Four Years of Living Life One Day at a Time...

"Wake up Susie,
Put your shoes on,
Walk with me into this life...
Finally this morning,
I'm feeling whole again.
It was a helluva night...
Just to be with you, by my side.
Just to have you near, in my sight.
Just to walk a while, in this light.
Just to know that life goes on."

James Taylor wrote and performed that song, but I imagine it was exactly what God was inviting me to do on 11 January 2004. Thank God I finally heard this life-saving invitation and at the lowest point in my life, feeling completely beat to a pulp and completely out of options, something inside of me whispered that perhaps there was another way and maybe even "another day".

February 6, 1960 remains the date of my birth, the day I was given life. January 12th, 2004 is the day I was graciously afforded the amazing and precious chance to reclaim it. Not everyone gets a second chance. I never want to take that for granted. In many ways, January 12th is much more dear to me than February 6th.

It was a helluva night.

By all accounts, I should not even be alive to write this entry. I drove in a black out and somehow landed in the parking lot of a grocery store about a mile from my home. I have no recollection of the drive, but in the process, I somehow managed not to kill myself or anyone else who might have innocently been in my path. That fact alone is proof positive that God had taken over the steering of my car because I can't imagine how I made the drive from Wrightsville Beach to that parking lot and every single day of my life, I am so grateful that the only casualty was my neighbor's mailbox (it didn't survive). I have no memory of that either, but my friend Kathleen and I connected the dots and somehow it came to light that before landing in the parking lot of a nearby store, I must have made it home, turned around, and by some miracle made it to the parking lot of the closed store.

A few of the events of that night remain murky but one impossible to ignore fact is that I was in a very bad place and seriously sick. I have no idea how long I had been in that parking space, I was passed out over the steering wheel and though the car was in "park", it was still running. It was then that one of Wilmington's finest must have spotted the lone car parked with an idling engine and found me, knocking on the glass of my window, rousing me from my horrendously inebriated state.

My memories of what transpired after that are sketchy at best, but I wound up downtown at the police department and I was charged with a DUI and even though the policeman didn't catch me driving, the fact that the car was engaged was enough to earn a ticket I so richly deserved. As that long night progressed, I took advantage of my "one phone call" and for some reason, I called my neighbor across the street from my home, asking if he could come and pick me up. I have no idea how I came to choose him as my one designated call, but in my toxic reasoning, I felt it would be better than calling my parents because I didn't want to worry them. That's how twisted and irrational my reasoning was that night. As if they weren't going out of their minds wondering where in the world I was and how desperately frantic they must have been imagining only the worst possible scenarios. They had lost one daughter in May 1973 and I imagine that they were steeling themselves for the possibility that they may have just lost the other one. When I think of the anguish that my family went through that long night four years ago, I shudder and, as a parent, I can't imagine a worse way to spend a night.

My dad is a logical man and while I was busy downtown being booked with a DUI, he was calling the local hospitals, friends and finally, the police department to see if they knew anything about his missing and unaccounted for daughter. Fortunately, his call was answered by my arresting officer who told my Dad that he had strongly suggested I call my family, but he couldn't talk me into it. He relayed the information to my father that I was confused, disoriented, but still very much alive and that I would be free to leave in a couple of hours.

As dawn began to break on the cold Monday Morning of 12 January 2004, my father and the neighbor I had called earlier, arrived downtown at the police department at about the same time. I went home with my Dad who, upon seeing me, embraced me with a warm hug and was so completely thrilled and relieved that I was alive...maybe not in great shape, but alive. He told me that he loved me and I told him that I thought maybe I just might have a drinking problem. (You think???). My Dad told me that I would be OK and that he and my Mom and my son and daughter would help me any way that they could. There were no lectures on the trip back home. There were only expressions of relief and a well-spring of love, kindness and support. I didn't know much that foggy morning, but I knew that I wasn't alone and that no matter what the coming days might bring, the legal repercussions of my misguided behavior or the status of my impounded Buick, I did have the good sense to know that I was loved, unconditionally.

Three days later with as much fear as I've ever felt, my son drove me to my first AA meeting. I was beyond terrified. I knew nothing about the organization or what any of it was about. I come from a long line of teetotalers so this was foreign territory for all of us. I didn't know if AA could truly help me turn things around, but I was desperate enough to entertain the slightest possibility that there may be hope for me there. And thank God I was desperate and so frightened. I would never have sought assistance if I hadn't been. I needed to be knocked to my knees, it's the perfect position to begin a prayer. For me, it was also the best position from which to begin a life, as well.

Nearly on the brink of tears and feeling as shaky as I ever have, I walked into that meeting and I found a room full of smiling faces and hearty welcomes. I walked out one hour later with phone numbers and warm embraces from people who would play a pivotal role in my recovery. After just one hour, I emerged feeling as if I had finally found something that made sense. I walked in hopeless and I walked out with the priceless commodity of hope. At that point, I dearly needed hope.

In the past four years, I have made all manner of silly mistakes, stupid errors in judgment, some dreadfully bad decisions and I have faced some difficult situations. I've sailed through twelve hours in a roiling tropical storm and I've experienced a car wreck that completely totaled my car. It's been a busy four years! But the one thing I haven't done is felt the need or had the desire to take a drink. That's amazing and that's all God. That's a miracle.

This matter of "living life on life's terms" is challenging stuff! Recovery is a serious business because the disease of alcoholism is progressive and terminal, if left untreated. It's a deadly disease and we never arrive at a plateau where we who suffer from it are considered "well", but if we do a few simple things and follow the suggestions of the what I consider to be a divinely-inspired program, we can and do get better. Much, much better.

In my mind, "recovery" is a verb, a term of action, ongoing and, if I do the "next right thing", it's never-ending and that's one of the great things about it. At every meeting I attend, I see and hear from people who have relapsed, who have went "back out" and tried living in their old ways, and those are sobering moments for me because the point is driven home that I am only one drink away from the end of my life.

When I first joined AA, I couldn't imagine what kind of life lay before me that didn't include a glass of wine to get through a date, an evening alone, or a social gathering of any sort. What fun could there be in dining out? How would I make painful chit chat or appear "cool" without a glass of merlot in my hand? What joy was there left in this world? I imagined a life akin to that of being a nun and my transforming into the female equivalent of a monk. Surely people who didn't imbibe had to lead completely boring and colorless lives because there was nothing to break the ice, ease the tension and I wondered would I ever be able to laugh again? I knew I could never drink again, but I had it in my mind that my future looked bleak, colorless and without any joy and happiness and that I was evolving into a sad and boring existence, maybe something a librarian could deal with, but I didn't know how in the world I would find much excitement in the rest of the days of my life.

Fortunately for me, I was fabulously wrong. The idea of never drinking again for the next 30 or 40 years, if I happened to live that long, struck me as the most dismal prospect imaginable and I would become sad to consider the string of sober days ahead of me, with no buzz or mind-numbing elixir. As the haze of wine slowly lifted and I took in my new reality, it wasn't too long before I began to sense that rather than enhancing what I mistook for "a life", I had been making my way with a dulled sensibility. I couldn't see the forest. My vision was so obscured that I couldn't even make out the trees.

As I attended more and more meetings, found a wonderful sponsor and finally began getting serious about "working the steps", things began to happen. Life hadn't changed, because life didn't need to change. The change that took place came from the only place that it could and that was within me. As they often say, "it's an inside job" and my interior needed some serious revamping and major reconstruction. My life didn't transform overnight, and I learned to adopt a different method of measuring the mystical nature that is "time". "One Day at a Time" became my metronome, reliably ticking off the measure of my days and it's stood me well. This is a good thing - I needed recalibrating.

In my early days of attending meetings, I would often hear folks with many years in AA joyfully share how happy they were to be alcoholics and how their bottom became the springboard to a life worth living. I would look at these fine people and listen to them and wonder, "how could anyone possibly feel they were blessed to be an alcoholic?". Was it brain damage that sparked such nonsensical declarations? Mental disintegration? They looked sane and happy and completely normal but I couldn't help but wonder if they were out of their minds. I was sure I would never ever live long enough to feel happy about my status of being an alcoholic. Don't get me wrong, I was grateful to be alive and afforded a second chance, but I wasn't happy that I had landed myself in a 12-step group and while I was grateful for many things, alcoholism would never be one of them.

