The Agreement

“This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year’s threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath.” - Margaret Atwood

So many people have said, “You gave her a good life,” which is a lovely sentiment, and a kind one, but I keep having to resist the urge to say, “No, no, you’ve got it backwards. She gave us a good life, we were just doing our job.” 

We’ve known for years, intellectually and in our minds, that Tilda would not be with us forever. Two weeks ago we understood it in our bodies, thanks to a sudden, terrifying series of events that had us confronting the possibility we could lose her at any moment. An issue with her heart that the vets managed to assess and deal with and stabilize, the caveat being that it could happen again—in a day, a week, a couple of months—and we should be prepared. So we brought her home and proceeded to give her extra love, attention, and, of course, treats. We kept a close eye on her; she was rarely at home alone. We stood still and fixed our attention in all the moments when Tilda offered us all her sweet Tilda-isms. Every morning our breath held until we could confirm her behavior was normal, every evening the same prayer: Thank you for the gift of this day. For two beautiful weeks.

We brought Tilda home in August 2010 when she was eight weeks old. Can I tell you? She was a nightmare as a puppy. (There is a reason puppies are so cute.) She was the topic of searing arguments between my husband and I and the source of tremendous anxiety. I shed buckets of tears that first year until I reached a point of deciding we simply couldn’t handle her and needed to find her a new home. As I felt the gravity of that decision wash over me and thought about all the details that would need to be managed in order to facilitate such a transition, I looked at Tilda and decided I did not want to spend my remaining time with her—which I believed in that moment would be a few weeks, tops—in such a state. Right then and there I said, “OK, Tilda, for the rest of our days together all I am going to do is enjoy you.” 

By the end of that day I knew:  She was our dog, and that was that. My husband and I never argued about her again. Without having to discuss it, we both understood she wasn’t going anywhere. 

I don’t think we were aware the day we brought her home that we were, in that instant, signing a contract. Whether the contract was with Tilda or each other or God (maybe all three), the terms were simple and straightforward. Our job was to care for her, protect her, and love her with all of our hearts. In return, and if we were willing to receive her in this way, she would teach us what it is to love unconditionally, to be fully and completely present, and to show up, day in and day out, with a joyful, playful, sensitive heart. And then one day we will find ourselves on a path of loss and grief and tears, all of which will be amplified in direct proportion to our willingness to follow the first two terms of the agreement. 

The deeper the love, the more willing we are to let her in, the more painful the loss will be. Receive the joy—allow it to move in and through our bodies like water at every possible opportunity—and the grief that follows will be unavoidable. Love, love, love, with everything you’ve got, and let there be no illusions that such openness and vulnerability will eventually be the source of tremendous heartache.

But there is something else, which is the constellation of moments that such love and presence creates, one after another, that will never, ever fade away. It is the unshakable, unwavering judgment that whatever the experience of grief is, it is absolutely worth it. There’s something about that conviction, the surety. How often do we have this in life? That deep knowing, that profound willingness to take it all, to let it bring us to our knees—willingly, stoically, fiercely.

There is no trying to resist what has just taken place, either yesterday or over the past eleven and a half years. There will be a Tilda-shaped hole in our hearts for the rest of our lives, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. On this winter solstice, we released this sweet soul out of our lives and out of our care. We told her we were going to be OK, even though I’m not sure we entirely believed it. But as the days now begin their slow journey out of the darkness, we, too, will be looking for the light—continuing to honor our agreement, always holding on to her love.

The Hula Hooper

Milwaukee is now home to a shiny new Target store not far from where I live. The sign went up a few months ago and then the store opened in late October. Apparently there was a big grand opening celebration with a local marching band lined up below an array of red and white balloons. OnMilwaukee declared “​​It was a joyous occasion for many.”

A close friend and neighbor has been, and described it as a gleaming two-story retail wonderland. She also told me about the escalator that can accommodate a shopping cart. (Side note: I used one of those in a two-story Target in Los Angeles years ago, which was a comically harrowing experience, whereupon I tried to get the cart going up the escalator, discovering just a wee bit too late that my 12-pack of toilet paper tucked beneath the main cart was going to interfere with this process. When I tried dislodging the toilet paper—and I must say I’m still not sure how this happened—I somehow ended up perilously close to being pulled up the cart escalator as I hung out of one side of the cart. I hope whoever was monitoring the in-store video surveillance system had a good laugh at my expense. I imagine he or she might have secretly wished I had not managed to escape from the shopping cart escalator entanglement, and instead had been taken for a ride to the second floor with half my body hanging out of the side of the cart. I could have topped it off with an Olympic-gymnast flourish, dismounting onto two feet and throwing my arms triumphantly in the air. But instead I got myself out of the situation almost as quickly as I got myself in it and no one else seemed to notice. For the rest of my shopping expedition, I used the elevator.)

