Tag Archives: writing


In the hours before we say goodbye to February, 2014– a month in which I have been way too busy for comfort and have posted nothing on this blog– I’ll leave you with this– just to have touched down with this blog, for my own sake. I love this song and I love each of these interpretations of it. I love artists working off each other’s brilliance and making something new with something old or at least older. And I am burning to share more. Which I will do soon.

So here goes– The original. By Ellie Goulding.

And then the Maccabeats own beautiful, brilliant version.

And last but definitely not least, one of my recent favorites, Ashanti Floyd performing Burn.

West coast vacation– unfinished

My threesome; daughter, partner and me are nearing the end of a two-week vacation. We flew to San Francisco and spent several days with my long-time friend L and her guy/husband–S and their younger daughter, H. When I say that L is my long-time friend, you should understand that this year, this month, is the 40th anniversary of our meeting and becoming best of friends. L’s and my friendship, is rare, I think, in that it has never wavered. We have had our struggles and our fights but there has, in my memory (she can weigh in if she reads this), never been any question for either of us that this was a deep and permanent friendship. As we get close to the end of this time together I only want more, I am never satisfied that I have had enough of her and I love her family– each of them individually and each of them in their relationships now with M, my partner and with my daughter.

It was hard getting ready to leave town for many reasons– the biggest of which was saying goodbye for awhile to nephew/cousin Izzy who has left this morning for his semester in Ecuador. He will be gone from our summer of living together and will not even be in our city going to school this semester when we return. He brings to our household the joy of more family, a 20-year old’s enthusiasm, his own experiences and perspective, his own particular brand of boundless energy, his handsome, eager, open, presence and a lot of love for each of us–among many good things.

When we arrived in San Francisco we did our brand of great San Francisco things for several days– family dinner at L’s house on Sunday night with her mom and another family, also old friends of ours now. We drove L and S to the hospital where they both work each morning and spent days taking in the views, walking the dog at the ocean, drinking coffee from just one of our favorite SF independent coffee shops– Martha’s– looking at the gorgeous bougainvillea that grows abundantly in this climate and being together. I had a great time and took great satisfaction spending more money than I intended at my favorite outdoor outfitter– getting a good fleece jacket and backpack for my suddenly-so-big daughter, N. and tee shirts, socks and hiking boots for me. I also went twice to the YMCA where L and her family belong– and worked out amidst a bigger and more diverse crowd– particularly a diverse group of women of all ages, shapes and sizes — than I ever see in our city on the East Coast. Going with L to this YMCA has become one of the highlights of my trips to San Francisco. We always run into her mother (also initial L, though she and my friend do not share the same first name). Her mother is 89 years old and walks with a walker to the YMCA where she works out. Inspiration for me.

A week ago today, we drove north to the mountains. I am still working to get my blogger’s rhythm back, and I so want to hit publish– I will share a few photos and save more for later.



Lassen National Park, at 8000 gorgeous and scary feet high-- with daughter nearer a steep drop-off from a narrow path than this photo shows.

Lassen National Park, at 8000 gorgeous and scary feet high– with daughter nearer a steep drop-off from a narrow path than this photo shows.

My friend, L.  We were teenagers when we met.  Women in our 50's now.  Gorgeous.

My friend, L. We were teenagers when we met. Women in our 50’s now. Gorgeous.

Our gang, looking down at Bumpass Hell, geothermal area below, with water that steams and bubbles at over 200 degrees f.

Our gang, looking down at Bumpass Hell, geothermal area below, with water that steams and bubbles at over 200 degrees f.


What I didn’t say: about work.

I posted something several days ago and then pulled it back.  The post had to do with stories that, though they affect me a great deal, aren’t my stories and I decided it was not the right time to share on one of the other people’s behalf.  But this too is a bit about the theme of what-is-on-my-mind-that-I-don’t-write.