After four years of sobriety, I can unequivocally state without the slightest bit of hesitation or reservation that I am, completely and profoundly, happy to be a recovering alcoholic. My gosh, the blessings of these past four years, the connection with my Higher Power who, for me, is God, the ability to live my life with a measure of sanity I didn't know previously, and to know that, on good days and especially bad days, I am still a child of God and I am loved and cared for, watched over and protected, was worth every stumble I made to earn my seat at the table. I can't imagine how I ever lived "pre-AA" because that doesn't remotely resemble what is now my conception of living. Admitting my powerlessness, that my life had become unmanageable and willing it over to a power much greater than myself, is the kindest act I have ever taken for myself and I renew that admission of powerlessness on a daily basis.

Of the 47 years and eleven months I have been allowed the gift of this life, the past four years have been a period of intense growth, learning, understanding and offered more hope and inspiration on a very personal basis than I could have ever guessed was possible. In the days and weeks following 11 January 2004, I was sure that would forever be a date I would consider to mark the darkest and most painful day in my life and certainly nothing to celebrate but now I know it was the day that I was truly saved from myself and lead away from the wreckage that made up my life. This is a day of gratitude, thanksgiving and an occasion to reiterate my thanks to my family, my friends and most of all God for taking another chance on me. It is a day to celebrate the most precious gift I was ever allowed. It is a day of hope and joy and a study in unmerited grace; a reason to look forward to a future with the hope of lots of days to be spent at the doable rate of, one day at a time.

I am so very glad I woke up, walked into the LIGHT, and eternally grateful that I finally found my way. To my precious family (Barbe, Maxine, Katie and Justin), my cadre of crazy friends, Officer Locklear (for being the catalyst of change), Hearing Officer J. Stewart (for having faith in me and allowing me to get back behind the wheel), Peter at Monitech (for making me laugh every time I visit), Amy Hotz, (for the nice profile in the Wilmington Star), Erik Rhey (for feeding me so many interesting assignments for "PC Magazine" - this latest one takes the cake!), Glen Edelstein of Random House (for reminding me of the work that needs to be completed and delivered), and all of the angels who light my way on a daily basis and most of all, to God, I offer my deepest and most heartfelt appreciation for another year of magnificent miracles.

In case you missed my message, there IS life after putting down the bottle. That's the best part.

"Wake up Susie,
Put your shoes on,
Walk with me into this light.

Another night has gone.
Life goes on.
Another dawn is breaking.
Turn and face the sun.
One by one,
The world outside is waking.
Morning light is driven away
All the shadows that hide your way.
And night has given away, to the promise of another day...
Another day,
Another chance that we may finally find our way,
Another day,
The sun has begun to melt all my fears away...
Another day, another day.

Oh, wake up Susie,
Put your shoes on,
Walk with me into this light." ~ James Taylor, "Another Day"

A Jury Summons Invites Introspection and Gratitude, "Sunny Came Home" and Happy Birthday to "Our Queen"!

It's been a busy couple of weeks since my last update. When I start receiving E-mail asking me if I've sailed away with a rogue, pirate captain (again), I realize it's time to update and quell such nonsense. I promise I've learned my lesson and I'll thoroughly check and recheck the next sailboat captain I take off with - you have my word! I'm silly but I wouldn't make that same mistake twice...well, certainly not within the span of the same year, anyway! And honest, I've sworn off ALL ENGAGEMENTS for the remainder of 2007. I'm firm about that. I'm practicing..."just say no"!

However, there's always the slimmest and impossible chance that the right person will drop from the sky, but UNTIL then, there's Hugh Jackman and, of course, Sting and his guitar...enjoy the music as you read up on this, that and the other thing. I love this video...it's just so irresistibly lovely. Besides, it's the season of hope, right? I just finished a story for PC Magazine on the technology of "bridge sensors" and I swear the entire time I was working on it, I thought of this song for some odd reason.

If you're reading this, I wonder, are you ready for Christmas? I'm certainly not but I never am. I would be deeply concerned if I was prepared because I'm sure something would be critically wrong. I've just accepted I'm not wired that way and my close friends and relatives know this and they seem to have accepted it which makes all concerned happy, joyous and free!

Let's see, since last I penned this blog, life's been spinning along, just as it's supposed to - in unpredictable directions, tossing in just enough surprises and challenges to make these days interesting, but I'm still smiling, writing this from my FRESHLY PAINTED office, surrounded by Felix, Magellan, Princess and Sylvester. Cassie darts in and out just to check on things and see if we're all behaving. Most of the time we aren't. She loves us anyway.

Yes, I painted my office. I consulted my artistic buddy Bobbi and she suggested a scheme that sounded great to me so I got on with it. My office was the last holdout and if ever there was a colorful room in this house, souvenir and memory wise, it is this office which my kids affectionately refer to as "Central Command". I have no real power, but it makes me think I do and I'm sure it's only been assigned such a nickname simply to assuage my ego and make me believe I have the tiniest measure of control. What a laugh.

But the painting project turned out lovely. I also redid the photo collage that now hangs over the love seat situated in this room and it makes me smile every time I pause to peruse it. It's reflective of my family which is another way of saying it's the center of my universe. The heart of life.

It's also the room that Katie and I hang out in when she visits, where we drink copious amounts of coffee and iced tea and we watch old, vintage movies and we laugh as we walk through the memories we've collected together, and share a few we've made apart. There are always animals hanging around and someone generally has a cat in his or her lap, and laughter wafts throughout the loft, permeating the walls and filling this quirky home with warmth, comfort and joy. I can't wait to share more of those times with her and it won't be long now! She flies in (IF she gets on the plane) next Sunday, 23 December. She did remind me that the mere fact that she has a ticket for a seat on that flight doesn't necessarily mean she'll be ON that flight, so she always reminds me not to count on my daughter before she deplanes. Good advice, but I'm betting she'll pull it together, squeeze John's impressive biceps, dig her nails painfully into his skin - possibly drawing blood - and make the flight.

Now, I love to fly but I hate to drive and I particularly hate to drive to Raleigh...ugh! I experience many of the same physical symptoms that Katie endures when she's inflight, only I do it from the confines of my car. However, this trip to Raleigh will have the added bonus of a visit with my buddy and artistic adviser, "The good pirate, Bobbi", captain of the s/v Kokopelli and I have accepted her gracious invitation to overnight at her home in Raleigh so that I can recoup my sanity that will no doubt be lost on the drive up to Raleigh and be on time to pick up Katie and John at the airport. Plus, I'm sure that Bobbi and I will have a fine time - two crazy women on the prowl in the bustling capital city of North Carolina. No single man will be safe, is what I'm thinking. I can't wait to meet Sofi, her beautiful dog child, and view some of Bobbi's eclectic artwork.

This past week, I was thrilled to receive the annual Christmas newsletter that Sofi dictates to Bobbi, and even more amazed to discover it included a photo of Bobbi and me taken at Bluewater when we were having lunch on Wrightsville Beach this past October. I made the newsletter! I was honored!

I also loved the card that Bobbi artfully designed and it is pinned to the corner cabinet that sits above my desk - a beautiful sailboat on bluewater, beneath a blanket of golden stars and a lazy crescent moon. One of my favorite places to be and, when I simply excise the image of the moldy man from the memory of my sailing adventures of this past summer, it becomes a very nice recollection. To be honest, excision isn't that difficult - he never braved the nightwatch and I spent many hours in the cockpit alone beneath a canopy of stars and the moon in various phases, slicing along with the sound of the waves lapping the hull, the whoosh of the wind in the sails and the overwhelming knowledge that there is nothing like being on the water to feel truly connected to the universe. I will never forget that sensation, the sense of awe comingled with the rarest brand of peace and I want to revisit sailing often in 2008. Again and again and again...Every single chance I get...

The County of New Hanover sent me an invitation in late November - they requested my services for jury duty. Now, I have to tell you, even though I know most people look upon jury duty as a huge pain in the derrière, I was kind of thrilled. I mean, I've been in a New Hanover County Courthouse in a past life for very unhappy reasons and to be invited because they actually "needed" me was a bit of a giddy honor. My family and friends asked me if I was going to "try and get out of it"... Nosiree! Not a chance! How cool it would feel to walk in there and not be scared out of my wits at the outcome, not to be on the "hot seat"! Ahhhhh, the joys and gifts of sobriety are wondrous and many. I sent up two prayers, in fact, well, make that three:

1. God help the person who may be on a trial I could potentially serve on a jury and help me to do the right thing.
2. Thank you God for allowing my life to turn around to the point that I get to appear at New Hanover County Courthouse for reasons having nothing to do with me.
3. God, could you please make sure that I don't have to run into one particular defense attorney from Raleigh because that would be cruel and unusual punishment and hey, I'm not the one in trouble here.