This new fancy Target is about ten minutes south; the Target I usually go to is about ten minutes north. While it has been tempting to go see the sparkly, just-opened store, I have continued going north on 43 to do my Target shopping. I’ve been going to that store since we moved here. I know the layout and I love when I’m checked out by one gentleman in particular. He’s in his eighties, friendly, energetic, and engaging. Other customers know him too, and everyone makes a point of saying hello when they pass by his checkout aisle. It’s always a treat when I get to have a little chat with him. I always walk away from these exchanges holding onto the hope that I will be as outgoing and lively as he is three decades from now. 

I also appreciate the vast outdoor parking lot of this Target store. Parking for the new Target is primarily in a garage, and there’s something about that which just feels weird. I find parking garages to be mildly depressing and oftentimes infuriating. All the upward spiraling to find just the right spot—any spot—and then I have to figure out where the elevator is and where it is going to take me. They are gray and impersonal; anytime I can avoid them I do.

Up north, I get to see fellow shoppers as I head in and out of the store. Most of us are pretty focused—eyes on the store’s entrance, shopping list in hand—but I appreciate seeing everyone coming and going in the light of day and under a wide open sky. I never knew how much that openness meant to me until I considered the idea of having to bookend my Target shopping experiences inside a parking garage.

On my last Target trip, a few weeks ago, it was chilly and a bit overcast. After I finished, when I was pushing my cart back to my car, I had a sudden inkling to hop on the front of the cart and take it for a short ride (a much more pleasant proposition than getting inadvertently taken for a ride up an escalator intended specifically and exclusively for shopping carts, not humans.) In that instant, I hopped up and let the momentum of the cart on the asphalt carry me toward my car. 

It lasted just a few seconds, five at the most, and then I jumped off for the last few steps before arriving at the trunk of my car for unloading. Just as I got started, a woman my age walked by and said, “You just made my day! I loved seeing you ride the cart like that.” I laughed and explained that I simply felt the urge and decided to go with it, and told her I was glad she liked it. 

I smiled all the way home that day, not because I felt like I’d just changed that woman’s life or anything, but because I always appreciate those tiny affirmations that joy matters, and is contagious. I have talked and written about this for years—about how we, as individuals, have no idea what kind of impact our words, choices, and actions have on others and, in turn, the world. However far we might know something we do goes, it actually travels much farther and in ways we can’t possibly comprehend. 

I once saw a young gentleman hula hooping on the corner of a busy street right outside my favorite restaurant. If it had been possible to measure the level of joy emanating from his body I’m pretty sure it would have reached Alaska. I had the privilege of watching him perform just that once, and this was at least two years ago, before Covid. Yet here I am, still thinking about him, writing about him, and wishing (I will always wish) I had gotten his name and maybe even his email so I could send him a note from time to time to tell him how precious this memory is to me. 

Life is intense these days and most everyone I know is dealing with some Very Big Stuff. In the midst of it all, there are still ways to find and create beauty, embody and share joy, express and savor gratitude. When we create these experiences for ourselves we can’t help but create them for others, whether we realize it at the time or not. Now, more than ever, the world needs us to hunt down, latch onto, and hurtle into the world like a shot put all these things and more: beauty and joy and gratitude, kindness and wonder and grace.

Fall is Here

Fall is here, along with Notes from The Rocket, my latest book and one more labor of love in a long line of such creations. Do I say this every time? That this one is especially special, an endeavor like no other? I suppose I do, which speaks to how blessed I’ve been as an artist and a writer. So many of you have been with me for years—decades even!—and it gives me such comfort. Each time an order for Notes from The Rocket lands in my inbox, I get giddy, immediately wondering, “Who is it?” So many of the names are familiar, years-long familiar, and it makes me want to hire one of those pilots who flies at low altitude with a colorful banner flapping in the wind behind the plane. THANK YOU, the banner would say, each letter a different color, stars on each side.

A while back I wrote about my decision to sell this book only on my website. After all my experience writing, publishing, working with publishers, selling on Amazon, and doing most of my own marketing and publicity, I now see that this decision was inevitable. I tend to be drawn to ideas that are somewhat contrary, just a bit (or sometimes a lot) off the beaten path. This started with the decision to publish Ordinary Sparkling Moments on my own back in 2007, at a time when independent publishing was barely a thing. It started way back before that even, when I launched my own line of greeting cards back in 1995 and I had this thing called a website, which was rather cutting edge at the time. 

