What Game of Thrones Is Teaching Me About Writing (Warning: Spoilers)

Something has really been bothering me about my novel – or more accurately, my lack of progress regarding said novel. I’m stuck, and I’ve only barely started it. I’ve tried identifying the problem for months now – laziness? No time? Lack of confidence? (“I’m an attorney, not a writer. How could I possibly write a novel? I have no idea what I’m doing!”) All of these are a part of the problem. But a few days ago, it occurred to me that my biggest problem is that I have no idea who my characters ARE. I mean, I have names, basic personality traits, even motivations. But they are not Actual Real People. They bore me. This is bad.

It really struck me today as I was thinking about Game of Thrones. I am completely in love with this show. I recently watched the infamous Red Wedding episode. As I watched Robb, Talisa, and Catelyn Stark butchered in that hall, I felt as if I were losing my own friends. I was shocked, heartbroken, angry, and scared. When Kahl Drago died in Daenerys’s arms, I cried as if watching the love of my life leave the earth. When the evil King Joffrey ordered the beheading of Ned Stark as his own daughters watched, I was horrified and heartbroken. I love these characters, these people. I feel like Arya could be my little sister. I love to hate that horrible Joffrey. I am thrilled that Jaime Lannister is turning into a caring person – ok, less horrible person. I really want to like Siercy, but she drives me nuts. And what I would give to have a drink with Tyrion Lannister and pick his brain. And yes, I admit that I want Daenerys to be my best friend (the dragons certainly don’t hurt).

Why? Why did I have these reactions about people who aren’t even REAL? Easy. They are not just characters. They feel like living, breathing people who I personally know. That is the genius of George RR Martin and the people behind the TV series. I read once that if a writer intends to only write about a “character” instead of a real person, that character becomes a caricature. And that is one of the worst Writer Sins, in my opinion. If you write a caricature, the reader will quickly lose interest. They simply will not care what happens to the character. And that is the death knell for any novel.

We talk about plot, and conflict, point of view, and pacing. All of these things are important, of course. But without fleshed out, three dimensional, living, breathing characters – people who have a past; people with unique fears, idiosyncrasies, a sense of humor, interests; things that makes them laugh or cry or get angry – the readers will likely stop reading. These people are interesting, and they make the reader KEEP READING.

This is probably not news to anyone other than myself. I always knew that well-developed characters were crucial to any novel. But it finally dawned on me that this is exactly the problem with my own work-in-progress. Fortunately, I am early enough in this writing process that I have plenty of time to figure out who my characters are – I have time to make them interesting, real people. I will love some, and hate others. And yes, I will have to find the courage to kill my darlings. So, now the work begins. 

By the way, Tyrion – the drink is on me. This could be fun.

A Leaf

When the bitter cold of winter starts to thaw, I return. First, a small green bud. Against all odds, growing in spite of the cold. It is April, the time when everything grows. Flowers start to bloom, trees come alive. I am drenched with rain, but my thin, fragile veins soak it in gladly. The children get off the bus for the last time at the end of June. And the sun is out for days and days. I blossom into something beautiful – vibrant and green. I drink in the lush rains of July and August. I live through sun and rain and wind. The sun is harsh at times, but I survive. I always survive, at least for a time.

But I know when it’s early September. The sun is a little less bright, and the wind is just a bit colder. The children are back on their buses, and the dark descends more quickly. People walk outside more briskly. They cover themselves in sweaters and scarves. No more bathing suits. No more splashing in pools. The sun no longer bleaches their hair. I can feel a new season coming.

Soon, I will change. My green color will turn yellow, or perhaps orange. If I’m lucky, I’ll turn a deep, bright red. That is the ultimate color, the most beautiful, the most envied. I won’t know until it happens. And I love to be beautiful. Don’t we all? But of course it’s bittersweet. For it’s then that I know I only have a few weeks to live. At some point, when the winds swirl, and the clouds gather, and the people walk bundled in thick coats, it will happen.