I am happy to report that my services were not required for too long because out of the 100 or so of us upstanding, potential jurors available to step into our role and serve, they only needed twelve plus a few alternates and I was released from my duty a short-time later and told that I wouldn't have to worry about being called again for two years, having fulfilled my requirements as an available juror. Whew! I'm even happier to report that I didn't run into any Raleigh-based attorneys so God must surely have decided I had also fulfilled my time served in the company of maniacal morons for at least two years, maybe more. What a Christmas present from a benevolent and loving Creator!

After the rest of us "citizens in good standing" were free to leave the courthouse, I almost skipped out of the building and I know there was a smile on my face. I'm pretty sure that's the first time I've ever left New Hanover County Courthouse with a wide grin. There I was, on Princess Street, milling about all manner of law enforcement types, thinking to myself at how profoundly life can change and just how much I have to be grateful for in this life I've been granted. I honestly felt reborn and, in a sense, I have been.

It was at least 75 degrees on the 10th of December under a cloudless Carolina blue sky and I opened my sunroof to let the deliciously warm beams shine down on me in the heart of the port city of Wilmington, North Carolina and you know that feeling that sometimes settles over you that communicates with your soul and reminds you that life is just so darn good, and how incredible it is that you are around to be right in the middle of it? I had that feeling and it has lingered with me throughout this week. Yes, life is good. I'm grateful and I am right in the smack dab middle of it and some days are hard and challenging and the coffee isn't quite right (not yours, Mom - 'outside' coffee). My checkbook is positively anemic with only small and unpredictable cash infusions from freelance work and working part-time for my friends, Danny and Sherry, and I have no idea how in the world I'm going to buy very many Christmas presents, but then I remembered other times in my life when my checkbook has been much more impressive, but my life sure wasn't.

There have been Christmas seasons where I have had ample supplies of cash to fulfill and exceed the list of gifts for my family and friends, but other than a nice, positive bank balance, there was little that could remotely be defined as positive about my life. I guess I could have best been described as making my way through life "hit and run" style - no direction, no spiritual connection to speak of, nothing resembling anything close to the definition I now understand to be "joy" and as for "serenity", I wasn't even sure how to spell it, much less become acquianted with it. I was aimless, and even though I was capable of putting on a good face, most days, my life felt dark and cold and pretty hopeless.

I was under the mistaken idea that a good life started with a positive cash flow and worked it's way up from there. I didn't understand that regardless of what First Union National Bank said, I was on the brink of bankruptcy and the worst possible kind - spiritual bankruptcy. As James Taylor sang in "Shed a Little Light", "you can't get no light from a dollar bill". Nothing made sense to me because my life wasn't making any sense but, of course, I couldn't see that or even know it until things got much, much worse. Thank God they did!

I was talking with a friend the other day and we were discussing personal transformations and I was trying to explain to him what had changed, but the fact is that nothing had to change except for me. Actually, what it all came down to was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity. I got my Spirits mixed up. The spirits in a smooth merlot were never going to offer me any long-lasting relief, no matter how many times I kept trying. However, thanks to a series of very fortunate unfortunate events, I finally met up with the RIGHT Spirit and, in the words of Robert Frost, "it has made all the difference."

This Christmas, there's no doubt about it, we'll be able to see the tree because it's not going to be hidden beneath a plethora of presents that used to obscure it as many of our Christmases did a few years ago, but that's OK. Of course, there will be presents, but the most precious ones can't be wrapped and many of them are completely intangible. In this, my fourth Christmas sober and shared with the RIGHT spirit, I've learned along the way what truly matters most and those things emanate from the people and creatures I love most and hold dear. Family, friends, cats, my dog and all of those colorful fish brilliantly swimming about in our aquarium.

Life. Life is the ticket! This house is just spilling over and sloshing around with it. You can't walk too far in this place without crossing the path of something filled with life and the love that fuels it - sometimes it's a grandmother or a grandfather, or a 21 year old young man and other times, life comes attached to a striped tail, a 50 pound bundle of canine goodness or even a pair of fins. Wrapped around it all, is THE Spirit that eluded me for so many years. The one that came from a "Higher Power" and not a glass bottle with a spent cork. Thank God I've spent my last cork and, to my friend up north, nothing is hard if you take it one day at a time.

I am reminded of that quote from E. L. Doctorow as he was alluding to the sometimes overwhelming and daunting proposition of writing..."It's like driving a car at night. You never see further than your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." It will take you far, even all the way to where you need to be.

Now, not only did I receive some deep introspective reckonings courtesy of my invitation from New Hanover County, but yesterday I opened my mail to find a check for the heady amount of TWELVE DOLLARS! Of course, I'm going to scan it and frame it before I cash it. To be perfectly honest, I feel as if maybe I should have paid them. Who would have imagined such gifts from something as simple and mundane as the prospect of jury duty? With an infusion of funds like that, who says there's not going to be a Christmas on Nottingham Lane? I know, I know, I am NOT going to spend it all in one place. So many people make that mistake. Not me! :-)

In OTHER news of the less philosophical variety, my son FINALLY got his new rotors installed on his birthday present, and his Cobra Mustang is back in business. If you live within 3 miles of my house, you probably know that by now. This Wednesday after I came home, he bounded in my office and leveled an invitation at me...."Mom, let's go somewhere. Let's take a ride.". I didn't really need to go anywhere so I asked him where he wanted to go? "It doesn't matter! Let's just go! C'mon!". Well, who can turn down an invitation like that? Certainly not me! We hopped in the car and we went! We even wound up having a nice dinner together at McAlister's - just my son and me. Talk about precious and I don't mean that warm and fuzzy smarmy precious, but it is a gift for a 21 year old son to have the desire to take his Mom for a spin in his pony car. I looked over at him as he shifted gears, completely unable to disguise his delight in all of the glorious horsepower that revs that pony of a car. I was so happy for him.

I don't really understand that brand of affection toward a car, probably because I don't love to drive, but I know that feeling as I've experienced it whilst engaged in other pursuits. I guess it must be what it feels like when a sailboat is on a beam reach and the sky is dotted with white puffy clouds and the wind couldn't be more perfect if it tried. Or maybe it's the same sensation I felt sitting on the stern of a sailboat crossing the Gulf Stream, watching the phosphorescent wake sparkle in the fragile light of dusk, miles from even the hint of land and wondering if this must be what heaven looks and feels like?

Waves, water and wind inspire that same grin on my face and it all distills into a special sort of joy that makes being alive the best gig going. I was just thrilled to share it with him and I even pretended to understand the machinations of the engine and all that is a Mustang. Mostly, I enjoyed all that it entails to be his mother and for me, that is easily one of the best gigs going. Thank you, Justin!

"Sunny Came Home"

I have a very special friend in New York City who cajoles, prods, cheers, threatens and text-messages me often to remind me that I have an important project to take care of and a story to tell. I'm referring to, of course, my friend Glen who's an Art Director with Random House and one of my most dearly loved and most enthusiastic cheerleaders. In fact, I think he's the head cheerleader. When I was in a NYC a few weeks ago, it was so wonderful to see him again.

Glen and I have had quite a year - while I was busy sailing around the Abacos, dancing on various beaches and becoming increasingly disenchanted with an attorney who's mental seams were rapidly unraveling and coming unglued, Glen, for the first time in his life, moved off the island of Manhattan, bought a home in the suburbs north of the City, went to Disney World for the first time in his life on a fantastic family vacation and three weeks ago when I was visiting NYC, he and his family completed their Norman Rockwell existence by adopting a miniature poodle named, quite appropriately, "Sunny".

Through it all, however, he has been a constant in my life this past year. Glen has believed in my writing project since we had our first meeting in the coffee shop of the hotel I was staying in while visiting Manhattan in October 2006. We became instant friends and he's been an endless stream of encouragement for me in more ways than I can adequately express here. I wear a silver necklace around my neck that on one side has a cross and on the flip side, has the word "LOVE". It was a present from my dear buddy last year and a tangible reminder that I have yet another guardian angel who is willing to work with me and stubbornly determined that I bring my work to fruition.

