’d like my words to provide more than just mental sustenance. Man, after all, does not live by words alone. Bread would be nice. Bread costs money. Professionals in the book biz swear that success, monetary success, hinges on marketing. Television interviews, radio chats, reviews, signings, posters, bookmarks, speeches, web campaigns. The best way to do this is to turn my life into an infomercial. My face on every bus. My words flung across the blogosphere. I need a team of Mad Men. I have witnessed the success of inept books that I have read in the past: you don’t have to write well if you show a little skin and drink a Bud Light in a crowded, dark pool hall.

Since I was thirteen years old I have dreamed of being a successful writer. Will success depend on casting myself a role at a metaphorical Sterling Cooper? With competition for shelf space fierce and an economy that has stalled, how do writers find a balance between exposure and excellence?

I am currently in the throes of preparing for the next leg of my book tour at the CHN Family Expo—a large homeschooling convention outside of Los Angeles, CA.  I will be speaking on “Navigating the Teen Years: Homeschooling Teens for Graduation” and “From Blog to Book: Taking Your Posts to a Publisher.” I am having a blast preparing the “From Blog to Book” seminar as it is reminding me how much keeping a blog has helped, not only in my own evolution as a writer, but also in the promotion of my manuscript to agents and publishers.

If you’re hot on the publishing trail, one of the best things you can do is to keep a consistent blog, preferably on the same subject you hope to write a book about. As so often happens in life, I started up a blog six years ago in order to keep family and friends up-to-date on our travels aboard Chrysalis, not realizing how instrumental it would become both personally and professionally.

By writing posts for my blog I learned to write with an audience in mind, a skill distinctly different than writing in my own personal journals. Early on, I determined what days I was going to post articles and tried to stick to those days and that went a long way toward helping me become a more disciplined writer. It didn’t take long before I began to gather feedback on my posts and was able to assess what articles were resonating with readers by which gained the most response-not only in comments but in page visits. Although I didn’t begin my blog with the idea of turning it into a book, by the time I had made the decision to write a travel memoir, I had over 2 years of blog material that I was able to sew together toward a completed manuscript.

Every agent and publisher I had initial contact with, whether personally or through questionnaires, asked if I kept a blog and what response I was getting.  It became clear that my inadvertent blogging was going to be an asset professionally, although at first, I was unsure as to why. While creating a marketing plan with my publisher, she told me to make sure I included that I had kept a blog for 6 years and that prompted me to do a little research. I discovered that agents, publishers, and even distributors are interested in blogging for a number of reasons:

-It reveals ability.  Many authors get a fair bit of editorial help these days, and it isn’t uncommon to find that professional editors have re-written a big portion of someone else’s manuscript. Folks in the book biz find it helpful to visit a writer’s personal blog to determine if the writer has actual ability and potential to succeed.

-Demonstrates knowledge of subject. Agents and publishers can look back through your posts and get a good indication of the kind of author you are and whether or not you will be qualified to speak or write about your book down the road.

-Reveals your online dexterity. These days almost every author must participate in the promotion of their book. Keeping a website/blog is a valuable marketing tool and agents and publishers are looking for this kind of internet experience.

-Confirms your popularity and ability to drive traffic or keep an audience.  Whether through comments or visits, a blog can determine if your subject or your writing is connecting with an audience and this gives some indication of an author’s wider appeal.

Certainly not every author keeps a blog, but in my own publishing journey I have been surprised by the role blogging has played.

For some other good tips, check out Pamela Redmond’s article in The Huffington Post.

According to Steven Thomas of OC Metro Magazine in Orange County, California, Charting the Unknown is a HOT READ!

Thanks Steven!

Living off the Grid

I was perusing The Huffington Post this morning and came across an interesting article about living off the grid by author Nick Rosen. I have read several articles of this sort through the years and find it interesting that there is never any mention of boaters, particularly live aboards, who often exist off the grid in varying degrees for months or years at a time. Having experienced this during the past five years, we can attest to the strangely satisfying feeling of being anchored off a low lying deserted island and making our own water, generating our own power, and predominately eating fish we have caught off the stern.

Mike, who loves living off the grid, always gets a little irritated that we have yet one remaining tether that ties us to land: the diesel fuel we use to run our generator. When we have been at anchor several days, I will inevitably hear him pacing the flybridge with a measuring tape, muttering to himself, and it isn’t long before he is telling me, “Look, I have it all figured out, we can cover the whole flybridge with solar panels and if we never run the coffee maker and the refrigerator at the same time, we’ll be totally self sufficient!”

“Yes,” I say dryly without looking up from my novel, “but it won’t matter much because we’ll be resting on the bottom of the ocean floor due to the weight of the panels.”

“Right….Okay, how about a wind generator? You know…it would have to be pretty large to supply enough power for Chrysalis, maybe 10-12 feet in diameter. We could mount it just off the stern! What do you say? How great would it be to live totally off the grid?”

Here is where I begin to have visions of children and eventually grandchild playing catch amidst the whirling blades of a gigantic wind generator. It’s as good a time as any to utilize my feminine wiles as a diversion.

It’s not that I am not interested in our energy consumption and ways to make it more efficient.  In fact, I was curious not long ago and did some math. With the exception of our Atlantic crossing, at the peak of our travels up and down the eastern seaboard and around the Mediterranean, we used less than the amount of fuel for Chrysalis than we did annually for our two cars while we were living on land. At anchor, I learned that our water maker converts about 400 gallons of sea water into lovely reverse osmosis drinking water and although that 400 sounds like a lot, with four of us showering, gulping it down, and doing dishes all week, it can go rather quickly. We had to pare it down significantly. And unless we want to be forever lugging jerry cans of diesel back and forth from the nearest town in the dinghy, a smelly, tedious venture, we must remember to turn off lights, computers, and the television, a worthwhile practice in any living situation.

And this is the great thing about living a slightly alternative lifestyle, whether by sea or by land, it does make you far more conscious of the energy you are using and I can’t help but think that this benefits not only the environment, but the state of our souls as well. We may not have ended up with a 10 foot wind generator, but I still smile when I hear Stefan say to his dad, “Dude, you’ve got to remember to shut off your computer!”

There are strides being made in enhancing the green factor of various power yachts.  Take a look at the DSE Hybrid Catamaran or the tri-maran, Earthrace, powered solely by alternative fuel.

I’ve spent the last few days at the Trawler Fest Boat Show up in Warwick, RI.  Had a wonderful time getting to know other women boaters both at the Ladies Round Table on Thursday and at my Women on the Water seminar Friday morning. As always, it was wonderful to share stories and learn from other people’s experience both at the seminar and over dinner and drinks later in the evenings.