I will fall. Sometimes gently, sometimes urgently. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. If I’m lucky, I will fall into a soft pile. If the winds are harsh that day, I may fall onto the street, or on top of a car. A child may pick me up and give me to her mother. Or I may fall to the ground unnoticed and unappreciated. I never know until it happens. And until it happens, there is always hope – always a chance I will be lovingly cradled and welcomed into someone’s house to be admired. Oh, to be held and photographed and loved. But even then, eventually, I will crumble. I will fall apart and sink back into the earth. I will turn to dust. I will die.

But don’t cry for me. I will be back someday. After the snows have come and gone, and the ice has melted, and the children have put away their chunky snowsuits and winter boots, I will live again. After the lakes have turned back to water, and the days stretch on endlessly, I will return. No, I will not truly be “me” anymore, but I will be a version of me. And I will grow and become green again. And I will breathe in the sun and the rain and be happy to be alive. The children have gotten bigger! And their voices have grown more confident. And new babies have been born. And old people have died. I have missed so much. Every year, I miss so much life.

And through it all, I survive for a time, such a short season. I can only see so much of this beautiful earth. But I’m a lucky one. I come back. I always come back.

Thirty Days of Writing

During the month of September, I participated in the monthly writing challenge on 750words.com. Thirty straight days of writing at least 750 words. The words could be anything I wanted: journal writing, creative writing, venting, anything.

I am proud to say I did it! Thirty straight days of writing. It was both easier and harder than I expected. And here is what I learned: 

1) Writing every day is vitally important to keep the creative juices flowing.

2) Writing every day is like any other habit – when you don’t feel like doing it one day, do it anyway. You’ll be happy you did. You will never regret it afterward. Hmm, sounds like exercising.

3) Writing is hard.

4) Writing is fun, and rewarding, and wonderful.

5) Some of my stuff is terrible and can’t be redeemed. Other pieces have real promise. I usually feel a writer’s high during the latter.

6) Writing every day just to say you did it every day is not necessarily the best approach. Getting the words on paper is not enough. You need to spend time editing and polishing and FINISHING stories, blog posts, etc.

7) I freaking love my new MacBook Air.

8) I can actually, truly call myself a writer now. The proverbial lightbulb went off.

9) Writing is so good for the soul. It’s cathartic. And sometimes you don’t know what’s been bothering you until you do a braindump.

10) I want to make this my life, not just a hobby. Yes, I do. I know this now.

 

The Blue Moon Rise

I went to the beach with my sister and my daughter on the night of the recent blue moon. As writers are wont to do, I could not resist writing a bit about the experience. This was written on my iphone (efficient!) with just a bit of editing afterward. Enjoy. 🙂

The swollen moon rises over the shoreline. The sun is still falling behind the trees, and it is just barely dusk. People are starting to abandon the beach but we stake our claim in the sand. My daughter makes slow, lazy circles in the sand by her feet with a stick. She talks of rocks and seaweed and swimming. I only marvel at the stunning orange orb above the sea.

I have always favored the soft, subtle glow of the moon over the aggressive heat of the sun. I have said that my delicate Irish skin cannot handle the sunlight, and my pattern of freckles prove the point. But the truth is that I have always preferred the night. The moon has always pulled me in with its magic and mystery. I am a textbook night owl-I typically fall into bed only when my eyes can no longer stay open and my body longs for sleep. I cherish the time late at night when everyone else is dreaming and I can enjoy the night alone-just me and the moon.

I named my daughter Rhiannon, in part because one of the meanings of her name is “moon goddess.” Like me, she is drawn to the nighttime. At the young age of nine, she frequently battles insomnia and spends many nights in my bedroom. I draw my breath in now as I see her frolicking in the water, the moon shining in her hair. It is the last gasp of summer, the final weekend of August. She is already back in school, but we can still cherish these moments. The sand between our toes, the lullaby of waves crashing on the shore, and the caress of our beloved moon upon the earth.

An Ode to YA

“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”
― Madeleine L’Engle

What I am about to say has been written many times before, and most likely by authors who are more profound and articulate. But I nevertheless feel called to write a short ode to the beauty and wonder that is YA (young adult) fiction.

