#girlonawirekcw

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CARE

Has it really been little more than a week since we took to the streets, positivity and pink pussy hats powering peaceful protests the world over?

It’s been a week designed to weary, and I know many friends are feeling sadness and anger and everything in between.

Outrage, however, is not a sustainable state of being, not for the sane. Negative emotions, no matter how justifiable, take their toll. They weaken our ability to be of use in difficult times.

Loren Swift, author of the forthcoming book From Me to We: Waking the Heart of Humanity, agrees.

“The greatest toll on our well-being can come from a sense of overwhelm and helplessness to be as effective as we’d like to be,” she says.

I reached out to her and to others—activists and self-care experts—for some guidance on maintaining balance while working toward the kind of world we’d like to see.

Julianna Ricci, Amazon bestselling author of The Power of Practice, offered this powerful thought for those of us who feel guilty taking the time for self-care while our world is suffering:

Imagine we are each a well. Every day we give buckets of water to those around us: our families, our jobs, our communities. And if we're honest, most of us were already running on fumes – our wells were pretty near empty. And now we are asking ourselves to give even more. If we are to do this, we must decide to replenish our water supply. We do that by making the time for things that fill us up.

And here I issue an important warning. You will likely come up against a block that looks akin to this: "don't be so selfish!" It will hurt, and you will want to turn away. But hear this: without filling your well, you have nothing left to give. And we – the collective we – can't afford to lose you. We need every single one of us to move past the "selfish" block, to prioritize filling our own wells, and to keep moving forward. Filling our well is, in this light, the most self-less thing you can do.

It’s a lesson Rachel Thompson, author of the award-winning Broken Pieces, knows all too well. As a survivor of sexual abuse and rape and an activist on behalf of others, she’s learned that in order to be of service, she has to set boundaries and treat herself with care.

Never has this been more crucial than in this era of grab-em-by-the-pussy politics.

“It's important as an activist and advocate to remember that I'm survivor also, and while I'm rarely triggered, I'm not immune,” Rachel explains.

A couple of the boundaries she’s set can be especially helpful in the age of social media and constant contact.

“Block trolls immediately,” she advises, “and walk away from frustrating conversations online—come back to it if you feel it’s important; if it’s some random person, let it go. Move on.”

Indeed. The online vortex can be all-consuming, and click-bait headlines are rarely positive.

It can be difficult to maintain focus on all the progress we have made toward a kinder, more inclusive world, or the greater goals at stake. But keeping our eyes on that prize is key.

Otherwise, what on earth are we fighting for?

And as Loren Swift wisely counseled me:

“Spend energy not so much on fighting what is not working as celebrating the vision and beauty of what we are working towards. We do not know what the outcomes of our actions and intentions will be. We only know what we can do and how much we can love right now.”

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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FORCE

A lot has been said about Saturday’s women’s marches—I don’t feel the need to rehash it all here.

I do, however, feel the need to say how grateful I was to participate in the Women’s March on Sacramento.

Here’s why:

Last week, I mentioned my history as a survivor of sexual abuse and rape, and the way it has affected my subconscious perception of the world. I sometimes react to things in a way that is completely disconnected from what is actually happening—and more often than not, I can trace that disconnect to those traumatic events.

Thanks to lots of therapy, the passage of time, and the friendship of countless good men, my daily, conscious life is a story of love, not trauma.

It’s one of those things that feels like just another fact of my being:

I have blue eyes, I love dogs, I know nothing about football, and I survived some shitty events perpetrated by shitty people.

Those shitty events aside, being female hasn’t felt especially burdensome to me. I’ve been fortunate enough to have good jobs and the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want.

But…

Whether traveling solo, running after dark, or asking for a raise, pretty much whatever I’ve done, I’ve done with the nagging feeling that it’s all a little nervy of me.

That this world is not quite built for the safety or success of females.

That I need to make an extra effort to clear hurdles that simply don’t exist for men.

And yet, I wouldn’t say I’ve worried about it. I could see all the progress women made in a relatively short period of time, and I felt certain that if we just pressed on, progress would continue.

Then came this mind-boggling Trump horrorshow.

I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that so gleefully ignorant a bully could rise to such levels even in ‘reality’ entertainment, much less in leadership. All the hateful lashing out—incidents which would have instantly sunk the careers of anyone else—seemed only to fuel this strange egomaniac’s continued rise.

What hit me the hardest, I think, was that so many people were willing to make excuses for inexcusable behavior.

They were willing to accept as President of the United States of America a man who bragged about forcing himself on women. They eagerly downplayed it as ‘locker room talk.’

And for the first time in my adult life, I felt every bit as afraid as I’d felt when I was victimized.

The failure of my fellow Americans to denounce a racist, misogynist, predatory bully made me wonder if my faith in humanity was misplaced.

When I marched on Saturday, however, I felt more encouraged than I have in a while. Seeing so many men, women, and children peacefully and joyfully gathered to advocate love over hate was salve for my aching heart.

There was so much positive energy.

So much hope in the face of uncertainty.

So much resolve to stand in defense of the most vulnerable among us.

The next day, I scrolled through news images and realized how very many people had turned out worldwide in support of a hopeful and inclusive vision of the future.

It may be difficult to remember when hateful words, jeering comments, and a dim, dark view of our nation are thrust in our faces, but I truly believe WE THE PEOPLE who want peace, love, and kindness for ourselves and ALL our neighbors—we are in the majority.

Whether on a personal or a global level, we all struggle to move beyond shitty events perpetrated by shitty people.

But if we keep the faith, I think we will find what I have found to be true.

Love will win.