Personally, it was a fun weekend for me as this was the first leg in my book tour. Thursday was the official release of Charting the Unknown, which while exciting, I had little time to consider (having considered it enough over the past months anyway!). Friday morning I was up early and into East Providence for an interview on the FOX news affiliate there:  The Rhode Show. This was my second television interview and I still feel like I have a lot to learn, but am beginning to be a bit more relaxed and enjoy the process.

Television, I am finding, is a unique experience. While sitting at the station in the break room waiting for my interview to begin, I talked with a well dressed young woman who suddenly looked at her watch and said, “Whoops, gotta run! So nice meeting you!” Two seconds later I looked up at the television and there she was giving the weather in the next room. On the opposite end of the break room, I chatted briefly with a local chef who was chopping and sauteing in a beautiful kitchen set preparing for a cooking segment which was to air immediately following my interview.  While the kitchen set was nice, it sat in a dark cavernous warehouse through which techies were eternally running, glancing at clipboards and speaking into headsets. Amidst the hub-bub, I can tell you that even at 7:45 in the morning, sea bass smells delicious. Soon after, I was hurried into another room and ushered to a white couch, hooked up to a mic, whispered briefly (another segment was going on right next to us) with the host, Elizabeth, before the lights came on and we were off and running.

Literally 5 minutes later I am out the door and into the car heading back to Warwick to teach an hour and a half class on Women and the Water. Immediately after this I am scurrying down to the exhibition hall at the marina for my first ever book signing promoted by Barnes and Noble. This proved to be one of the best parts of the day, not so much signing books-although that was surreal and kind of fun-but connecting with other readers and boaters whose own stories always inspire me. I left the exhibition hall around 4pm, stopping at the grocery store on the way back to the hotel for some long anticipated lunch. Fell into bed that night exhausted. Glad now to be home and have a chance to regroup before heading to California in two weeks for a repeat performance.

Thanks so much to all the beautiful boating women I met who stopped by the book signing after the seminar to chat —truly an honor and the best part of my author journey so far!  Fair seas ladies!

Looking forward to the Trawler Fest Boat Show this weekend in Warwick, RI.  I will be giving a seminar on Women on the Water at Passagemaker University. Afterwards, Barnes and Noble is hosting a book signing for me at the Brewer Greenwich Bay Marina Exhibition. If you are in the area, come by and say hello. With all the beautiful boats and events it promises to be a fantastic weekend!

photo by Diana Nethercott

One thing I can say after living on a boat for nearly 6 years is that the ocean can be a fabulous teacher. Leaving the shoreline behind to chart a course through an open expanse of water, bouncing over waves with the wind in my face, something shifts inside of me. My soul opens up, expectant, making it ripe with the kind of awareness that can lead to life change. And while the adventure and beauty of life on the water offers its own contemplative benefits, it is often learning to work as a team and challenging your own boundaries that produce lasting rewards. So when I discovered an organization that takes young people out into the water for this very purpose, I was intrigued.

Begun in 1974, the Sail and Life Training Society, or SALTS, exists to “to develop the spiritual, relational, and physical potential of young people through sail training, shipboard life, and associated activities in a Christian environment.” Utilizing two tall ships, The Pacific Grace and the Pacific Swift, the Society operates out of Victoria, British Columbia and is a registered charity in both Canada and the US. Every year 2000 people, ages 13-27, board one of these ships to sail the beautiful Gulf Islands, circumnavigate Vancouver Island, or even embark on an extended offshore voyage to distant ports worldwide. Program participation is open to all walks of life, beliefs, as well as socio-economic backgrounds and bursaries are available to those in financially challenged situations.

I caught up with SALTS Executive Director Loren Hagerty not long ago and asked if he would share a little more about the organization and what makes it so appealing.

photo by Anthony Dickinson

What is it about the ocean, about sailing, that prompts an openness to change?

Most of us lead such busy lives that we lack time for self-reflection. Time at sea, away from the distractions of home, provides time for that. We leave behind our cell phones and Internet connections and focus on our own personal growth and relating to the people around us. Technology can enhance our lives but often we let it take over our lives, and a break from it is needed from time to time. The ship environment also tends to allow people to take off their masks and be themselves. When kids arrive at the ship they are often all decked out in designer clothing, make-up, etc. and by the end of the trip they are not so image conscious (they may not have showered in days—something unthinkable to most landlubbers!) They have come to realize that they are accepted and loved for who they are—no masks required. We have nothing against nice clothing or technology, it is just that we need confidence that isn’t based on appearance, and human connections that are real and face-to-face. The beauty of the region we sail in (coastal British Columbia—though we also do offshore voyages all over the world) is inspiring and helps people thing about the deeper questions of life: Where did I come from? Why am I here? What is my purpose in life? Where am I headed? What matters? What seems to matter that doesn’t really matter?

What kind of life lessons are emphasized when you are out on the water?

photo by Garret Beier

Young people learn that hard work can be a lot of fun and that a strong work ethic is expected (they do their own dishes, clean the “head”, mop the floors—and even those jobs can turn out to be a lot of fun when done with a group). They learn to work as a team, because our ships cannot go anywhere without every person on board pulling their weight. They learn that they have placed limitations on themselves that are false—that they can do a lot of the things they do not believe they can do. This realization comes by going beyond their comfort zones, whether that means climbing the rigging or coming out of a shell of shyness. We emphasize that they are loved by God and encourage them to reflect on that (and we respect and love them even if they don’t believe it). We lead discussions with each “watch” (group) about topics such as healthy self-identity, community, loving others, simplicity, grace, forgiveness and role models.

As a member of the Bridgeway Foundation, one of the things I appreciate about SALTS is their commitment to contribute to their own growth. Can you tell me a little bit about how you do this?

We invest a lot in the development of our people. We do a crew retreat at the start of each season for personal, spiritual, and professional development. We fund education and training programs that our employees want to participate in. We are increasing the required training for crew positions. We have increased the amount of time off provided to crew-members during the season because in the past we were burning people out (we added move vacation days, a sabbatical program, etc.) We’ve reached out to the community through our bursary program to provide sailings for people from challenging life situations (e.g. financial, cognitive disabilities, cancer recovery, etc.) This has been a fulfilling and growing experience for our crews. Investment in our people has increased the quality of the development we provide for young people, the professionalism in our organization, and the length of time that our people stay employed with us. The Bridgeway Foundation has provided one-time grants to both professional development and bursary funds in past years—so thank you once again!

picture by Jose Larochelle

I’m sure you’ve had many young people who, as a result of their experience on your ships, have had their lives changed for the better.  Is there one particular story that stands out in your mind?

