A Year of Daring Greatly Starts Now!

I’ve been reading Daring Greatly by Brene Brown and as a result, I’ve decided to dedicate this year to reaching out to other people. That means putting myself in a vulnerable position, because they might “shut me down” or reject me. It involves taking a risk, doesn’t it? That’s exactly what Brown means by “daring greatly.”

Well, so far, the venture has been worthwhile. On a whim, I emailed Alice Zinn, a renowned miniature artist, who lives just up the road, and invited her to lunch. 

I’ll let Alice tell you what happened next: I did a little research on Joanna, including getting in touch with my pal author Camille Minichino. (Margaret Grace to those of us who read her "M" in Miniature murder mystery series.) Camille assured me I would have a good time.

We agreed to meet at Riverwalk Café in Stuart, because it’s halfway between us. Right as I pulled up in a parking space and opened my door, a lady two cars over sang out, “Are you Joanna?”

And so I met the lovely and vivacious Alice. From then on, we could hardly keep up with each other. We had so much to share. Not only does she know Camille, but she’s also a friend to Chris Verstraete (http://candidcanine.blogspot.com/). And of course, she’s familiar with Fay Zerbolio, the curator of the Miniature Museum of Greater St. Louis. When it comes to mystery writers and to miniaturists, it’s a small world—pun intended.

Here’s Alice’s take on our meeting: We had a lovely two-hour lunch and visit. Joanna knows the owner, Pam, who came by to say hi. I don't think there was a moment of silence!

When Alice asked if I brought any photos of my work, I considered lying. After all, showing my work to a real, live artist seemed pretty silly. Okay, that would certainly be taking a risk, but why not? She knows I’m just a hobbyist. So I went to the camera roll on my phone.

Alice says: Although she had several pictures I liked, there was one piece I really LOVED, a fireplace that looks like a gargoyle’s mouth!

On our way back to our cars, we talked non-stop, but we did pause to admire a Schnoodle (a designer dog, Schnauzer and Poodle mix). I showed Alice a photo of Jax, and she gave me a business card printed with images of her miniature dogs. One of them looks a lot like my pup! (Guess what I want next? An Alice Zinn original of Jax. Wouldn’t that look splendid in one of my mini-homes?)

Alice says: I think the most fascinating parts of our conversation, however, had to do with the similarities of our professions, working in a solitary environment, and what fame on a (no pun intended) small scale is like. We talked about being a self-starter, and she was so sweet about understanding that I'd had to carve out some time for this meeting just a week before I'm doing a show. There was a lot of talk about various forms of creativity, and the differences between doing something creative as a job as opposed to a hobby.

So this week my Daring Greatly gamble was a success. I’ll let you know what happens as I continue to “stick my neck out!”

All best from your friend,

Joanna

The Return on Our Investment

I love this photo. My new pal Donna Manz took it for the Vienna (VA) Connection. You can read the entire article here.

That's Vicky, on the left. You can't see her harness, but of course, it is pink. She's a girly-girl of a dog. We "adopted" Victoria in England, so she's a British Bichon and a little smaller than the American breed. Since her father was an English champion, Vicky is a bit of a princess. Sarah, one of the adorable little girls who lives down the street, told me (with a look of total sincerity on her face), "When I die, if I come back, I want to come back as Victoria."

Sarah also said, "I'm not sure if Vicky's very smart or not."

I said, "Oh, she's plenty smart. Let me ask you, does Vicky get you to do exactly what she wants?"

"Hmm. You're right!" said Sarah.

Believe me, Vicky knows her loyal subjects. She only does what she wants, when she wants.

And that's Rafferty on the right with the blue harness. He's a Bichon-Poodle mix. Would you call that a Bi-Poo? (You might if you knew Raffi!) He's only got three legs, but golly, he certainly makes the most of all three. He can jump up on furniture, a trick Vicky only recently mastered. (Actually, I think she was simply accustomed to having us, her humble servants, lift Her Majesty.)

They're my posse. When I'm hard at work writing, they keep me company by sitting in my office. Raffi whines unless I get him his own cushion because Vicky does NOT like to share. At night, Raffi jumps from sofa to chair to my lap. He doesn't know he's too big to be a lap dog!

Yeah, it's a bit of a hassle to plan for letting them out or getting dog sitters, but you know, I'd be so very, very lonely all day without them. When they're at the groomers, I feel a bit lost.