It is the greater force.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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POODLICIOUS

In my mind, this odd little slice of my life runs on a loop:

I am dancing around the kitchen with a black and white miniature poodle. He dances on his hind legs, all people-like, and I sing various made-up songs. Like ‘Poodlicious’—to the tune of ‘Fergalicious,’ of course, with lyrics about how Kimba makes all the girl-dogs go loco.

That poodle goes wild. He chirps, and—I swear—he smiles.

The musical repertoire varied, but for a number of years, this scene was the norm as I put on the coffee and made breakfast each morning. I had somehow become a crazy little-dog lady, and my dances with Kimba put a smile on my own face even in the worst of times.

Our pairing was as unlikely as the bond we ultimately formed.

I grew up with large dogs: German Shepherds, Rottweilers, Newfoundlands. I had nothing against small dogs. I just tended to prefer the big, slobbery, heavily-shedding dogs I’d known all my life.

But because of my (now ex) husband’s allergies, those big, slobbery, heavily-shedding dogs weren’t an option. After some research, we ended up with first a Bichon Frise—Harry, who quickly chose my ex as his favorite human on earth—and Kimba, the miniature parti poodle who became my shadow.

Kimba arrived with a serious case of separation anxiety. Or maybe more accurately, everything anxiety. He was constantly between my feet. Noises and sudden movement sent him into a tailspin. He was so terrified in the car, he shook uncontrollably, frothing at the mouth until he looked like a tiny parti-poodle version of Cujo.

In a way, Kimba’s anxieties were a godsend for me. I was dealing with anxiety of my own, and working with Kimba on his issues proved to be therapy for both of us. We spent countless hours on training to alleviate his fears. In time, he learned to accept my comings and goings, and to so thoroughly enjoy car rides, I couldn’t pick up the keys without him going wild with excitement.

I’d say to him each day: Kimba, you are a brave, independent poodle. You are descended from wolves. Never forget that.

It started as a sort of joke. Who could look at a fluffy little poodle and do anything but marvel at the genetic acrobatics it had taken to create such a creature?

But Kimba took in the words with solemn understanding, and as I watched him grow braver and more adventurous, I wondered if maybe something wolf-like remains in the heart of even the smallest dogs.

Over the years, Kimba earned the nickname The Peace Poodle. He loved everyone he met: people, other dogs, cats, rabbits—you name it. Kids were his favorite. Heck, everyone and everything was his favorite. It was a joke that made it onto our Christmas card just a few weeks ago.

And sure, that level of enthusiasm for life is the hallmark of dogs as a species. One of the things I came to love about Kimba, though, was that he also had a quieter, more serious side.

He seemed downright introspective at times, and he often needed his space in a way that felt more cat-like than canine. He would snuggle up at bed time, but then disappear during the night, choosing to sleep solo on the sofa or in his dog bed by the fire.

Kimba also seemed to instinctively understand how to behave in various environments. He came with me on writing retreats, and was appropriately mellow.

(Well, with the exception of one chicken-chasing incident - which, I maintain, was entirely the fault of the chicken.)

When I was going through my divorce, I brought Kimba to some of my therapy sessions. The first time he came with me, Kimba stood on his hind legs to greet my therapist with a paw-shake. He gave the room a once-over, then hopped up onto the sofa and sat at attention, head tipped, waiting for the session to begin.

The therapist laughed, then said to me, “You do realize that’s not a dog you’ve got there, right? That is an old, old soul in a doggie suit.”

Indeed.

Daily, Kimba would hop onto my lap and I would smooth his ears back and tell him: You are sweetness and light in a poodle suit. Then he would hop back down and go about his business—most of which involved sharing that sweetness and light with the world.

My tendency to rescue animals with disabilities or provide hospice care for those at the end of their lives was something Kimba not only tolerated, but welcomed. He was a natural at being a calming influence. It was almost as if serving other animals was as soothing to Kimba as helping him with his anxiety had alleviated my own.

Only one dog was impervious to Kimba’s charm.

(A few chomps later, we decided Chopper was not best-placed with us.)

When Tiny Tim, the paralyzed Rottweiler, came home with us for his final hours, Kimba lay with me and Tim on the floor all night. He curled up on a pillow by Tiny Tim’s head—which was nearly as big as Kimba’s whole body—and every so often, he would touch his nose to Tim’s. I would hear Tim’s gentle exhale and know Kimba was working his Peace Poodle magic.

He brought so much joy to everyone he met, doing his silly poodle-dance or running in wild circles on the dog beach or tipping his nose at the sunroof and enjoying the wind in his ears on one of our many road trips.

He enthusiastically hiked trails everywhere from New England to California. He reveled in getting filthy, then stoically tolerated being washed in the sink or fully re-poodled at the groomer’s.

Kimba’s sudden passing the morning after Christmas is a thing that will haunt me forever. An open door, a moving car, and a moment’s inattention resulted in a terrible accident with an un-fixable outcome. It is small comfort to me that Kimba was in my arms as he passed.

My brave, independent poodle.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to have Kimba back with me. Those who have loved animals understand. They each hold a special place in your heart, yet with some there is just a deeper connection than with others.

Kimba was my little soul-poodle. There is an ache in his absence, and that weird wishful thinking that follows a death: clearly a mistake has been made, and if I can just appeal to the right god, all will be set right again.

As many friends have reminded me lately, the pain I feel right now is not for Kimba. Wherever Kimba is right now, in whatever form, he is not in pain. The sorrow I am experiencing is because his presence in my life was so great, his absence has left a tremendous void.

I used to joke that my primary relationship was with a 12-lb. poodle who loved to spoon.

No joke, really.

