Change Your Direction - Change Your Future

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My recent novel, CeeGee’s Gift, has a lot to say about the future, starting with CeeGee’s Gift itself, a mysterious ability to receive Knowings about the future of others. She works with her friend and mentor, Mr. Tindale, to try and decide how she can best give her gift to help others, even if their future doesn’t look positive. Mr. Tindale tells her an important value of her gift. ‘If people could see where they were headed, maybe they would decide to change direction and change their entire future.’ What a concept. 

CeeGee is not the first to land on this idea. Lao Tzu, credited as a founder of Taoism in the 6th Century wrote, “If you do not change your direction you may end up where you are heading.” And Alcoholics Anonymous offers this Serenity Prayer, ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’

But how do we know if we are heading in our own best direction? Good and bad events can occur by accident, plans fall apart, serendipity can bring unearned blessings. How do we help our children acquire the discernment to know when it is time to change direction? Or when they need to stay the course.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but my own life experiences and writing has helped provide some. I look for what I call the calm center, a sense of inner peace. If I am heading in the wrong direction, this feeling is very hard to achieve. CeeGee seeks it in the marsh, others in prayer, still others through meditation. Ask yourself some questions and allow the answers to inform your direction. Are you harming anyone in your path? Are you living with humility, a willingness to learn and to admit you don’t know everything? In hard times, are there any Silver Linings on the horizon, a special lesson, a change of perspective, an unexpected benefit? If so, the path may be rocky but worth it. And finally, are you open to change? Are you driven by a tendency to impulsiveness or stubbornness, or will you open your heart and mind to the need to either go or stay, regardless of your fear or ego? Is there a lesson you need to learn in this time, or is the path you are taking one that prevents you from learning that lesson? 

Please join the conversation and add your own wisdom. 

What is an Intergenerational Novel?

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I was a guest at the Chez Zee Author Series here in Austin recently and the host, Cari Clark, asked me probing and insightful questions, then invited questions from the audience. A woman stood up and said, “Your main character is a pre-teen, but the old man who befriends her is also very important. Who do you see as the audience for this book?”

It was a good question, and one I have thought about a lot. Because both CeeGee and Mr. Tindale are central characters in the book, and their friendships is at its core, I have always envisioned the book attracting an audience that reflects this, with both youth and adults reading the story and talking together about the meaning of the story. As I was growing up, once I was past the age where my parents read to me at bedtime, I read on my own. Writing CeeGee’s Gift made me wonder what my relationships and my conversations with my parents, grandparents and other elders would have been like if we had read books together, books that neither talked down to them or were out of reach for me. 

I answered the woman in the audience by saying that, in my opinion, ‘CeeGee’s Gift is a book to be read and shared by young an old’ and noted this statement is printed on the back cover of the book. I would call it an ‘intergenerational’ novel, a book that raises topics that youth and their elders could benefit from talking about. It shows by example that an older person can be a great help to a gifted child in facing her challenges, while neither minimizing her gift or pampering the child. CeeGee’s Gift does not trivialize what goes on in Southport, and with Mr. Tindale’s help, experiencing the events in her community become an avenue for CeeGee to learn and grow and understand the purpose of her gift. 

After the interview, many people from the audience suggested that ‘intergenerational’ should be a book category. Readers should have the opportunity to seek out books we can read with the youth in our lives as they grow and face important issues. I can attest to the value of this. I was the guest author at a mother-daughter book club in a public library several years ago to discuss the unpublished manuscript of CeeGee’s Gift and all members, mothers and their daughters, had read a copy of the manuscript. We had a powerful discussion, with the adults and the youth having equal voices. We talked about death, disability, brother-sister relationships, consequences of poor decisions, how a non-family member can be a valuable mentor, and more. So yes, perhaps it is time to start a new category for readers and claim this label – intergenerational. Books that are meant to be read and shared by young and old. 

The Kindness of Strangers - A True Story

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Ben, an experienced marine mechanic, left the lakes of Montana in search of a new job in a year-round market. He loaded his dog, Max, and all his tools in his VW Beetle and headed south. Before long, perhaps because of the weight of those tools, his engine blew up. He got towed back to the small town of Dillon, Montana. His car was totaled. What now? 

