Writing memoir is so much fun and so good for you. It is easy to have a book in several months or a year with just an hour a day. Try it you'll like it.

This coming week I will be posting my second installment of Coffee with Jude. The question addressed is: how do you make your story engaging and interesting?

Well, if you write a long story about your backpacking trip to Europe describing all the tourist attractions you visited and all the concrete events of the trip it will be boring to a reader unless you find the inner story. This is the juice that propels the events. Maybe you came to realize while you were traveling that you were very lonely and so you found yourself talking to strangers, making friends, and learning amazing things about them. Then maybe you decided you wanted to find a life-time partner as a result of these connections. Talk about how you changed as a result of travelling and now you have an “inner story”. The outer story is all about the solid events that could be filmed with a camera. Watch the video on youtube here about the inner story:

To get weekly videos of Coffee with Jude —tips, tricks, and inspiration subscribe to my substack here:

Here are a couple youtube shorts:

About a therapy session—
About the writing journey—

 “ If I could give you one key, and only one key to a more abundant life, I would give you a sense of your own worth, an unshakable sense of your own dignity as one grounded in the source of the cosmic dance, as one who plays a unique part in the unfolding of the story of the world.”   ~ Greta Cosby

"Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things." Mary Oliver—excerpt from Wild Geese

A common theme with so many people is they feel like they are not smart enough, good enough or worthy of what they want in life. I hear this over and over again and the hardest part is that my clients have carried this far too long, not knowing how to change it or worse yet, believing they can’t change it.

 The beliefs we carry are learned behavior from the past experiences in our life. Many of those were learned when we were too young to know better and or had the immaturity to look at it differently. We automatically carry them into our adulthood and after a while the mind will look for all the ways it is true. But guess what, when you begin to believe you are enough, your mind will begin to look for all the ways that is true, as well.

 We tend to think that the process of making deep seated changes requires a lot of work and takes a long time. At one time I thought that too, but the more work I did on myself and with others, I realized that we make it much harder than it needs to be. A key factor in making changes is the willingness to have an open heart and mind to look deep inside and make a decision to heal what needs healing so we can let the old beliefs go.

 Inspired Action:

    What are the beliefs that you carry that no longer serve you?

    Which ones keep reoccurring in your mind?

    What needs healing in order for you to let go?

    What would you rather believe about yourself?

*I found the above words in my writing notes today and I love it so much. I am not the author of this. I didn’t have the name of the person who wrote this and I don’t know if it was a writing session I may have attended somewhere or where I got it. I tried to google it but could not find it. Please let me credit the author, if you might know who they are.

Now I will attempt to answer these questions—these are my words:

1. What are the beliefs that you carry that no longer serve you? I believe that I am not smart and a bit ignorant because I don’t know some of the basic events in history or politics. Like, get this one: Why was world war I started? and what were we fighting for? Ok, so I can hear you saying, well she is stupid! My dear husband Joe says I don’t know these things because they are not of interest to me and that I am very smart. He is sweet. I want to believe him. I know I am smart. Perhaps I am dumb and I am smart. It is these labels that are damaging. I could do away with those. Joe tells me the answers to all my “dumb” questions (whenever I ask) without one iota of disbelief. He knows the answers and so I rely on him. So where did I get this belief? I distinctly remember US History in my junior year in high school. I didn’t study for the test. I think I was preoccupied with my growing belly and frozen in a state of shock and fear. I couldn’t concentrate on the lessons and my studying was so painful I just gave up. Then I put the blame on the teacher and the subject matter. I thought this is all baloney. Who cares what happened in the past. The now is what is important. Why do I have to memorize all these boring facts and dates. I could not muster up any interest and I concluded that I hate history and so from then on, I was like a deer in the headlights when it came to history. I had no understanding so I wasn’t able to put the new information into any context. This was my belief that has lasted for 55 years.

2. Which ones keep recurring in your mind? Another one is that I can’t speak well. I think I am a good writer but a poor speaker. I often can’t find the right words. I think this is because of a lack of confidence in my opinions. Sometimes I think I don’t have a right to some of my opinions because I am not well learned or have not researched the subject thoroughly. Also, when emotions crop up, like anger I get numb and silent. I don’t like that about myself. Where did I get this belief? When I was a young and tender teen I harbored some major shame. I had a secret to protect and so I was quiet when I had things to say. I held my tongue so I wouldn’t be judged or thought of as stupid. I was self-conscious. I didn’t feel like I had the right to say my truth because I had messed up so much. What will people think of me if they knew my secret? This caused a lasting quiet. In case you haven’t heard, my secret was a teen pregnancy. We told everyone I had a kidney disease. The way it was dealt with: silence. Had a lasting effect on my belief system but there is no reason it must continue. The best time to plant a tree is forty years ago. The next best time is now. I am going to think about what I can do to heal this belief. Writing my book Sunlight on My Shadow healed some of it, but perhaps public speaking could be the skill that unlocks the flood gates.

3. What needs healing in order for you to let go? Greta Cosby in her words above spell out what needs healing. It is an overwhelming sense of acceptance for all of me as I am and a strong sense of my own worth. How to do that? Know that I am blessed with a unique brain and body and it is perfect in all its imperfections because I am alive and I am human.

4. What would you rather believe about yourself? I would rather believe that I can easily say my mind in a sweet and true manner in all circumstances when it is called for. I would rather believe that I can learn about history and I don’t hate it and that it would round out my understanding of the world. And I know I can always ask Joe to fill in the blanks.

It’d be one long winter at our Edina apartment with no plans to travel south for the winter to Arizona or Florida because of the lock down.

Now it is April and the buds are popping on the trees a month early. It turned out to be not so bad here in Edina. I had a new plan in place to get some City Creek work done along with more time for guitar playing and painting, stuff that had been on the back burner for a year or two. I was able to accomplish some things that never would have gotten done, had I been able to keep up with a social life. Covid made staying at home a sensible thing to do. When the air was frigid outside, the windows let the sunshine pour into our corner apartment. Everytime I walked in, I wanted to curl up in the sunshine and read a good book.

Joe and I bundled up with scarves, hats, and gloves and discovered some beautiful walks and ski outings at the nearby parks. Not to mention the fun of walking over to the Blick’s Art store, Target , Lunds, or Room and Board to do a little shopping with masks slapped to our faces, of course. I was so thankful many of the stores stayed open.

March came in like a lion, but by the end of the month, temps were warming and snow was melting. It was time to open things back up at the cabin. First steps into the porch showed evidence of an unwelcome visitor. Cracked acorns and other creature debris littered the bed. Since we built the place four years ago, we’d never had a mouse in the house. Or was it a chipmunk? How’d that little bastard get in? His gift of droppings on my pillow was not appreciated and put an unsettling aura about the cabin. Where was he? Will we discover more destruction? Fortunately, there is a nice solid door between the porch and the rest of the cabin so we were pleased to see that he’d remained on the porch. It seemed to have been just one lone critter. Perhaps he snuck in when Bergman came to close the cabin or maybe he found that teensy crack at the bottom of the door. At any rate, it seemed he was gone now. The acorn shavings on the bed brought home the realities of life in the Northwoods.