David and I were talking the other day about traveling, and we decided that we want to go places where we can bring the dogs along, too. It's just hard on all of us to leave them in a kennel or with sitters.

I realize that a lot of folks decide that once their children leave the nest, it's best not to be encumbered by a pet. But, our dogs own our hearts. They've made our new house a home. They're my posse, my small, furry personal herd of friends.

So if we have to open a wallets a bit more frequently, if we have to work a little harder at planning our lives, and if we have to glance at our watches and race home to let them out...it's really such a small price to pay for all the love we get in return.

I'm Too Old for Mall Hours

I woke up around 4 am this morning to the sound of Rafferty yelping. Turns out our little boy dog was thirsty. This often oftens after he gulps down his dry kibble late in the day. He's just fine for a couple of hours, even three or four, then suddenly he HAS to have water RIGHT now. So I was stumbling around in the dark, more asleep than awake thanks to the 1/2 of an Ambien tablet I took, and trying to get his leash on so he won't get hit by a car--and he's prancing like one of Santa's reindeer, making it nearly impossible to snap on the leash. Once I get him all rigged up, I turn to his little "sister", our girl dog Victoria, who is also thinking this is a grand lark: "Mommy's up! It's dark outside! Oh, boy! What joy!Can't wait! Let's go!"

I finally get the two of them clipped, but I can't make it to the water or the door or anywhere because they've now run circles around my legs. Effectively tying me up like a hostage in a bank heist. So I do this sort of mincing around while ducking under the leashes and stepping out of loops and knots. Fortunately, the leashes are long enough that the two of them can get to their water while I'm still fumbling about. They slurp it up.

Explanation: We don't leave water in their crate because a good pal who is a dog trainer suggested this was just begging (haunches down, paws waving in the air) for accidents. Lord knows, we have enough of those without putting a dish in the crate. Besides, they have access to all the water they want six or seven times a day--and of course, whenever they decide it's a grand time to howl at me.

From the water dish, we move to the front door and out onto the front stoop which is some sort of stone. Limestone, I think. Or shale. Here my body shakes with fear. Three nights ago, I stepped off one of our front steps because David and I came home late during a power outage. Our house was pitch black. I was leading the way, in a long skirt and boots and carrying most of our belongings. Then I went flying through the air, hit the wet grass and rolled.

David was so tired he sort of whooped, "You okay?" and once he got me back on my feet, he added, "Nice roll there. You hit the ground rather gracefully."

Uh, thanks, I think.

He opened our front door and toddled past me into the bedroom. With nary a "can I get you an Advil?" Or a "do you think it's broken?" He fell irrevocably asleep. On his back. With his mouth open.

This is a consequence of two entirely different sleep schedules which we've embarked on since he opened his new store--Steinway Piano Gallery--at Tysons Corner in McLean. He's zonked by 11 p.m. and up at 5 a.m. I'm usually not asleep until midnight or thereafter, and if I take an Ambien, I'm out until at least 8 a.m. So basically, it was Mr. Zombie Man and ME , and ME was hobbling about with a rapidly swelling foot. Gnashing my teeth and swearing under my breath.

So last night this whole ugly scenario came back to me as I froze on the stoop. An instant replay of my nose-dive into the wet grass replayed in my brain. I shivered and stopped right outside our front door. The dogs didn't care. They'd had their water. They wanted to water the grass. If they tugged hard enough, I'd have to come along for the walkies.

And I did.

Which is a very long way of saying: I need a different schedule. My fingers barely function this morning and my eyes are sagging at half-mast. My husband's mall hours are killing me. We're too old for this. Okay...I am. Maybe he's not, but I am. I need to ditch the Ambien, start going to sleep earlier, get the dogs on a schedule or something.

But what that something is, I'm just not sure.

Almost Seems Like Home

Yesterday I drove to the grocery store and back without thinking. Not a big deal to you. But it was to me. You see, I'm feeling at home.

This has been a year of tumult. In January, my mother's exam found spots in her lungs. However, the spots didn't light up, so the doctors were convinced it wasn't cancer. "Probably scar tissue," they told us. By June we knew the truth: She had terminal lung cancer.

Still, Mom clung to hope. After all, last time she had cancer, the chemo and radiation zapped it. She'd had two, almost three good years in between. "I just need to get through this treatment," she told a friend. "I think I have five more years. Okay, maybe two." But she never gave up hope.

When the doctor scoped her, he didn't tell my sisters how advanced the cancer was. Mom insisted on taking her chemo. Despite the fact it made her sick.