First, I want to read books with a good story and interesting characters. Of course, any genre can fit into this category. But I have found that a lot of YA just does this really well. It seems to be a very competitive field, and thus many of the stories are rich and emotional and satisfying. These authors are at the top of their game. Speaking of authors, these YA writers are just so – YOUNG. I mean, early twenties – maybe younger. I am closer to 40 than 30 (eeek) and just starting my own writing journey. To be able to write stories like they do – at such a young age – well, I am simply blown away by the talent that is out there.

Ultimately, YA speaks to me so loudly and clearly for one reason: I was once a young child who loved to read. I started reading at the age of 3, and never stopped. Especially between the ages of 7 and 12, I read constantly. I did not play with dolls. I did not particulary enjoy playing with kids my age. I was not a hermit exactly – I just did not enjoy what they enjoyed. Instead of spending my time playing with other kids, I turned inward and lived inside my own head. I became absorbed in stories, and fell in love with characters who were not so different from me. I grew up with Judy Blume. To this day, the best Christmas present I ever received was from an aunt I did not really know. But this aunt gave me a set of four Judy Blume books, and I will always be grateful for that, and for her. I read one book after another after another. And when I ran out of books, my mother or father would take me to the library to borrow more. I could not get enough. There were so many worlds to discover, so many fascinating characters to fall in love with.

Even as a teenager, I craved a good story to escape the world. I was not terribly popular, I was not “cool” and I felt out of place in middle school and high school. And yes, there were times I was bullied – and this was back in the day when bullying was just a part of life. The media did not talk about it, and there were no posters lining the school walls encouraging us to love everyone. Just when I thought I couldn’t get out of bed and face another day, I cracked open a book and read about someone just like me – someone smart, and sensitive, and faced with challenges every single day – someone who has cried herself to sleep more times than she can count. I become their friend and cheered them on. And they cheered me on, too. They helped me to survive just one more day, and then another.

And suddenly, I was amazed to discover I survived the teenage years. I was in college, and realized that the things that seperated us when we were younger were just not that important anymore. I bonded with people over our shared love of literature, and writing, and history. I become close friends with my roommate and classmates. We stayed up all night studying for finals, and talked about life over coffee and bagels. And yes, we drank -a lot -and laughed and loved and grew up together.

And then I become an adult, but did not actually feel like a grown up. I was faced with bills and mortgages and responsibilities. I found that special someone and got married and birthed a beautiful baby girl. I had a busy, full time job, with little time just for me. But then something amazing happened. My daughter got a little older, and my spouse got a hobby, and I realized that it’s ok – no, it’s crucial – that I have a “thing” too.

So, I thought about what I used to love. I remembered what kept me up all night and busy every day. I recalled my obsessions. What did I love most of all? Reading.

I enjoy many genres, and have read plenty of books written for adults. But I always go back to YA. For me, nothing else can compare. Yes, I enjoy the plots, and the conflicts, and the wonderful writing. But most of all, I can relate to these characters – these wonderful, flawed, perfect characters – and I realize that even though I no longer struggle with teenage problems, I remember these problems so well. They shaped who I am today. These authors have done something amazing and miraculous: they have poured their hearts out to the world so we, the readers, can understand that we are never alone.

So on behalf of other readers out there, young and old, I thank you, the author of YA, for helping us grow up and helping us realize that we are not so different after all.

Babe

I have put off writing about him, delayed the inevitable. I could not fathom the idea of sharing my pain with anyone. No, that’s not it. I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to condense his personality into words on a page-I couldn’t do him justice. The problem, though, is that not only did I avoid writing about him, I avoided writing, period. I thought about writing, and even read about writing. But I just could not force myself to write anything at all.

