We Are Always Home

Last month I was brewing a cup of coffee in the office. As I waited, I watched out the window that faces the Beverly Hills County Club. There was a woman wearing a blouse and skirt, holding a broom. She swept the area around a bus bench. Then she’d gather whatever she collected into a dustbin and toss it over the fence onto the lush green of the golf course. She swept the small area by the bench over and over. I couldn’t help but think of those spirits on ghost programs that repeat the same task for eternity. Her belongings (about a dozen shopping bags) were stuffed around and under the bench so I suspect she was homeless and this was her “spot,” despite the incongruity of what seemed to be business attire. From my thirteenth floor viewpoint it was hard to see detail, but it was clear she was expending her energy to make her spot homey.

When I walk on the wash/arroyo, there’s usually a man there, on the duck pond side, by the bridge. He’s known unofficially as the Mud Man. Per some neighbors, he’s over-the-top brilliant but… Now he spends his days building large mounds of dirt on the wash. All day, every day, you can see him endlessly shoveling dirt onto a pile. Then another pile. A few months ago Trevor noticed one of his arms had a cast on it. Yet he shoveled away, performing the most important job there was (to him). He takes pride in his home, in his work. This little patch of land is his home, or at least an extension of the area under the bridge where I often see him shaking out blankets and pouring water on the concrete.

Wherever you are, you make that your home. Even if you don’t think it’ll be permanent, you have no choice but to embrace wherever you hang your hat, so to speak, to make it a place you want to be, where you feel safe and cushioned from the world. As humans we crave sanctuary and shelter, our own private nest. As kids we build forts with blankets, and if we’re lucky graduate to a tree house. Later there could be college dorms, or first apartments, or a room all our own at Grandma’s. Second, third, fourth apartments, maybe a house. Renting or owning makes no difference. All that matters is that you’re there for a time and you make it a reflection of who you are, filling it with things that make you smile, all the while bringing your essence along. Each time we pick up the pieces, make a clean sweep, and make the next dwelling our home.

We have a bad drought here, as it has been for a long time. We gave up on grass years ago because of the gophers. Recently our water usage has been restricted further so we’ve adjusted by watering our drought-tolerant plants only once a week. Somehow everything is thriving. Maybe it’s the newfound hippie in me but I can’t help attributing it to my expecting everything to thrive around me because I love it here so much. When I look at the yard and the house I feel warm and happy. Gaining perspective from the Mud Man, the Sweeping Woman, and my earlier Carlys, I know if I lived somewhere else, I’d feel warm and happy there too.

Because of the severe water shortage, part of the arroyo has dried up in the area the town normally supplements. The Mud Man, lacking the water, has improvised. Now he’s focused on rock formations. This is still his habitat, mud or not, the place he finds joy.

Ryan and I went to Orange County last weekend. While we were there we visited several antique stores. Miraculously I didn’t buy anything. This time, it was just about the memories. For both of us, seeing our childhood items in the store brought waves of nostalgia.

As much as I smiled when I saw familiar items, I didn’t want to buy them because they were part of who I was then. Old lives. I don’t ever forget where I came from or my life before, but the “before” part is key. Over the years I’ve accumulated so many items in an attempt to feel complete, to recapture one phase or another of an earlier time. Old toys or figures or books or songs that remind me of childhood or young adult life fill our home. But during this jaunt to the antique stores, I felt like I didn’t need more. For the first time, I was happy to enjoy the memories but leave them there for someone else. I like my “now.”

Arnie G. and I campaigned for Ross Perot and likely had one of those pins. I had a similar shell owl. My mother had that same red fondue set, and there were lots of happy memories that went along with it. That Wacky Witch Golden Book was one of my favorites. The Big Brown Bear was how I learned that bees will sting you and your nose will swell up if you go after their honey. The plastic Disney figures… I can’t recall what I had but I know I had one and it was orange.

In fourth grade I got a snazzy bunny fur jacket. I felt like an absolute princess even though we lived with my grandparents that year and everything in my life was upside down. That Smith Corona was the one we bought used so my mother could take typing lessons. And that toy camera…I admit I almost bought that on Sunday but ultimately decided not to because I’m not five years old, and once I clicked through all the pictures realized that was good enough.

As much as I’m sure this is my forever home, and all the paint and energy and love I’ve poured into it matter, I also know life itself is as transitory as the Mud Man’s mud piles or the Sweeping Woman’s dust under the bus bench. All we can truly hold onto is the memories. They are our home. Not a street address or furniture or books or toys, because eventually everything tangible goes away, even us.