Then the couple who owned the tow truck, and the junk yard, said, “We know a guy who buys and sells cheap cars. We’ll reach out to him, maybe he can find you something.” 

The car guy said, “Well, I got an old van. It’s not pretty, but its reliable. I can sell it to you for $850.” Ben bought the homely van, big enough to sleep in, and he and Max hit the road again. 

Ben travelled all the way to Key Largo, where there were plenty of jobs, but nowhere to live as hurricane Irma had devastated the community. He moved on to Key West, sleeping in his van, protected by his dog, hoping he could find work before he ran out of money. To make matters worse, while driving around trying to find a place to park for the night, Ben took a wrong turn and ended up at a dead end. He had little energy, or optimism, left. A red-headed man walked over to him and asked, “What’s up man? What are you looking for?” 

“A place to park my van for the night – and a job,” Ben answered. “I’m a boat mechanic.”

“I can help with both of those. You can park over there next to that trailer,” the man said, “and I’ll have you a job by tomorrow morning.” 

True to his promise, the next day Ben had a job repairing his favorite engines, older boats and jet skis. The new boss invited him to live aboard a sailboat in the harbor, and Max was welcome, too. This journey, filled with unexpected troubles, was also filled with the kindness of strangers. Especially the kindness of that red-headed homeless man.

One Approving Adult

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I had an appointment with a therapist one day, which was not surprising since my husband and I were raising 6 teenagers at the time. I asked him, “Why is it that some kids go through hard times and seem to use their experiences as building blocks to become stronger, while others are drowned by their experiences and never recover.”

He first answered, “Well, we know it’s not therapy that causes that outcome. We’ve done the research on that.” He chuckled and went on, “What we think makes the difference is one approving adult. It could be a teacher, neighbor, camp counselor, coach, parent or grandparent. It doesn’t matter. The child who has a constant caring adult to trust and confide in has a much better chance of a positive recovery, regardless of hard times.”

Wow. That is the secret? It made me think how lucky I had been, with so many approving adults in my life—both parents, devoted teachers, a youth minister, not to mention this therapist. I vowed I would be this person for all our kids, and I knew my husband would too.

In my first book, You Don’t LOOK Sick, Dr. Overman gave me time to tell him not just about the physical pain my illness was causing, but the emotional pain as well. He listened carefully, he let me know he believed me. He even wrote a book with me. In CeeGee’s Gift, Mr. Tindale not only spends a day listening to the struggles and guilt CeeGee is facing because of her gift, but he invites her back the next day to learn more. He makes a commitment to stay with her as she learns to give her gift generously.

So, I ask, have you had in your life, or are you, that one approving adult? I’d like to know.

Sadako and the Origami Cranes

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On August 6, 1945 the United States dropped the first atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan. There are differing opinions about our country’s culpability in exerting such destruction on so many people. As a child I told my father I thought what we did was wrong. He said, “This was the only way to end the war. Otherwise the Japanese would never give up.” 

The site of the bombing of Hiroshima is now Peace Memorial Park, located near the ruins of the one building left standing. There is a museum in that old building now, filled with artifacts from the time. Whenever any country or leader threatens to bomb again, the mayor of Hiroshima sends a hand-written note imploring the leaders to honor the decades of restraint. These notes are cast into metal tiles and each one becomes part of a model of that old, domed building.

Children from around the world still send bundles of origami cranes in honor of Sadoko, a young girl who was injured in the bombing and believed that if she could fold 1000 origami cranes, she would be granted her wish to live. A tall, elegant monument in the park has a figure of Sadoko standing atop it, arms outreached. Underneath is a stone chest holding the names of over 220,000 people who, in addition to Sadako, died during or after the blast. The thousands who visit the park every year are met by young Japanese students who, like the mayor, hand out hand written cards pleading for world peace.

There has never been another A Bomb, so in a way my father was right, the Japanese don’t give up. In this sacred place these good people will not give up their quest for peace.

I Remember the Penguins

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For those who read my first book, You Don’t LOOK Sick! Living Well with Invisible Chronic Illness, you know that I lived for many years with illness, fueled primarily by chronic pain and debilitating fatigue. It was a sad and lonely time, and I experienced deep grief at my isolation and inability to work as a financial advisor.