It has been a few months since we said goodbye to our cat Babe. Of course, it is always unbearably painful to lose a pet. They become part of the family. A family member without the drama-a being who loves you unconditionally, innocently. Yes, cats tend to be aloof and carry attitudes with them. And so did Babe. But he was different. He loved to cuddle-he would snuggle up against your neck, nudging as close to you as possible without suffocating you. His purr was deafening. He would look into your eyes as if he could see your soul. We liked to call him “psycho” from time to time, especially as a young cat. His favorite thing to play with was a dried apricot. With an eye on some imaginary bird, he would run full speed toward the sliding glass door and smack into it head-on. He talked back if he didn’t like the answers to his questions.

As a Himalayan mix, his fur was long and prone to tangling. He couldn’t decide if he loved or hated being brushed, so he would alternate reactions between bliss and attack mode. He was a very high strung kitty, and when we had him groomed, it was no simple feat. We learned the hard way that he required sedation for this process. It seems that groomers do not appreciate cats who try to claw them to death over a bath.

The decision to have him put to rest was heartbreaking. He was almost 15 and had been steadily declining. The grief was almost too much to bear at times. Even now, I expect to hear his crazy hungry meow when I come home. The silence is terrible. I wait for him to jump on my lap at night after dinner, but it remains empty. I think I hear him in the kitchen. I think I see him out of the corner of my eye. I would give anything for just five more minutes with him, to hold him close and smell his fur and become one with his blissful purr. Shock gives way to grief, which turns into acceptance. No, not acceptance-but getting used to his absence. At first, the pain is like a punch in the chest-it brings you to your knees and steals your breath. You want to live under the covers for the rest of your life. Eventually, the punch turns into a pang. You can continue with your day, your thought, your chore-but of course the sadness is still there. From past experience, I know that the pang will lessen and become a smile as the memoirs play like a movie in your head. I am not there yet. I am slightly past punch into the pang phase. I still miss him desperately, but I feel like life can go on, maybe even go on happily.

The great curse of a writer is that you HAVE to write. And unless you’re in the middle of the great American novel, you inevitably write about your own life. For me, that is what comes most naturally. And if you are going through a difficult period in your life, that difficulty demands to be memorialized in some form, whether it be a memoir or a short story based on life events. Until I was able to write about Babe , I was unable and unwilling to write about anything at all. Today, I am ready. I honor his memory by sharing his story, and I take the first steps toward healing. At least for today, he is my muse. I would love to think that in at least some small way, he always will be.

Overcoming Writer Panic Attacks-A Brief Study

It has occurred to me that the whole point of having a blog is to actually write and post words occasionally. As a writer, this should come easily to me. Alas, it does not. Everything I write has to be “perfect.” Therefore, words stay in my head, or on 750words.com, or in a password-protected app on my iPad, never to see the light of day. If my ultimate goal is to be published, I need to smack myself around a little and put myself out there. I need to be BRAVE. I need to risk public ridicule. Oh geez, I’m already losing my nerve!

OK, deep breaths. The real problem is that I am plagued with the conviction that although I am called to write, I am not all that skilled at it. No, that is not quite right. I think I am somewhat skilled, but not enough to STAND OUT. There are so many incredibly gifted, talented writers out there, and really – what makes little old me special? I posted such a question on Twitter recently in the midst of a Writer Panic Attack. I must say, the responses were interesting. Other writers admitted to similar feelings, which of course made me feel better. (Misery loves company, I suppose).

But my favorite responses clarified something fascinating: I am a unique person with unique experiences. Therefore, I have something to offer that no one else does. And if you are a writer, the same applies to you. How cool is that? (Answer: very). So, let’s get out there and show the world our stuff. If I can do it, so can you.

Happy Blogging! 🙂 Kendra

Lessons From My Daughter

When I first became a mother, I dreamed of all the things I would teach my daughter about life. As she has grown, it has become quite apparent that I have learned so much more from her than she may ever learn from me. Patience, sacrifice, love, joy, fun – these words have taken on completely different meanings as my husband and I have had the privilege to raise our eight year old daughter, Rhiannon.