Now, as I write this, I have the tiniest dog imaginable at my side.

Mighty Little Max came to me and Kimba just a little over a year ago. His human had passed away and he was failing to thrive. Given his age and overall condition, the animal rescue was going to euthanize him. Kimba and I welcomed Max with the expectation that he might not have long to live.

Ha!

Max rallied big time, becoming Kimba’s enthusiastic little sidekick. I began referring to him as The Doglet Who Lived.

That Max is still here and Kimba is gone seems strangely ironic to me. But that’s how life goes, isn’t it? None of us knows how long we have. The biggest changes in our lives often come down to the smallest moments.

And yet.

Yet...

Mighty Little Max has kept close to my side since Kimba’s passing, and I’ve noticed something.

This 2.7 lb. scrap of a dog has picked up some of Kimba’s mannerisms. Kimba showed him the ropes, and I am certain Max is thriving today because of it. He comes to me each morning after breakfast. I ask him how his meal was, and he high-fives me, putting his tiny paw to my forefinger.

But now, I add: You are a brave, independent chihuahua. You are descended from wolves. Never forget that.

Mighty Little Max takes in the words with solemn understanding.

And somewhere deep within me, I know Kimba’s sweetness and light go on.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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THANKS

So, today is launch day for Fifty Ways to Make a Family, the sequel to Fifty Ways to Leave Your Husband.

This book had more false starts than I can count.  It truly might never have seen the light of day if not for the incredible journey I undertook this past year with the support of so many.

A wholehearted thank you is due…

To Julianna Ricci, whose coaching sent me off on the adventure of a lifetime.

To Ron Kohn, who introduced me to paragliding more than a decade ago, and kept both me and the love of it alive long enough for this story to emerge.

To Jeff Kelley: our connection alone was worth the journey to Humboldt.  In wind and rain and occasionally kinder weather, we walked and talked, and it turns out that sometimes a musician is exactly the kind of creative soul who most inspires a writer.  Never been done…but it will be.

To the ladies of Wednesday Girls’ Night Out, who instantly made me feel at home on the West Coast and gave me a sense of community—I cannot thank you enough.  To find a safe space where people truly do not judge is nothing short of a miracle.

To everyone at my favorite noon meeting, who welcomed me in at my lowest, raised me up higher than I imagined I could go while sober, and were there for the roller coaster ride all along.  Y’all impress the hell out of me, and I love you.  (A special shout-out to my road trip buddy Mike. xoxo)

To the thriving arts community in Humboldt: Director Roy King and everyone at Westhaven Center for the Arts, Bayley Brown at KHUM, the fabulous OLLI community at HSU, Lauraine and Jack at Mad River Union, and so many more.  Considering all the creativity among the redwoods, it is no surprise to me that it was there that I was finally able to wrap this baby up.

To Steve and Karen and all my coworkers at Trinidad Bay Eatery and Gallery: thank you for the absolute best summer job ever.  You kept me well-fed and highly amused while leaving me the requisite mental energy for writing.  There cannot possibly be a harder-working, more dedicated group of people anywhere.  (Also: I apologize for nearly burning the place down with those forgotten cookies.  And if you didn’t already know about that…never mind…)

To my dear long-distance friend Brea Brown, whose talent and drive as an author inspires me, and whose wit and kindness have sustained me in some dark-night-of-the-soul moments these last few months.  Brea, I doubt you know how much your friendship means to me—so I’m putting you on notice here.  Thank you so much for everything.  Ditto for Martha Reynolds—I miss our coffee-and-conversation meetups, but I’m grateful we can stay connected through social media.

To Gary McCluskey, who has once again provided me with an AMAZING cover—and plenty of snarky, irreverent conversation about the, ahem, joy of being creative.

To my friends and family who made sure the anchor held fast back East while I went off on my Wild West adventure: I know how lucky I am to have you in my corner.

To my sister Kristen McDonough—an extra debt of gratitude for your willingness to share your NICU experience, and to my delightful, vivacious niece Addie, thanks for serving as the inspiration for Hope.

To the research assistants at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute who steered me in the right direction for answers to some very difficult questions.

To my son Ryan, who has patiently weathered my ongoing midlife crisis and supported my growth as a person, even when he clearly thinks I am nuts.  You’re the best, Pokey, and you are indeed a grown-ass man.

And to Mario, whose kind, gentle heart makes me feel my faith in love is not misguided, and that telling tales of romance is not a foolish business.  That someone I respect so deeply champions my success is no small thing.  Thank you for all the adventures, from Lost Coast to Heart Lake and everywhere in between.  You are wacky, and that is good.

Here’s to many, many more adventures ahead.

Much love,

K.C.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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CLEAR

Holmes’ Law: What is perfectly clear to you…is perfectly clear to you.

I first saw that sentence on a chalkboard in high school.  And man, have I thought of it often since.

Some lessons, it seems, take a lifetime to sink in.

There I was the other day, sitting at a stop light behind a truck covered in bumper stickers so full of idiocy, misogyny, racism, and xenophobia, I just couldn’t wrap my head around it.

One of the stickers made me laugh, though:

Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.

Hello, irony?

Truth be told, I remain baffled by viewpoints that don’t mirror my own.  Mostly because — like pretty much all humans — I consider my viewpoints to be the correct ones.  You know, being that they’re mine and all.

Heck, I’ve had some of my views affirmed by an authority no less than the Supreme Court: women’s rights are good, racism is bad, the misery of marriage should be available to everyone, etc.

Being on the progressive side of history is an oddly deceptive thing.  It’s given me the idea that most people share my views on most things, which is a reassuring thought — but it’s not entirely accurate.