A teenage girl named Krystle woke up one morning in August 2006 and felt a large lump on her neck. After seeing Doctors, she was told that she had a tumor wrapped around her windpipe and without treatment she had about two weeks left to live. She started treatment. Around the same time, SALTS contacted BC Children’s Hospital with an offer of a bursary for a cancer patient or survivor to sail with us. Krystle was selected to receive the bursary. She said after the voyage “it was a very encouraging and positive atmosphere—freeing; you don’t think about how sick you are; the cares lift off for a little while.” The crew reported that Krystle lifted everyone’s spirits on board. It blew them away that she was so positive about life given her own challenges, and this put everyone else’s troubles into perspective. Our positive experience with Krystle led SALTS to seek and gain funding from The Bridgeway Foundation for a voyage with about 20 childhood cancer patients and survivors, and Krystle returned with that group. In 2009 she joined the SALTS crew as a cook and was able to share her story of cancer survival with the 1000 young people who sailed with us that year. Her story and the songs she wrote about it became one of the most impactful parts of the experience of all those on board.

If you know someone who might benefit from this kind of experience or want more information, please visit the SALTS website (be inspired by the pictures alone!) or write to:

photo by Anthony Dickinson

S.A.L.T.S. Sail and Life Training Society
Box 5014, Station”B”, Victoria, BC, V8R 6N3

Telephone: (250) 383-6811

(all pictures used with permission)

Leila

Father's Day at Leila Middle Eastern Restaurant

120 S. Dixie Hwy. (corner of Datura)

West Palm Beach, FL

659-7373

www.leilawp.com

Reservations taken. Moderate expensive

FOOD and SERVICE

**** Outstanding

***   Very Good

**     Fair

*       Poor

Leila   Food: ***   Service:  *** ½

This past week I was on the prowl for a decent restaurant to take Mike for Father’s Day. Although there are several good restaurants nearby, we had grown a little tired of the same ole same ole. It is fortunate that Mike and I (and our kids) are drawn toward the same kind of restaurant experience. We like the little hole in the walls, mainly ethnic, that serve not only delicious meals, but provide a kind of ambience both exotic yet familiar. The kind of place where the owner or chef comes around and chats, and after a few visits, calls you by name and asks if you’ll have “the regular.”  Maybe it harkens back to years of watching the TV sitcom Cheers -that place where “everybody knows your name.” I broadened my search and found Leila, a Middle Eastern restaurant serving Lebanese, Greek and Turkish food and the promise of belly dancing on the weekend. Just the thing for Father’s Day.

Leila's Mezza

We parked across the street and as we walked toward the door the aroma of grilled spiced meats greeted me, instantly taking me back to somewhere I had been before but couldn’t quite put my finger on: Greece? Turkey? Israel? Upon entering we reticently opted for dining inside due to the heat (the patio looked delightful) and found the décor to be elegant without being ostentatious. Contemporary Middle Eastern music was playing and with everything going so well thus far, I wondered if the service and food would meet my burgeoning expectations.

While Mike fondly drank an Efes Turkish beer, we perused the menu. The Mezza read like a Middle Eastern tour guide and had all our favorites. Discussed at some length were the virtues of falafel, Na’anak (lamb and beef sausages made with port wine, pine nuts, sherry, cinnamon and nutmeg) and Koosa B’dibs Ruman (fried slices of zucchini in garlic and pomegranate sauce). As is the custom in our family, we ordered a smattering to share. Jibnee Mishwieh: halloumi cheese grilled in olive oil and lemon juice; Sambusik: flaky pastries filled with beef, pine nuts, and sweet onion; hummus (of course) and for the main course the Leila Grill: featuring a combination of skewers of grilled Shish Tawook (chicken), Shish Kabob (beef), Lamb Kabob, and Kraidis (shrimp).

Main Course-Mixed Grill

Our server was attentive and kept the warm pita’s coming so we could scoop up the velvety tahini and chickpea hummus. Oh the glory! The meat in the main course was perfectly spiced and came with a platter of grilled vegetables including zucchini, onion, tomato, green peppers along with couscous and garlic aioli and drawn butter for dipping. Already full to bursting, we hesitated over the dessert menu, but as the belly dancing was about to start, we gave in to coffee and the Hella Tour which included small bites of Knaffe’(farina cake with sweet cheese), Namoura (farina coconut cake infused with rose and orange blossom, Baklawa and Sokseh (chocolate with biscuits).  We ate slowly, watching a tastefully and artfully performed belly dance. I had learned from Leila’s website that the belly dance actually dates back to about 3000 BC and was originally performed by women for women as a ceremonial rite in preparation for childbirth. I told this to my boys but for some reason I don’t think they heard me!

Hella Dessert Tour

When the owner and executive chef, Akram “Alex” Awad heard I was doing a review for my travel and food blog, he came over to chat. I told him it was a fantastic meal and he offered this lovely lamb kabob recipe which I will definitely be trying soon.

Executive Chef Akram "Alex" Awad

If you’re in the vicinity, it is worth the drive into the hip downtown West Palm Beach for an ethnic and tasty night out. Enjoy the recipe! (and do a little belly dancing!)

Leila Lamb Kabob

2 pounds lamb strip loin cut into 1” cubes

½ t. each salt and pepper

¼ t. nutmeg

¼ t. cinnamon

¼ t. allspice

4 T. olive oil

Green pepper and onion cut into squares for skewers

Marinate the lamb for up to 10 hours in the next 5 ingredients. Skewer the lamb with the onion and green pepper. Grill. Serve with couscous and grilled vegetables.

Knocking on Heavens Door at Montserrat Monastery

The other day I was on the prowl for some writing inspiration and Googled “travel faith” and then later, “pilgrimage.” I scanned through a few pages, but the only websites that came up were ones wanting my dollar: guided tours of holy places. It reminded me of the time we were docked in Spain and traveled as a family up to the beautiful Montserrat Monastery. My soul was a hard, dried out, leathery ole thing that calls to mind the curious “pigs ear” I bought at the pet store the other day for our dog Skipper to chew on (he sniffed it but had no interest).  I had been to several monasteries in the past for personal retreats and had found them to be life giving. And not necessarily in the genre of traditional “mountain top” experiences either, but offering the kind of rigorous soul searching that can result in the changing of one’s course. With that in mind, on the day we traveled to Montserrat, I longed for someone or some experience to rub a contemplative collagen infused salve on my wrinkly soul. Alas, it was Sunday and the place was packed. And while the natural surroundings were rousing, I heard nothing of the service, jammed with spectators, although from afar it looked to be lovely. Afterwards, I waited for what seemed forever in a long line-up to purchase and eat a ploughman’s lunch at their cafeteria, for which I overpaid, before finally being forced to pass through the expansive attached gift shop. From the dark recesses of my mind I heard the word “Disneyland” whispered. Not exactly the day I had in mind (later, reflecting on this experience proved to be of some use, but that is another story).