Home is who we were and who we are, and the influence and memory of everyone and everything we’ve experienced. Tonight as I finally finish this entry which I started on July 4th, I look around the silent living room at the cluttered walls and shelves, physical touchpoints of memories. And then I step outside with the dogs and look at the starry sky. This is the sky I’ve always seen, clear and bright. As I child and teen and young adult I looked at the same sky (albeit from the East Coast). Without all the “stuff,” to remind me of earlier times, the sky is always there, and the ground perpetually beneath my feet, no matter where I live.

I think of Arnie G at times like this, as he’s lived in at least fifty places, maybe a hundred since we split up almost twenty-five years ago. He goes from hospitals to rehabs to the streets to apartments and then starts over. Sometimes he’s in a park or a shelter. He doesn’t have much in the way of belongings that travel with him, but each place is his home. Each place he lives, he appreciates that he’s alive in this given body, in this given life, and that’s enough. He doesn’t lament over no longer having the coffee table from 1993 or the old waterbed, or the many, many paintings or prints we loved at various time. Though admittedly he does talk about the old trumpet sometimes.

He treasures the memories and always has those with him. Maybe my recent bout with COVID changed my perspective, but whatever the reason, the idea of things seems less and less important all the time. The memories and new experiences, even the little ones like finding a baby lizard in the house today or watching Baby Trevie laugh…that is what makes a home.

Here’s to prioritizing the things that fill our souls over the things that fill our physical space, and to being home wherever you are.

Carly G.

Thanksgiving 2020

Like everything else in 2020. Thanksgiving was different, and sad. Since Ivy and I moved to California six years ago, our tradition was to attend dinner hosted by our good friends Harold and Gerry. With the exception of one year, every Thanksgiving we have a delicious dinner, with contributions from the many attendees, most of whom we only know from this yearly soiree. This year Harold canceled the traditional big dinner because of COVID-19. We understood as home socializing can be especially risky.

In a way, we thought, this worked out just fine because we could have dinner with Ivy and Trevor since they wouldn’t be going to Trevor’s parents. So that was the new plan and I bought enough food for ten people even though it would just be the four of us. But then Ryan got sick. He had a scratchy throat and a runny nose, but we assumed it was allergies. The winds were blowing like crazy, for days on end, and everyone’s allergies were triggered. A few days later he still had symptoms, including a fever. Then I caught it. I had a sore throat, and a dry cough. Though neither of us had the classic symptom of not being able to taste or smell, we got tested for COVID-19. Ultimately we tested negative but didn’t get our results until Thanksgiving morning. Even without COVID-19, Ivy and Trevor didn’t want to catch the cold we both had.

So I made the veggie “turkey” loaf and made Ryan a small turkey breast. We made all the sides and our friend’s mother sent over a pumpkin pie. Despite being all alone, it was a pleasant day. We posted the Thanksgiving picture of Granola and were thankful for our test results and our happy lives in general. We planned a make up Thanksgiving for the following weekend with the kids.

Later that night our old Schnauzer Anna began coughing non-stop. Long story short, she didn’t die. But we spent from after midnight until just before dawn sitting in the truck, outside the emergency vet in the next town. We huddled under blankets, waiting to hear if she could live without the extra oxygen. We finally went home, and later in the day were told to come get her. It was the same heart issue we’ve dealt with for two years, and seemed to be a flare up. In those hours before we knew though we were sure we were going to lose her, as we lost our other two dogs this year. We went through the sadness, the mourning . . . and then she was home. A Thanksgiving miracle.

A couple of weeks later, though Anna continued to do well on her new medications, our cat took a turn for the worse. Our almost twenty-two year old kitty, “Henry” went from manageable kidney failure and arthritis to being barely able to walk. He was so weak he couldn’t stand up for long. We considered increasing his fluids from three times a week to four but knew if we put him through more to keep him alive it would be for us, not for him. When I drove him to the vet, in the middle of a workday between meetings, he stretched out on my lap on the car ride. He didn’t meow once, just flopped over. As I carried him in the special door (my third time there in 2020) he was lethargic and I knew it was time, that this wasn’t something we could or should put off any longer. It was devastating, as I got Henry when Ivy was only three years old, when we were still with Arnie G. We had so much history with our fellow traveler, and letting him go was heartbreaking.

We had a power outage recently, a planned outage from the electric company to prevent fires. The winds raged outside and dried palm fronds fell from the neighbor’s trees and banged against our house. Ryan and I sat with the pets in the living room. Granola and Scruffy asleep on the couch, Anna in her dog bed, breathing comfortably. Ryan and I sat in the candlelit room, our little haven away from the world. We played word games and talked, tried to recall all our teachers’ names from kindergarten on. It was peaceful. Despite the pet deaths in our family this year, and the closing of so many businesses, and not being able to do so many of the things we took for granted, or see family in other states, we were at peace in our little cottage.