Yesterday, the two of us went to the Children’s Museum in Boston as one of our “staycation” adventures. She was excited because it was just us – no Daddy, no Grandma, no Aunts, no friends. The Museum was stocked with the usual sights – physics-related activities such as Rube Goldberg machines and pulleys, exhibits related to Native American and Japanese history, hands-on fun with bubbles, and numerous other exciting experiences. However, one activity literally towered over everything else. At the center of the museum was a huge, netted playspace where kids could climb a challenging set of uneven, sloped steps – this monstrosity started at the first floor and ended at the very top of the museum – a full three stories. Although it looked slightly intimidating to me, kids as young as four years old climbed up rapidly, looking rather like monkeys climbing a multi-limbed tree. They climbed over and around each other excitedly, calling to their siblings and parents watching below.

I took one look at this thing, and assumed my daughter would have no part of it. You see, she is the most cautious, risk-averse child I have ever met. She avoids all activities that could result in any of the following: a scratched knee, a sprained ankle, a broken fingernail, a cut, a bruise, someone looking at her the wrong way, or her ponytail holder falling out. Although she will be nine years old in three months, she is completely terrified of riding a two-wheeled bike. No amount of cajoling, bribing, or pleading helped. We eventually just gave the bike away to avoid bouts of crying and pouting. She refuses to play any organized sport for fear of injury, although she has a lot of natural talent. She clutches to me when balancing on a six-inch curb. You get my point. So when I gazed upon this gigantic, three-story tower of terror, my assumption was that Rhiannon would look at it longingly then move on to the next, slightly safer activity.

So when she did not budge, I was surprised. She walked around the structure and looked up at it. For a while, she just stood there and contemplated the scene before her. I asked her if she wanted to try it out. She said “maybe.” Then she said “well, I’m wearing a skirt.” So I said “well, you can still climb it if you’re careful.” She poked her head in and hesitantly entered the structure. She started to climb, looked around, then climbed back out. She said the rug on the steps was too slippery.  I told her that it was ok if she didn’t want to climb it. I thought that was the end of it. She climbed in again, then out again, looking for an alternate path that would be easier. She watched as child after child excitedly climbed the stairs. She took a deep breath, crouched down, and tried again.

Ever so slowly, she climbed. At times, she looked positively pained. Kids were passing her left and right because she moved so slowly. Every once in a while, she would look at me and smile – a smile that seemed to say “oh my God, I’m really doing this! I must be crazy!” I admit it – at any moment, I expected her to give up and come back down. I am ashamed that I even suggested it to her – more than once. I just could not imagine that she would actually climb three stories in this thing. She stopped often and moved aside so the faster children could keep moving. As she ascended, I climbed the stairs to keep an eye on her, hoping that she would not suddenly panic or start crying. I was mulling over possible emergency plans and rescue attempts. As I watched her, I shouted words of encouragement. But she was so SLOW. I was getting impatient, checking my phone repeatedly and eventually realizing I was incredibly thirsty. I joked to a nearby parent that I would surely die in this place. I forced myself to take deep breaths and remain calm for her sake. I told myself that I should be encouraging her to continue, but it was so difficult to watch her climbing this structure as if she was in physical pain. She was hesitant at every single turn, and was clearly tempted to climb back down.

But you know what? She just kept going. No matter how hesitant or uncomfortable the process, she kept going UP. She listened to my well-intentioned, yet negative comments confirming that she could go back down at any time – it was ok, really. She was still doing a great job. There was no shame in quitting – I was proud of her for trying. But before I knew it, I was standing on the third floor, watching her navigate the final steps. Suddenly, there she was. There was nowhere left to go. She had done it, she had really done it. Against all odds, my normally fearful child climbed all the way up! I could hardly contain my excitement. I almost expected confetti to rain down upon her head. We exchanged excited screams and I snapped some pictures. Then she started back down.

The descent was much faster and much easier, since gravity worked with her. As she made her way out of the structure, I gave her a huge hug and said I was proud of her. And I was – so incredibly proud. I didn’t care if other parents thought we were a bit strange. She shrugged her shoulders and said it wasn’t a big deal. But I knew better. I knew how proud she was of herself. She knew she had worked through her fears and accomplished something great. No one else in that museum other than the two of us understood the enormity of her accomplishment.