Disappointed that my Google search only offered the commercial value of faith and travel, I wondered why, with so many of us traveling these days, there was nothing in the way of any online articles addressing travel and faith. Is it because, in this culture, we tend to associate vacation or holiday with things seemingly opposed to faith: no responsibilities and a hedonism that might include such self-serving things as eating, drinking, sleeping, and other more vigorous horizontal activities, playing, and lounging by the pool? Do we (do I) still approach life with the dualistic thought, “here is my normal life, and here is my free time?”  To do so, I think, is to lose sight of the redemptive process in the things that occupy our “time off.”  Hedonism aside, what better time to further tend our souls than when our routines are interrupted with the blessing of extra discretionary time?

Brother Lawrence

I am reminded of my friend Brother Lawrence. I say “friend” but that is a misnomer since he was a 17^th Century monk. Still, I’d like to think that should we ever meet, a friendship might be struck. I would tell him how much I appreciated his writing The Practice of the Presence of God and the fact that he could recognize the glory in the simple act of washing dishes. “Lawry,“ I’d say, (and he’d tolerate this nick-name because we were friends and he would know how much I loved nick-names) “I love how your faith seeps into the every part of your life. I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me because it seems like I’ve washed a million dishes in my lifetime.”  And with his hands in a sink full of bowls, cups, saucers, and dishwater, he’d smile kindly and say something like, “That’s lovely dear. Now, how about less yakking and more dish-drying, hmmm?”

Because that is what pilgrimage, and even vacation, is really about. Erasing lines. Erasing the lines between this part of my life and that part. Between that world over there and this one here. Between myself and others. So that I am present in the moment and not waiting, always waiting, for the next vacation. Even the next pilgrimage. Next time I go to Montserrat, I will remember this.

The Vacation

by Wendell Berry

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.

He went flying down the river in his boat

with his video camera to his eye, making

a moving picture of the moving river

upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly

toward the end of his vacation. He showed

his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,

preserving it forever: the river, the trees,

the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat

behind which he stood with his camera

preserving his vacation even as he was having it

so that after he had had it he would still

have it. It would be there. With a flick

of a switch, there it would be. But he

would not be in it. He would never be in it.

-Wendell Berry is a poet, essayist, novelist, farmer and environmentalist. Poem from Good Poems, selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor

At Ahmed's House for Mint Tea-Morocco

Over the past few years of traveling full time, I have considered the many rich benefits that result from exposing ourselves to cultures that are different than our own. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be able to experience this kind of life changing extended pilgrimage and I think those of us who are have a responsibility to share how the journey has changed us and this is where travel writing, broad in its definition, comes into play. Self described “purists” would have us believe that travel writing is only about the “locale” written from the objective perspective of a journalist. Certainly, I have appreciated such books in the past and recognize their value. But the books and articles that interest me the most are the ones that describe not only the place but the intersection between pilgrim and place. I always wonder what a traveler takes away from an ancient, crumbling, culture. Has it changed them? Will they see the world a little differently? Is the place itself altered as a result of their visit?

This week on travel website worldhum.com, David Frey had a decent interview with Greg Mortenson, author of bestselling book, Three Cups of Tea. What I appreciated about Interview With Greg Mortenson: One Traveler Changing Lives, were Greg’s simple yet insightful comments. Even if you only have two weeks to visit a new destination, here are a few things to keep in mind.

Go local. Mortenson: If you can, go local, even for a day. It’s fine if you have a package tour, but spend at least one day a week doing something a little different than what’s on the rest of your itinerary. Spend some time in a local café. Get to know somebody. Go visit a school. It’s uncomfortable for people at first, but often people say that’s the most significant part of the trip.

Go unplugged.  Mortenson: I think it’s important when you travel that you get unplugged a little bit. I think we try now, with cell phones and the Internet, to stay connected all the time. I think some sort of disconnect from that, for just a few days or a week, can really enhance travel. You don’t have to be connected every day. I also find when I’m overseas for several weeks or months, I’m not in touch with the news. I don’t see it or hear about it. I find when I come back to the States, nothing has changed very much. The reality is, the news that we want to know every day maybe doesn’t really matter after a few weeks or months. Life goes on.

Look hard. Mortenson: And maybe what you saw was very beautiful, but you probably also saw some things that were not too pleasant. I think we shouldn’t try to bury them. We should talk about those things, whether it’s child labor or slavery or environmental degradation. The power of one is very powerful.

Look for similarities. Mortenson: I’ve worked in rural Afghanistan and Pakistan for 17 years now. I’ve traveled a lot. I grew up in Tanzania for 15 years, so I’ve spent a lot of time overseas. I find that people, we’re about 95 percent the same. We tend to judge people by the differences, which I say are about 5 or 10 percent. Maybe that’s a different way I look at people.

Remain tethered. Mortenson: One of the things is to try to continue just one of your relationships that you made on your trip. Whether it’s a hotel worker or a guide, just keep in touch with somebody.

Skipper in Palma, Mallorca

Just before we were to begin our transatlantic crossing,our children, Lauren then 17, Stefan then 13, started begging for a dog. They tried to convince me that “boat breaking” a small puppy while making a monumental passage across almost 4,000 miles of open water wouldn’t be difficult at all. Not surprisingly, I was wary. I imagined cleaning up messes while being seasick myself and found the thought less than appealing. I had also heard it could be complicated, if not difficult, bringing a puppy across numerous borders. Putting them off, Mike and I told the kids we would reconsider getting a dog when we had arrived safely in the Mediterranean.

Traveling with Skipper in Nice, France

About a minute after we tied up at the dock in Ceuta, Spain, on the northern coast of Africa, Lauren and Stefan approached us with a two page, typed contract in which they had listed all the things they PROMISED to do if we got a puppy: walk him, feed him, clean up his messes, train him and most impressive of all, number 8: Mom wouldn’t have to do ANY work at all. Ever. I seem to recall that after I rolled my eyes at number 8, they pricked their fingers and signed the contract in blood. To seal the deal, this list was accompanied by research off the internet on the requirements for cruising with a dog in Europe, including further details from the individual countries we planned to visit.

After learning that, outside of Great Britain (not on our itinerary), rules for most countries were manageable, I relented. We ended up finding a reputable King Charles Cavalier Spaniel breeder in Hungary, of all places, and at 8 weeks old, Skipper flew from Budapest to Barcelona, Spain, where we jubilantly met him at the airport. The unforeseen benefit of purchasing him in Hungary was that he arrived with a Euro Pet Passport, which the breeder assured us would expedite the process of crossing borders—at least in the EU. We never got to test this out because in every country we visited afterwards: France, Switzerland, Italy, Malta, Greece, Turkey, Israel and Egypt, we were never once asked to show any documentation for Skipper. In talking with other North American cruisers traveling with K-9 companions, this seemed to be the general experience.