And now here I am—feeling like I have come full circle, back to the more fundamental aspects of my creative work and how I choose to share it with the world. The only catch is that this, by necessity, requires a community that is willing to walk on that path with me. Going against the grain is a risk; people may or may not be open to whatever it is I’m trying to do, encourage, or create. But I’ve never been terribly comfortable doing what most everyone else does simply because that might be easier. I have become quite skeptical of this incessant pursuit of convenience, which is an idea that is constantly being jammed down our throats by Silicon Valley. Convenience does not encourage meaningful engagement. It does not inspire presence.

The decision to keep my channel of distribution singular opened the door to all kinds of possibilities for Notes from The Rocket. Each book has tiny embellishments tucked between the pages, including a hand-pressed flower from my garden. I wrap up each book myself with a personalized label typed on the Rocket. I print the invoices, I create the shipping labels, and I take them all to the post office. Every single book is assembled with each person in mind; every single book is 100% unique. None of this would be possible if I sold it on Amazon, where the books would move from a conveyor belt to a bubble mailer to your mailbox. There’s nothing personal about that.

This is the kind of exchange I aim to create with Notes from The Rocket. I love knowing who is drawn to this book, who has made the effort to order it. I love seeing repeat orders come in—someone who ordered one book then orders a few more for gifts. I love typing the labels. I love feeling this shared appreciation for beauty and attention to detail. My dear friend and creative kindred Mari Robeson and I recently had a lovely conversation about this and you can have a listen right here. 

But back to fall. Most of my garden has been put to sleep. I’ve cut back all the flowers that have run their course but let any that are still bright with color remain. Looking outside my window, I see two bright spots of red that stand out like thick dabs of paint from an artist’s brush in a landscape of deep greens, browns, and rusts. The turquoise umbrella over our patio table trembles in the wind, looking as if it is trying to hold in its skirt to avoid being immodest. Sweaters have been pulled out of storage and tucked into dresser drawers; tank tops and shorts put away. I’ve come to appreciate these seasonal tasks—chores I never had to consider when living in California—as reminders that as time continues its constant march forward, what was once vibrant and bright will eventually fade, and what once looked dark and lifeless will one day burst open again.

This is the End of My Day

I am sitting on a tall chair covered with gray fabric at the end of the island in our kitchen. Sounds around me are muted—the hum of the refrigerator, the soft tap-tap-tap of my fingers at the keyboard. I see the shadows lengthening across my brick patio, letting me know the day is coming to an end. Not quite yet, but close—closer than this morning, when the sun was moving skyward like a roller coaster on its slow ascent, when I was all motion and purpose. 

I suppose I can say it was a productive day, what with phone calls made, mulch scattered around my flower beds, and freshly washed sheets just folded. My reward is a bowl of popcorn, some kernels sprinkled with cheese and others glazed with caramel, made by a local company I discovered at a farmer’s market last weekend. That morning my husband and I filled four grocery bags with goodies for our pantry—deep purple eggplant, two dozen fresh eggs, heirloom cherry tomatoes. We bought a brown paper bag full of mushrooms grown and harvested by the man running the booth. We felt like we’d won the lottery.

My husband and I haven’t had more than a week alone since the beginning of summer. By mid-June, our calendar had exploded like popcorn, with invitations, requests and ideas flying criss-cross around the country to and from family members. We wouldn’t normally have taken on as much as we did, but coming out of Covid, we decided to go for it and do as much as we could. Now that all of these plans are winding down, what I am most in awe of is the fact that it all worked. Planes departed and arrived on time. Weather was great. No one got sick. No one got as much as a bee sting. I find this to be a great and miraculous thing, something not to be taken for granted.

Notes from The Rocket, my first book in three years, is now at the printer. I am currently in the process of organizing all the little goodies and ephemera that will be tucked into the book. It is quiet work, and slightly tedious, but I have an affinity for those sorts of tasks. It is precise work, and methodical; it lends itself to a certain kind of meditation. I’m looking forward to sitting down with a big stack of books and doing all the work to make each and every one unique, to imbue each book with something of my love of the creative process and my longing to make meaning of this life that I’ve been given.

I was at the dog park yesterday, which has a big field where dogs can run around and play as well as a trail that circles the entire park. As we came around the last bend on our way back to the parking lot, I looked up and noticed the leaves of a few aspen trees waving frantically in the breeze. They were moving back and forth so quickly the trees began to look, if I unfocused my eyes just enough, like a pointillist painting, á la George Seurat’s A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. I stopped and watched them for a few minutes, wanting to hold on to the image, to capture the feelings their movement was conjuring, which was somewhere between playful joy and profound gratitude. “Look at us!”, the leaves seemed to say, “Look at this amazing day! Feel this amazing moment!” 