We are at war with the animals.
I understand this. It’s their home and we are the intruders, but really do the deer have to eat my gorgeous petunias? And why do the squirrels nest in our lawn furniture when they have the forest nooks and crannies? And then of course, the ticks fall on you and suck your blood, mosquitos buzz your head and leave itchy bites. This stuff is enough to make some people hate the Northwoods. I get it. It is annoying. But when you are raised in it, you are proud of your acquired toughness as a result of the exposure from babyhood and you take it in stride. Oh another tick, throw it in the toilet. Daddy long legs? Grab him and put him outside. Mosquitoes? Just bundle up. Well, the beauty of March, April, and May is that the annoyances are at a minimum. Not all the creatures have awakened from hibernation.

An eagle soars over the shoreline looking for a likely lunch. The lake looks like steel. Hard frozen troughs where the ice cracked and froze again. The expansive beauty of the night sky sparkles through the porch windows with the full moon and the north star hanging in the sky, a sign of the constancy of things.

Once I’d convinced myself that the critters were outside, I could settle in and feel cozy. The up north woods and the quiet lake fills my soul blanketing me with a profound peace and sense of well being.

That night I must say I had the best sleep I’d had in months. The cold air and the electric blanket nestled me into the perfect sandwich of comfort. Gone were the worries about work and the pandemic and all the other problems my mind likes to grab onto that cause stress. Gone. I had a good dream. I dreamt I was with my loved ones, laughing and having profound, joyous conversations saying exactly what was on my mind. A peaceful, renewing dream free of anxiety.

I woke up happy and eager to get to writing as I settled in on the porch with my coffee and laptop. My chair is in the corner so I have windows looking out to the woods on all three sides. The sense of joy and peace was overwhelming and prompted me to wonder.

Do we need to keep the apartment in Edina?
I love it so much up here. Could we just live here year round and just go south for two or three months in the winter? What would that be like? We’d save a bundle on rent. Especially during the summer months when no one is at the apartment. I am a different person up here at the cabin. A person I like. What is it that is so nourishing to the soul? Could it work to just live up here full time?

That decision is wrought with confusion because I do understand that a big part of the joy I am feeling right now is a direct result of the fresh look at the cabin. Do I love it extra good because we have spent the winter elsewhere? How much of my love is founded in the contrast between the city life and the country life? Maybe I want to be here forever because I am not here forever. My heart wants to choose one place and stick to it. A place to keep as my home. A place to build connections. My body wants to settle down. It is difficult planning the refrigerator for two places, gathering up the stuff that goes back and forth, like my guitar and laptop. I can’t help comparing and wanting to pick one over the other. I am monogamous at heart. I don’t love dividing my attention between two lovers.

But the fact of the matter is that if I had been upnorth all winter, would I have become bored and missed the city life? Perhaps one is great because it is contrasted with the other. The Yin and Yang. City life is nourishing as well as cabin life. But why do I sleep so much better when I am up at the cabin in the Wisconsin Northwoods? When I came home I was back to my old tricks of waking up in the middle of the night wide awake. Too hot, tossing my foot out of the covers, rolling my arm under the pillow to make it bunch up a bit, then rolling on my belly. Is it the noise from outside, the trucks pulling into the Lunds parking lot at the wee hours of the night that wake me? Do the people vibes, the sounds, the electricity from all the apartments around me seep into my bones and cause unrest. Jazzed up discontent? There are good sounds and not so good sounds. The wind that comes in off the lake and whistles through the trees lulls me to sleep during an afternoon nap. The snow plow that scrapes the pavement and dumps outside my apartment window makes a white noise machine—set at HIGH— a necessity for afternoon naps.

Oh I don’t know but it is kind of a dilemma this back and forth. It is like having two lovers and the mind always wants to pick one. I love to be home. And the feeling of being home but where is home? Apartment living is definitely a new life for me. so foreign to me. I was raised in the city in quiet neighborhood and then in the suburbs in a quiet home on the end of a culdesac and then spent so much of my growing-up time upnorth. My heart is used to the quiet. But then I love seeing people on the Centennial Lakes path. Sometimes when I connect with a smile, I feel a surge of energy and love for the life of the city. Everyone busy, going places, and the hum of the traffic out on France avenue can sound like a waterfall if you are in the right frame of mind. The ready amenities. The restaurants. The shops. The utter convenience. And besides, I haven’t seen an ant or a fly in our apartment. A mouse would have a hard time finding his way up to the sixth floor.

These bonuses are not easily tossed away. So the dilemma of two lovers probably will stay floating in space for now. Someday, the answer may be clear, but right now I feel eternally blessed to have such a dilemma and I think I can handle my problem. Maybe the answer is in learning to go with the flow. As I sit in the apartment today I look forward to next week when we return to Bond Lake. I guess I can just do whatever I dang well please. No decisions to be made today. I can live with two lovers. Maybe I actually like it.

One year ago today, we were starting the pandemic and I remember thinking oh, it will all be over by Easter. Our president said it. Then in May I thought, for sure maybe July? Dream on babycakes—See my post from one year ago today—When I heard Dr. Fauci say we will have a vaccine in a year and a half, I thought oh how can we wait that long? It seemed so very far away. The good thing about being 70 is that time passes quickly—ha! so here we are nine months later and I’ve had both the Moderna shots. Praise for the scientists at Moderna and Pfizer for coming to the rescue. Meanwhile cases kept rising and deaths from the corona virus in the US are at 548,000 today. This is close to the number of people who die from cancer in the US in a year.

I am hopeful.

It seems that things are loosening up in the good old United States. Restaurants and bars are open, kids are back to school. Cases are down and people are partying big time. The CDC warns that we are still risking super spreader events but the young-uns don’t care. They think Corona Phobia is for the old and the weak. The News shows college kids gathering over spring break in Florida and Texas, whooping it up big time—in-your-face. We are all so weary of this pandemic and the clamp it has put on our social life, not to mention the toll on our mental health. Brene Brown says, “We are hard-wired for connection.” No wonder the isolation of the pandemic is crippling to our “one wild and precious life”—Mary Oliver.

Brene Brown goes on to say that connection is what gives us purpose and meaning to our lives.

Without it there is suffering. Here’s a video I love with an excerpt from one of her talks on connection.

So this is the price we’ve paid to protect our health, a lack of connection. And along with that comes suffering. What cost has this had on our psyches? I hate that I can’t see faces when I go to the grocery store. I have this big toothy smile, I inherited from father and it is a trait of many of the Liautaud’s. When I cast a smile, there is no ambiguity. It flashes large and I have used it to great advantage when I go out and about. The responses give me energy and a sense of belonging. Connection. So how can this work now that I am wearing this smelly and dreaded mask? Can I squint my eyes as a substitute for a smile? Can I say HI in a super friendly way. These help but they are a sorry excuse for a heart-felt smile you can see. I will love it when we can go about without fear of someone spitting sickness on us. Every stranger is a looming monster. Been there done that. I want it to be over.

I am hopeful.

We are working towards a better more relieved United States. But still, it scares me when I hear that half of Italy is back in lockdown because of the variants. At this point only 3% of their population is vaccinated but one study shows.

CNN World News: “Meanwhile, the variant first reported in Brazil, known as P.1, may be up to 2.2 times more transmissible and could evade immunity from previous Covid-19 infection by up to 61%, according to a modeling study, released earlier this month by researchers in Brazil and the UK.”