There are things that come up that maybe cannot or should not be the subject of a blog post.  Sometimes I don’t write because what I am not writing about is exactly the thing on my mind.   There have been two such things, and the one will go up later.  But not yet.  Here is one other such thing.  Work.

My job, which was demanding but great fun and wonderful in some ways at the outset, took a big nose-dive for me in the spring, several months into it.  It got hard then bad and then it got worse.   I worked all the time and my boss grew critical of me. I became anxious.  I would wake up every night in the middle of the night with my boss and my worries racing through my head.  I would talk to my co-workers, those who had known my boss a lot longer, after some conversation where he berated and criticized me– and I would say “I think I am going to be fired” and one of my colleagues would shrug and say “if you are, you’ll find something else…just do your best.”  This was honest but not reassuring.  I was so thoroughly off balance and so thoroughly upset it was hard to figure out what to say about any of it.  I said a little, but not the extent of it.  Through the summer, which was emotionally terrible for me, I was convinced I would lose my job before the end of the year and I was terrified.

Then some different things happened and things turned around.  It was unexpected to me– so much so that the fact that things did turn around, even though I could not have seen it coming nor could I envision a way out just a few  months earlier — was a lesson itself.  This seemed an intractable, untenable situation.  And then it turned about 180 degrees, despite my certainty that it could not possibly.

What happened?  I don’t really know, except that at the moment it is going very well.  To some extent I just hit my stride.  I figured out in the way you find your way around a keyboard or a new computer– just how to do certain things, even though what I learned and figured out was somewhat imperceptible to me.  Some other things happened.  I did well with my part of the work in the context of a very difficult situation facing my boss early in the fall.  And there are some skills I have picked up that have always eluded me.  I picked up the pace on certain kinds of work considerably.  And at my age, I learned, in some ways for the very first time, to dig into certain projects immediately rather than later.  Those two changes have allowed me to do certain projects and have given me a great sense of accomplishment and competence.  And in view of the fact that a lot of my job involves writing, I think it is fair to say that I am developing skills I’ve never had as a writer.  All of this, I love.

So the anxiety is dialed back.  What isn’t dialed back is the demand.  I understand how to do many more things better and faster and more efficiently.  But the demand has grown immeasurably too.  And I feel the school year, and this 11- years-old-time with my daughter in particular, and with my partner flying by.  So many evenings and weekends, I am not with them.  Saturday before last I worked for 9 hours and then Sunday too.  I’ve given up Fridays at home.  My daughter is playing volleyball on a team, for the very first time and I don’t know that I will be able to see even one of her games.  So I face a dilemma about how to parent and do my  job and a dilemma about what I want.  And I have very little time to think about it.  Because I work a lot and then I come home to the other job I have, the one that is most important to me, and often most interesting to me– being a good mom and ally to my daughter.  So the quandary is– now what?  I don’t know but hopefully I will see my way clear to keep you posted.

Maladies: Fourth of July, adjusting to 11 years old

This year I kind of hated Fourth of July–which is not my very favorite holiday at all, but one that I often like a lot.  With some months (this time around) of regular work under my belt, I’m still having big trouble adjusting to some parts of my particular post-recession- back- to- work life.  Less money (a lot less of it than before I was laid off from the last job), hours that are too long and flexibility that is too limited nag at me.  A holiday on a Wednesday just exacerbates it.  I’m a long way  into my career but I don’t have enough annual leave accumulated to take a weekend plus two days off  and still have leave time for that two-week vacation we are having trouble planning.  So we just had this dangling holiday on a ridiculously hot day.  We actually had a wonderful time with close friends we’ve not seen in  months– and a fun time going to fireworks at a park that we could walk to– but still I wanted a long weekend instead of one short, hot day.  It was a glass half-empty day.