My husband Dan was a stalwart supporter during this time, but our life was uncertain. We never knew from day to day whether it would be a good one or a bad one for me as my symptoms waxed and waned. I knew he was as sad as I was at the loss of our vibrant lives.

Then Dan met a woman who had travelled to the Antarctic and inspired him with fabulous stories of what she had seen and experienced. He thought about this kind of expedition travel, on a ship, with no need to cart bags from place to place, no need to pack and unpack, a bedroom at the ready, as needed, 24/7. He realized this was a way for me to reengage with the world. He informed me we were going to the Antarctic.

Now, when I look back on those years, what I most remember is this trip, and others, to locales that ignited my senses in the most stimulating way imaginable. I remember the icebergs and sea lions, I remember the skua birds and the nesting albatross. I remember the scientists and their fascinating lectures on history, geology, the environment and climate change. I don’t remember the pain, or the constant exhaustion. I remember my husband’s love and kindness. 

I remember the penguins.

Living in Lefty Land

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Right handers cannot imagine the degree of discrimination we lefties face in the world. I think we might be the most discriminated against minority group in all of society. Accommodations are not made. Think of scissors, rulers, tape measures, cameras, measuring cups, vegetable peelers, spiral notebooks, belt buckles, can openers, corkscrews, sewing machines—shall I go on? All are made to be used most easily by right-handed people. The fact that we have a shorter life span could be related to being subjected to this exhausting daily adaptation.

But then, I found hope. I learned in graduate school that left-handed people are more creative than right-handers, apparently the need to constantly adapt opens new channels of thinking. Also, I learned my brain was balanced, rather than left or right dominant, so I am both analytical and holistic, also more common among left-handed people. And then there is tennis. One cannot imagine the advantages of being a left-handed tennis player. That drive down the left alley. That spin serve, skipping off to the right corner. The backhanded cross court. All these plays come naturally to the lefty and disorient the righty. I love tennis.

Then, one day walking down the street in London I came across a – Left-Handed Store! Products specifically designed for left-handed use. I bought all I could and ordered more online. Now I love to trick all my right-handed friends into adapting to me. ‘Here darling, would you mind serving the punch with this ladle? Oh, and here’s a corkscrew, can you open the wine, please…’

Ann With One N

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When my mother was about 70, she announced she had too much baggage in her life and would lighten the load by removing one of the N’s from her name. She would now be An, rather than Ann. She made this change legally and her new phone message announced brightly, “Hi, this is An—with one n! Leave me a message and I’ll call you back!” She definitely felt lighter.

On the other hand, I was her financial advisor and had to re-register every security that she owned. My assistant and I would prepare the name changes, send them off and invariably get a note from the other end saying, “Just wanted to let you know we caught your typo. You spelled Ann with only one N. We corrected it for you.” It often took several rounds to convince them, alas, there was no typo, but rather a one-of-a-kind-client with an imaginative flair.

This story symbolizes life with my mother for me. She sparkled, craved change and was a fearless seeker for alternative ways to view life, faith, the world and, not the least, outer space. I tagged along, often shaking my head, but always enjoying the journey.

Near the end of her life, she was convinced there was a spaceship following the Hale—Bopp comet, a community of aliens living under Mt. Shasta and her own personal spiritual guide out in space looking out for her. 

Maybe that same guide chose me to tag alongside her, a loyal sidekick, sharing in her adventures as she made life, the heavens and her ever-evolving beliefs a chorus of mixed melodies that somehow found harmony. I never thought the baggage was too heavy.

The Aha Moment

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In the Author’s Notes of my novel, CeeGee’s Gift, I share the experience I had when I sat down to write the first telling of the story, as a one act play. It came to me as a flash, even the names of the characters, and I wrote the play quickly and with few changes. It was an Aha Moment.

Research on creativity is beginning to suggest a different pattern. What seems to be a sudden understanding is not a moment, but the end of a journey. It is like a host of unrelated dots are swirling around in the mind until, one day, they connect. The Aha Moment is the punctuation mark at the end of the story those dots tell. Looking back to find the dots that led to your own Aha Moment can be illuminating, like Hansel and Gretel following the trail of bread crumbs that led to the beautiful cottage in the woods.