It made me think of one of the many quotes from The Color Purple that I’ve carried around in my heart ever since I first read the book in my early twenties. It was spoken by a character named Shug, who was talking to another character about God: “Everything want to be loved. Us sing and dance, make faces and give flower bouquets, trying to be loved. You ever notice that trees do everything to git attention we do, except walk?” Those trees at the dog park weren’t begging for my attention, but inviting me to give it to them freely. How many such invitations do I miss throughout each day because I insist on locking my attention in any number of cages—the ones that hold my to do lists and my worries; the ones that hold all the big and little annoyances from yesterday or last week or twelve years ago? 

The light outside is changing. The white brilliance of the afternoon sun is giving way to that perfect, soft shine, the one that makes every flower petal, bird wing, and fence post look drenched in gold. The trees are barely fluttering. The ruckus and chatter around the bird feeder has settled down. On the counter, overripe bananas are reclining as if in a hammock, keeping company with a lemon, an onion, and garlic. This is the end of my day, the first gentle steps toward sleep, the invitation to rest and exhale.

Notes from The Rocket

I don’t know how I noticed it. I was in a room filled with so many fascinating things to look at—hefty typewriters from the early 20th century, bright turquoise electrics, rotary phones the color of avocados. I was in Amherst Typewriter & Computer, a bona fide typewriter repair shop that had been in business since 1976. As I took in all these relics, which were arranged in rows along shelves, on the counter, and everywhere in between, my eyes drifted down toward the floor, landing as gently as a feather on a metal object tucked beneath a small table.

I pulled out the item in question and set it on the counter. I clicked the metal buttons on either side, which opened the case and revealed a wonder: a sage green 1950s Hermes Rocket portable typewriter. I’d never heard of it before, had never thought of myself as a typewriter aficionado, but I fell immediately, madly in love. 

Within a few hours, I was pounding away on my new/old typewriter—a tiny message that was posted on Instagram: “Leap into this day, for it won’t come again.” Just like that, a project came to life, one that has remained close to my heart for nearly ten years. Since Amherst, the sound of the Rocket’s keys in action has been heard in California, during a cross-country road trip to Wisconsin, and in the middle of a dear friend’s 70th birthday party, when guests were invited to sit in a tent and type him a message. 

Every note is created spontaneously, inspired by whatever I am contemplating that day. The opportunity to distill topics such as failure, forgiveness, and joy into just one or two sentences is a challenge I look forward to each time I approach the typewriter. It provides another creative outlet for taking the raw material of my life and shaping it into something meaningful.

After contemplating it for years, I am thrilled to announce the first compilation of many of my favorite notes. Notes from The Rocket is now in the final stages of editing and design, all in preparation for a fall 2021 release.

The story of every book I’ve created has had its own unique twist, and Notes from The Rocket is no exception. I’ve been a creative entrepreneur for more than 25 years, which means my career grew alongside the rise of the internet and social media. I had a website when I started my business in 1995 and that was rather cutting edge, and now, well, I don’t have to tell you. I have started a conversation about certain aspects of this journey here and that will continue in the coming weeks. The story of Notes from The Rocket is very much part of that conversation, because so many of the decisions I’ve made about this book are in response to all the things I had to figure out as an independent author and artist years ago which are now taken for granted by most everyone. Notes from The Rocket is not about mass production, Amazon bestseller lists, or going viral; it is about working with amazing people and companies to produce not just a book, but a beautiful object to be treasured. 

Notes from The Rocket will be like no other book I have published. It will have details and embellishments that will be created and appointed by hand, the end result being that each and every book will be 100% unique. Once I decided I would not be selling on Amazon, I suddenly saw the invitation to create something magical, and I am having so much fun pulling it all together. 

The early Hermes Rockets were widely considered to be the first portable typewriter and the “must have” for novelists, reporters, and journalists. When I look at my Rocket and sit down to type a new note, I like imagining where mine might have traveled before it ended up in my possession. Maybe it never went farther than Massachusetts; maybe it was carried across the Atlantic. How many owners has it had? What were their occupations? Like its namesake book, the Rocket itself has a story. I love that these notes are part of it, that no matter where it might travel after I’m gone, it will be imbued with the magic of an unexpected discovery in a typewriter repair shop in New England, and all the journeys it has taken since then.

You can read more about Notes from The Rocket and pre-order the book right here. This is an independently published book with a limited press run. Your pre-order will help take it across the finish line.