I love and am blown away by the growing-up human being who is my daughter, but I’m also having trouble adjusting to 11.  My daughter’s age now.  I don’t mean it’s bad, it’s actually quite good.  She’s truly thriving and a lot of things that she had been struggling with last summer and this school year have shifted and  come together for her beautifully.  But life with someone 11 is different from before.  As a parent every year, sometimes every six months is different, but 11 years old seems– well more different.

It’s a different identity– being the mother of a pre-teen girl.  My mother role is different.  I would definitely say it’s not less.  There seems to be more laundry, more forms to fill out, and there are more decisions to be made on a shorter time frame. There is so much to figure out but you figure it out differently.  It’s less hands-on.   It’s more hands-on.

You become a sleuth in a certain way.  You don’t, for example, go into the school or the camp or the home of her new friend and just watch what is going on to figure out what you think.  You watch, sometimes, from a greater distance and listen to conversations that happen in the back seat of the car while you drive and try to participate and try not to.  You have to be available a lot, a lot, a lot.  But you may save the whole day to be together only to have your child use your good attention and love and confidence in her to decide to call a new friend and then leave for the whole day.  I’ve not completely figured it out.  I’m looking ahead at her life as she grows up, at my life as she grows up.

May 20. Daughter’s birthday morning, inspecting her new, first cell phone with my sleepy and bandaged partner. (Partner will hate this photo but I don’t)

Morning city walk, setting up her voicemail– she is a digital native, no instructions, no how-to card…

All that said, I feel the same way, which was a very touching-sweet way– a mom who was a complete stranger described her feeling about 11 years old.  15 years ago.  It was Fourth of July weekend then and my sister had come to visit us for the Fourth with her older (4 years old) and younger (11 weeks) old sons.  We were walking around the Lincoln Memorial, and I had the 11 week old in a sling on my body.  A woman about my age stopped to peer in and admire the baby–she reasonably assumed he was my new baby.  She asked, how old is he? and I replied– 11 weeks old.  She smiled and nodded off into the distance presumably at her boy but I wasn’t sure which boy, of several in the distance, was being pointed to.  She said in a nice way, not a cloying or weird way– Mine’s 11 years old.  They’re just as special and wonderful at 11 years— and smiled and congratulated me on the new baby and left.  Her tone, her pleasure in her son, her pleasure at being the mother of someone who was exactly her son, at his exact age, was unforgettable and I have often thought of her.  I thought of her when my older nephew turned 11 and then again when the younger one– long out of the sling on our bodies– turned 11 and then again this year with my own daughter.

Still, I’m uneasy in my new working-at-a-new-job-mother-of-an-11-year-old skin.  And I’m having trouble writing– not just trouble fitting it in, but trouble mapping out what I want to say.  But I will marshal on and hopefully insights, more clarity, a sense of ease and well-being or at least a sense of humor and more writing will return.

Shout out around the world. Now shout back at me.

I don’t spend a lot of time on these comparisons but I do keep track.  Wordpress tracks your stats for you, your traffic.  Or to be clear, WordPress, the host site for this blog, tracks the traffic on this blog, my blog, for me.  One cannot tell if the same person went back to the site ten times a day or if ten people read on a given day but WordPress tells me when the site has been viewed ten or twenty-one or thirty times.

Because of this, I know I am not the most widely read Jewish mom, writer, wanting to end racism, adoptive parent blogger out there, nor the second or third most widely read.  This blog has not been picked up or mentioned by any one of several publications that might do so and thereby increase the readership.

The comments I do get from readers have slowed from a trickle to an intermittent drip.  (I say this with the deepest gratitude to those very few of you who carry the weight of the commenting–  and with great happiness that you read this, whether you ever comment or never comment.)  I also know that in year one the blog got a certain number of hits and in year two the readership increased by about 50% and this year my readership may well decline from that of last year.  The absolute truth is I have different feelings about these facts at different times.  I’d love a wider readership and I’d especially love wider and active conversation through comments, but I am very, very happy with the readership of this blog, just as it is.