At this date, the U.S. has 20% of the population vaccinated. So baby, I am banking on herd immunity. I love how Biden has gotten those vaccines out and that people actually want the vaccine. If there is a placebo effect, it is a big one. I just feel more protected having had the covid vaccine. I know there are health care workers and some who do not want to get vaccinated. I’m just hoping these numbers are small. Because the more shots in the arm, the more protection for all of us.

So what will I do differently next year than I have done this year?

Well, I hope to orchestrate some festive gatherings at the cabin. More campfires, more visits to my lake neighbors. Play pickleball again. I must admit that I am a little worried about sacrificing my new found work ethic for my social appetite. One advantage of this isolation is that I have worked a lot more than in years previous. I have been doing pomodoros to develop new products, tweak CityCreek.com for maximum efficiency, and learning how to do Facebook ads. I have brought some of the back burner projects to the forefront. I hope I will see the benefits of my hard work in the form of hard-earned cash. A few months ago I watched my nephew Jimmy John’s video with Theo and got psyched to make money. It was inspiring.

So I put together a twelve week plan

for success and have been chipping away at it. During this past year, I have also been learning graphic design with Adobe Creative Cloud, picked up the guitar again, and swirled water color paints on paper more often. I have taken long walks with Joe and now that the weather is warmer, added some bike rides to Bredeson Park. I just stopped by Free Wheel Bike on Penn Avenue and purchased my third seat Terry Butterfly Women’s Saddle, for my Trek bike and think it might be the ticket to save my butt.

So far, so good.

So how do I get back to a social life and still maintain the benefits I’ve gained from isolation? I know my body and soul needs both of these things. Maybe it is a matter of cutting out the episodes of Shark Tank, Jeopardy, and Netflix documentaries so I can do the creative stuff at night, like learning graphics, guitar, and painting.

Don’t hold me to it.

All I know is, I am eager for more connection. I can’t wait. There are so many people I love and have missed hanging out with in the past year. It’s gonna be different in 2021 and 2022.

I am hopeful.

But then again, miracles do happen. There still was a chance for a way out.   That glimmer of hope prompted me to pray for the one miracle that would save my reputation, my worth and my family pride- a miscarriage.  With this quirk of nature, I could have sailed right back into my high school days at Regina Dominican.  It could have been as glorious as awakening from a ghastly nightmare.  Oh the bargains I invented.  I promised to keep my pants zipped until marriage.  I promised to say a thousand rosaries.  I promised to become a nun.  I guess God couldn’t be bribed because none of my offerings were accepted.   If I just knew the price for the miracle, I would have come up with the dough.  

 In the 60’s there was no “morning after” pill.  As far as I knew, abortion was the word for coat hanger mutilations done by desperate teens.  It took five months for me to realize that my fervent bargains would not produce a miscarriage.   When my ripening belly was bursting at the seams, I knew my silence was coming to an end.  After I made them swear to secrecy, I told my 3 best friends.  We were the Big Four and stuck together.  Then, I told my sister, Jackie.   Then Jackie helped me tell mom and dad.   By the time Dr. Keever examined me, there was no other choice but to go ahead and have the baby, much to my father’s dismay.  I would carry the child to term, hiding in a home for unwed mothers, 100 miles away, until my confinement was terminated by the birth and adoption of my child.  

 After it happened,  I was numb and joyless, frozen in fear.  What would become of me?   Each option came to a dead end.  I soon gave up on thinking ahead .  There was no good way out of my predicament.  I was stuck, trapped, and doomed.    In the end I placed my fate into the hands of my parents, my temporary guardians, Helen and Ed in Appleton, Wisconsin, and the staff at the Salvation Army Booth Memorial Home for Unwed Mothers.  After all, I had screwed up, if you know what I mean, and the least I could do was comply with whatever the adults thought was best.  I certainly didn’t know how to get myself out of this.  

 This risk of disgrace upon the Liautaud family hit a particularly raw spot for my father.  He had spent most of his life guarding his own secret.   By the time he was thinking that he had arrived clear and free on the other side of shame and social ruin,  along comes me, his prized daughter, the youngest of 5-  pregnant at the age of 16.  None of us suspected our family’s hidden past until my sister uncovered a bit of shocking news.  While searching the birth records in New Orleans, she stumbled upon my grandfather’s birth certificate.  His race was listed as “colored”.  We all thought we were forever white, but that did not happen until 1915 when dad’s family bought a one way ticket north.  On Friday we were colored folk, unable to vote, ride the bus, or drink from a public fountain.  On Saturday when we got off the train in Chicago, we were white and free with all the privileges of societies favored race.  We were “passing” for white. 

 So it is understandable that my father would deal with the news of my teenage pregnancy with explosive anger.   For all he had done to protect the family name, another risk of social disgrace had come to haunt him 40 years later.  The way he knew to deal with such shame was to concoct a story, keep the real facts a secret, and never look back.   Dad pulled it off.  To his knowledge, he took the secrets to his grave.  I didn’t get off scott free, but paid an internal price for my saved reputation.  Thinking ahead to sustain the lie produced a cancerous anxiety.  Fear of being caught in a lie numbed my emotions.  The shame of hiding the truth caused a profound loss of self esteem.  Both of our secrets were a product of the times.  Today neither being black nor pregnant out of wedlock in America produces the social disgrace that it did in years past.  

 Now, 40 years later, I gently peel away at the memories.  I search for meaning and a nugget of truth within the trauma of bearing a child before my own body was fully grown and then giving my baby away - forever.   I can’t bear to think that all this was just the result of a slip-up, a simple “oops”. 

 Sometimes I think that my body was placed on this earth to be used as an instrument to bear this child.  The idea is comforting as it eases my remorse and guilt.  Maybe the prayers of karen’s adoptive mother cancelled mine and the baby she wished for was incarnated right inside my body. Perhaps this is why my self control failed me.  Perhaps this is why the condom broke.  Perhaps this was why the growing embryo was not harmed by my self inflicted stomach punches.  Perhaps this was why the party with no parents home was held on the one day in the month that my ovaries were spitting a ripe egg.  Perhaps,  I was just a pawn being moved by the universe. Perhaps it all was just meant to be.  Ahh how sweet that would be, if only I could believe it.  

 It could be that simple, but not likely.  My belief system doesn’t jive with the fact  that I was merely an pawn following the script of the greater universe.  Somewhere deep inside of me, I know I created all this myself.  After all,  I was the one who thought I could just experiment with kissing and draw the line later.  I was the one who brought the alcohol that I drank that made me numb to the gravity of my actions.  And I was the one who knew how babies were made but decided to roll the dice and take a chance. I was the one who chose to keep the pregnancy a secret for 5 months, making alternative outcomes impossible.  I was the one who chose to never hold my baby for the fear that I couldn’t give her away. 

 If there is a profound lesson to be learned from birthing and relinquishing my child at the age of 16,  I hope that the process of writing and remembering will unveil that to me.  