In last week’s post, I discussed the contrast between two spin classes I used to attend.  I took for granted that the instructor whose approach worked well for me was a good instructor, while the other instructor — whom I affectionately thought of as the Spin Nazi — was a very, very bad instructor.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that some of my fellow spinners felt just the opposite was true.

Potato, po-tah-to, I suppose.  It was spin class, not the future of the world.

But this election season — wow.  It’s been an excruciating process, an ongoing reminder that my views are far from the only ones.

That I continue to be surprised by this is, I think, a testament to the human inclination toward wishful and insular thinking.  I am a woman divorced from a guy so weirdly conservative, it was once Barack Obama’s fault that we ran out of vodka.  If anyone should understand that the world is full of all sorts, it’s me.

And yet…

It’s perfectly clear to me that if Jesus popped by tomorrow, he’d tell that guy driving the pickup truck covered in hateful bumper stickers:

Dude — you’re an asshole.

Somehow, though, I don’t suppose that’s what that guy was thinking when he slapped that sticker on his truck.

Lesson learned.

Take nothing for granted.  Be grateful when you find your people, and cozy up with them so you don’t lose your mind — but don’t forget that not everyone sees the world as you do.  

Because this guy is out there…

And his vote counts just as much as yours or mine.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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KISS

‘Let me take your picture.’

My friend Dar James and I were walking through the redwood forest at Prairie Creek, and we’d encountered a couple attempting a selfie among the massive trees. They gratefully accepted Dar’s offer.

She snapped one shot, then said, ‘Okay, now kiss!’

What happened then was one of the most charming moments I’ve had the pleasure of watching unfold. The couple — easily in their late thirties or early forties — giggled like children. Their previously-stiff posture dissolved into a series of fluid motions: a head turned and shaken, a hand rising to cup a mouth, a light touch of one arm to another.

‘You *are* together, right?’ Dar teased. ‘I told one couple to kiss once, and it turned out they weren’t actually a couple. Awkward!’

This couple’s laughter grew.

They leaned into one another, kissed with a sweet self-consciousness, and Dar snapped the photo.

They laughed again, then moved into another spot so Dar could take a picture from a different angle.

This time, thought, they leaned in toward each other easily. They were kissing before Dar even lifted the phone to take their photo.

It made me think of this beautiful project, Touching Strangers, where strangers were asked to pose for photographs as if they knew each other.

So quickly, we’d gone from being four strangers on a path in the forest to laughing and joking with the comfort of old friends. The couple’s kisses went from perfunctory to heartfelt, their embrace before the camera disarmed and uncontrived.

And then they went on their way, and Dar and I went on ours.

Maybe the whole thing felt especially nice to me because the story of my friendship with Dar is one of strangers connecting. We’ve been friends through social media for years, and have only actually met in person twice, each time far from our homes in the Northeast. We’ve worked together. We’ve weathered disagreements and misunderstandings. We’ve had the kind of deep, difficult conversations that are, to me, the soul of friendship.

When I left her at the tiny local airport here in northern California, there was lots of joking and laughter and planning for the next adventure.

Then she gave me a hug and a kiss, and we each continued on our journey.

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STAND

“When you deny the story, it owns you. When you own the story, you get to write the ending!”   -Brene Brown

Last week, I wrote about Kendra Holliday, a sex worker who impressed me with her proud approach to things usually left - if you’ll pardon the pun - in the dark.

What I didn’t mention was what appears to me to be a pivotal moment in Kendra’s story.

She lost her ‘day job’ because she was blogging about sex. At that point, she had a choice: accept the shame implicit in her firing and skulk off quietly, or stand up for every facet of who she is and what she does.

I love that she chose to stand up for herself and become more - never less - outspoken about the truth and entirety of her story.

Because here’s the thing: none of us can be boiled down to a single one of our experiences or jobs or relationships or hobbies or whatever.

None of us should be.

I have a past that includes some dark times I’d often like to disown: sexual abuse, rape, alcoholism, divorce. These are things that used to make me feel shame.

Slowly, I came to realize that the shame I felt was not deserved. That those who judged me for things beyond my control generally did so from a place of deep unhappiness in their own lives, and avoidance of the work it would take to change.

I’m not arguing for the sort of society so devoid of shame that it becomes an anarchistic, hedonistic thing where folks hurt others with impunity. If you’re, say, a child molester or a dog beater, I think you should feel shame. Enough that you crawl back into the primordial ooze from whence you came.

There’s also the more garden-variety sort of shame that serves as a compass and helps us become better people: the shame we feel when we’ve wronged a friend, or failed to meet an obligation, or just plain been an asshole while drinking (not that I’d know anything about that).

But punitive shame based on a different set of values?

If you’re somebody who is simply doing the best you can each day, you shouldn’t be subject to others’ judgment. You shouldn’t...but of course, in our world, others inevitably will judge.

At which point emulating a honey badger becomes the best option.

Because honey badgers just don’t give a fuck.

You might not feel inclined to overshare as I do in this blog, but you should never feel you have to deliberately hide any part of what has shaped you.

My dream for each of us is that we find a way to stand in our story so fully, our bliss guides us to exactly the ending we imagine in our wildest dreams.

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RUNAWAY REDUX

In January of this year, I posted about being a runaway.

Specifically, I moved four times in the two years following my divorce. The most recent move landed me here, among the redwoods on the northern California coast.

Fittingly, I arrived on New Year’s Day. Barely two weeks later, I wept as my son - with whom I’d made the cross country road trip - flew back East. In that moment, I felt painfully aware of how fully I’d set myself adrift.