The day of his arrival from Budapest, Hungary

Still, we visited local veterinarians along our journey, keeping Skippers vaccinations up-to-date and recorded in his passport. We knew it would only take one grumpy customs officer who, upon not finding Skipper as adorable as we did, might decide to make our lives miserable by denying us entry or quarantining our puppy. In case we were told that Skipper couldn’t leave the boat, Mike rigged up a pan with some Astroturf on a grate and we trained Skipper to “do his thing” on this pan. This also ensured that our frequent overnight passages and times at anchor would be a little easier for him.

At the market in Palermo, Sicily

If you are planning to travel overseas with your pet, whether by sea or by air, here are some things to consider.

1. Keep your vaccinations up-to-date and recorded by a veterinarian that is certified by the U.S. Department of Agriculture or the Canadian Customs and Border Services/Canadian Food Inspection Agency. This is also handy for re-entry into your home country.

2. Months before your scheduled arrival, check the specific regulations of the country you are entering. You might even consider printing off those regulations (in the native language) and having them handy when you are at the border as there are times when even the guards can be unfamiliar with their own rules. For a list of regulations and necessary pet documents by country, visit here.

3. If your pet doesn’t already have one, get a microchip implanted with current information. We were asked about this both in Barcelona and upon our arrival at the Miami airport.

4. When purchasing airline tickets, be sure to book a spot in cargo for your pet. Many airlines only have space for a few pets, so don’t assume you can arrive and buy space when you check in. If your dog is less than 25 pounds, some airlines will let you take your pet into the cabin as a carry-on. We did this on a short flight from Palma, Mallorca to Madrid and let’s just say it was an adventure.

5. Check to see if the airline has rules for the dimensions of the crate your pet will be traveling in. You will need to have a clip-on bowl inside the crate where water and food can be placed.

Underway

Although I was initially concerned about traveling with a dog on board, I can’t imagine life without our little Skipper. He’s never gotten seasick and although not yappy he will occasionally bark if a stranger approaches, providing some initial security. He would only maul an intruder with love after that. It is interesting to note that despite being a sea dog all his life, he remains afraid of the water. And that contract the kids wrote up? The one signed in blood assuring me that I would NEVER have to help out with a dog? It’s conveniently disappeared. I’d look for it, but I have to feed Skipper.

walking home from the beach

“Living on earth may be expensive, but it includes an annual free trip around the sun.”  Anon

After traveling for five years, it has been good, if not a tad strange, to have stayed in one place for a whole year. We’ve met neighbors, made friends, explored the community and sent down thread-like roots into the fertile Florida soil. I’m sure one day the gypsy in me will wake up and start pointing out destinations unknown on a nautical chart, nudging me in the ribs, but for now I am content thinking that every day is an interior pilgrimage. I wake up thinking: mulligan. Do over. Fresh start. And it is so good—never have I been so grateful for the daily re-do. And just to make sure I don’t forget to be grateful, I move heaven and earth (my fragile morning mental state and this creaking body) up and out of the cockpit to walk the beach each morning. Grabbing my ipod, I spin the dial to something classical, Bocelli, The Mission soundtrack or Libera (no Proclaimers, Eagles, or even the Beatles at that hour– I must ease myself into the day) breathe in my mantra—or find some quote to chew on—and down the dock I go.

And I like to meditate on decent quotes while I walk, at least the ones that are succinct, pithy, or humorous. Descriptive not prescriptive. Good quotes are, after all, just a throwback to the still esteemed haiku begun over 400 years ago in Japan. So here are some pictures from my walkabout the other morning, along with some quotes. Enjoy.

(Note: I am a complete amateur photographer. I know nothing. I own a little point and shoot Lumix of which a professional photographer friend of mine said, and I quote, “was pretty decent if you’re a blockhead.” Here, I raise my hand. I owe a debt to thepioneerwoman.com who has gorgeous pics and even a photography tutorial on her blog and also waltzinginperdition.com.  Todd Clary I met just briefly on facebook, but I’ve been following his blog.  He is an author and takes wonderful pics of my home state of Colorado. Both are inspiring me in my blockhead photographic endeavors).

mulligan

“Every one of us is called upon, probably many times, to start a new life. A frightening diagnosis, a marriage, a move, loss of a job or a loved one, a graduation, bringing a new baby home: it’s impossible to think at first how all this will be possible. Eventually, what moves it all forward is the subterranean ebb and flow of being alive among the living.” Barbara Kingsolver

breathing

“Learn to get in touch with the silence inside yourself.”  Elizabeth Kubler Ross

Crab having lost its claws

“Some old native traditions say that no man is an adult until he has become opened to the soul and spirit world, and they say that such an opening is done by a wound in the right place at the right time, in the right company. Such a wound allows the spirit or soul to enter the body.”  Robert Bly Iron John: a book about men.

Washed up high-heeled boot

“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.”   Albert Einstein

“I have lived a long life and had many troubles; most of which never happened.” Mark Twain

“The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.”  Marcus Aurelius

“We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch – we are going back from whence we came.”       JFK

“As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world, a certain sense of beautiful mystery seems to gather and grow.”   Arthur Christopher Benson

Home again to Chrysalis at the end of the dock

“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” Maya Angelou

Tapas Bar in Downtown Barcelona

When we cruised Chrysalis into Port Forum Marina in Barcelona, Spain, I didn’t know what to expect gastronomically. I had done a little reading and I knew that Barcelona was an artsy city, full of great restaurants. I was vaguely familiar with paella; that lovely rice, tomato and seafood dish. I knew I liked Mexican food– American style–browned ground beef with taco seasoning that you buy in a packet at the store and served up in a crunchy corn shell. I figured: Latin schmatin, it’s all the same, right? Interestingly enough, there are similar influences in both Mexican and Spanish cooking, but of course each country has its own distinct flavors and dishes, regional influences, and learning about the things that make them unique only confirms the appetizing benefits of travel.

So, here is today’s premise:  if you were suddenly teleported, a la Star Trek, and found yourself sitting in an indistinguishable restaurant somewhere, here are four unique signs, that when grouped together, would indicate that you were eating in Spain:

#1   You’re eating dinner at 9:30 PM. At the earliest. That’s right, don’t even bother, as we did, to try and find a restaurant open before 8:30. The night of our arrival into port we didn’t know this. We walked the downtown streets at 7:30 and found everything closed, the streets deserted and not a soul around. We figured the rapture had occurred and we had been left (quite surprising!) along with a few stragglers in the street and now had only one open restaurant available to us: The Wild West American Café. (aka Hell)  Hungry, we went inside and briefly chatted with a large family from Idaho eating cheeseburgers and fries. Good grief, we thought, fire and brimstone would be preferable to cheeseburgers in Spain!  We wandered around for about an hour before a decent joint opened up. We were the first to be seated.