 As I begin my story, I realize that my resolve to not look back caused many memories to wither on the vine. Like a spring rain, one by one they are coming back to life as I recall those months from 40 years ago.  As we stood outside the Salvation Army home for unwed mothers, with the trunk open and the items being gathered for my extended stay, my father took each of my books, including my cherished white leather missile, and using his Parker fountain pen,  scratched my last name from the inside covers of each of my books.    I would be referred to as Judy L. during my stay.  Then,  my father gave his last bit of advice, “You will forget about this, Judy, and you will never have to speak of it to anyone again.  Later, you may get married, and there is no reason to even mention this to your husband.”   

For ten years, I obeyed the vow of secrecy, not necessarily because of my dad’s instructions, but because it saved my reputation and I was ashamed.   My intention was to just slice these nine months out of my life- pretend it never happened.  Simply put a patch over the time that was ripped from my life, ignoring the subtle tugs for attention.  Years later, the patch wore thin, exposing the wound.  It was then that I realized the only way to heal from the trauma was to take off the cover-up and attend to the wound.  Take a good look.  Let it air out.  

 About ten years after, I began to break the silence, offering a sentence or two when the subject of teen pregnancies came up in a friendly conversation.   My throat would squeeze and my voice would shake.  No one asked me much about it then.  I am sure they could sense how uncomfortable I was exposing my festering wound.    When I saw the birth of newborn babies on tv, I cried.  When I saw a mom at the mall carrying her newborn in a pack close to her chest, I was brought to tears.  When my first child was born that was truly my own, I loved her so, yet sobbed for the one I had lost.  

 One rainy morning when my two girls were at school, I picked up their cabbage patch baby doll and swaddled her in my arms.  I caressed the doll and pretended she was my lost baby.  I rocked her and cried and held her and told her I was sorry.  I was sorry I gave her away and I was sorry I punched my stomach when she was inside.  I was sorry I was missing her life and I was sorry I never held her.  My journey of healing thus began.

 I am writing my story to bring light and air to the wound.I am writing to unveil the lie that was told.I am writing to show myself forgiveness for my actions and to embrace all that is true.I am weary of keeping the secret

Read the Whole Story: Sunlight on My Shadow

It has already been ten years since I took a class at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design (MCAD) on Children's Book Illustrations.  This is what I wrote back then: This was my first watercolor. Our teacher taught us to use just three colors and mix them for a painting.  I think this is what made the colors vibrant on my first try.  I loved painting and hope I do more but there is some kind of barrier that keeps me from trying.  I guess I am afraid it won't turn out like I want and so it is with all creating: writing..painting..drawing..playing guitar.  Something painful about starting the process anew but so satisfying to be engaged and complete a work.

Fast forward to now and I have been painting on and off. I’ve taken several watercolor classes and watched plenty of videos. Sometimes I think I should try a different media. They say watercolors are difficult because you have to build the painting in layers. I love how the colors seep on the rag-like water color paper and mix so beautifully. While we were down in San Miguel, I sat out on the patio and painted. Sometimes, rarely, I am pleased and surprised with how the colors mix.

It is wierd how good I feel when I am painting and when I have finished. Somehow I am able to watch the colors mix and move on the page without thinking about other problems. My main bother these days is having a constant list of to dos pop into my head. I was laying in bed last night, trying to sleep at 4am and I labelled each thought that floated by: most of them were to-do’s. Now how can I DO any of this stuff at 4am? The thoughts were not useful because they just kept me from sleeping. Oh I should get up and write that down. NO you shouldn’t. The mind needs sleep right now —just keep focusing on the breath and watch it go in and out and when a thought comes by I say, “thinking” or label it and then I can begin again, focusing on the sound of my breath.

Besides for the to-do’s there are the joy jumping thoughts— the ones where I think I can’t wait till I can go upnorth and watch the waves come in on the lake and feel the wind that carries the smell of pine, and sit on the porch and write books and read. Oh man, that one gets me riled up. I’ve noticed that sleeping can only come when the thoughts calm down and the visions take over. Like counting sheep: that is why it works. You have to see the sheep and see their fluff and the action of them jumping. I like to feel like I am laying in the boat upnorth and feeling the waves rock me and the sun shining on my weary bones and watch the clouds form into monsters and angels. That one kind-of works. I seem to like to wake every night at 4 or 5 when its too soon to get up. Maybe that is why my friend Barb gets up at 5am. Maybe I should just get up. Well, the mind problems seem to be at their peak this time of night. That is why I love painting. My mind is busy with the visual swirl of the colors in water and I get a rest from the monkey mind.

Unpopped kernels
wedged in cracks
Match sticks, dust bunnies, a penny or two

Of all the pockets that sat on it
Each one smashed the feather fluff
And left their mark as tiny dips
Like the worn spots on the steps
of St. Paul’s cathedral

Don’t jump on the couch
Crunch the pillow sideways
Spill that Orange Crush
Or drip lime sticked popsicles

And then one day,
it didn’t matter
so much.

He took the couch.
Out the door,
Speeding away
in his pickup truck

I might have sucked more popsicles
during Oprah’s summer show.
Jumped on the cushions— a madwoman
Tossed the crimson downy
squares to the floor
And flopped myself into the luscious pile
Like a plump little pig
in a soup of mud

Perhaps his lady will lift the cushion,
Unveil the treasures,
Gather them up,
Pop them up,
with blue bonnet on it
and salt free salt

They’ll cuddle on the couch
and watch Doctor Phil
during commercials
speaking of windfalls
and good fortune.

But I continue to be curious. I like to ask when someone says they came down with something, what were your symptoms? I am entirely in awe of the human body and like learning about the causes of our ailments. Kiona has been a great explainer and a doctor to me on the side. I love asking her medical questions because she explains in clear understandable terms and knows everything about everything.

About a month ago I had a severe allergic reaction and consulted three different doctors. One said it could be shingles and gave me an anti-viral, one said stop taking the anti-viral, one said it could be cellulitis and gave me IV antibiotics. Meantime I had a fever and was cherry-red in the face and my ear was so swollen it couldn’t bend. I didn’t know where to turn so I called Kiona who helped me figure out it was an allergic reaction and recommended benadryl and zyrtec. I got better. I suspect the allergy was from a statin which I had just started taking six days ago. I still am not positive because I was so sick, I am afraid to try again to verify the allergy. I like to understand what is going on in my body. It is always a point of curiosity. So anyway Kiona seemed to be liking the book On Immunity so I plopped it on my kindle.

What I learned is that vaccines started a long time ago and we humans have always been skeptical. It is an invasion of the skin and who wants to get a foreign disease stuck into their body? But in the end, vaccines have wiped out several deadly diseases like polio (in most places) and small pox. What I found interesting— and hadn’t thought of it like this —was the fact that the big benefit of getting vaccinated is not just to protect yourself but it protects your fellow man. So in a sense it is an altruistic act and a social responsibility. When 80% of people get vaccinated, that is enough to cause herd immunity. I never thought of vaccination as an honorable thing to do. Biss told a story of a little boy who came back from Europe with the measles and infected a whole waiting room full of kids. Measles can be serious. So when parents choose not to vaccinate their children, they are in a sense putting everyone at risk. It is understandable that we are afraid. Biss researched this book thoroughly and tells an interesting story of the history of inoculations and blends the medical knowledge and research with her life as a mother to a child with severe allergies and a father who is a doctor. I found the book super interesting and felt a little bit smarter after reading it. I am eager to get a covid vaccine. I am tired of living in isolation and fear of each person I pass on the street. It’s been a long time coming. Joe will be getting his shot next week from the V.A. I am thankful for reading the book On Immunity because if I had any second-thoughts about taking the covid vaccine, they’ve been seriously erased. Tomorrow morning I get online and sign up to get in line to get the wierd looking spikey corona shot into my body so I wont’ get the real thing which as you know can be no big deal or death or somewhere in between. Science, I love you.