Even though Glen was busy adding to his family the weekend I was in NYC, he made time to meet up with Katie, John and me and treated us to a great brunch at Arte Cafe and how excited I was to introduce Katie to Glen because they're both just so hopelessly twisted (in a good way!). In fact, as we sat down to a scrumptious meal, it was as if Glen was family. He fit right in perfectly and he and Katie got along famously. It was a special treat for me to be in the company of two of my favorite people however, the thought of them double-teaming me and beating me up sometimes causes me some stress but, well, what can you do?

Glen seems to have a special knack for knowing when I need to be gently nudged, pushed, and sometimes even SHOVED as only a seasoned, born and raised NY'er can, but he does it with love and I know always that he cares. He's like family and I expect it always to be just like that. As I've mentioned before, my life is sprinkled with angels, and some of them just happen to have Yankee accents and frequently call me on my bullshit. Such is the case with Glen. I want to take a second to send a special thank you to my brilliant, talented northern friend who plies me with giggles, sends me iTunes gifts to inspire me, and never loses his faith in me. Glen, you're the best. We have a date for the last week of January in New York - please order some of that fabulous snow that you and Katie love so much and let's go ice-skating in Central Park. Oh, and yes, I'll be delivering my submission because I know that if I don't, there will be heck to pay and I know you well enough to understand that you will never let me forget it. You rock, buddy.

The Heart of Love...

One of the most important events of this past week occurred on 13 December, because on another 13 December back in the year of 1923, a very special person was born: My Mom. We joyfully celebrated my Mom's 84th birthday and what a blessing of a milestone that is! She had a check up with her doctor the day before and she checked out pretty darn well! We're grateful because we love having her around.

She's something else, this Mom of mine. She cooks like a woman half her age, maybe even younger, and she turns out culinary masterpieces that can inspire people to fly from far-flung locations and a few have even been known to paint for their supper (right Billie?). She's easily the coolest 84 year old I've ever met.When Justin and I were out running around town to no place in particular, we ascertained a book, chocolates, jelly beans and cards and of course we couldn't wait until the actual date of the anniversary of her birth, so on the night of December 12th, we surprised her with her gifts and she was pleased.

The phone rang quite often on the 13th, with friends and family calling from all over the place to wish the birthday girl congratulations for putting up with us for yet another year. We easily have the best end of that deal. Whatever steely determination that is sometimes attributed to me, is the result of her donation to my gene pool. Maxine Cook is a force to be reckoned with - sometimes obstinate, fiercely independent and she could easily teach Martha Stewart a thing or two, but thankfully for Ms. Stewart, we keep her so busy that she doesn't have time to mess with such domestic divas.

The center of my mother's world has always been, at least from my front row seat of 47 years, her family. She tends us well and always with a glad heart. I've made her shake her head more than a few times, but I think deep down she's fond of my unconventional characteristics and I know any skill I have in terms of home repair and painting come from watching her through the years. I don't think there's much she can't fix whether it's a bruised knee, misbehaving kitchen appliance or a broken heart. If only I could get her to put faith in the power of Vick's Ointment and The Farmer's Almanac and maybe, just once, entice her to confess that she truly does love cats, she'd be nearly perfect but that might be boring and, given her obstinance, a probably futile pursuit, so we smile when she rages on about cat hair and the way Cassie sometimes drips water from her water bowl, secure in the knowledge that she loves all of the creatures in this house, both great and small. Even the ones that shed. Happy, happy birthday Mom - we love you more than you can possibly imagine. We're just so glad you are ours.

A Brushstroke of "Radiance", ENOUGH With The AARP Commercials and Home By Another Way...

"So scared of getting older,
I'm only good at being young.
So I play the numbers game
To find way to say that life has just begun.

Had a talk with my old man,
Said 'help me understand'.
He said turn sixty-eight
You renegotiate

Don't stop this train,
Don't for a change the place you're in
And don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly
We'll never stop this train."
~ John Mayer, "Stop This Train"

(Click below - if you're going to suffer through this post, you might as well listen to this song...)

The old folks returned yesterday. They had a great time, absolutely wonderful. I was grateful for that and even more pleased to see them return to the mother ship.

It was a busy week and I stayed well-fed thanks to my wonderful friends. I certainly didn't go hungry and no, Katie, I didn't lose any weight. I did OK down here in the deep South, with a little help from my friends, of course.

Now, what do I do when I'm left to my own devices? I paint and I write. I did a lot of both. One project is finished (painting) and the other most likely never will be - it's a never-ending story and that's OK. (It's a tradition, right Katie?).

Oh, I am such a product and a direct result of a quirky upbringing and without a doubt, the quintessential embodiment of Aquarius...Blame it on the stars, I say. I have no defense - I was born right smack dab in the middle of the sign and it suits me. I make no apologies. :-)

This past week, I caught up with friends. I went to my home group meeting on Monday Evening and after that, I lassoed my friend Mitch and we went to see "The Heartbreak Kid", and we laughed. We shamelessly laughed and ate popcorn and drank really large cokes. Mitch was temporarily disconsolate when he discovered they didn't have some specific candy at the theatre, and I thought for a moment I might have a brewing tantrum on my hands, but he bucked up and pulled it together and didn't create "much" of a scene.

The movie was funny and silly and filled with sophomoric pranks as any good Farrelly Brothers film is. It wasn't a movie I'd ever go to with a date because I'm sure it wouldn't speak well of me given the scenes I laughed at most, but Mitch is like a brother and we certainly don't work to impress each other. We just hang out. In fact, as we were walking to our cars after the movie, he was telling me about this one woman he found attractive and extolling the virtues of her beauty and then he said something that stopped me dead in my tracks..."And she's got a rack on her!". I just looked at him and said, "Tell me you didn't just say that.". He just laughed even harder and said, "Well, she does!". I just shook my head and giggled some more. I felt like "one of the guys" there for a second.


"Radiance" in a Brushstroke

I visited Sherwin-Williams. I emerged a few minutes later with a gallon of paint, known as the shade of "Radiance", and a lot of work ahead of me. This would be the perfect week to do it. My mom would be out of my kitchen, I could leave a mess without hearing about it, and it would be fresh and spiffy in time for the senior citizens arrival. I wanted to surprise them and I thought this was just the ticket.

In typical style, I started immediately even if, by now, immediately was 6:30 PM. I painted through two episodes of "I Love Lucy", four episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show", two episodes of "M*A*S*H", and then two more episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show". I got a lot done that first session (Tuesday) of playing Picasso on my walls.

In addition to painting, I took everything down from atop the cabinets and loaded it in the dishwasher. It had gathered a lot of dust in the time since the last painting. Justin walked into the kitchen just as I was taking the lid off a crock pot and gazing at four biscuits that had been placed in there, probably years ago, and had grown quite an impressive covering of mold. They were like rocks. Justin and I just looked at each other and wondered, who had put them in there and why? We had no clue and no time to play Perry Mason. I soaked the crockpot in antibacterial soap overnight and stuck the lid in the dishwasher.

The walls took two coats and the effects were transforming, not only on the walls, but the ambiance of the room. It warmed up the heretofore pastel pearl walls and gave it personality. I hate pastels. They always strike me as indecisive. They hint of a color but don't have the fortitude to carry it off. I love bold, primary colors. If you're going to be a swatch on the color wheel then, BE ONE! Do it!

Believe me, I picked a color known as "radiance" and it doesn't whisper anything. It's warm, sunny and cozy. It doesn't "hint" at all. It most certainly made the white woodwork stick out and look defining. I was very pleased with my choice. It was heart and home affirming, and it had my imprint all over it which was only fair, I had "radiance" all over my hands, a few places on my arms and legs, and I didn't mind. Painting is a lot like life - it's messy. It's supposed to be. I've never been adverse to messy. I embrace it and it loves me right back.

Wednesday Night I took the evening off - all work and no play makes life dull and that's not a good thing for anyone - it's like pastel paint, and should be avoided at all cost. My friend who lives on Wrightsville Beach invited me over for dinner. He's a wonderful cook and even better company so who was I to say no? Sure, sometimes it annoys me at how fast he knows the answers to the crosswords and Sudoku, but no one's perfect, right? He even had iced tea this time and allowed me to partake of two glasses! It most certainly was a welcome break from all that painting.

He was even prepared for another late season swim, but this time we stayed in the surf and just walked along the beach for a bit. It's always a good thing to see, smell and listen to the ocean and it was soothing looking up at the blanket of stars overhead. It was still, technically, warm enough for the water, but I was tired and just didn't go in this time. Later, I wished I'd been more bold but maybe another time. He noted that I was exhibiting signs of being "sensible". I wasn't quite sure how to take that, but it was a little concerning. I so rarely hear that word ascribed to me. I can't be sure it was anything resembling a compliment.