Hip Spanish families never venture out to dinner before 9 PM and then they do it with style—dressed to the nine’s in their European chicest. And even with kids in tow late into the night, the meals are leisurely and drawn out. You won’t find folks waving down their server and demanding the check, something I’ve been known to do from time to time. When I described all this to a health conscious sports fanatic friend back home she said, “Well, that’s about the most unhealthy thing I’ve ever heard of!”

“Whys that?” I asked.

“Can you imagine getting home and going to bed at midnight after eating a huge meal? It would totally turn to fat!”

She had a point– but here’s the mystery: hardly anyone is overweight there.

#2  You’re eating tapas. Tapas aren’t hors d’oeuvres. Don’t even think of calling them appetizers. They’re a culture. A way of life. I’m telling you. The word tapa means “lid” in Spanish and comes from the days when barkeeps would place a small plate on top of a filled wineglass or jug of wine to keep dust and bugs from messing up your beverage, and of course you couldn’t just have an empty plate sitting around. There had to be a little something on this plate: nuts, ham and cheese, bread with olive oil or tomato sauce. Everyone loved it so much that today it’s gotten deliciously out of hand. Ranging from simple chunks of salty sweet jamon Iberico, to slices of bread with grilled asparagus topped with an oozy soft boiled quails egg, or a wedge of Spanish chorizo tortilla, and finally perhaps some rolled pimento peppers stuffed with tuna. If you are one of those types, as I am, who enjoys grazing on wave after wave of exquisite small bites then Spain is your kind of country.

#3  You’re eating paella. Although native Spaniards might disagree, paella does seem to be the national dish. It was on every menu but varied a great deal in quality. Believed to have originated in Valencia in the mid 19^th century, this rice dish typically has tomatoes and vegetables: beans, peas, onions, artichokes and garlic—all sautéed in fruity olive oil, then sprinkled with saffron. The region you happen to be dining in might determine the kind of meat that will turn up in your paella. Valencian paella usually has one or more of the following: duck, rabbit, chicken, and sometimes snails.  Paella de marisco or seafood paella, often found on the coast, has no meat only seafood: shrimp, mussels, or squid. Paella mixta is, as you are thinking, a mixed bag. More clues in your teleporting adventure.

We tried several plates of paella throughout our time there and I have to say, the dish didn’t teleport our taste buds anywhere mind blowing. Here is where I’m going to be honest and fess up (twist my arm) to the fact that Mike and the kids tell me they like my version of paella better, but I am very unconventional and sprinkle feta cheese on top of mine (now hearing thousands of Spaniards gasp). It is SO American to want to sprinkle cheese on everything. I make no apologies.

#4  You’re drinking sangria. If paella is the national dish, then sangria is the drink. Oh sure they have barrels of other wonderful wine (the sherry, oh the sherry), but sangria is on every menu. It is made with a bottle of fruity red wine like Grenache, Rioja, Shiraz, Beaujolais, into which fruit is dumped—whatever you like—apples, pears, melons, oranges, grapes, peaches, berries, even pineapple. Then a sweetener is added, honey, sugar, orange juice or other fruit nectar and after that some brandy, triple sec, or other stiff stuff. Rarely, some carbonated soda will be splashed in, but we never had it fizzy in Spain. It is always served chilled.

At first I kind of turned up my nose at sangria. I thought it peasant juice or tourist swill for the uninformed, undertrained oenophile (oh wait, that’s me…moving on). But it sort of gets under your tongue and does this little happy dance and right after that you get to bite into juicy bits of wine infused fruit, so I converted and started ordering it all the time. Now back in Florida, the summers are so hot, too hot in our opinion for a robust room temp cabernet, that we have shunned the darker grape and have been missing it—but voila! Now we can have our red in the form of cool, fruity sangria and everyone is happy. Even Mike, who originally found sangria to be a “girly drink” loves it.  In the recipe I am providing below, I use cherry brandy. I have never seen a recipe where cherry brandy is used, but it further adds to the fruit flavor.

Sangria

1 (750) ml bottle red wine

½ cup orange juice

½ of a large orange, sliced and halved

1 apple or peach cut into chunks

A handful of berries (strawberries, blueberries, or blackberries)

¼ – ½ cup of sugar – depending on how sweet you like it

½ cup water or carbonated lemon/lime soda

¼ – ½ cup cherry brandy

¼ – ½ cup triple sec or Cointreau

Mix well and chill.

Last week I ended up at the doctor’s office and was diagnosed with a kidney infection that subsequently knocked me off my feet for a week. I was in just enough pain so as to be stuck in bed but not enough to warrant any little white pills that would keep boredom at bay with vivid hallucinations.  Luckily, just the day before I had done my weekly stop at the local library so had a decent stash of books to keep me occupied. Between that and my computer I rode out my infirmity with little inconvenience. When Mike, aka nurse Ratchet, saw me typing away in bed, he asked what I was up to (I was supposed to be resting) and I told him, “research.”  This, by the way, is one of the great things about being a writer. “Research” can encompass just about any of the pastimes I love:  spending the afternoon at Barnes and Noble with magazines, CD’s and a mocha: Research. A morning poking around the cookbook section of the library: Research.  Sitting on a bench along the beach: Research (I’m studying people for a novel. Right.)  Meandering around museums: Periodical Research—sounds very important.  Large prix fixe meal at local five star restaurant…hmmm, enter the dream of doing research as a food critic.

Here’s what my research pulled up last week: several author youtube vids and some good quotes and discussion on the writing/creative process.

“Jack London was rejected 600 times before he was published. May seem depressing, but it gives a certain amount of encouragement! ” (librarything.com)

(from editorialass.blogspot.com) “In 1997, a first novel was published very quietly by a literary press. The first print run was 1,000 copies, smaller by a third than the average modest reprint of another book, and the trade would only take half those copies–the other half went to libraries, where, presumably, they can still be found today. In other words, stores weren’t even willing to take the risk of stocking this book, even on a returnable basis. The publisher must not have had very high hopes–printing 1,000 copies is so modest most publishers would not have bothered to put the book in print at all, since their gross earnings would be so minor (or negative). But they did. The name of the book? You might have heard of it. It was called Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.”