Looking back, I am ashamed that I doubted her. I had relied on past experiences and jumped to the conclusion that she would eventually succumb to fear and give up. She succeeded despite my doubts – an eight year old child, doing this all on her own, overcoming both her fears and mine. No matter how difficult, no matter how slow – she did it anyway. She did it!

How much could I learn from my own daughter, someone almost 30 years my junior? How could I be so negative, so discouraging to my own flesh and blood? Sure, I offered words of encouragement and told her I was there for her, supporting her. But did I really, truly believe in her? I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t.

If I have a hard time believing in my own daughter, how can I believe in myself? How often have I sold myself short, assuming that I could not do something just because I had failed before? What could I be capable of if I dared to dream? To take risks? To believe in myself? The possibilities are endless.

Thank you, Rhiannon, for helping me to see that anything is possible, and that fear is an obstacle only if you allow it to be so. You can succeed despite your closest friends’ and family’s judgements. Even the people who love you the most can be blinded by fear. Sometimes it takes a child to show you that fear can be overcome – no, not just overcome – punched in the throat. An eight year old girl can rule the world from the top of her three-story castle, and can teach her mother to do the same.

Listen to your Intuition – it just might save your life

Strong words, I know. Nevertheless, I believe them with all my heart. In November 2010, I was diagnosed with gallstones after several weeks of painful attacks. The doctors recommended surgery. After much back and forth argument in my own head, and after talking to anyone who would listen, I decided to decline. I figured I could fix myself. I thought that if I treated with chiropractic, acupuncture, and reiki, as well as improved my eating habits, I could get rid of the gallstones naturally. Deep down, I was not convinced this would work. But my fear of surgery was strong enough that I would try anything. And I had hope.

I did go to my chiropractor (who was the only one who could temporarily stop a gallbladder attack). I also tried acupuncture (including herbs), which did not seem to help. Admittedly, I could not afford to get sufficient acupuncture treatments to see if it really would be effective. I also tried reiki. But again, I could only afford to go sporadically. There is just no way to know if these treatments would have worked, had I been able to attend on a frequent basis. During severe episodes, I tried a mixture of 100% organic, not from concentrate apple juice with organic apple cider vinegar. This did quiet the attacks a bit, but it was impossible to tell if they could actually reduce or eliminate gallstones. And was it realistic to rely on this method long-term?

Given my self-taught knowledge of all things nutrition/health, where I really went wrong was in the failure to change my diet. Yes, I attempted to eat less fat (historically shown to increase attacks), and I attempted to eat healthier in general. Honestly, I could have done better – I could have done MUCH better. Perhaps in my heart of hearts, I knew it would not be enough. Looking back, it is easy to think: I should have done a cleanse, I should have done a juice fast, I should have eaten 100% whole foods, etc. etc. I did not do these things. Instead, I would deal with each attack as it came, praying it would disappear forever. This method did work for awhile. I was blessed with long periods of zero-symptom days. Unfortunately, these times became rarer as time went on.

During my Christmas vacation in 2011, I was plagued with frequent attacks. No, that is not really accurate. I suffered with a moderate to severe gallbladder attack with no end in sight. It was difficult to do anything. I managed to do some shopping, but I certainly did not enjoy it. I was not able to spend the quality time with my daughter I had hoped for. I was really unable to do anything but lie in bed and feel sorry for myself. I had a lot of time to think – a lot of time to reconsider my surgery decision. As much as I felt that surgery may be the only logical solution, the idea still terrified me.

Around this time, I participated in an e-course with the lovely Megan Monique (http://www.meganmonique.com/index.html). The theme of this course was essentially about intuition. How important it was to listen to that little voice inside your head. Part of this course involved several calls with Megan and the other participants. During one call, I voiced my gallbladder problem, as well as my ongoing dilemma. I complained that I just didn’t know what to do. I felt like surgery was my only choice, but I was looking for a “sign.” I really didn’t think I would be satisfied unless an angel materialized before me and yelled “have the damn surgery already!” And then gave me a hug.