When I visited her on Mother's Day, I was shocked at how frail she'd become. Even before we were told the cancer was terminal, she lost fine motor control. She dropped things repeatedly. Her legs had become extremely bowed. When we drove places, she read the signs as though she were trying to ground herself in the here and now. Her conversations were erratic. She forgot things. She wasn't herself. Now I know...even then, she was dying. Even before the diagnosis, she was slipping away.

My sisters and I worked out a plan. I flew down in July to have a turn taking care of her. My plane landed late on a Saturday in Miami, so I was going to drive up to Stuart on Sunday. My son and husband were already there--my son needed a place to live for college. The guys planned to make a father-son weekend of it. Somehow their plans got confused. They visited Mom on Saturday night. She was barely lucid. They said their goodbyes. My husband David didn't think he'd ever see her again.

He was right.

By the time I arrived on Sunday, she was in a coma. For the next eight days, my sisters and I cared for her. We called upon hospice. I shall forever be grateful to them for all they did. Sally Lippert was an absolute angel. Connie, the other hospice worker, was kind, helpful and thoughtful.

But it was an ugly, painful way for Mom to go. The morphine didn't completely assuage her pain.

I won't think about that now...but I will say that at the end, we were happy for her release. These earthly bonds no longer served my mother's spirit. And when she died, the lights in that room strobed on and off, on and off, on and off, until Sally got up and turned them off at the switch. She's seen thousands of deaths, but never seen anything like that.

I came home and tried to pack to move to the Washington DC area. Actually, I wandered around my home in St. Louis like a ghost. I tried. I really tried. But I was lost. I was exhausted. I would pick up things, look at them, put them back where I found them and wander around some more. In between, real estate agents would call asking if they could show the house. That's their job, after all. So, I'd scoot everything into some semblance of order, grab the dogs, toss them in the car, and go drive around for an hour or two. I was a mess.

Finally I told David, "You'll have to pick out a house for us. I can't do it. I don't have the time to fly to DC. I trust you."

So he did.

We had a memorial service for Mom, and we moved Michael into his new condo. He loves it. David flew back to DC, leaving Michael and me to buy towels, furniture, cleaning supplies. I'm not sure he's used the latter yet! Oh, well. He's happy--and I think I've never been happier than pushing a grocery cart with him by my side and loading it with food for my boy.

Two weeks later, the packers came. I tried, really tried to organize our belongings, but I couldn't. The two women who did most of the packing were enormously kind. One took my husband aside and told him to tell me not to work so hard. Bless her. I remember wandering (again with the wandering!) from room to room, thinking, "This is the house where I raised my son. Where my mother came to visit. Where we had friends stay the night. Where we celebrated the holidays. Where my dog Kevin lived. Where I wrote my first book. How can I say, 'Goodbye'?" But I did.

We drove for two days. My dogs--Vicky and Rafferty--sat beside me in the passenger's seat. They were very, very good. Almost as if they knew I needed them.

We arrived in the DC area at 8 at night. I drove, for the first time, on the notorious Beltway, aka Highway from Hell, with its uneven lanes. I was sooo tired. At one point, my wheels bumped the uneven asphalt, and my car careened back and forth in the lane. But I made it. We drove to this house.

It's a good house.

I can live here.

And now I can go to the grocery store, all by myself. Without the help of GPS.

It's going to be all right.

I'd Rather Be Eating Kibble...Or Why Some Books Are Hard to Take

Every day the Universe conspires to teach me lessons I don't wanna learn. As they say in the movies, "Resistance is FUTILE." And yet, I still struggle.

Today, my dog was the teaching assistant. Rafferty decided he didn't want to eat his food. Being a good dog mom, I coaxed. "Ah, come on, Raffie." Then I threatened. "Eat your food." And finally, I resorted to unfair tactics. I poured beef boullion over the kibble.

To no available. He licked off the beef and sat down to stare at me.

His desire to eat has not overcome whatever resistance he's feeling. And yet...and yet...it's spring and I have hope.

It's like that with books, too. I keep trying to read Bleak House by Dickens. At first, I tried because I own an old copy, and there's a deep seated part of me that believes old books are to be venerated. Then I tried because I read a reference to the characters. And finally, I've taken a third stab at Bleak (was there ever a book so aptly named?) because I'm doing research on the justice system in Victorian times.

Personally, I'd rather be eating kibble.