That was the plan, of course. It wasn’t enough to know my marriage was wrong for me. Once I’d extricated myself, there was a yawning void to be filled. I had to figure out what was right for me.

There was within me a wanderlust that was an itch begging to be scratched, a sense that I had to explore enough of the world to choose my place in it, not just settle where I was because, well, that’s where I was.

And yes, there was also an element of escapism.

I wasn’t joking with that ‘RUNAWAY’ title. I had a helluva time letting go after my split. I knew geographical cures rarely succeed, but in Rhode Island, memories lurked around every corner. As much as I loved the place, it began to seem masochistic to stay.

So: this big adventure.

I’d intended to do a bit of a check in with y’all midyear, but, well…life.

We’re in the eighth month of 2016 now, and maybe that’s fitting. Both my marriage and my divorce took place in August. And either time or the geographical cure are working, because I might have forgotten that if not for Facebook Memories.

{Quick aside — when Facebook Memories debuted, I thought it was sadistic. Here’s your ex-husband! Your former dog! Your former home! Your dead father! Your dead friends! I began to feel Mark Zuckerberg should pay my therapy bill. But in time, a funny thing happened. I began to see those social-media memories as milestones of a different sort, markers of progress made in a relatively short time. So okay, Mr. Zuckerberg. You’re forgiven. Back to the blog…}

Some goals I mentioned in my January post:

• Shift to work that is entirely online-based, so I can take my employment with me anywhere. • Grow my writing business. • Travel. Explore. Expand my horizons. • Find a place - or places - to call home. Maybe nest in a boat or a tiny house. • Do all of the above without breaking the bank. Live simply and within my means.

Since then, I’ve:

• Quit my all-consuming corporate job and ‘retired’ from my former career. • Stopped coloring my hair. Embraced the silver earned in said former career. • Taken on new writing, editing, social media management, speaking, and teaching work — most of which is online. Oh, #FUCKYES • Used my location in northern California as a great home base for exploring the surrounding area. • Driven cross-country again. • Taken a job as a prep chef in a restaurant. (More expanded horizons!) • Fallen in love. (Horizons everywhere, baby!) • Cozied up in a tiny house. • Continued boat shopping. • Cut my living expenses in half. (Half! Apparently if you drive a VW instead of a BMW, and refrain from sucking down a bottle of Chardonnay nightly, you can save quite a bit. Who knew???) • Enjoyed adding new goals and projects to the ever-growing list.

So…

Maybe this runaway stuff is working.

Growth and movement feel inextricably connected in my life. Creative opportunities seem to keep finding me. And I keep finding out new things about myself — good, bad, and otherwise.

Work in progress here. Sometimes more work. Sometimes more progress.

More settled times lie ahead, I am sure. The feeling of home I once had in Snug Harbor is a wistful, distant memory, and as it fades behind me, the future opens more and more expansively.

We plan, things fall apart, then come together again.

And again.

And again.

This much is for certain: it’s been one hell of an amazing, challenging, beautiful, heartbreaking, heart-opening trip.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

“Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”  - Allen Saunders (Sorry — the Google gods tell me John Lennon borrowed it from him.)

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PATRIOT

Never thought I’d be blogging about a WWE wrestler, did you?

Neither did I, until I saw this video featuring John Cena (a guy I admittedly did not know existed until now):

Go ahead. Save the tab for later if you don’t have three minutes and thirty seconds to watch it now.

I believe it’s worth it, though experience has left me a little world-weary and sad, fearful that the folks who most need this message won’t ever open themselves to it.

‘To love America is to love all Americans.’

I believe that fully in my heart, but it’s a heckuva exercise in real life, isn’t it?

Despite my best efforts, I haven’t succeeded even in the sphere of my own close interpersonal relationships. Two shattered marriages, broken friendships, strained family ties — after a while it can seem impossible to both love openly and live honestly.

And yet, I think this video — simplistic though it may be — has it right. True patriotism requires that we love all citizens of our nation. Even the ones we find most difficult to love. Or perhaps especially those we find most difficult to love.

Because a nation does not exist without its people.

We do not exist without each other.

And maybe the unexpected gift of true patriotism is that it shows us how to better love those we hold dear in our own personal lives.

Happy Independence Day.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

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ORGANIC

It was never supposed to be all about me, this blog.

In fact, it was never supposed to be much of anything. A marketing tool. A way to connect with readers — and potential readers — of my fiction. A means of putting myself out there for the Google feelers to grab onto.

(Is it me, or does that last one sound kinda naughty?)

I started out talking about chick lit, since that was the genre of the novel I’d just released. I discussed shoes and shopping and marriage — and the reasons why discussing these things made me no more or less a feminist than anyone else. I tried to keep it all safely corralled in the vicinity of topics related to my fiction. Because, you know, I’d read up on this blogging business and learned that was the thing to do.

But have you met me?

“Safely corralled” is not a phrase that fits well with the story of my life. Entitling this blog, ‘Girl on a Wire’ was a deliberate — and appropriate — choice. But if there’s one thing I’ve figured out in the course of the tightrope act, it’s that learning things the hard way is exhausting. It’s exciting and makes for great stories, sure, but the fallout gets tougher to recover from with each passing year. I’ve learned I have to fine-tune the balancing act. Have a plan. And a backup plan. Say I’m mellowing if you must, but I’m living more from intention than by accident these days.

Which was sort of the point of changing the format of GOAW.

Over the years, I’ve had the pleasure and privilege of connecting with countless women living lives that might be termed ‘unconventional.’ To me, they just seem interesting. Creative. Adventurous. Steeped in stories. The sort of stories I love to tell. So I began, the intention being to tell the story of a different ‘Girl on a Wire’ each week.