In my case the journey began with contracting long-term illness, leaving my career, and feeling useless. I was dejected that I could no longer contribute, or give my gifts, by helping my clients manage their finances. The Aha Moment came into view when I considered I might have other gifts to give. There might be a meaningful purpose in this life I now lived. Then it struck me that finding and giving my gifts was my job to do. Being sick did not exempt me from that purpose. The reason we are here on earth is to discover and give our gifts. Everyone has gifts to share. Wham!

As I recovered from that time of illness, the power of this statement has continued to reverberate. What if everyone, collectively, focused not on their own special gifts, or their own needs, but on those gifts they have to share with others and how they can best give them. What kind of a world would we live in? My, my, that would be an Aha Planet!

Voice Lessons

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When I was 18 and just finishing high school, my father took a new job and we moved to California. We didn’t have much money, so I found work at the shopping mall and started community college. Less than a year later, he took another job and we moved to Phoenix, Arizona. I couldn’t attend Arizona State University until I was eligible for in-state tuition, so I went back to work again. I had no friends, no history in this desert town, and wanted desperately to be in school. My father saw my deepening sadness and said, “Well, I guess we better get you voice lessons.” 

I came from a singing family, especially on my father’s side, so he naturally saw this as a way to help me heal from all the tumultuous change, a way for me to find my heart again and open it. He signed me up with a professional voice trainer and his instincts were exactly right. When I opened myself to song, I felt alive again, connected and whole. Julie Andrews was my idol and I learned all her songs from ‘The Sound of Music’—with an accent. I learned how to warm my voice, fill my diaphragm, hit the highest notes and sing arias from famous Italian operas. 

Later, living on San Juan Island in the Pacific Northwest, I found another outstanding teacher and continued my training. Supported by her instruction, I auditioned for roles in our Community Theatre. I had a lead in a Welsh musical, A Time for Singing, and performed many selections from musical theatre, including Porgy and Bess and the aria from Madame Butterfly

The most special night of all was a solo performance. I walked onto an empty stage to stand next a makeshift grave. I had a bouquet of flowers in my hands. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth and began to sing ‘Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again’ from Phantom of the Opera. My dear father had just passed away, but he left for me the great gift of being able to sing my goodbye to him. 

It's All About the Story

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I used to be a Development Director for a small arts education nonprofit. It was my job to raise funding for the organization, either from individual donors, or grants. If you’ve never seen a grant application, they are knotty, difficult documents. Many have word limits and even character limits for each section. The applicant has to answer the funder’s questions, in the order the funder imposes, according to the funder’s space limits. This can really get in the way of effective storytelling – the reason people give. A few, a very few, were set up to encourage a powerful, compelling story about the need and the cause being served. Most were not.

I recently read an article about the science of what makes people care. There are 5 principles for more effective communication about your cause. I am paraphrasing here, but in short, have a human story to tell, use visuals, make sure there is an emotional pull, let people know how they can help and Tell Better Stories. Numbers 1-4 all lead to #5. Tell Better Stories.

We engage and give because we are moved by a compelling story. A story has a beginning, middle and end. It has characters and context that touches our heart, even better head and heart. It makes us enter it, feel it, be part of it and maybe even want to change because of it.

Getting a Masters’ Degree in British and American Literature taught me one of the most powerful lessons I learned from story. Over several years I read the best writing, the most enduring stories, of the 19th and 20th Centuries. When I finished my coursework, I realized that I now knew what true love was – and was not. This understanding of how love behaves, and how to know when behavior is not loving, has shaped my life ever since. And all because of stories.  

When Time Stands Still

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I had many readers for early manuscripts of CeeGee’s Gift, from elementary, middle grade and high school students to adults and older adults. After they finish the story we talk, and I like to ask them—What do you think is the time period of the book’s setting?

For the young readers, it is just an earlier time, but for most of the adult readers, it is when they were a child. They seem to see the time of their own youth through the lens of CeeGee’s eyes. I’ve had adult readers tell me the book is set in any decade from the 40’s to the 70’s. 