I came across a good little discussion at librarything.com on traditional vs. self publishing. It interests me because had I not gotten picked up by a publisher, I was prepared to self publish with the likes of Amazon or Lulu. Now that I am sufficiently down the traditional route, I am glad I pursued it. In the business (bookstores, publishers, distributers) there seems to still be a great deal of stigma associated with the self-pub industry.  After talking with a buyer at Barnes and Noble recently, it became clear that, with the rare exception, self-pubbed books won’t be on their shelves any time soon. The frustrating thing for us writers is that, especially in this economy, competition for agents and publishers seems insurmountably high. The general consensus: be patient and keep trying.  Here are some good comments from the panel:   (visit  here for the complete discussion)

“I know that if you are a marketing and writing genius, self publishing can work – but I’ve been doing this too long to not have a good, educated opinion. I would rather tell people the truth about what I think than tell them sunshine and roses and have them blow their careers over a vanity press. It’s not worth it. Americans have this egocentric, buy-it-now, kind of attitude that makes them think they don’t have to work for years at a craft before getting published. That’s why the self-publishing market has exploded. That’s also why so many Americans are tens of thousands of dollars into credit card debt. Look at the back of your favorite author’s book – the picture is probably of someone in their late forties at the earliest. Writing is like art – it takes practice and patience. Publishing is the same way – we get rejected a lot before we score the big one. We have to learn about query letters and the publishing process and how to avoid scams…I would encourage anyone to give ten years of their life to trying to publish through a traditional publisher and perfecting their craft rather than take the easy way out and self-publish.”

“I’ve had the self-published/vanity press vs. “traditional” publisher debate a number of times. Self-publishing seems to work best for niche non-fiction. A family memoir, a manual on customizing your TR-6 convertible (if you’re an expert), and so on. Most successful self-publishers also seem to have a platform for pushing their book. I did a signing with one author who was a motivational speaker, and had self-published a book which she could sell at her speaking engagements. With fiction, it’s generally not a good way to go if you’re interested in getting the book out there to a lot of readers. If all you want is to hold a copy of your book and show it to your friends and family, then self-publishing is certainly faster than submitting to the big publishers. A few of the things my own publisher did for me as a part of the deal:
-Paid me a nice advance
-Hired a professional artist to design my covers
-Had an editor talk to me about strengthening the story and fixing any goofs I had missed
-Hired a proofreader and a copyeditor to review the text
-Sent review copies to reviewers and authors and anyone else who might be able to help promote the book
-Distributed the book into bookstores across the country
-Put me in touch with their in-house publicist, who continues to send out copies at my request, helps coordinate my booksignings, and passes along suggestions and advice

These are all things you’ll be doing on your own as a self-published author. I’m not trying to say nobody should ever do it, but I think it’s important to know what you’re getting into. Particularly the distribution piece. The fact that my book is physically on the shelves at bookstores is huge.”

My response to the above: even if you do get published “traditionally” you’ll likely be doing a fair bit of work, especially PR, on your own anyway. And finally this from Steven Pressfield author of the inspiring book for any artist-The War of Art

“Procrastination is the most common manifestation of Resistance because it’s the easiest to rationalize. We don’t tell ourselves, “I’m never going to write a symphony.” Instead we say, “I am going to write a symphony; I’m just going to start tomorrow.”

“There’s a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don’t, and the secret is this:  It’s not the writing part that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write.”

It started out as any normal Sunday…..

(and of course any piece that begins this way never ends this way)

I woke early, as is my custom, but instead of dallying over books and coffee, I took Stefan down to Boca for his lifeguarding class which began at the unthinkable (for Stefan) hour of 8am. Let me tell you, there are no people on the road on a Sunday morning at 7:30 am. I could have driven down the wrong side of Palmetto Ave and no one would have given a hoot. I take that back. We did see several cops, hiding strategically in order to catch all the ne’er do well Christians driving too fast down the deserted avenues because they were running late for the early service. Been there. I returned home and Mike and I packed up our computers and went to Cracker Barrel Old Country Store and Restaurant (I know, I know, let the hootenannies begin). As we perused the menu, whose entrees were large enough to feed a small country, Mike started looking up calorie listings on his phone and after reading off several Cracker Barrel breakfast plates and finding them to be well over 1200 calories, we were VERY disciplined and each ordered only 2 eggs, sausage and toast. We congratulated ourselves by dumping a couple of extra half-n-half doohickeys into our coffee.

We spent the morning working, laughing and chatting and had a lovely time even though our waitress kept walking by with these HUGE platters of food complete with grits and biscuits with sausage gravy, and “Oh good lord almighty! Was that a side of beef on that plate?” I asked Mike as she sashayed by. Our meals arrived on plates that could have been mistaken for something off the kiddie menu. This is what happens when you are over 40 and have had one too many Country Boy Breakfasts (“just loosen your belt, Herschel..” reads the menu).  On our way out, I had to poke around the Country Store. I don’t think I’ve ever bought anything, but for some reason looking at tacky cow creamers that actually “moo” and mint-green sweatshirts that say “I’m a little bit country” always makes me nostalgic for something I can’t quite put my finger on. Mike tags along so he can call out to me from across the store while holding up the latest Hee-Haw DVD, saying, “check this out! Saaalute!”

By the time we got out of there, it was after noon. Our spirits were high and if I’m honest, there had been a fair bit of flirting going on over our four eggs, sunny side up. Lookit, I tell Stefan when he says, “geez guys get a room,” we may have been married 22 years but we aren’t dead. Once he replied, “Being dead might be better than having to watch you two kiss.” We pulled into the marina parking lot and I told Mike, “Let’s clean-up the boat this afternoon,” to which he heartily agreed. It had been disaster for days. As we approached the dock, I saw two policemen, one talking on a cell phone and one putting up yellow crime scene tape. Descending the steps, I noticed, without comprehending, that one of them was wearing a light blue polo shirt with the words “Crime Scene Investigator.”

“I bet a boat got broken into,” I said to Mike over my shoulder. A few houses in our neighborhood had been robbed recently. Our jovial mood slid somber, like a decrescendo.

“What happened? Did a boat get broken into?” I asked the officer.

“Nope,” said the CSI, he paused to look at me before pointing into the water at our feet, “that happened.”

There, in the water, was a man’s body floating face down.

I have experienced that moment when death broadsides you in the middle of a normal day, when you are just going about your business: cleaning, gardening, laughing at some joke your husband made, and afterwards I always tell myself it would be helpful if I could somehow be prepared for the next time death explodes on my day. Perpetually expect the unexpected. But I always forget. Always. And so the intrusion of death in my otherwise normal existence continues to shock me. I wonder, though, if is is even healthy to always be on the look-out for tragedy.

“What…?” I said to the policeman, but stopped short. I didn’t even know exactly what I wanted to ask.

“Where did he come from,” Mike asked the CSI.

“We believe he is your neighbor from the next dock over. If it is him, and we still need to confirm that, then he went missing after a cocktail party at the marina Friday night. He likely fell into the water trying to board his boat.”