Go ahead. Ask me.

How’s it going?

Well…

Remember New Coke?

(Yeah, I’m dating myself, but I’m taking the gamble that much of my readership is about my age. Otherwise, this is why God made Google.)

The feedback I’m getting on the new format is that it’s fine…but it’s just not me.

I’d have to agree.

Also, from where I sit, there are other issues: scheduling difficulties, cancelled interviews, interviewees who want only this portion or that of their story told. My journalist friends can have a chuckle at my expense — this has been a whole lotta real work for very limited results.

Of course, writing books (and blog posts, even) is real work, too. It’s not that I’m averse to rolling up my sleeves. It’s just that I’m not a journalist — and I don’t want to pretend to be one.

I’m good at telling my own story, and I’m good at telling the stories of the fictional characters who invite themselves into my brain. I think I could even be good at telling the stories of the badass women whose life paths intersect with mine. But interviewing and reporting weekly has turned out to be poor fit for me.

And here’s the thing: I love this joke…

But it’s not true.

My time on this planet is finite. At my age, I could be on either side of the hill — we never know, do we? And GOAW is but one of a slew of projects that need my attention right now. Just as I decided I didn’t have time to squander on corporate work that lacked meaning for me, I’ve realized I don’t have time to play journalist when what I really am is a storyteller.

So here’s the backup plan:

I’m going to resume blogging from the perspective I know best — my own. Sometimes that will mean the story is about me and my experiences, sometimes it will mean I’ve crossed paths with some other brave or crazy soul who’s agreed to share their story.

Hopefully it will all unfold organically -- because that’s what life has taught me works best.

{If anyone pledged to support my GOAW work specifically because of the format I previously pitched and is disappointed by this turn of events, please let me know and I will add ‘issuing a Patreon refund’ to my skill set.}

www.girlonawirekcw.com

#iamagirlonawire

[girlonawireblog]

Voice

There is a 1990 Christian Slater movie, Pump Up the Volume, which has likely been forgotten by everyone on the planet except me. It’s also likely that, were I to watch the movie again now, I’d wonder what the heck - aside from the amazing soundtrack - my teen self found so compelling about the story. Slater plays “Hard Harry,” a high school student shaking up the airwaves and exposing corruption via pirate radio.

None of which has anything to do with today’s post, really, except for this one line from the movie that stuck with me all these years: Find your voice and use it.

Author Brittainy C. Cherry has, at the age of 29, a voice the world of romance fiction has heard loud and clear. Her novel Loving Mr. Daniels was the first of her books to break the Top 100 on Amazon, and The Air He Breathes earned her the Number One slot.

And she did it as an indie (a/k/a self-published) author.

Perhaps the most impressive aspect of her success, though, is that this young author with a strong voice and a loyal following worldwide had virtually no voice growing up.

As a child, Brittainy had a speech impediment that made communicating with anyone a struggle. Being separated for extra help in classes led to ostracism, and bullying made school days drag on painfully.

Home, though, was a safe haven. Brittainy was the fourth of eight children, and her mother was supportive, creative and nurturing. As Brittainy sought ways to cope with her speech issues, her mother fostered her interest in writing, which gave her an easier way to communicate. By age sixteen, Brittainy had written her first novel — a manuscript she laughingly says will never see the light of day.

We’ve all got a learning curve.

Brittainy remained determined to find her voice. In college, she majored in theatre arts and minored in creative writing. She kept doing what she now counsels aspiring writers to do: just write, and stay true to your characters and to your journey.

When Loving Mr. Daniels became her first bestseller, Brittainy felt her journey unfold in the direction of her dreams. She was “excited and thankful” that people had taken a chance on an unknown author.

I leveled with her as we chatted the other day: I’d been hesitant to read the book that really put her on the map, The Air He Breathes. It sounded to me a bit too much like one of those good-girl-saves-bad-boy stories that offend my every feminist sensibility. I read it anyway, and I was pleasantly surprised. Really, it’s a tale of broken people finding their way forward, as I’ve noticed many of Brittainy’s novels are. I asked her about that, since I don’t read enough romance to know if that’s just the genre, or if it’s her particular brand.

“Everyone is a little broken,” Brittainy told me. “We’re all just trying to put the pieces together as best we can. We’re all just trying to get ahead. When characters can do that, I think it gives people hope.”

That, I think, explains how I would classify Brittainy’s voice.

Hopeful.

The girl who struggled to articulate her thoughts has found her voice and made herself a comfy home on the bestseller lists. She tells stories of love and redemption. 

And yes, the romance novelist has found romance in her own life.

Ryan is a “gentleman with a heart of gold. He pushes me to be my best, and believes that I can change the world with my words.”

Oh, cue up the Leonard Cohen already.

I may not be well-read in the romance department, but I think I feel a little *swoon* coming on.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

#iamagirlonawire

[girlonawireblog]

Madness

It was really just a skiff, seventeen feet long with an outboard motor. It was made for shallows and bays, yet when Harry Brice learned he could take delivery of his new boat in Connecticut the same weekend his daughter Natalie wanted to attend a dance at Brown University in Rhode Island, he had an idea.

“Why arrive by land when you could arrive by sea?” he asked.

Natalie, never one to pass on an adventure, was instantly on board (yeah, yeah…sorry pun intended).

For those unfamiliar with the coastline between Connecticut and Rhode Island, this idea was absolutely, positively batshit crazy. Under the best of circumstances, those are waters that are difficult to navigate in a sturdy boat twice that size. To make the trip in a tiny, open skiff was sheer madness.

Welcome to my gene pool.