Thursday found me returning to the ladder with my trusty paintbrush in hand. Justin was kind enough to observe the places that looked as if they needed another coat, which was easier to detect in the daylight. In fact, it was determined, that the entire room would require two coats and there was just no getting around it. I was far to much invested in it to stop by now. Two coats it would be! Sometimes, you just have to commit and I did, without any reservations or regrets - what a rarity.

Now, it should be noted, that if you called me last week and your call was sent to voice mail, this wasn't me screening calls, as I'm known to do now and then, it's just that I was most likely balancing between the ladder and the counter and after getting up and down so much, I finally just let the phone ring and stayed on task. Otherwise, I'd only be half finished and I had a deadline. Pops and Granny had moved their date of arrival up one day and could now be expected on Saturday Afternoon. Knowing my mother would be aghast at the disarray, I had to buckle down and stick to it.

AARPUHLEEZE...Like I Need to Be Reminded of This?

During the Thursday Afternoon painting session, I had "Little House on the Prairie" for company and I loved that show when the kids were growing up and we'd endlessly watch Laura Ingalls Wilder grow up. It was like mashed potatoes (comfort viewing!).

I painted my way across the kitchen, as Pa and Ma Ingalls crossed the prairie. However, the commercials really played with my head. In between segments of "Little House", were all of these dang "AARP" commercials. After the first ten, I started to feel really old, noticed my knees popped and wondered if I might be catching arthritis. I mean, I'm less than six months away from turning 48 and the last thing I wanted to be reminded that I was horribly unprepared for retirement, the high cost of healthcare and how "folks over 50 still enjoy an active lifestyle". My gosh, I'm a hair's breath away from 50! If I hadn't been slapping such a warm and revitalizing color on my walls, I could easily have sunk into a funk over the fact that I'm not that far away from joining the "gray coalition". In fact, I think I stopped at one point and ran into the downstairs bathroom to examine my roots for gray hair. I'm sure it's beneath the peroxide line, and I didn't dare look too closely. Those commercials should be banned. Talk about a morale buster. Yes I'm in denial and I plan to remain there for as long as possible!

I took a break Thursday Afternoon and decided I had earned a trip to Smithfield's because the only thing to get one's mind off aging has to be chicken wings, cole slaw, hush puppies and sweet iced tea. It may not make me any younger, but it certainly diverts my attention! I didn't bother brushing my hair or changing clothes. I looked like someone who had slept in their clothes and popped awake and started painting first thing, which is exactly what I had done. My hair was sticking out everywhere, typically messy and with a mind of its own, and my sunglasses hid the fact that there was yellow paint adorning my face and I had no make-up on. Hey, I was only hitting the drive thru.

As I pulled out of Smithfield's with my gastronomical treasure, one of the older employees walked in front of me (I know most everyone who works there given the frequency with which I hit that place last winter) and he said, "OH my gosh, it's Meg Ryan!". Given that I had spent most of the morning and afternoon hearing about all of the medical maladies awaiting my advanced age, left wondering how long it would be until I had to call "Tom Crews" with "The Scooter Store" and place an order, this was a most dearly welcome compliment and I thought, mister, you have got to be kidding me (I knew how I looked), but if you think so, thanks for sharing. It may have been a mercy compliment, but so be it - I took it and ran with it.

After my wing-fest, I got right back to work and knocked out most of it by the end of the night. There was a lot of paint to scrub off my person, but I had managed to get more on the walls and that made me feel marginally successful.

When the Birds Fly the Coop, Think Fish...

During one of my breaks, I eyed what used to be my aviary and I had been trying to figure out what to do with that open framework that used to house finches and is visible from the downstairs living room as well as the loft upstairs, just outside my office. Once again, I have my Wrightsville Beach buddy to blame for my inspiration. I have gotten into more projects since I met him. First it was the inspiration of the woodwork in his beautiful home that got me scraping my own stairway and railing. Then it was the bold color of his kitchen that tantalized my senses, not to mention the flip-flop lights he has strung around the ceiling of the eating area and kitchen. Whimsical. Now, it's about fish.

A couple of weeks ago I was over there and he showed me the new baby black mollies in his 55 gallon aquarium. They were beautiful and instantly brought up memories of the aquariums in my past and there have been many aquariums in my past. I remembered how much I enjoyed mollies in particular. Eureka! I could transform the former aviary into a place for my 55 gallon aquarium which was currently housed amid about a thousand spider webs in my pool house! Yes! Brilliant! Perfect! Crap that's going to be a lot of work.

Green, Green Grass...

I talked to Justin about it later that night and he agreed to help me get the aquarium out, but didn't offer to clean it up for me. He had "mowing" on his mind. We couldn't let Granny and Pops return to an overgrown, neglected lawn. So I was on my own when it came time to scrub the thing down, but scrub it I did, early Friday Morning as Justin was firing up the lawn mower. Later in the day he helped me carry it upstairs and we placed it in the framed area. I'd always thought of a 55 gallon aquarium as a pretty decent-sized tank, until I placed it in there. My suddenly decent sized tank looked pretty small in that 72" open space, but never mind, with a few plants on either side, some flitting fish, it would work. So that's my NEXT project. Later today I'm heading to Lowe's for a few plants, and later on this week after the water has recycled itself, a few good fish. I'll probably keep it contained to mollies and swordtails. I think it will look perfect and goodness knows aquariums are much less trouble to keep than birds, plus, fish don't escape and fly around, taunting you as you try and woo them back into the cage. The cats will be just as entertained. I'm sure Magellan will spend hours licking his chops and trying to figure out a way to "fish".

Justin did a fantastic job on the lawn and really took his time, knowing that his labor would come under the close scrutiny of the perfectionistic and meticulous Barbe Cook. Justin paid attention to detail, no question, and I think he actually enjoyed it. It was funny listening to him sing to his iPod as he mowed row after row.

Surf's Up! Finding "The Perfect Wave" in an "Endless Summer...

By Friday Evening, I was ready for another break and my WB friend generously offered up his culinary skills once again. The only thing he requested was that I bring my copy of "Stranger Than Fiction" so we could watch it after dinner. Easy enough, right? Dinner was more impressive than anything I could order at a restaurant and the salad was almost too lovely to eat! After dinner, we headed for the den and I opened up to find that "Love, Actually", was in the "Stranger Than Fiction" DVD case. What the heck? I'm just coming to terms with Fall, and neither one of us were in the mood for a Christmas feature. What to do?

Fortunately, my friend offered up "The Endless Summer", a 1960's surfing movie that was more like a travelogue - so we settled down and watched these two surfing-addicted teenagers travel the world in search of "the perfect wave". We visited Hawaii, California, Africa, Australia, New Zealand, Tahiti and finally back to Hawaii. It was a great movie and I really enjoyed it. I couldn't believe how these guys balance on boards on giant waves, some of which looked as if they could swallow a person whole. The movie was shot before surfboards came attached with leashes which explained why these guys were always hyper-aware of where their boards landed after the ride.

Of course, all I could think of was how I'd love to sail to all of those places someday and what it might look like from the vantage point of the bow of a sailboat. Someday...someday. A durable dream doesn't go away if it transitions into a passion...it may get temporarily postponed, maybe placed on the back burner, but it doesn't have to disappear. Sailing will never disappear from my consciousness, even if my sailing has mostly been under the command of a freakish captain with pirate tendencies. I've an idea I would enjoy sailing even more with someone who actually knew what he was doing and didn't take reckless chances with his crew. I intend to find out.

Home is the Sailor and his First (and only) Mate!

And then, it was Saturday. Yesterday. I popped up early and put the finishing touches on the kitchen, cleaned up the debris and put away the ladder, paint tray and all manner of brushes. I mopped the kitchen, opened the windows and beautiful sunlight highlighted my interior handiwork. I couldn't wait for my parents to return and admire my hard work. There was no way they wouldn't notice the fresh, clean shiny "radiant" kitchen and breakfast area. Or so I thought...

I finally heard their van pull into the driveway and I closed the pocket door that opens to the kitchen from the laundry room. I bounded down the steps of the side entry and collected my "welcome home" hugs. They looked great - certainly not like two octogenarians who had been traipsing all over Southern West Virginia! They certainly looked much more well-rested than I felt!