I am craving structure. I am used to filling my days with appointments. I go to pickleball, do yoga, play mahjong, and meet up with friends. But things have radically changed for all of us. With the corona virus popping up all over the country, we have been asked to stay away from people and especially gatherings. Thank goodness for the internet. I am drawn to all the social interaction it affords, more than ever. My Facebook has some funny memes, or maybe a bit pitiful, pictures of carts at the checkout stand with toilet paper piled high. Why? I get it. When Dave and I travelled in Mexico in the 70s there were some towns that did not have toilet paper. It was super inconvenient. So we learned to carry a roll in our backpacks for times like those. I know you can get by without it, but I tell you people, it is not fun.

So today I am faced with an unbounded amount of time to fill as I sit nestled into my city apartment. I went shopping a few days ago and have plenty food for the long haul. There is nothing more to do. We flew home early from Florida. My heart is a bit ripped out from having to say good-bye to my daughter Kiona and Raj and Lia and Jai too soon and for not being able to see their annual play, which was cancelled anyway.

I know that all of us are suffering from cancelled plans and loss of fun interactions.

So here I am and thinking what shall I do with this time that has been freed up. I decided to make it a time of learning, eating well, and getting out for hikes. Here are my ideas: Study Photoshop, study and learn how to do effective Facebook ads for Times Alive, it is a good time to promote our online learning program with kids home from school, watch water color painting videos, play the ukulele, read some good books, write in my current memoir project, and work on the skillshare class I am putting together: How to Write a Memoir in Ten Easy Steps.

So this is a lot of stuff, and if I think about doing it all at once, I get an overwhelmed feeling of anxiety, what??? Why not pick one and focus on that.

Well—here’s why I can do it all. I love the concept of preplanned chunks of time. It reminds me of when I went to school and went from class to class. It gives me a feeling of doing everything at once and I love the variety and the feeling of getting ‘er done. And, I love the structure.

Several years ago, while I was attending the San Miguel Literary Festival, a workshop for writers in Mexico, I learned about the pomodoro technique and I have been using it ever since. It is a timing trick that helps you increase productivity, focus, and overcome blocks. The pomodoro technique gets its name from the kitchen timer that is in the shape of a tomato, pomodoro, being tomato in Italian. A pomodoro is a chunk of time, I use 30 minutes, but you can use any time you like best. You pre-plan your work day and then break it into numbered chunks. You set the timer. When thirty minutes are up, you take a five minute break. I like to meditate, do yoga, or go out in the garden. You can pick any rejuvenating activity. But you don’t use the five minutes to answer email or a phone call. It is reflection time. After you have completed a pomodoro, you put a checkmark next to that task, take your five minute break and then proceed. After four pomodoros, you can take a 25-30 minute break.

Three Benefits of the Pomodoro:

1. It is easier to get started when you know it is only a 30 minute chunk to which you are committing.

2. When the timer goes off you wrap up and stop to rejuvenate. This break brings you back to work with fresh eyes. Have you ever been working on a problem and can’t find the answer, then you give up and do something else? When you return, the inspiration for solving the problem just appears? Sometimes staring at the same thing gets you stuck in a rut and you can’t see the forest for the trees. The break is a crucial part to freshening your outlook on your work.

3. Setting up your chunks of work, takes all the decision making out of what-to-do-next during your work day. It brings focus. Preplanning gives you a sense of control and you don’t have to worry if you should be doing something else. You just proceed according to your predetermined list. It’s easy to put those odious tasks on your list and when you get to it, you just do it and plow ahead —for it is only for thirty minutes. This is a huge productivity boost. If you have not completed the task when the timer goes off, you take your five minute break and you can decide to spend another pomodoro on that task before moving ahead to the next item.

I found a good, free app on the Apple Store: it is called: Tomato Timer.

The Tomato Timer is simple and lets you vary your pomodoro times, shows you graphically how far you are into it by displaying a circle that loses its white filling as time passes. It dings when it is time for a break. And then gives you a 5 minute timer. You can start and pause both timers when needed.

Here is a picture of my pomodoro schedule. I am using Mind Manager to lay it out.

So I am on day three of my new Pomodoros in the Time of Corona. I have the illusion that I am in control and I have already learned some amazing tips about doing Facebook Ads and hiked at Lebanon Hills and Hyland Park Reserve, through ponds and forests and even got to watch the cross country skiers glide by. Yes! they make snow for the trails. Stay safe out there everyone. It’s kind of cool to have the opportunity to re-assess routine and slice in some creative diversions. I can’t wait till we can gather again.

 Sex wasn’t playful nor an enjoyable event because it was so new and I was shrouded with guilt and shame, but up until then, I considered myself a good catholic girl. I knew that sex outside of marriage was a mortal sin. 

 Not one of my one thousand classmates at Regina Dominican High School ever got pregnant, that I knew of. I was a freak, an outcast, a leper, so I kept quiet pretending like nothing was wrong as my baby steadily grew.

 At the change of classes, I shuffled the corridors in a daze, clouded by the fear of being found out and of what would happen to me. I fastened my skirt together with looped rubber bands to accommodate my expanding belly. My uniform blazer helped to hide my thickening waist.  

 When the rubber bands couldn’t hold anymore, I just had to tell my parents.  Dad was very angry and ordered me to have an abortion. 

 Even though—I am sorry to say—I probably would have done anything to get out of the shame of this pregnancy; I suspected that the baby was just too big by now to consider such a thing.  To my relief, the doctor confirmed this. 

 So they sent me across the state border to hide at the Martha Washington Home for Unwed Mothers in Wisconsin until I could deliver the baby. 

 —from Sunlight on My Shadow

“As we stood outside the Home, with the trunk open and the items being gathered for my extended stay, my father took each one of my books, including my cherished white leather prayer book, and, using his Parker fountain pen, scratched my last name from the inside covers of each one. I would be referred to as Judy L. during my stay. Then, my father gave his last bit of advice, “You’ll forget about this, Judy, and you’ll never have to speak of it to anyone again. Later, you may get married, but there’s no reason to even mention this to your husband.”

 The plan sounded good to me—the best Band-Aid on a gushing wound of shame.

 So we told the nuns, my classmates, and family that I had a serious kidney disease and had to go live with an aunt to recuperate.  The saddest thing was that during the entire nine months I treated my pregnancy as a horrific growth that I just wanted to go away. I did not know any better.

 But that all changed on the day she was born:

 —from Sunlight on My Shadow

 “… out it all came. I couldn’t see anything going on below, but I felt the thickness release. I heard a sputter and a gurgle and then a disturbing silence. “There should be a cry or something,” I thought. The baby was out. Then at last, after what seemed like many long minutes…..a loud wail.

 I could not have anticipated what happened next. I started crying at the sound of its insistent voice. My body softened with a spiritual connection and love for this little human. Although my head knew a baby was in there, my heart didn’t know it until I heard it cry. 