But.  Get this.  One of the amazing features of WordPress– a recently added feature, is that it tracks hits on the blog, by country.  I now know that this blog has been read by people in something like 22 or 24 countries outside the US– including Spain, Taiwan, Kenya, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Israel, Canada, Poland, the UK and Brazil to name just a few.

I must say, now I am intrigued.  And you could do me a favor.  Any and all of you could and should comment, I would love that.  I invite you.

But I would especially love to hear from you, if you are from outside the US.  Consider this your special invitation to write.  And especially if you are from outside the US and you are a woman.  Or if you are from outside the US and you are a mom or dad, or an uncle or aunt, or a grandmother or lover of poetry or a lesbian, or are a teacher, or a childcare provider or someone who is passionate about ending racism or if you are a writer or a poet or… I’d love to hear from you.  Tell me how you found me here and what your life is like where you live and what you have to teach from where you sit.  I’m shouting out to you and I hope you, really it is you I’m talking to, will shout back.


You don’t need to hear all this to get my point, but I want to savor this particular memory and the details, so humor me.  Many years ago, in the final months of my partner’s ownership of her wonderful feminist bookstore–her shop (that means she) hosted, and I attended, a talk by the great feminist crime/mystery writer, Sara Paretsky.   It was an event that my partner knew would be a big draw.  She rented a meeting room in a hotel about a block from her bookstore for the event because her little shop could stretch to accommodate people for an event, but not that much.  The house was packed that night– with almost all women.

I adored Paretsky’s work and I only say it in the past tense because it’s been a long time since I’ve read something of hers.  Long enough that I should pick up a book of hers again.  All of her mysteries are set in my hometown, Chicago, and the descriptions of the city and places known and unknown to me are great gifts to me– like having someone else take all your jumbled photos of your earliest years and making a great album out of them and then presenting it to you.  I also loved and felt an interesting kinship with her main character, V.I. Warshawski and with V.I.’s beloved older woman friend and mentor–Lotty Herschel– a Holocaust survivor.

The talk she gave that night was about her journey as a woman writer.  It was a painful talk about the long, cruel, sexist invalidation of her by father.  And it was about the steps she took and what finally allowed her to go ahead despite the deep, ongoing meanness and invalidation she had faced–to go ahead and become a writer.  She is a woman who is not light and bubbly– the mark of the sexism and the antisemitism she faced growing up– all show on her (we all bear the hoofmarks of oppression, a teacher and mentor of mine used to say).  But she triumphed and has these amazing books to show for it.

At the end of her talk she took questions.  This was a very long time ago and I wish I better remembered the exact question and her exact answer, but I remember it fairly well– I’ve been quoting it for years.

She was asked, by a younger woman, something along the lines of what did she think was the most important gift, or skill or attribute, that a woman– in particular– needed to have, in order to succeed as a writer.  I will never forget her answer though I wish I remembered it verbatim.  She said that for a woman she thought it wasn’t talent, and it wasn’t something else or something else (I don’t remember what the other somethings were)– it was the ability to start and to persevere and then to finish a project.  

Although she didn’t say exactly these things, she did frame this in the context of sexism.  And if having the ability to finish something that matters to you is isn’t a description of one important swath of damage that sexism does to us– I don’t know what is.  Whether it is because our confidence has been undermined, or our ability to really know what we want to do has been taken from us, or because we do so much caretaking (and not just of family, but of organizations, schools, community gardens, childcare coops, pets, sick friends and relatives, you name it) or because we are treated as though our projects aren’t important and we get interrupted a lot– we have trouble finishing things.  I do.  I have so much trouble.