My Dad entered first, looked at the closed door and asked if he was allowed to go into the kitchen. Sure, of course, I told him. He walked in, me eagerly following on his heels, set down his baggage and looked around. He realized something was different. Finally, he said with a smile, "You painted the woodwork!".

Huh? All that work and all you noticed was the freaking woodwork? Barbe Cook take off those shades and drink in the fruits of my labor. The woodwork? I hadn't even painted the woodwork he was admiring!

A few seconds later, my mother walked in and looked around and said, "Did you paint the kitchen orange?". NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It's NOT orange crazy woman! It's "radiance". It's lovely. It's warm. Bask in it for goodness sakes!

"I like it!", she says in earnest backpedal fashion. "I really like it!", she repeats with sheepish redundancy. By now, my dad had removed his sunglasses and could see more than the white woodwork. I thought it was more glaringly impressive - maybe they'd been in the car too long! Oh well, hey, I don't regret all that toil and trouble. It does look nice. More compliments were forthcoming as the evening wore on.

My mom more than made up for it by blessedly brewing some of her famously rich and wonderful coffee. FINALLY a decent cup of coffee. Kitchen walls be damned - it was time for coffee and talk, both things I'd missed immeasurably.

After I helped them bring in their luggage and bags of this and that, we convened around the kitchen table and I heard about the highlights of their trip. They'd had a wonderful time visiting old friends and relatives at my Uncle's birthday party, they shared with me who was doing what and how everyone was getting along, how Charleston didn't look like the capital of a depressing mining state - "it was bustling, growing, looked good!". My dad, however, summed it up best..."But I sure wouldn't want to live back there!", he said. My thoughts exactly. My mother can never quite bring herself to toss about negatives with regard to West Virginia - her loyalty is fierce and while I don't believe for one-second she'd ever want to live back there, she finds it impossible to say anything remotely unkind about the state. It's her home. She was born and raised there and spent a chunk of her history there until I came along with my gypsy ways.

It was wonderful catching up with them, watching my Dad walk outside and chasing Cassie around, who was unabashedly thrilled to see them. As I watched my Dad chase her in the side yard by the pool, I realized that someday I want to not grow up and be just like him. Any 82 year old who can still chase the ball of energy and fun that defines Cassie, is the equivalent of a good "thumbing of the nose" at every AARP commercial I had to suffer through this past week, and a keen reminder that you don't really have to grow old, regardless of the number of candles that might adorn your next birthday cake. Accumulating years may well be inevitable, but aging is definitely an option I hope never, ever to exercise.

What an amazingly rich, resilient template my parents have afforded me, worthy of my best possible emulation.

Home By Another Way
(A song about "the Epiphany" and one that speaks to my own personal "Epiphany".)

"Home is where they want you now.
You can more or less assume that you'll be welcome in the end.
Mustn't let King Herod haunt you so,
Or fantasize his features
When you're looking at a friend..." ~James Taylor

This morning, when I instinctively made my way downstairs, I smelled the welcome aroma of my Mom's coffee. Yes, things are as they should be, Fox News was blaring on the TV and cereal was being poured. I grabbed a few blackberries and looked around with a smile. Home.

This crazy house has grown in terms of my affection for it when I realize how, had plans stayed on that perilous course, I was scheduled to be living in Raleigh now. How profoundly grateful I am that I didn't sell this house on a whim, that I woke up in Wilmington this morning, that I have an aquarium to set up, a beach to walk on a few miles from here, and my own space is still, blessedly, my own space sprinkled with the people and things I love most, in a town I adore. Thank God I woke up when I did, held fast to my convictions, and realized the error of my ways.

I remember when Katie first learned of my impending relocation and ill-advised nuptials, no small measure of her concern was for this house. This house truly has been more of a home to us than any dwelling we've ever lived in. It's been home in seven years and a lot of living has gone down in seven years but one constant in it all has been this crazy, quirky, odd structure we affectionately refer to as home. When she first expressed her desire that I keep this house, I couldn't really understand it (remember, I was deep in delusion territory). It was just a house, I reasoned. So what? Why is it so important to you that I still own it at Christmas? Can't we have Christmas in Raleigh?

"It's best to go home, by another way.
Home by another way.
We got this far to a lucky star,
But tomorrow is another day.
We can make it another way
Safe Home, as they used to say.
Keep a weather eye to the chart on high,
And go home, another way..."

Word. NO. No, no, no, she told me in no uncertain terms. In fact, I think she said something more akin to "Hell no!", which was, looking back, entirely apropos. No, this is home. This is the place. This is where we live even when we're not here. We may leave it for a time, but the fact that it's still here and waiting for our return has come to mean something intrinsic to each of us. Wilmington, and more importantly, this place in Wilmington, has become our collective definition of home and I become more grateful for it with each passing day. I have slowly realized that maybe it is all of the ups and downs and everything in between that we have negotiated during these seven plus years that has somehow made this structure even more meaningful, and this residence has, in fact, taken up residence in each of our collective hearts in different and highly individualized ways, but with the same result.

Justin and I were riding down the street the other day and I mentioned that when we were house-hunting back in August 2000, I had been scheduled to look at the house around the corner - which looked far more conventional and stately than the one I ultimately settled on. "I'm glad it didn't work out that you were able to see it. You picked the best house.". Once again, I was reminded that in the minds of my kids, my parents, my animals and, belatedly, finally me, this place has truly become "home". It's never too late to find one's home, I guess.

Last night after everyone was settled back in, I walked out in the driveway and saw our old cat Sylvester trotting across the street heading for me, obviously after enjoying a visit with our neighbors cats across the street. It was dusk and there was a chill in the air. Sylvester had decided it was time to come home so he could meow plaintively until I forked over a dish filled with Magellan's ultra rich kitten food. Sylvester seems to always have known this was home, after his neighborhood visits, returning here every evening. Sylvester "got it" much sooner than I did. Sylvester is a very wise cat.

When I pull into my driveway these days, it is with a growing and profound sense that finally I "get it". Coming home, to this one in particular, is a gift and one I shouldn't ever take for granted. Home truly is where our hearts are and I'm just so grateful for the place our hearts have chosen to take up residence and remain. Home never looked, or felt, so good.

Perhaps the real "radiance" in this house never came from a Sherwin-Williams paint can. I have a hunch it was always here. Maybe the events of this past summer and the dismal prospect of selling my little house on Nottingham Lane, offered me the opportunity to see it for what it truly is and always was. As Sting sings, "I was brought to my senses", before it was too late.

"Once in a while,
when it's good
It will feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
Till you cry when you're driving away in the dark
Singing...

Stop this train
I wanna get off
And go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
'Cause now I see
I will never stop this train."

Crash Test, Dummy

If it was, in fact, a "crash test", I think I may have passed. The fact that I'm alive and kicking and able to write about my unexpected "exam", at the very least, testifies to the fact that I was spared to tell the tale. That's got to count for something, right?

Friday Morning, I headed out at around 10:10 for a 10:40 AM appointment to have my car serviced. I ran back in the house three times - looking for my shoes, my iced tea and something else which I can't even remember.

Somewhere in another part of Wilmington, a 34 year old woman and her daughter were in their car, having driven in from Lumberton, and she was lost and looking for I-40.

I stopped within about an eighth of a mile from my destination and moved into the lane that would allow me to turn left after the light changed from red to green. When the light changed, I began making my left hand turn and right in the middle of that turn, the woman from Lumberton who was looking for I-40, forgot to notice she was about to run a red light and, instead of the interstate, she found me and smacked right into my car, sending me into a spin.

When my car finally came to an unexpected screeching halt, I sat there with an airbag in my face, a crumpled left arm, a few cuts and bruises and feeling dizzy and completely disoriented. She landed about 200 yards from where I sat and I remember sitting in my car, pushing the now deflated airbag out of my face, and shaking. I remember shaking a lot. My heart was pounding and I wondered if I was seriously hurt and I remember thinking that I needed to breathe.

Within seconds, a very kind man in a pickup truck rushed over to me, leaving his vehicle in the middle of the intersection, and he asked me if I was OK? He was very sweet and appeared genuinely concerned. I remember thinking, I have to get up out of this car and walk. I need to walk. I need to move. I could literally feel my heart beating like a snare drum, but I needed to make certain my other parts were working. I skittishly looked down to see if there was any blood. My arm began blowing up like a balloon and I could almost see the bruises forming, collected pools of blood just beneath the surface of my skin. I was very aware of my breathing and I was afraid I would start hyperventilating which would signal a loss of control on my part and I was very keen on staying in control. "Slow down. Breathe slowly. You're OK.", became my mantra and I was determined to keep repeating it until I actually bought into the idea that I was, in fact, OK.