 Her cries were a call for me. I wanted her close to my skin, to swallow her up to my chest and keep her warm and safe. My heart ached for her. We had been through this together. But I was ashamed that I wanted her. I had no claims. 

 They didn’t say anything about her, like, “Oh, what a beautiful baby!” You know, the normal delivery-room banter. Just quietly doing their work. I suppose they thought they were protecting me. I suppose they thought I didn’t care, since I was giving her away. But I cared. I cared way too much. 

 Although the staff said the birth mothers could hold the babies, I never did, because I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to let her go. After all, she was lined up for adoption and I didn’t want to jeopardize the plan. 

 But each day after her birth, I went to the nursery to see her. I stood outside the window and looked in.  

 OH she was exquisite. She had dark hair pasted to her head and brown eyes, plump rosey cheeks and unlike most newborns, creamy smooth skin. I was so proud of her and, yet I felt like I had no right.  

 On the day they took her away, I was looking out my bedroom window and saw the social worker’s car pull out of the parking lot. 

I ran down to the second floor and peered through the triangular wire cross-hairs of the nursery window. Sure enough, her little crib was empty. She was speeding away in Cavanaugh’s car. Gone. I wouldn’t ever see her again. 

I pressed my hands on the nursery window and pushed my cheek against the cold slick surface. My knees felt weak as I crumbled with long hard sobs that erupted deep within my gut. 

 My baby was gone. I let her go. I never held her. I signed the papers that gave her to strangers. They didn’t even tell me she was going today. Maybe I could have said good-bye.

 I wondered who would be feeding my baby tonight. I took big chunks of my hair and pulled it slowly through my hands. Icy fingers of grief stabbed at my heart and gut. I feared I would never be okay again… drowning in hopeless sorrow.”

 But, many years later, when she was 26 years old, I hired a search expert to find her.

 I was grateful that Karen opened her arms to hug me hello. I had to control myself because I wanted to smother her with hugs and kisses, pull her into my lap and wrap my arms around her and blubber like a baby. I felt like she had risen from the dead. She looked so familiar.

 She had beautiful green eyes and dark lashes, and a smile that was all teeth—just like everyone else in our family.  She was a nurse and married to a good man. I found out that— YES! She did go to fine parents and had had a good life. Oh how healing this was for me. 

 Today, instead of thinking about how I messed up, back in 1967, I realized that I had done a great thing. I had given life to a beautiful child. And in that I found forgiveness for what I had done. The shame and grief has eased. I have found joy and sunlight in the shadows of regret. My birth-daughter Karen was a blessing in disguise. The funny thing is that my mom always called me her blessing in disguise. Since she was 45 when she had me, she wasn’t looking forward to starting over with a baby. But when I was a teen I was able to help her when she became sick and she often grabbed my hand and patted it and looked at me with her deep blue eyes and said,”Judy, you are my blessing in disguise.”

 Judy Liautaud is the author of the memoir “Sunlight on My Shadow” a birth mother’s journey from secrecy to renewal. The book has over 200 top star reviews on Amazon.com.  See the book trailer here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLTe10ZmhhU

Judy is also the author of several children’s educational books including Times Tables the Fun Way and owner of City Creek Press, Inc.

Get the book here: Amazon

So my mind gets on this track and it starts weighing all the ramifications of the purchase. I know this will be the last time I buy stuff for the porch or the gazebo and I want it right. Although I have been pretty good at returning stuff for a refund so that has saved me a few times. I learned to be careful to buy things in stock. I bought a ‘custom’ couch for the downstairs. I purposely chose one with separate sections so it could fit down the bending stairwell to the basement. The delivery men tried up and down to make it fit. “No work,” he finally admitted. I was sick. I wanted to return it but they would not budge because it was a custom order.  So we took the window out, hauled it through the snowy back yard and carefully slid it in the hole in the wall.  That was not fun. Although I love shopping, I am also scared of buying the wrong thing.

 At the same time, I love imagining the cabin with the new items. Friends sitting around, (in comfort), laughing and enjoying my created space. And when they come to stay, is there a place for them to put their things away and easily get to them? That is a must. So I look at IKEA, Pottery Barn, Macy’s, Room and Board for that perfect piece, that I can afford. I must say IKEA can’t be beat for stuff like this considering the price. But I went to IKEA to take a look at the cubbies I was interested in. I saw that they were all mounted to the wall. I assume to give them structural integrity. I don’t want to be screwing things into the pine walls.

Then the other day, I found the answer. I was coming out of the bathroom at the Y and there it was the perfect thing I was looking for. Cubbies for kids to put their belongings in. They were free standing birchwood cubicles from Lakeshore Learning. It was perfect for my cabin guests to put their stuff away and still be able to see what they have. Lots of room and it would fit nicely on the porch. So I ordered it and was so tickled to finally find the right thing

I call this planning and shopping process of cabin dreaming, joy jumping. It is fun for me to have the chance to create my perfect space. The place where I will write books and be joyful in the nature surrounding me. Oh, how I love it upnorth by the lake and the pines.  But the joy jumping also gives me a stomach ache and causes some sleepless nights. I get so wound up with this active mind and the weighing of the choices that my body tenses along the jaw line and my shoulders rise up a couple inches. I think, hey, slow down Judy. This is not good for you. I can’t stop. It is an addiction of sorts once I have a goal in mind. I can’t stop till I find the perfect thing and I have to be sure that I have turned every leaf and visited every store. Before I found the Lakeshore cubbies, I spent an hour and a half in the Container Store looking and considering if this shelf, and this cupboard will be right for what I want and is it worth the cost? I had a set all picked out. It would work, but it wasn’t perfect I thought, because the shelves were not deep enough. I didn’t think I would find anything perfect so I asked the salesman to get it together while I went online and signed up for a coupon for 15% off and while I was doing that, I panicked. I just didn’t want to buy anything. I told poor Alex that ‘my husband’ didn’t think it was the right thing and I was sorry but I was going to walk. It felt good to get out of that store. I just couldn’t stand to wait anymore while they pulled the items, and loaded up my car. I was outta there and felt like I dodged a bullet.

After dinner I went back on line and shopped some more. When I woke in the middle of the night, like I always do, I started up again. When I wake, I usually scan my brain and see if there is something I am worried about. Something I have to solve and then there is no stopping the mind and sleep is impossible. When that happens I take out my iphone and headphones and listen to a meditation on the 10% Happier app. It helps my mind stop and I can sleep. 

So when I woke this morning, I was not so good. I took a walk first thing. It was a gorgeous misty spring morning and two deer jumped right in front of me and crossed the road. They are the exact color of the woods and I had a spurt of joy to see their graceful beauty and to have these creatures so close to my home. The wetland was all misty and grey and after my walk I sat on the swing at the top of the hill and saw three stark white trumpeter swans on the wide part of the creek below. It was such a relief to have a respite from the incessant shopping thoughts. I was moved to tears at the relief and the beauty that nature can give. Then I came upstairs and sat on my cushion and meditated for 20 minutes. I could feel my body release when I focused on my breath and awareness of “how I was doing in my body” I heard the birds outside my window chirping with the welcoming of the new day and my body began to feel like I was immersed in a warm bath. It relaxed and for twenty glorious minutes I was able to begin again after my thoughts tried to grab on to the shopping mode. Ah, sweet relief. I could feel and hear the in and out of my breath. It was so good for me.