Spoiler: Natalie was my grandmother, so clearly she not only survived long enough to make it to the dance, but to have a family.

I’m not sure who she was so intent on seeing at that dance at Brown, since my understanding is that she met my grandfather later, at an event at the University of Rhode Island, but she and her father braved the waves in their little wooden boat. When the motor sputtered in the rain, Natalie held an umbrella over it. When the sun emerged, her father rubbed zinc ointment onto the bridge of her nose to prevent sunburn and freckles. At one point, the seas grew so rough, they were forced to take shelter in the harbor at Point Judith — the Coast Guard insisted.

Many, many (many) years later, Natalie was at the helm of another small skiff — the little boat she and my grandfather used to ferry family and supplies back and forth to their cottage on Hog Island. I was twelve years old at the time, headed back to the mainland after a visit, and I remember being reassured by the confidence with which my grandmother cast off the dock lines and headed into a fog so thick, nothing was visible beyond the bow of the boat. Clearly, she possessed some sixth sense for navigation.

Then she laughed and said over her shoulder, “Well, I don’t know where we’re going, but we’re on our way!”

I realized, thinking back on that story, that my Gramma Natalie was an original Girl on a Wire, but not just because of her sense of adventure.

She and her sisters were raised on that island, spending summers swimming and playing like boys. A sense of adventure ran in their blood, yes. Yet they could not escape all the constraints of their time. Marriage and children awaited them, and family meant something different for women then than it means now.

My grandparents were graduate students in chemistry at Middlebury College in Vermont when they were expecting their first child. Though she was a married woman, it was deemed inappropriate for Natalie to be seen by other students in her “condition,” so she and my grandfather did their lab work in the dead of night.

And my grandfather. To say he was a complicated man would be to put it nicely. To suggest I understood him or his relationship with my grandmother would be false. I know I steered clear of him and his unpredictable moods. I know, too, that I crouched at the top of the stairs late one night, when I was maybe eight years old, and my grandmother appeared on our doorstep. I knew that my grandmother’s tears and my father’s anger and the question of whether a trip to the hospital was required — these things were my grandfather’s fault.

I also know that when Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s reduced my grandfather to a state of utter dependence and confusion and fear, Natalie cared for him, gently, to the end.

Some who knew her might say that at some point in her life, she went from adventurer to martyr. That the Natalie who braved the seas in an open boat was lost somewhere along the way. That she settled, accepting a life that was smaller than her dreams had been.

But isn’t that true of most all of us, to some degree?

Don’t we shed our former selves as we move through life? And isn’t the matter of whether that is for better or for worse determined to some extent by the world in which we live?

After my grandfather passed away, Natalie’s friends in her retirement community made a few attempts at fixing her up on dates with the eligible bachelors they knew. She laughed them off.

“Look how long it took me to be free of the first husband,” she joked with me. “And they think I want another one?”

She took to traveling with her sisters, compiling a family genealogy and putting her stories — including the tale of her wild boat trip with her father — into print for her grandchildren. At the end of her life, she seemed to regain touch with the adventurous girl she was at heart, if only vicariously.

I showed up at her bedside one day with a motorcycle helmet in hand, telling her I’d gotten my license and was taking a course featuring obstacles. I waited for the reprimand, the words advising caution.

“Can you make it go off of one of those ramps?” she asked instead. 

It occurred to me that under a different set of circumstances, she would have remained the Natalie who arrived for a dance with zinc oxide on her nose and salt in her windblown hair. That maybe, a world that didn’t force her to hide her pregnant belly in order to claim her education might have been a world in which she’d never have tolerated a husband who sent her, even once, out into the night in pain and tears.

That maybe we, the granddaughters and all who come after us, are feeling that world unfold — and are stepping up to redefine the balancing act.

We know where we’re going, and we’re on our way.

Me, Gramma Natalie, my mom, and Uncle Big Max on Hog Island

www.girlonawirekcw.com

#iamagirlonawire

[girlonawireblog]

1,000 WORDS

Okay, okay - I hear ya…

What’s with the #iamagirlonawire pics?

It’s just this: I can’t interview y’all (though you know I am going to try), but I LOVE the idea of flooding social media with positive images of women and girls living their truths, uninhibited and unapologetic. So in addition to the more detailed stories I’m compiling of women living their dreams, I’m collecting snapshots.

From as many of you as I possibly can.

That’s it.

No special requirements, no hidden agenda (though if you share an image, please know it may appear on my blog or various web sites).

Whether you’re a stay-at-home mom, a police officer, a rocket scientist, an artist, an athlete, a bagpipe player, whatever - if you’re finding the balance and cheering your sisters on as they do too, I’d love to know about it.

Because here’s what I ponder when I consider the progress women have made, and the everyday ways we can keep moving forward:

What if, at last, it was enough - or better still, celebrated - to be the woman who has forgotten what it feels like to get a full night’s sleep because one child has a cold and another is nursing?

Or to be the woman who is no one’s mother, not because she missed the boat, but because she deliberately chose a different route: the art, the science, the travel that filled her soul and best allowed her to contribute to the world?

Or to be one of the men who believes his wife can - and should - do anything she sets her mind to, because there’s no better example for their daughters (and let’s face it - some Dads can totally rock the sparkly mouse ears when it’s dress-up time)?

So please, if you feel inspired to join in, make your own #iamagirlonawire sign and send it to me:

Twitter or Instagram: @girlonawirekcw

Email: girlonawirekcw@gmail.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/girlonawirekcw/

And in the meantime, check out these stories.