Well, what would you know, but one of the participants piped up and said she went through the very same thing – she also doubted whether to have the surgery. Ultimately, she did, and it was the best decision she ever made. She was thrilled with the outcome. She went on and on. Megan then said “well, if you wanted a sign, there you go.” She was absolutely right. It really wouldn’t get much clearer than that.

Deep down, I had known for months that my gallbladder was getting worse, that it was poisoning me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was toxic, beyond repair. When I really listened, my body told me loud and clear that I needed the surgery. Even though I was afraid, I knew that it would be ok. The conversation on the phone that night solidified my decision.

On January 27, 2012, I woke up at 6:30 am and my husband drove me to the hospital. I knew what to expect. This would be an oupatient, endoscopic procedure. I would be in the hospital for approximately half a day. I was anxious that morning, but calm and confident in my decision – actually, I was also excited (believe it or not). I knew I was taking the first step to getting my health and my body back.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a big believer in “signs.” My first sign that I was on the right track was the ABBA music playing in the waiting room that morning. I couldn’t help but smile as “Dancing Queen” played. But the next sign practically gave me chills. A woman waiting for her husband entered the waiting room, and starting talking to the woman who checked me in when I arrived. Right away, they starting talking about how this woman, Maureen, was a Reiki master. I looked at my husband and could not contain my excitement. At my first available opportunity, I said “I’m sorry to bother you, but you’re a Reiki master? I love reiki.” “Yes,” she replied, “would you like me to do some reiki for you before your surgery?” Of course I would!

This lovely woman was my angel. She provided her healing, calming touch while the nurses were hooking up my IV and taking my vital signs. The calm, loving energy emanating from her hands made all the difference in the world. I was waiting for my surgery for almost two hours – for almost two hours I was not sedated at all, yet I was calm. I credit reiki for that. Finally, I was given the happy drugs and wheeled into the operating room.

I woke up slightly confused and coughing heavily due to the effects of the intubation. In my drug-induced state, I was able to ask the nurse if I was ok. She replied that yes, I did just fine. I decided to believe her, since I seemed able to breathe on my own, she seemed very calm, and there was no one else around and no intimidating beeping noises. As soon as I saw my husband, I pumped him for information. It turns out that the surgeon did not go into great detail with him in the waiting room, but he was able to tell me the following: “The surgery went fine, you did very well; but it was a good thing you had the surgery now, because apparently your gallbladder was infected.”

The surgeon later confirmed this to me personally. He said that he had no idea it would be infected. As far as he knew, I just had gallstones. I, however, was not at all surprised. I had known for weeks that something was seriously wrong. I did not know what, exactly, but my body was giving me strong signals that it was time to get this thing out of me. My biggest fear was that a stone would get caught in a duct, or that I would develop pancreatitis. Instead, it was infected. Imagine the worst-case scenario if I did not have the surgery, if I had let this diseased organ fester and grow more toxic. I could have ended up in emergency surgery, I could have developed sepsis, I could have been in the hospital for days or even weeks. And yes, perhaps this is somewhat melodramatic, but not listening to my body could have ultimately resulted in a much more tragic result.

I am now a big believer in intuition. I will never doubt my body again. Even though I had the surgery a mere eleven days ago, I can already feel the difference. I feel better, healthier. My eyes have a little sparkle in them, my skin is rosier. I feel like the poison has left my body. I am eternally grateful for that little voice inside my head that refused to go away, that little voice that, with help from others, finally convinced me to do what I had to do – to conquer my fear and have the surgery.

So where do I go from here? I had told someone a few weeks ago that having this surgery was the first step on my journey back to health. As corny as it sounds, I feel like 2012 is the year I get my health back. Yes, I need to lose weight. But honestly, I feel like I can actually accomplish this now. My gallbladder can no longer hold me back. I will have more energy – I will be able to go to the gym, and go shopping, and cook healthy vegan food. In fact, I do not really have a choice. At least in the first few weeks or months after surgery, I will need to be very careful with what I eat, particularly with fat. My body just cannot process a lot of fat right now. I tend to get nauseated after every meal, even a healthy one. I am being forced to eat healthfully. I consider this a gift.