Now shopping today, online, I am finding what I was looking for and finally made some purchases. I want to be done, now and ease back into just enjoying and stop the joy jumping. It never allows me to feel sheer joy because I am not here now, I am in the future and lordy knows, that future never comes and all there is is now. One thing I know is that writing makes me happy and meditating allows for true joy. 

I thought about Tiny Tears as we took the escalator up.  I could almost touch the massive christmas tree branches in the center of the store as we went up and up until we got to the star on top of the tree, even with the eighth floor. That was where we got off and found the line to see Santa.  He scared me with his massive beard and deep strange voice, but I knew that if I sat on his knee, I might be able to get my wish. So I did it and was relieved when my turn was over.

It blew my mind that Santa actually delivered the Tiny Tears doll in a baby carriage, right to the front door. I tried to push through adults, towards the door to get a better look but he came and went in a flash. “Why didn’t Santa stay?, “ I asked. Mom said he had a lot of deliveries that night. Which made a lot of sense. Of course, I didn’t recognize that he was really my Uncle Phil. 

That same year, my brother Jim was in the army, stationed in Korea and was expected home for Christmas.  Mom clapped her hands with delight and decorated the house while the cookies baked. It would be the best Christmas ever. I idolized my brother Jim and missed him so deeply. Mom worried about Jim’s safety overseas and found comfort that he would at least be safe while he was home for Christmas. 

Then, on Christmas Eve, the phone rang.  It was Jim. He was so sorry, he said, but at the last minute the commanding officer would not sign the papers to grant him leave. Mom slumped on the couch, lit a cigarette, and stared off in the distance. This was going to be a rotten Christmas, after all.

Snow was falling that Christmas eve. I can just picture Jim in full army uniform standing in a phone booth on the corner of California and Peterson, making that call. 

Ten minutes later the door bell rang and there he was.. a standing gift, my good-looking brother all greened up in his army duds and military cap, flashing his toothy smile and crystal blue eyes.  He yelled like Santa HO HO HO. The screen door slammed behind him and he picked me up and swirled me high in the air. He gave me one of those juicy kisses, the things we all learned to dread.  But I took it like a trouper because he was just so excited to see me and me him. 

He opened up his green duffle bag and fished out a box for me. It was a Korean doll with a red and blue satiny kimono and black straight hair. She was made of china and her skin was a creamy and smooth. Unlike my tiny tears doll, she would sit on a shelf and be an object of beauty. I wouldn’t think of actually playing with her, she was too delicate and her clothes couldn’t come on and off. She was pretty to look at.

It was the best Christmas ever, not only did I have Jim but I had two new dolls. Tiny Tears wanted my love and care so I got busy. I wrapped her in a flannel pink blanket and rocked her back and forth in my arms. I told her everything will be alright, she now had her mom, that was me, to care for her and any little peep from her and I would be there. She came with three triangle flannel diapers with tiny gold safety pins. I fed her the bottle with real water and squeezed her tummy and sure enough, just like the commercial, tears dripped from the holes in the corners of her eyes and the diaper got wet. I changed her and did it again and again. 

This Christmas was so full of joy, I didn’t know then that this would be the standard with which I measured every subsequent Christmas. Of course, they all paled after this one. 

It spoiled me. Kind of like once you try a very good drug, you can never be content with normal every day existence. Which is a good argument, right there, to pass on the passing of the pipe. You probably won’t be able to unhook yourself. 

So, did my parents do me a disservice by making my fifth christmas so perfect? I don’t think it was something they orchestrated. I think I just happened to be ripe. For one thing, I believed wholeheartedly in Santa Claus. For another thing, I was the perfect age to love a baby doll, and then there was Jim and he could never deliver a surprise so welcome as his appearance at the front door in December of 1955. And another thing is that this is the Christmas I chose to revere. I don’t remember the fight my dad and his father got into and I don’t remember my mom dropping a full dish ready for the table. I don’t remember if these things even happened on “that” Christmas but we weave our stories from the fabric of memory and we hang on. 

In most cases, we hang on to the stuff we want to remember. This was put to the test several years ago during a writing class. The assignment was to take something I loved and write why I hated it. During this exercise I realized that all things have love and hate. It is what we choose to remember that gives us lasting fondness or not. 

This is what I wrote: Why I Hate My Tiny Tears Doll

I hated her because she got cracked and then she was old. Her skin shriveled up. I hated her because the mechanism that allowed her eyes to close when she lay down got gummed up so she just stayed in a permanent wide awake stare. Santa brought her to my house in a little buggy with blue and yellow daisies printed on the plastic carriage. She cried real tears when you squeezed her. I hated her because when I gave her the bottle she wet her diaper and then I had to change it. At first I thought this was fun but after a while, I thought, what’s the point? I hated her because she was so stiff, not soft and cuddly like a teddy bear. But she seemed so real at first with her ability to cry real tears and to wet her diaper but she wasn’t that real. I remember  the commercial said she cried real tears. I thought that meant she would cry out loud, I saw dolls like that. You squeezed them and they cried.  So I was disappointed she didn’t make any noise. I liked the dolls that came out later that were all wrinkled and had soft skin and looked like  real newborn babies. They had cloth, squishy bodies and real looking hair, not all stiff, coarse, and curly like my tiny tears doll’s hair.

What baby has perfectly curled hair like that —so thick and poking through the scalp in little tufts, like a bald man with plugs. I hated her because she never cried or cooed or said anything like a real baby. It occurs to me now that while I played with my doll, I was preparing myself to be a mother and when I finally became one, I couldn’t have the baby. I had to give her away. I guess it is now that I look back that I hated that tiny tears because she showed me what I couldn’t have. I think at the time I liked her. I hated that she got old and eventually the rubber was brittle and her arms and legs fell out of the sockets.Then I threw her away. When I gave my baby away, it was just like throwing away my tiny tears, but my baby was perfect. She had her arms and legs and she cried real tears, real ones. And I loved her but I gave her away.

This piece: why I hate my Tiny Tears doll was created in October 2010. I was surprised that I would take that fond memory and turn it into a related piece about the baby I gave up for adoption.  I published my book Sunlight on My Shadow in 2013. So perhaps this writing exercise put me in touch with these regrets. You never know what will be revealed to you in the writing. It is a most dynamic and lively process. As we write, we peel away the layers of mundane until we discover the universal nuggets of our human existence. These become the bright stars of the dark night. 

As they swung and bounced from tree to tree, I admired their joyous movement. They seemed to have it all together in a be-here-now sense. I wondered if it was because their emotions flowed through them just as they did for me as a baby.  Maybe it was because they didn’t obsess, worry, or have regrets.  Maybe it was because they lived in a sea of authenticity.

Perhaps we humans got side tracked from our joyous nature when our frontal lobe enlarged and we became obsessed with worrying about the future and regretting the past. Not that I would want to go back to the cave man days or actually live in the trees; but I take inspiration from our animal friends—the monkey’s playfulness and spontaneity. I want more of that in my life.  