I kept glancing at the vehicle that hit me and it was several minutes before anyone emerged from it. I didn't see any visible damage to the other car from the vantage point of my car, but my PT Cruiser looked as if it had hit a brick wall. In the floor of my car, coins lay scattered about and my phone charger cord was tangled around my iPod and fine dust was suspended in the air, from the sudden explosive deployment of the airbags which prevented me from being thrown through the windshield. I was still seatbelted in, but I had a desperate urge to move in order to prove, if only to myself, that I could.

Within minutes, a female paramedic was hunched down beside me, asking me if I was OK? Good question! As it turned out I was curious about that myself. I could hear my heart beating in my ears and I had the strong desire to walk and walk and walk and shake myself out of the fog that had settled around my brain. I had a strong suspicion that a hospital visit was looming in my immediate future and this added to my stress, which no doubt added to my heart rate.

Many times during these recent late spring and summer months, I have felt that I wouldn't want to exchange places with anyone, thoroughly enjoying my life to the extent that I wouldn't want to miss a single one of the magical moments I have experienced. Friday Morning, however, I would have given anything NOT to be me. I knew instinctively that even the shuddering thought of being prepped for a root canal would be a step up from my present location at the intersection of "car" and "wreck".

The sweet, perky paramedic took my blood pressure which, interestingly enough, reported systolic and diastolic numbers within normal range. My pulse, however, was an entirely different story and she grimaced as she tried to count the beats. "Your heart rate is 170 right now - you're in shock, ma'am.".

Yikes! Not good! I could have done without that information. The mention of that figure, and her obvious alarm at the number of beats per minute, probably cranked things even higher.

She told me we needed to get in the ambulance and get a monitor on me. She asked me if I could walk with her. My answer was two-fold: Yes, I could walk but no, I'd rather pass on the whole monitoring plan.

"Yes, but I don't want to lay on the stretcher and I don't want a monitor because if I do that, I will become convinced that I'm not OK and so if it's all the same to you, I'll just sit in your ambulance."

She smiled and hesitantly agreed to the terms of my condition.

I asked her for a drink of water and she said she couldn't do that until I was checked out at the hospital. I kept asking anyway. The answer was always the same, but I desperately wanted some water.

As I followed her to the ambulance, we passed by the woman who had been driving the other vehicle and in a trembling, tearful utterance, she spoke, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I hit your car.". I remember telling her that I was sure she hadn't done it intentionally and I kept walking. I don't think I was still too sure of what had just happened to me. The feeling of unreality was disconcerting, to say the least. It's sort of like I cognitively knew that I had just been in a wreck, but there was this other "feeling" that I was not completely aware of what had just transpired. It was very much an "out of body" experience - like when you get a sense of watching yourself rather than being yourself.

Taking the proffered hand of a male EMT, I climbed up into the paramedic's truck and sat down on the bench facing the stretcher that they were trying their best to entice me to lie down on. I quietly, but firmly, protested and told them that it would be better for all of us if I just sat on the bench. My EMT Trio kept trying to convince me that to take them up on their offer didn't mean I was more injured, but that they really would love to monitor my heart. I thought about it, but again, it just didn't strike me as the thing to do. I will have to admit, however, that I respected their tenacity.

During the course of our negotiations, we compromised and I allowed them to place a clip on my finger which would report my heart rate, but no monitors, please. I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere, right? Give them an index finger and they want to place leads on your chest. Isn't that just typical? :-)

The paramedics exchanged amused glances with each other and decided that perhaps it might be the best course not to push their point, God Bless them. I told them I wasn't trying to be difficult, but explained that for me to lie on a stretcher would make me think I was dying and I'd prefer to stay away from such ideas and that if I allowed myself to believe that I was seriously injured, they'd have to deal with a massive panic attack and I wanted to save all of us from that if possible.

Within a few more minutes, the other driver and her 15 year old daughter joined our merry little group in the ambulance and the 15 year old had no issues with laying on a stretcher and happily allowed herself to be tended to. Her mother started complaining of chest pains and, while I was sorry that she wasn't feeling on top of her game, I remember thinking, "There you go people, now you have someone to play the part of a patient and you can leave me quietly to my anxiety." Every few minutes, the male EMT would pull out the finger monitor and place it on the index finger of my right hand and as he did so, I would search his face as he calibrated my pulse rate. He kept frowning..."Your pulse is very high - it's 165. You really should be lying down...".

Being well-trained in the "the glass is half-full" school of thought, I came back with a more positive spin; "165? That's great! It's coming down! It was 170 bpm a few minutes ago - it's a good trend! Let's celebrate!".

He just looked at me like I was a nut but he always grinned, even if he did shake his head as if to wonder what kind of a freak I was.

"Do I look OK?", I queried several times, not out of vanity but as a means to assess my "condition". I wondered if my pupils were equal and not dialated because I was seriously afraid of a head injury for some reason. He swore I didn't exhibit any signs of a person with a concussion - I can't help but wonder, however, if he didn't indeed think I was a "head case". I didn't bother to press the issue.

"You look a lot better than I would if I had a pulse of 165!", he cheerfully said in an effort to make me feel better, I'm sure. "If my pulse was that high, I wouldn't be sitting up arguing about laying on a stretcher!".

Gee, thanks. I think.

On the way to the hospital, I pulled out my cell phone because there were two calls I needed to make but I wanted to be careful of the tone I used, so as not to create unnecessary panic. We didn't need any additional panic - I had enough panic going on for several people, and I dearly didn't want to scare my parents to death - so my next challenge was how to inform them without causing them to require the assistance of their own set of paramedics! I decided I would try and be "light" with the news and get off the phone as fast as I could.

I dialed my parents number and my dad answered, "Daddy, I had a wreck - it wasn't my fault, but my car got smashed and they're taking me to the hospital."

"Are you OK? Are you hurt?".

"I'm OK - my arm is a little bruised, but I think I'm just fine otherwise."

"I'm leaving right now. I'll see you in a few minutes.", he said, no doubt fighting to sound as casual as I was trying to sound, but I'm sure he was scared to death.

When we pulled into the hospital ER, the paramedic who had been sneaking in pulse readings from my finger, informed me that I would have to sit in a wheelchair because if they found out what my heart rate was and saw that I had "walked in", he would lose his job. I thought about that and decided I could handle the wheelchair issue. I promised him I would not be the source of his firing and agreed to be wheeled into the ER - as long as I was sitting in an upright position. Detente is a good thing and I understood his position.

A few minutes after being wheeled into the ER, I saw my Dad at the information desk and I said, "Hey Daddy!", in a voice loud enough for him to find me. He walked over and gave me a big, heartfelt, relieved hug. I showed him my arm and told him I thought I was really OK. Just kind of shook up. I think seeing me ambulatory offered him instant relief - that and the fact that my next words to him were, "Daddy, could you see if you can find a cafeteria and get me an iced tea?" He smiled, and set about on his mission. I guess he figured if I was thinking of iced tea, I couldn't be too bad off.

He asked me to call my Mom on the cell phone and let her know I was OK and I happily made that call. By now, I felt more in control of myself and I wanted to ease her angst. "I'm OK, Mom. Just a little banged up.". She asked me if she could tell Justin and I said, "Sure - but tell him I'm OK.".

Within about fifteen minutes, I saw my son and his girlfriend walking toward me and he enveloped me in a big hug. He had stopped at Smithfield's on the way to the hospital and brought me a very large sweet iced tea. I was so appreciative and realized that this kid knows me pretty well. I started gulping it down with no thought to the directive not to take anything by mouth until I was seen by a doctor.

Justin asked me if I needed for him to call Katie or anyone else. I told him he could call Katie. Justin went outside and rang up Katie who, in a moment of deductive reasoning, told her co-worker, Eric, that she knew something had happened because her brother never called her before noon and that whatever it was, must be serious.

I was seen by a triage nurse and she, too, frowned at my pulse rate which was now a much more reasonable 156, and after I told her it had been 170, she didn't think 156 was so bad after all. I was directed to the waiting area and told that I would be called when it was my turn. I breathed a huge sigh of relief because I figured if they were willing to let me wait among the masses, I couldn't be too seriously hurt. I was happy to be told to wait and didn't bother giving any grief to the clerk who came over and clasped a hospital bracelet around my wrist. Even I know you have to pick your battles.