A few more words were said and then Mike and I made our way down the dock in silence. We had met our neighbor once, but didn’t know him, so our shock was only the instinctual kind. The kick in your gut reminder of how fragile life is, followed closely by feelings of sympathy for his family who had yet to find out.  One minute you are eating two eggs and sausage or laughing at a cocktail party, and the next you are gone.  What do we make of this? Mathematician turned theologian Blaise Pascal said essentially that we fill our lives up with activity, any diversion at all, so that we don’t have to be reminded of our own mortality. No easy answers coupled with the great unknown makes us squirm.

Conversely, Saint Benedict, in his rule, coached his followers to “keep death daily before your eyes.” I certainly have no wish to continue to remember that body in the water and I am sure that isn’t what Benedict had in mind, either. Still, I have thought a lot this week about our neighbor’s unexpected death. I think that Benedict was reminding his followers to keep things in perspective: our work, our family, the way we spend our free time. In light of life’s fragility, are we spending our moments on what is most valuable? It is always a tug of war in my brain: the more people/things I value in my life, the more I am afraid of losing them. The trick, I think, is to still value those people we hold dear, loving them with passion, while at the same time learning to release them when necessary. Life offers us practice in smaller daily doses: letting go of harmful albeit cherished habits (a death of sorts), forgiveness, apology, the need to be correct, divorce, losing a job. All are versions of letting go. We die a little with the hope that we might live again.

We humans love to look for a moral to the story. We want some meaning. I’m not so sure this is a bad thing, even when meaning is in short supply. I can only say that this week I hugged Stefan and Mike with intention and was a little more conscious of the joy and satisfaction I felt in the simple work I performed. I sat down, with gratitude, to eat an evening meal. Breathed deeply the salt air. In death, I was prompted to choose life. And in the absence of definitive answers to many of our questions, perhaps that is enough. Maybe this is what it means to “perpetually expect the unexpected.”

“In every spiritual tradition life is not something that you automatically have, it is something that you must choose, and what makes you choose life is the challenge of death.”

Brother David Steindl-Rast O.S.B. at gratefulness.org

Wide expanse in the middle of the Atantic between Florida and Bermuda

Last week a box from my publisher arrived at the marina office.  Although I was expecting the arrival of galleys or “advanced reader copies” (known as “arcs” in the biz—copies of a book that are printed several months ahead of the release date so that reviewers have a chance to take a look) I had been uncertain as to what to expect. Would the book be bound in cardboard with a stick figure drawing on the front? Would I like it? I cut open the tape on the box and pulled out a paperback. Lo and behold it looked just like a REAL book–no stick drawing here. I opened it and there were my words bound and in print. As I fanned through the pages, I wondered how I could have so many words to say and yet none to describe the moment I was in. How do you summarize the emotion of completing a dream that began while reading “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,” back in the 4^th grade?

That night I was on Facebook chatting live with a friend across the country, and when I told her the news about the arcs, she wrote, “Wow, that’s so exciting! What will you do now that you’ve accomplished the dream of publishing a book?”  Her question caught me off guard. Huh… Good question. Geez, what was I going to do? Where was my life going now? Was it all downhill from here on out? Maybe it was…And as so often happens after experiencing the high of accomplishing a large goal, I seeped into a comfy bit of melancholy later assisted by a terry cloth bathrobe and a tub of cherry vanilla ice cream.

A few years ago I visited Ellis Island, the old immigrant point of entry in New York City, and it became clear to me that America had been built on the backs of those who had big dreams. Along with thousands of others, I am here today because of European ancestors who had a dream and decided to take a risk, crossing an ocean with meager possessions, to accomplish it. The very idea of having a dream is hardwired into my American psyche, revealing itself in my to-do lists, mission statements, and quarterly goal setting/planning weekends. I can’t begin to tell you how gratifying it is to do all this vision casting, not to mention all the robust feelings of gratification it generates, without me having to actually achieve anything at all. Let’s face it, there’s nothing better than routine, mindless, busyness to make you feel like you are accomplishing a great deal in the areas that matter least in your life.

Thinking back, the only time I lost the ability to dream was after the death of our daughter and subsequent visits to a couple of third world countries. For a long time afterwards I found it impossible to dream, suffering, I suppose, from a version of survivor’s guilt and the thought of “what does it matter anyway?” I existed in a mild state of acedia, a willful lethargy, listlessness, and general not caring attitude. I realized it was because I had no larger vision, but I couldn’t figure out how to allow myself to dream again.  I wished I could rub two wires together and jump start my own heart. Find some way to initiate spontaneous combustion.

Around that time I began to read several Christian mystics, Brother Lawrence, Teresa of Avila, Julian of Norwich, Thomas Merton, Kathleen Norris, Annie Dillard, and it occurred to me that the missing ingredient in my life was hope, hope being the fuel that ignites visions of the future. I also noticed there was a strong disconnect between myself and my outward circumstances. I had little knowledge of who I was and why I was participating in the main ingredients of my life: occupation, religion, lifestyle. Caught in a revolving door of activity, my situations dictated my responses rather than the opposite. I longed to, like the mystics, experience a deeper connection.

So, on the advice of many who had gone before me, I began spending time in silence and solitude. It seemed a simple starting point. My children were toddlers at the time and the days were stressful, full of poopy diapers and bumped heads. Despite routinely existing in a sleep deprived stupor, I would wake early for an hour alone. I am not a real “laying down the law” kind of person, but I decided if I accomplished nothing else in my day, it would be to keep this hour sacred. Almost immediately I found it to be a powerful, life-giving resource.  I settled down and started living consciously. I found that the things I worked through in that one morning hour began to seep into all the other hours in my day. I paid attention to what was going on in my soul and discovered that I was feeding and nurturing that part of me where hope begins to germinate and take root. In this fertile environment, fledgling dreams emerged and change was nurtured. The conscious effort to feed this part of my life generated an energy that left me with no alternative but to untie the lines and push away from shore.

Through the years this silent practice has taken different forms: prayer, reading, poetry, meditation, recitation of a mantra, walking. Many days Mike would walk with me. We would agree to travel together in silence for a mile or two before resuming our chats on the return trip. I was surprised to find that traveling with another in silence offered a different sort of deep conversation. Along the way, we tapped into a mysterious positive energy within ourselves, each other, God and the beauty of the world around us. In a society full of noise and distraction, silence and solitude became the most important part of our day. Now, when I become disoriented, listless in spirit, I know it is because I have neglected tending my own soul.

And this is one of the great things about getting older. The morning after my tub of cherry vanilla, I knew what I needed, and for a number of reasons, it wasn’t more ice cream. What I needed was the wide expanse of space within my own spirit. Time and quiet to sort things out. After a few early mornings of walking the beach, a new vision began to form. The old, as wonderful or difficult as it might have been, had passed and I was moving forward again.

“In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.”  Mahatma Gandhi