This is a bit of a trick question because I tried hard to leave the time up to the reader. Unlike most contemporary novels, where the time is constructed in detail, whether past, present or some dystopian future, CeeGee’s Gift is set in a timeless town where everything seems to stay the same as it has always been. In addition, I was careful not to add clues that might suggest a particular era. For example, while there are cars, no make or model is identified. While there are a few phone calls, the phone is by the bed or on the kitchen counter, there is no description of dialing, push buttons or wireless. There are schools and playing fields, but no description of the lessons, games or rules that might signal then, or now.

It was fun as an author to try to obscure time. I was always asking myself, do drugstores still have soda fountains? Do people still sit and chat on front porches? How long have kids been riding skim boards on the edge of the tide? Thank goodness libraries still have actual books.

What do you think is the time period of CeeGee’s Gift? And how do you characterize the time of your own youth? Were there timeless elements? A curious author would love to know.

Small Gifts Matter

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People who give the big gifts get their name on a building, or a wall, or at the top of the list in a program brochure. They get special seats, and special parking and all kinds of special perks. But would community needs be met without the multitude of small donors? And are these small givers appreciated for their loyalty and the needs they collectively meet?

On the flip side, as donors, do we take the time to give the small gift when the large one is not within our capacity, and do we know how much it means to offer this support? Do we bring along other small donors to the cause, knowing that a multitude of small gifts can become a very big one? Multiple gifts of under $100 often add up to critical operating support for many organizations.

In my novel CeeGee’s Gift there are many examples of the power of small kindnesses. CeeGee’s mother helps her friend plan a funeral after her son’s accidental death. CeeGee’s father, and other men in the community, make a wheelchair ramp for a disabled teen. CeeGee helps out a family as the ailing mother approaches end of life. Every 4thof July the students of Southport collectively assemble and take down the favorite community float. And Mr. Tindale, with no children of his own, makes sure the graduates of Southport High School have a chance to go to college.

As an individual, look around you at the people, the organizations and the issues you care about. Look at the good work being done, and the problems being solved and please share your generosity at whatever level is comfortable for you. Let those spending every day in the trenches working on important issues know that you are paying attention and that you appreciate their efforts. Let’s all celebrate what it can mean to give your gifts. Tell me about yours.

The Snack Chat

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In my novel CeeGee’s Gift, 12-year-old Celia Gene Williamson makes the observation that every time there was something really hard to talk about, the adults in her life put food in front of her. And it sure made things easier. Bobbie, CeeGee’s mother, served up chips, salsa and Dr. Peppers with a fresh lime. Old Mr. Tindale always had sweet tea on hand and peeled an apple to share as they talked.

The ‘snack chat’ is different from the family dinner, things don’t get so personal with the whole family present. It’s that face to face, one on one conversation at the kitchen table, or on the porch, that allows important issues to be addressed. At one such meeting CeeGee’s mother tells her daughter of the death of a woman she has cared for and it is a tender telling. At another, Mr. Tindale explains to CeeGee what it means to have a gift.

I remember my mother having chats like these with friends of mine that came over after school or on weekends. I often wondered what they talked about, and why my friends were hanging out with my mom instead of me. Years later, when we were all adults and my mother had passed on, these childhood friends told me my mother was the one person they could talk to about the hard things that were going on in their own lives and families, and that she had honored their privacy for all these years.

Sitting at that kitchen table somehow opened a zone of trust that allowed these young girls to share their stories with a compassionate adult and ask for advice. It was my mother they were able to share their stories with, not me, a child their own age. It is a good reminder for kids and adults alike why we matter to each other, the need we fill and the importance of making the time to have that snack chat. Do you have a special memory of a snack chat?

The Marsh Melody

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For Celia Gene Williamson, in my novel CeeGee’s Gift, the marsh is the place where she can just be. Here she can shake off the troubles and challenges of her young life like water off a dog’s back. The marsh brings her peace through the music it makes. From the squishing of the turtles in the mud along the shore, to the frogs croaking, from many varieties of birds chirping in the grasses, to the soft breeze stirring the cattails. Each of these are lines of a melody that blend together into a symphony of soothing, peaceful sounds.