A few minutes went by and a serious looking State Trooper came over and handed me my driver's license, which I had given to him at the scene of the crash. I started to tell him that it wasn't my fault - I had waited until the light changed to green before making my turn, but he immediately told me that the other driver had been cited and that she had been lost and "wasn't from around here". He gave me a slip of paper with her insurance information, driver's license number and name and address, so we could turn it into our insurance rep. He went on to tell me that my car was considered totaled and that my medical bills would be covered by her insurance company. He gave us a card with the name of the towing company and that I could call and make arrangements to go and retrieve my belongings out of my car. He wound up our talk by saying he hoped I felt better and that everything would be OK.

Whew! It was nice to get the official notice that I was in the clear. I'm sure my pulse was probably reduced by 20 beats following that short conversation. It's nice to be on the good side of "the law".

Justin and Stephanie sat and waited with my Dad and me for about an hour, and then Justin left to take Stephanie to work, secure in the knowledge that I really was OK. As I sat there between my Dad and Justin, I felt so much better and safe and protected. Two of my favorite guys were propping me up with their care and concern and I began to realize just how fortunate I was to be loved by my family.

Soon enough, my name was called.

We were directed to an examination room and a nurse walked in and asked me the same questions that the triage nurse had posed. Did they imagine I might answer differently or use an "alias"? Were these trick questions? Again, I dutifully answered

The PA came in and gave me a thorough going over. He performed basic neurological tests that at least confirmed the presence of a brain, surveyed my body for bruises and bumps, checked my reflexes and studied the open wound on my arm. He told me that he didn't think my arm was broken, but that he wanted an x-ray to confirm that, and he also told me I would be getting a tetanus shot, given that I couldn't remember the last time I had one. Overall, though he told me I would be sore for the next few days from the impact of the crash, I had much to be thankful for and had sustained very little damage.

Sure enough, the x-rays confirmed that no bones were broken and before long, a very sweet nurse walked in bearing syringes and a sling. "Hi there, here we just met me and I have to start off giving you an injection. I'm sorry we have to start off this way." I agreed that it probably wasn't the best way for us to begin a relationship but, given the setting and the circumstance, I totally understood the position she was in. She proceeded to inoculate me against tetanus.

A bit later, she came in and started demonstrating the finer points of wearing a sling. She shared how her three year old had been required to wear one a couple of years ago and how she basically didn't comply with doctor's orders. I asked her if she honestly expected me to behave any differently and she laughed and said that she didn't figure I'd spend much time in it but pleaded and said, "Work with me. At least wear it out of the ER so it will look like I did my job.". I liked her immediately and promised her I'd look obedient at least until I got safely off hospital property.

In addition to the sling, she handed me two prescriptions for the expected aches and pain. The soreness was already setting in and I was more than ready to head home.

When we arrived, my Mom met me the door and she gave me a very long, warm hug and told me how happy she was to see that I was OK. I know she was relieved to see for herself what she had been told over the phone. I felt so blessed to be able to walk into her warm embrace - it doesn't matter how old you may be, there are some days when nothing feels as wonderful as being taken care of by your Mom. This was one of those days and I felt so happy to be around to cause her further exasperation - something I've done for over 47 years.

My dad returned with my medication and by now, I was really feeling some pain and no longer had to be cajoled into laying down. I settled into bed with a bowl of chicken soup and I was ready for it - having not eaten all day. As I ate this wonderful creation, I returned to reading "Maiden Voyage", by Tania Abei.

Katie called me and was relieved to hear that I truly was OK. She'd been very uneasy since hearing I'd been in a car wreck, and I was so touched by her concern. She wanted to hear the whole story and she agreed she would have had to skip on the whole stretcher/heart monitor part, and totally understood how acquiescing would have made her feel more vulnerable. We're cut from the same cloth, Katie and me.

My family took great care of me and I will never, ever forget how kind and understanding each of them were and what a blessed, crazy blond I truly am.

Yesterday, in the heat of the day, my parents found the place where my car had been towed and cleaned out my possessions. Everything was present, undamaged and accounted for - my camera, iPod, clothes, books and phone charger. I have to say I was pretty impressed with how safe the PT Cruiser was and the built-in safety features worked perfectly, considering how severe the impact was. I'm going to miss that little car, and goodness knows I've spent a great deal of time in it this summer, trekking between Wilmington, Oriental and Raleigh. It served me very well in the short time I've had it.

While my parents were cleaning out my car on Saturday Afternoon, Justin took me to the bank and graciously drove to Smithfield's so that I could order a large iced tea and chicken wings which I felt I'd kind of "earned". It may not be terribly healthy, but it's southern comfort food and I knew it would make me feel better.

So that's how my post-accident weekend went down.

What I noticed from having had this unexpected experience on Friday, in the moments after the crash, was how immediately my true priorities came into focus. The things that count and matter most, almost instantly come to the fore of one's thoughts when facing a situation that feels intensely threatening.

My first thoughts were of my family and all I wanted was to see each of them, to have these amazing people present with me and tell me it was all going to be OK. And there they were - right there, right when I needed them. The minutiae and small irritations of life evaporate when you come to the realization that life can change on a dime - in an instant - and the preciousness of the people closest to me flooded my thoughts. When life becomes shaken and stirred, "things" don't seem to factor into one's consciousness. Thoughts are definitely distilled and when hit out of the blue, it seems to all come down to, "who you know" - the people you hold closest to your heart - the special ones who "loved you into being", as Fred Rogers used to say.

The minor annoyances, the silliness of simple, everyday static, and silly self-centered irritations fall completely and wholly by the way side when life is reduced to its most basic and essential elements. Cars, houses, boats and money don't compete for attention when we find ourselves confronted by the fragility of our existence. The intrinsic magic of loving and being loved - that seems to be where it's at. Pretty powerful stuff!

What does all this mean? Good question! Wouldn't it be cool to have the epiphany of a potentially life-altering crisis without actually, you know, having to go through the whole experience? Wouldn't it be brilliant if you could just separate the lessons of such challenges from the nerve-fraying prospect of actually being required to live through the moment? I'm just sitting here imaging the ad campaign a company like Pfizer might launch if they could create a pill or serum - it would be heavy on the violins, and Yo-Yo Ma would probably play his cello - the scenery would resemble a travelogue and at the end of the commercial, there would be this beautiful, Gap-clad family, holding hands, exchanging spotless smiles with each other, secure in the knowledge of what matters most in life. We'd all have to pop a Dramamine just to get the taste out of our mouth and it would no doubt be the "designer drug of the century". Just think of it - a "get your priorities straight" pill. Divorce rates would tank, lawsuits would suffer a sharp decline and those of us taking it would walk down the streets exchanging "knowing" glances because we all "get it". Who knows, insurance companies might even cover it because something as powerful as that would probably be shown to boost one's immune system in a way that Vitamin C can't touch.

The reality is, that at least for the time being, you have to glean those insights the "hard way", and you can expect to get bruised, scratched and occasionally even knocked out in the process (if your luck doesn't hold as mine did and you suffer that minor concussion). And the really unfortunate thing about the whole "life-altering" experience is that its lessons have an unfortunately brief shelf-life. It's not unreasonable to imagine that one or more of my "inner circle", the loved ones who's face shone in my hour of reckoning, will probably get on my nerves in the very near future and they'll probably find that I'm just as annoying after the car wreck as I was before. It's really too bad we can't sustain the effects for longer than a few days. It seems as if by the time the soreness goes away, and we're feeling back to normal - our behavior is also back to normal and thus our trusty, reliable "built-in forgetter" works as well as it always did, except when it comes to cutting people a break and forgetting their past sins and mistakes. I'm great and letting go of my garbage, but I find I hold onto the sins of others far longer than I'd ever hold onto mine.

And I guess that's why every now and then, we stumble into circumstances that offer us instant reality checks and this past Friday, I suppose it was my turn. I'm going to try and hold onto what I discovered and felt, but I also know the fact that I'm a card-carrying, full-fledged human being will dictate that, with time, I'll lose the lessons until something else occurs in my life and brings me back to my knees. Don't you just know we must be extremely frustrating for God? Well, I'm sure He finds me exasperating.

And so...it goes.

I have to say it's been a busy summer so far - a tropical storm and a car wreck. No shortage of excitement this year! It reminded me of what Antoine St.-Exupery eloquently expressed so many years ago, "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. That which is essential, is invisible to the eye..."

A heartfelt thank you to my Mom, Dad, Katie and Justin for being my family and loving me.