This is the beginning of the rest of my life. And yes, I got chills as I wrote that.

Happy New Year!

Well, it is that time of year again – the time for new beginnings, big ideas, promises to finally lose weight, stop smoking, work less (or perhaps more), spend more time with family, read more, write more, meditate, start a yoga practice, etc., etc., etc. Lofty dreams, exciting pursuits, the time to start fresh, change your life, turn it all around. It’s January!!!!

January 1st holds so much promise, so much excitement, but so much pressure. How long will it take to screw it up this time? To break my own promise? To have to admit to myself that I have, yet again, failed to keep another New Year’s resolution? Self-pity then kicks in, and I find myself going right back to old habits, falling back into old, self-defeating patterns. The winter bears on mercilessly, I stop counting calories, I neglect the gym – until December comes again and I look back at another disappointing year.

Like so many people, I have resolved year after year to lose weight. Most of the time, it is just an idea with virtually no concrete steps taken. If I’m lucky, I make the old college try for a couple of months – I watch what I eat (mostly), I get to the gym (sometimes), and I even step on the scale periodically to track my progress. However, in case you haven’t noticed, January is cold here in New England – it is the time of year that can be chock-full of snowstorms, icy roads, bone-chilling temperatures, and worst of all, little sun. It’s the lack of light that ultimately gets me, that crushes my soul and calls me back to bed. I resort to comfort eating, I stop going to the gym, I become a couch potato. Worst of all, I just give up on caring. Soon, summer is knocking on my door and the magazines boast skinny, under-fed, photo-shopped supermodels urging women to lose “those winter pounds” and get “bikini-ready.” UGH. Back to bed with a pint of ice cream I go.

I am the type of person who likes lists and goals and dreams. Despite my past failures, I am annually urged to try again. This year is no different. I am truly looking forward to 2012. It feels like a “big year,” which I know sounds corny. Yet, this is a feeling I absolutely cannot shake. So, I will take advantage of it. So, here is the deal: I do need to lose weight – I actually need to lose a LOT of weight – at least 100 pounds, to be exact. Yes, that is an overwhelming number. When I think about it terms of the ultimate goal, I want to give up before I even start. However, I am thinking about this differently this year. Instead of making my goal “to lose weight,” I am thinking about this process more holistically. I will not lose weight. Instead, I will heal my body.

Some may say this is semantics – that weight loss is still the ultimate goal. Well, yes, that is correct. However, re-framing this goal will hopefully make a difference for me. You see, I have always known HOW to lose weight. I have always known that I need to eat less and move more. The hard part is figuring out WHY I am so overweight in the first place. This is not twenty pounds we are talking about here, people – this is over one HUNDRED pounds. How could I allow myself to get to this point? Like so many people before me have done, I need to submit to the soul-searching, terrifying process that is peeling away the layers to the real me – to bare my soul and pain to the world, to say out loud that THIS IS NOT ME. I need to take the time, as painful as it will undoubtedly be, to face my demons and be willing to experience pain in order to get to the root of the problem.

I am a healthy, vibrant person in a fat suit. I look in the mirror and do not recognize myself. It pains me to realize that this is the person facing the world – this is the person everyone sees. I want to scream to the world that what you see is NOT what you get. There is so much more to me than this overweight body. I wear this extra padding as protection, and now it is time to be rid of it forever.

What I need to work on now is HOW exactly I do this. As the old saying goes, “if you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always gotten.” Ok, message received. What I don’t quite get yet is what exactly do I do differently? I am on a mission to figure this out. I will be using this blog to document my journey. I am not sure how much detail I will be sharing at this point – I am considering this to be an ongoing process, and I anticipate much growth on my part.

I would love to read your comments (hopefully supportive) as I shed layers and pounds, and as I heal my body. Thanks for reading. 🙂