I remember travelling to New Zealand and being told by our guides that the islands had once been lush with bird sound, but predatory animals had hidden on ships traveling from distant shores and they escaped into the wilds of New Zealand. The native birds, like the kiwis, nested on the ground and had no defense against the rats and possums that attacked them and ate their eggs. The native bird population dropped drastically.

In order to protect the birds, the people of New Zealand designated a small island, Tiritiri Matangi, as a sanctuary for them. They made a low fence around the shore, planted trees and created open space for ground nesting birds. Visitors stepped in a pan to sanitize their shoes before going onshore, to make sure nothing harmful to the island came with them. The New Zealanders also added rare species of birds in hopes of saving them as well. On this remote island, the birds were safe to nest and breed. And sing.

We had seen wonderful landscapes and wildlife on the islands, and we thought New Zealand represented the best of nature’s bounty—until we stepped on that tiny island and heard the joyous symphony of these rescued birds. It was an overwhelming blend of melodies and drove everything out of our minds except that bright music. Sometimes you do not know what you have lost until you bring it back. Do you, or did you once, have your own place of peace. Is there a place that taught you its magical melody?

Kids on Bikes

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I don’t see kids out riding their bikes in my neighborhood. Our home is surrounded by a lot of apartments, commercial buildings, traffic lights and lanes. I love where I live, but it’s not like where I grew up—a few blocks from the school, on a cul de sac, and with brothers who had paper routes. They delivered their papers on their bikes, or in a go cart they had designed to look like an old jalopy. On weekends, all three of us were gone all day to museums, or parks, or playing fields. We knew when to be home—before dinner, before dark, before mom rang that bell on the back porch letting us know we’d better get on home right now or we’d be in big trouble.  

When I drive by schools at the end of the day, even in residential neighborhoods, I see lines of mothers in SUV’s picking up their kids in front of the school. I imagine that most of them are being picked up and taken to theater or dance classes, or sports training, or tutoring sessions. There are no kids on bikes.

I heard a report on the radio the other day about child development. The researcher said that children learn best when they are experimenting and discovering. She said that childhood needs to include open space and time, so kids learn to figure things out on their own. This is how they become resilient. The less structure during play time, the better. The speaker lamented how little of that time children have in our society, and how seldom they are allowed to take the normal risks that help them learn and develop. They are scheduled, they are taught to follow directions—they are not out on bikes.

I understand why I don’t see kids on bikes in my neighborhood, but I hope they are still having the time my brothers and I had to learn and grow—all on our own. Do you have bikes in your neighborhood?

The Passings

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My father was an airplane pilot and when I was a little girl, I went on many flights with him. He flew a big DC3 and sometimes I was alone in the back of the plane, staring out the window at the puffy clouds below. I imagined little cherubs bouncing on those clouds, laughing as they tumbled from one to another. It seemed quite real to me.

I was an adult, living in another state, when my father died suddenly from a heart attack and my mother called to tell me the news. That night, while driving up the hill to my house, a shooting star flashed across the sky. I smiled as I thought, ‘There’s Dad, passing on through.’ A similar light streaks across the sky in my novel, CeeGee’s Gift, the day dear Mr. Tindale dies.

It was very different years later when my mother passed away after a long illness. For several months after her death I had a sense of her presence. It seemed like she wasn’t quite ready to go, like she was hovering nearby, especially when I sat alone on the porch in the twilight. In CeeGee’s Gift, Mr. Tindale has a similar experience after the death of his wife Maggie May. He tells CeeGee that for a while he could still feel her with him, right there by his side. They wandered around the house and yard together, sharing memories. In time Maggie May, like my mother, paled and moved on. 

We don’t know what happens when we die. We may have our beliefs, but none of us can know. But these experiences of death, and those I shared in my novel, give me comfort. I feel that the transition from life to whatever follows can be slow and peaceful, or a flash of joyous adventure. The sense I’ve had of this makes me feel connected to the beyond in some mysterious, and yet comforting, way. And, like when I was a child, it seems quite real to me. Tell me, what have been your experiences?