Although I wasn’t writing five days a week– I was rarely writing even three days a week– while I was a stay-at-home mother, I wrote more.  And I finished what I wrote and posted it right here.  Now, working full-time for a man– in my personal, at-home life, and my writing life– unfinished is the name of the game.  So when I went to begin to write again tonight, I pulled up the authors section of my blog with all my unfinished as well as posted/ published drafts– and there were a record-breaking (for me) five posts started but unfinished.   And there are so many other things unfinished too; the insurance forms that need to be completed, the literal messes that need to be cleaned up and closets and drawers gone through and culled.  There are the long talks I am waiting to have with different people, and the walks I want to take and the exercise I want.  The community organizing I would like to do someday, the good night’s sleep I want every night.  There is still a longing to get an MFA in creative writing and a longing for the second child I wanted to bring into our family and raise.  Unfinished are whole articles I’d like to write and also unfinished is the reading and playing and active and special time things I want to do with my daughter.  And more.

Despite all that is unfinished, I toast.  Here is to my female sisters and to myself– here’s to finishing things, to blogging and to writing and to publishing and to raising children and making our schools run and all the zillion other things women do.  And here’s to ending sexism so that we can get on with it–whatever of many, many, many things we really want to get on with.

there’s no place like home…or all around the world

There was a special luxury– and I do mean luxury– on the days when I was unemployed and when I managed an early shower and to sit and write this blog quietly at the dining room table for a couple of hours.  Rainy days offered one sort of luxury for writing, sunny and cold another, and sunny and warm and breezy still another.  I miss it.

I will not stop writing this blog.  I will not stop writing this blog.  I will not… Please don’t stop coming by to visit.  I’ll be back in the swing of this, one of these days soon.  Tonight I blocked out about an hour to write, and then realized there were two problems with our email that really had to be solved.  So instead of sitting and writing– I called Verizon.  I am not exactly a booster of Verizon but tonight I cheer the fact that I didn’t have to wait in a queue at all and reached successively– Unippi, in India and John, in Mexico.   They were both excellent.  Capitalism really, really stinks in so many ways– destroys lives and people and things we love.  But I did like reaching Unippi and John in their respective places in the world.  Each helped me a great deal.  I hope their lives are not made miserable by their work.  And that they get paid a decent wage and have health benefits for themselves and their children and clean water to drink and time away from their work too.

This is simply update.  No more, no less.  I have serious things to write about and funny things as my daughter approaches her 11th birthday.  I have things I’d like to write about my work and what I am learning not only about the world, but about myself, in this job.  And I have a need for sleep and so I say goodnight.

Truth telling

I have a secret that is fast becoming not a secret.  I have a new job.  I haven’t started yet, but I’ll leave my good and very busy mothering-writing and thinking life– Monday, February 6.  I am honestly quite sad and fearful about leaving this extraordinary time with my daughter and this chance to write and to reflect and to do some other things.

I am a worrier.  I am not a worrier who argues that my worries and fears are justified.  But nonetheless, my brain is often occupied–  I was inundated somehow, early in my life, with certain Jewish patterns– patterns of fears and worry, and a hearty dose of sadness and loss.  A dose of “Oy, oy, the glass is half empty!”.

In other words, as scared as I’ve been about not having a job, I am that scared and then some about having gotten this job.  It’s a legal job; it’s a legislative legal job– which is to say I’ll be doing work on a particular set of issues with a legislative body and not with individual clients.  It’s a good job.  It lines up nicely with many of the things I wanted to do next.  I’ll tell more about it as time goes by or I won’t– but for now suffice it to say, getting this offer and then accepting it–has been a huge roller coaster.  Mostly a roller coaster that has felt as though I was on a downward, gravity-intensifying plunge.  And I didn’t know what to say, or how I could tell it– or whether it was prudent to tell as real decisions were being made.  So I went silent here for almost 20 days which is way, way too long for me.

But this silence reminds me of something I’ve been thinking about for a while.

It’s about this kind of blog and what does one tell?  What does one omit?  How do I figure out those things and how do you, a reader, come to know what it all means?