Emotions are the signals that connect the spirit to the physical body. I want to embark on a journey to more fully honor and embrace them. When I truly listen to my emotions instead of thinking, oh no… not this again and push it away, but truly take a moment to feel the pain or joy, then I will be more human and more authentic and these emotions will serve as a guide to my truth. I will be light-hearted and as Brenee Brown says, whole-hearted.

John Bradshaw, author and psychologist,  talks about emotions that get stuck in the body: “We may have had the experience of fright when an emotion like anger looms, unwarranted, or fear.  We feel out of control, like it will take over. It feels sometimes like we are riding the surf of insanity. When you get an experience like this it could be because of an event in the past that became stuck in your body. He says, “If a traumatic event happens to you when you are young and you are not able to talk about it, it gets frozen in you as a picture of the event.  So if anything similar occurs in the future you go back to that place and churn up the same old emotions and act as an adult child.”

Perhaps these jungle monkeys can teach us to tap into the unhindered part of us that integrates our emotions with our physical body. When we allow our true nature to shine, emotions spontaneously move through us allowing the good feelings and the painful feelings to flow in real time.  When emotions are repressed they become stuck in the body causing a quagmire because they keep trying to express themselves which makes one crazy, depressed, anxious, or dull. 

Maybe the key to feeling more joy is learning to process and feel all the emotions, including the dark emotions. In this way I will embrace my vulnerability, live as a whole, authentic person. I am willing to pay the price of truly feeling the pain in order to truly feel the joy. 

Life is a joy when you swing from the trees, eat bananas, and feel the jungle wind tickle your toes.  Give me some monkey blood!

Last week, we took a traditional Mexican cooking class. I learned how to prepare nopales— flat cactus leaves, a cousin to aloe vera with similar healing qualities. Our teacher Chris,  said the nopale guts are good for your skin—rub it on and find youth. Eating it will alleviate digestive problems. I am up for trying that because I don't go anywhere without the Zantac and Tums. Is it the coffee or the chilis that cause this fire in my belly?  

Yesterday, I bought four grass-green nopale leaves to make a stew. I noticed some brown clumps, golf-ball-size, circling a plate. Do I want some of this too? "Que es esto?" She answers in bullet fast spanish.  When I look confused she slices off a pea-sized chunk and offers it to me on the knife blade— “Probarlo.” I shy away. "Probarlo," and she moves the knife closer. I don't think I can get out of this.  I am reluctant because I have no clue what this is— fowl or vegetable or dirt. I expect it to be some sort of ground sesame sweet thing like halvah. I take half of what she offers. It sits on my tongue and then sticks like peanut butter to the roof of my mouth. It is a little gritty, then I feel the fire. “Ay carrumba, pica mucho.” and I dance around waving my hand in front of my mouth. Apparently, the grandma sitting on the chair finds this quite hilarious and rolls and shakes on her chair. "ay ay ay." I add to her amusement.  In retrospect, it might have been pulverized dried chiles mixed with something to make it stick together. Perhaps, flavoring for my nopale stew.

Oh how I wish I was fluent in Spanish. I can get along but I understand less than half of what is said. In context, I can get it most of the time. We are—so—in another country. It’s wonderful and exotic and scary. I think the scariest thing is thinking about getting sick or getting a bad toothache and not knowing who to go to. We did ask our gringo neighbor what he does for health care and he had comforting words." It's great, I had all my operations down here including a triple by-pass at a third of the US cost.." Alrighty then. 

While I walk down the cobblestone streets on my way to the open air market, I watch out for protruding loops of electrical wire, or overhanging window ledges right at eye level or a spurt of water from a roof top pipe falling on your shoulders or head, into the street—I haven't yet figured out what this is. Joe says, they flushed their toilet, but I am pretty sure it is just grey water. It's muy peligroso to look at your phone and walk at the same time, your foot might land in a hole or the occasional soft dog shit. Bright adobe colors of sandy red and aquamarine blue change at every casa, all hooked together like the houses in San Francisco or Europe.

Cobble is a good word for the stones because its kind of like river rock, not flat and smooth where they fit together but rounded high with large spaces between.  As cars pass, they rattle and whine and plunk and pop. I grab Joe’s arm to cross the street. I don’t want to turn an ankle. I am glad I brought my light-weight Charros hiking shoes and cushioned socks from REI. Happily, the streets are lined with flat stones for walking.

Cars are almost always coming, you don’t wait for them to pass, you just step off the curb and advance and they stop. Unless, of course they are driven by chilangos—that’s the word for tourists from the big city. I remember in Fraser Colorado ski country we used to call them "turkeys". The tourists sometimes don’t know the San Miguel courtesies. But mostly the cars and busses are very aware and considerate of pedestrians. They drive relatively slowly so they don't  bounce right off the road. We walk everywhere with our nylon REI bright pink or blue packs. In this we have water, pesos, and our jacket, because the temperature can vary 20 degrees depending if the sun is out.  We also use the pack to stash purchases from the store, like onions, papayas, tomatoes, san peligrino—if we can get it. That fizzy water just tastes so good here, but it’s a big price to pay carrying the bottles up the hill.

It is deceiving. What looks like a plain wooden door can open to a palace — a patio lined with leafy pink and red blossoms before you get to the closed in living quarters. It is common for part of the house to be open to the sky, like a sitting or dining area. You can't tell if a castle or a shanty is behind the walled doors. I become hot and weary when I think of the work it must have taken to lay each stone on these cobblestone streets. Some of the stones are slick and shiny from wear. The good thing is they last forever. Not like the failing asphalt and concrete which needs constant repair in Minnesota from the salt and ice that eats away at the streets every winter.  

Its easy to make friends in San Miguel de Allende because gringos are everywhere and we are all fish out of water, however many of the gringos have found their home here and are permanent residents, having given up the fast paced life in in  the US. Someone told me taxes are $300 a year and houses build for $80 a square foot vs $5 or $600 in parts of California. I love that you can do fine here without a car and can walk everywhere. There is a lot of english spoken here. When we first arrived last year, we didn’t know how to change money. So we asked a gringo in the restaurant El Correo. She told us where the atm machine was off the Jardine and miraculously, you put your card in its mouth and out spits pesos. Some say your credit card is more easily compromised here, so we are trying to use only pesos. Our card's daily limit is 5000 pesos, that’s about $250 US.

We paid 1150 a month for our condo. Two of the best features are a screened in roof and walls for the laundry room and a roof top deck overlooking the city. The laundry has a couple ropes which come in handy to dry the dish rags and hand towels. I love having the door open while I cook and feeling the breeze whistle by my face and arms and blow the cooking smells out the windows.

Flowers thrive in San Miguel. Azaleas, geraniums, and tulips. Purple and pink bouganvilla hug the adobe walls with bunches of blossoms. San Miguel had an unusual freeze in January and the pots on my balcony have three dead and pitiful looking wandering jews with their crusty brown leaves. But now it is March and most of the plants have recovered or been replaced.

 I feel more creative here. I feel like I have the time.  I have been painting watercolor flowers and mountain scenes with impressionistic loose water colors. I am practicing the mixing of colors and discovering the right blend of water and paint to dab on a flower or the sky or a vase.

I also bought a ukelele and am learning "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Its a good beginner's song.  I imagine myself tapping and chucking on my ukelele as we putt around Bond Lake this summer, singing about a sleepy jungle lion.