Get Your Affairs in Order

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The issue of impending death arises early in my new novel CeeGee’s Gift. When CeeGee has a Knowing, an event that reveals knowledge of the future, she blurts out to her new friend Mr. Tindale that the things he worries about don’t matter. When he challenges what she means by this, she replies, “What I mean is, if you have something you need to do, well, you’d best do it—and soon. Fact is, you don’t have much time, Mr. Tindale. So, you best get yourself ready. Your time is real short.”

At first, he is angry at her for invading his privacy and acting as if she knows so much, but then he realizes she has given him a great gift. He has a window to plan for an inevitable future. He decides he will do exactly as she advises, get his affairs in order. 

Mr. Tindale begins by ordering a custom-made oak coffin and adding the lining himself. Before he passes on a few months later he has settled his estate, and with these assets he is able to fund a remodel of the town library, provide books to stock the shelves, pay for CeeGee’s college tuition until graduation, and start a scholarship fund at the high school. Other citizens are inspired by his generosity and host a fundraiser to add to the fund, which is named after Mr. Tindale and his beloved wife, Maggie May.

Many of us resist this planning, we don’t want to think about death. But we also give up the opportunity to create our own legacy. It may not be financial gifts that we leave, but thoughtful letters to loved ones, or hosting a special event while the opportunity is still there. It may be offering forgiveness or simply saying, ‘I love you’. One does not have to be wealthy to leave a legacy, but one does have to be brave enough to face an inevitable fate—in advance. Are you?in

What Does it Mean to be Gifted?

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We take a lot of care in our education systems to recognize and nurture gifted children. They are often placed in special, smaller classes and encouraged to work at their own pace, moving ahead as quickly as they can. Some parents take their gifted children out of the education system and home school them, nurturing their gifts while encouraging them to thrive. They are presented to the world as outside the norm as they play the piano, explain their invention, excel in sports. Whether physical or intellectual, their gifts are held in high regard.

The discussion of what it means to be gifted in the novel, CeeGee’s Gift, has an entirely different take. CeeGee’s gift comes with the responsibility to be generous, to offer her gift with kindness and a desire to help others. That is the only reason she has it.

As I wrote the story, I began by thinking about who we would become if misfortune or illness robbed us of our gifts. And then I thought, ‘Well, if you can no longer give one gift, you must find another one to give.’ I came to believe that being gifted was not about being special and pampered, it was about a responsibility to find ways we can each do good in the world. 

I hope as children, parents and grandparents read this book, they share a discussion that is two-fold. First to the child, ‘Are you gifted? What are your gifts?’ Followed by the second, more important question, ‘Are you giving your gift generously? In what ways have you helped others by giving your gift?’ I hope readers will let me know if they have this conversation and what the outcome was. I would love for you to share with me, so I can share with others.

It's Never too Late to Create

In recent months several friends of mine have discovered they are creatives. These are women 50 and older who were a little dejected, a bit unfulfilled with the present, and each began a project. One involved scrapbooking with old bits of fabric that carried fond memories, the other worked on painting skills to illustrate a family story book. They were transformed by these experiences and began to approach work, life, time and space with new eyes. They had a new way of looking at the world. 

I was raised by a fearless creative. My mother would try any art form—oil painting, stitchery, collage, mixed media, anything—and I never recall her worrying or being fearful that she would not be good at it. She just thought creativity was fun. She was not brought up this way. As the dirt-poor daughter of a hell-fire-and-damnation Baptist minister, she was not taught to find joy in creativity. It was just in her. Or, like my other friends, she looked inside and found it.

My own creativity is less tactile than my mother’s or my friends. As a child I found creativity in singing, dancing and acting, then as I grew older, increasingly in writing. When I am writing there is no linear time, there are no boundaries. These are the most liberating moments of my day. And if I don’t write, like my friends, I feel a little dejected, a bit unfulfilled. I wrote CeeGee’s Giftover many years, but the final manuscript was written during a tense time in America, a time of hate and despair. While writing, I did not have to live in that time. I was with a magical young girl, and a dear old man, in a town where people were kind and time stood still. Perhaps this ability to enter other places and spaces is why we must create. What drives your creativity?

 

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