In the course of my job search, one morning following a particular night of sleeplessness because the panic dial was turned up high–I emailed an old friend who I know from this city and with whom I was very close for many years– a long time ago.  Later, but still a long time ago, he moved to California.  We’ve had a few ups and downs in our friendship.  But I count him and I think he counts me, as a Good Friend– across the miles.  He’s a very good, smart, interesting, Jewish gay man.

So on the morning after the afore-mentioned very hard night, I emailed him and simply told him what a hard time I was having.  How alone I felt.  I didn’t do that often with many people when I was right in the thick of it.  It hadn’t occurred to me that he could help, but he wrote back immediately and offered up five old friends of his here–for me to contact.  He did some other important things for me too.  But the most important thing was that he rose to the occasion, put his brain in gear, offered some concrete help and that bad morning I remembered I wasn’t doing this alone.

I followed up on one of his suggestions pretty quickly and then my mother-in-law had surgery, my daughter was having a particularly hard time and some other things were happening but I hadn’t written about them here.  Partly I didn’t have time– and partly I didn’t have insight; I had complaints and worries.

Sometime after my friend offered some actual help and  I had done some follow- up with one of  his leads– and all the other things I just mentioned had been  taking my time and attention (mother-in-law’s surgery, partner gone, daughter having a tough time) here is what happened.  I didn’t blog about the hassles and upsets and I stopped emailing my friend for several weeks.  Not on purpose; the time just passed as things were happening.  Eventually, he wondered why I’d not followed up with him and with some of the leads he gave me.  He emailed, just wondering, was there perhaps something wrong?

I took his email as pressure and wrote something sort of defensive at best, but with a kind of “would you get off my back?” tone.  This– to my friend who had offered help in my time of need.  Then there was more communication and I  had the good sense to back up and explain at least a little about the mother-in-law surgery, the traveling partner, the daughter who battled about not wanting to go to school in the morning.  Then I  apologized.  I hope sufficiently.

But in the course of straightening it out he said something that I’ve kept thinking about.  He said “I had no idea things were so hard– I had even gone and checked your blog….and it sounded like all was well.”

I thought a lot about that.  The difficulty and strangeness of the possible answers ran through my head.  Should I say, “Well you can’t really expect to find out what’s actually, truly going on with me here can you?”

Or worse, “Well, you never know, sometimes I reveal a lot of what’s happening with me here, but sometimes I just can’t write the hard stuff and you just don’t know which is which as you read”.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since.  What is the blog anyway?  It’s not a short story.  It’s not a poem.  It’s not a how-to book.  Maybe an essay from time to time.  But it’s not a diary or a newspaper either.  It’s intimate but it’s also not a comprehensive account of anything.

It made me think about the questions–what is worth telling; what do I choose to tell; what do I omit and how does a reader piece it all together?  I have many strengths and many failings and fears to deal with– but many of those are too embarrassing or too private (whatever that means) and many of them are just not interesting.   What can I or should I in good conscience tell when it involves telling on someone else?

As a woman who wants justice in this world, a woman who thinks good stories and poems and songs are part of what will help us get there– and as a mother, my business is the business of the Jewish-mother- of- a- daughter- of-color-who- came- to- me- by- adoption and a woman-writer-blogger.  And in my business figuring out how to talk truthfully is a pretty important thing.  My business is about raising a child, as Grace Paley once said, “righteously up”; about talking as straight as I know how about adoption, and about myself and about race and Jews and gentiles and sexism and homophobia and now at my daughter’s age, about bodies and women and fairness and a lot of other things.  I do subscribe to the old saying I heard long ago– that two half-truths make one whole lie.

But truth-telling is a wide open field and very general as a guideline.  The rest I have to figure out, week by week, word by word, blog post by blog post.  As for you, in the name of full disclosure, I’ll offer advice.  If you want to know reliably whether a particular day or week was one where I soared or hid under the covers– whether I laughed a lot or cried or just got by– you should call or email.  Because to be truthful, I’m not always telling all that here.


Happy Chanukah; celebration and two gifts.