A picture really can be worth 1,000 words:

www.girlonawirekcw.com #iamagirlonawire

[girlonawireblog]

#iamagirlonawire

She’s known as The Tightrope Walker — a/k/a Alligator Girl, or ‘Ally Gal’ if you’re especially chummy. She’s one of the first things you’ll see if you visit Disney’s Haunted Mansion, there in the portrait gallery looking something like this when you enter:

Then, through Disney ‘magic,’ the portraits grow, revealing a ghastly truth behind each of the placid images. In the case of Ally Gal (I feel I can call her that, since she’s been part of my life since about age four), the full portrait looked like this:

There were slight variations over the years, as the rolling and unrolling of the canvases in the Haunted Mansion caused them to wear out, and artists touched up or re-created the images. The blog Long-Forgotten does an excellent job of discussing the liberties artists took in depicting The Tightrope Walker, subtly manipulating her facial features in ways that dramatically changed the timbre of her story, should one look closely enough.

But I was, as I mentioned, only about four years old when I first saw her, so frankly, I don’t think I gave a shit whether her eyes suggested seduction, drug use, a sneaking sense of her own mortality, or bats in the belfry. All I saw was the fraying rope beneath her delicate slippers, and the wide-open mouth full of razor-sharp gator teeth below.

Clearly, this girl was going down — but it wasn’t just her imminent end that bothered me.

Hers was a demise that would hurt like hell.

We lived in Florida at the time, and the portion of my childhood spent there left me with both a lasting fondness for sweltering heat and an all-consuming fear of death by gator.

Truly, there is no creepier creature in creation.

You could walk past a culvert or along the edge of a lake, keenly studying frogs or turtles or tadpoles, and only after several minutes notice an air bubble or two rising from the murk, a yellow eye opening. Only then would you realize you were within snapping range of a perfectly-camouflaged prehistoric killing machine at least four times your size, and likely spared only because he’d just eaten the neighbor’s slow, pudgy dog and couldn’t be bothered to go after a scrawny little girl who was all knees and elbows.

But you’d know, thanks to the magic of Walt Disney, that given the right mood or circumstance, there was nothing a gator would enjoy more than gobbling up a little girl - particularly if she were served up on a tightrope.

{Because what razor-toothed beast doesn’t enjoy playing with its food?}

All this information was filed away in my young mind. I grew and I learned there were things in the world with teeth worse than those of a Disney gator. I’m not sure when it happened, but I began to identify with Ally Gal. I began to have a sense that being female in this world was tantamount to walking, restrictively-dressed and with practiced nonchalance, on a fraying wire suspended over countless teeth.

I sought out heroines who’d walked the wire and, in one way or another, won. I devoured books about Marie Curie, Helen Keller, Amelia Earhart, Anne Frank. Girl detective Nancy Drew and her friends Bess and George. Madeleine L’Engle’s Meg Murray. Wonder Woman.

(There was even a fascination with Lizzie Borden that was most certainly misguided — though I will say, my parents were extra kind to me the summer that every library book on the Borden murders occupied my nightstand.)

Eventually, I had Adrienne Rich and Naomi Wolf on my bedside table, set to a soundtrack of 10,000 Maniacs and Michelle Shocked and Annie Lennox. By the time I first saw Eve Ensler perform The Vagina Monologues on a small stage in Providence, Rhode Island, I was less concerned with all the ways being a girl in the world could be perilous, and more focused on those who successfully pulled off the balancing act, unperturbed by the thing with teeth.

Real or imagined, the girls and women toward whose stories I gravitated were the ones who refused to accept that their gender sentenced them to anything even remotely resembling a life in peril. If they met an untimely end, they did so on their own terms. They chucked the frouffy dress and gloves and parasol. They dashed along the fraying wire and built bridges in their wake.

And oh, the bridges that have been built!

Some say you get in this life what you focus on, and I believe it. Since I’ve gotten back to the business of learning and living and growing, I’ve found I meet women and girls every day who are living lives of adventure and creativity and independence and contribution.

Those are the stories I now want to tell.

I am the Girl on a Wire, but in time I have learned I am no Ally Gal. There are still plenty of things in the world with wide jaws and razor-sharp teeth, but I am not pausing prettily on frayed line above them.

I am too busy being the kind of girl I’ve always imagined myself to be.

I run like a girl. I write like a girl. I love like a girl. I grow and change and hope and dream and defy and rebuild like a girl.

As surely as Eve Ensler reclaimed ‘cunt’ in the monologue that remains my favorite, I have found myself in the course of this blog reclaiming the notion of what it means to be a girl and find the balance. None of which would have been possible without the love and support of some very strong, badass girls and women.

It’s time to pay it forward.

Starting next week, I’ll be exploring the stories of girls and women living the lives of their dreams. I’ll also be adding features like video and podcast as time (and my technological learning curve) permits. Want to chip in? You can support my work by clicking here and contributing via Patreon.

If you know someone I should interview, kindly email me at girlonawirekcw@gmail.com - and please also send me your #iamagirlonawire pics to join in the celebration on social media. Email is cool, as is Facebook, or you can Tweet or Instagram with the #iamagirlonawire hashtag to: @girlonawirekcw

Check out some of the awesome shots I’ve received so far:

Welcome to the new Girl on a Wire.

From here on out, it’s all about you.

www.girlonawirekcw.com

[girlonawireblog]

Fuckyes

The last of my guest bloggers has shared on the topic of LOVE, and most excellent things are percolating here at GOAW. I’m feeling serious warm-fuzzies. Next week I’ll introduce the new format I’ve been feverishly working on, but for now I’m breathing deeply, taking a moment, and getting ready for the whirlwind of good stuff ahead.

Join me...

peace. love. fuckyes.

www.girlonawirekcw.com