It was the first night of Chanukah.  Both my girls are asleep and I’m finally, finally writing.  Weeks have gone by.  Three, to be exact.  Way, way too many weeks without writing for me given the impulse to make this blog and given what I am trying to do here.  I think the last time I wrote was my partner’s birthday, December 1.

Since then there was a trip to Wisconsin for a weekend of something special that we do as a family, a whole lot of math homework and a book report, many shopping trips some of which were a good idea and some of which were definitely not.  There was jury duty, seeing my nephew off to go home for the holidays after completing his first semester as a college student here, a birthday party thrown for my partner and cleaned up (it was a really wonderful party), a car breakdown, and much, much more.  Oh and basketball season has begun which involves my partner (Coach M.), my daughter and a lot of time, heart and driving on my part.

We were at a Chanukah party tonight thrown by a group of Jewish lesbians, old friends of ours– one and all of them.  The group is known as “Jewish group” and except for a few changes of personnel in the earlier years, the group is six women who have met regularly since 1980.

They have a Chanukah party each year and a very few friends who are not part of the group– such as my partner and me along with our daughter– are sometimes invited.  Their group is a small group, a closed group that bears the strengths of a group that has years of love and steadfast loyalty to one another behind it– as well as the flaws and quirks and odd difficulties any family unit has.

It was a really wonderful party, with these old friends and an easy warm feel to it and with latkes, gifts for the two children there–(my daughter and one other), a funny, creative group retelling of the Chanukah story around an outdoor fire and s’mores– marshmallows and chocolate Chanukah gelt melted between graham crackers.  To my great pleasure and surprise, my daughter–who often won’t talk in a setting like this,  created an inventive and longish part of the group Chanukah story.  I was delighted.

I got, from the grab bag, a set of scissors– about which I said, after opening the package– “Oh, I love scissors”.  It is true, I do like scissors and I didn’t find it a particularly odd gift, though by something she said I got the feeling the giver was beginning to think it was.

But the biggest gift of the evening was the fact that my teacher and old friend, E. was there.  My Jewish teacher, literature scholar, lesbian sister, folk dancer and now friend for more than 30 years.  I’ve referred to her often in this blog, and she is one of my most loyal readers and one of the most consistent cheerers-on of my writing endeavors.  She said to me, almost as soon as I walked through the door, “you haven’t been writing lately”.  I laughed and said, “I know, but now I will– it always helps me to remember that you are waiting to read what comes next”.   She then gave me what is now a talk she’s given me before, about not wanting to pressure me, but…

I definitely wouldn’t call it pressure.  I think I’d call it something along the lines of the magic elixir for a writer.  And pouf…  Here I am home, at the computer.  Writing.

So in addition to scissors and my daughter’s great contribution to the Chanukah story, I got the gift every writer wants.  My appreciative, encouraging reader and coach, right there in person, to talk to and to tell me– get back to it, get back down to work, I’m waiting for more.

So to E, thank you for the encouragement and for the great, lively Yiddish rendition of the Chanukah song.  And for reminding me that you always light all eight candles, all eight nights.  Just because they are beautiful.

And to all of you, Happy Chanukah, season of light.  I hope you get at least one  gift like mine– the perfect encouragement, just the right word of love or advice or support.

Giving thanks–take two; grammar, punctuation and meaning

It is often the case that with a little time, I reread something I wrote, something I wrote and edited even– and realize that there are some small (or would you call them large?) grammatical or punctuation errors which confuse or even obscure the intended meaning of the piece I wrote.  Looking back at my very brief gesture in the direction of Thanksgiving– a post written very late last night, I realize that there was one such error.  The intended meaning of the post entitled just a very few things for which I give thanks was really more along the lines of “Just a very few of the many things for which I give thanks; a list, not exhaustive”.  I did not mean that there are just a very few things for which I feel thankful.  Which is, upon re-reading, what I think I wrote.