• 

• 

The next night at dusk the power came back. The Christmas lights against the sky felt magical, a little nudge from the Universe to keep my chin up.

We find solace here as the winds rage on and the news shouts out the dire warnings for our present and our future, and in 1984 style changes our reality daily. One day masks are not needed, then they are, then everything closes, then it opens, then it closes. Drug X will fix it, then it won’t, and vaccines will prevent the virus, or it won’t, or it will but we don’t know for how long.

I watch Scruffy and Granola cuddled on the couch, content to just be, with full tummies and lots of love. They don’t fret over what once was and what is no longer, or over what is to be. They just are. They are not riddled with anxiety over the unknown, because right now they are content, and right now is all that is real. They live and they love and they spread peace because their inner light is so bright. There is so much to be learned from dogs.

I don’t know what Thanksgiving 2021 will be like but today we are all okay, and we have love to see us through, in our little safe haven, our Granville House.

To finding joy wherever you can

-Carly G

Graduation Day

Ivy graduated from college on Saturday, via a virtual ceremony. For the first time in about two months, she and Trevor slept over the house the night before. We ate with them at the kitchen table, inside the house. The last two times we saw them during this quarantine it was outside only, on the patio. But, as I stressed to Ryan, we can’t avoid contact with them for another year or two until there’s a vaccination. At some point we all have to start living again, albeit differently than pre-COVID-19.

When we first heard that her ceremony would be virtual, we were sad. It felt like the end of everything we knew. But in short time we’ve adapted and now we recognize the overreaction. She still graduated and will get her degree when the college mails it. They mailed her a cap and tassel and we had a leftover gown for photos. We got to be together, texting family while we all watched the ceremony online at the same time. They didn’t call out each name, just scrolled through the names, but the rest was there. The National Anthem, words from school leaders, and an inspirational speech from the Dean. One girl sang the school song. Each student had a profile page you could click to view. It was different but it was nice. Maybe even nicer in some ways because we were together, not off in a stadium barely able to see, stressing over parking or the guy with the bullhorn.

It was the little things that made it special, like her getting a picture with our cat who is now twenty-one years old. I made a mosaic Ivy to go on the wall (a hobby I picked up several months ago). Getting her picture next to it was something we couldn’t have done had this been at the campus.  Right before picture time we picked roses from the yard.  Afterward we had a relaxing lunch. We didn’t hug her or Trevor because, at least for now, we are being careful even though no one is sick. We didn’t share food or eat off each others’ plates. When we drove to get the food, Ryan and I left them here as we didn’t feel right all piling into a car.

But there is a lot of good that has come out of this paradigm shift in our lives and our thinking. There will always be the social media angry types, fuming either about our lack of rights at being forced to wear masks, or those in a fury because everyone doesn’t wear one. But the people I work with, who I talk to on the phone, or people in my town I see at the grocery store or out walking, they’re kinder. They know we are all on the same road, the only road: the future. Mask or no mask, nice or mean, rejoicing in life or obsessing about ever-changing death projections, sharing what we have or hoarding and hating. Around here at least, people seem at ease. They’re careful about social distancing but there also seems to be an air of calm, of unity, that wasn’t here when we were all going a thousand miles an hour, from one event to the next.

A few weeks ago I saw a  utility  box  on  the street showing me  that humans are working together, and this new normal is okay.  Stay Strong 2020 the box said, with drawings of graduates.

On June 12, Ivy will receive her first ERT, enzyme replacement therapy for Fabry disease. It’s time to resume what we were all doing before COVID-19. Before I would have sat with her for the six hour treatment plus the time to prep. Now I’m not sure; she may have to go in alone. But if nothing else, this pandemic has given me perspective. The treatment is available, insurance is still covering it, her health is still fine. Except for being afraid for a short while, it hasn’t changed anything for us. Not concerning her treatment at least.

I’m still working full time, as is Ryan. Trevor was laid off but can collect unemployment. Finding a full time job will be a little harder for Ivy given the continued restrictions in her and my counties, but it will happen in time.  People will need help with their mental health now more than ever.

Restaurants are starting to open for dine-in services, though most of the people I know are still a little gun shy about that. In her county, masks will be required even when they’re at a food drive-thru. Like us, Ivy and Trevor have grown accustomed to wearing masks in stores, and doing more cooking at home. She’s been making breads and we were both excited when I found two packets of yeast at our local store, one for our household, one for theirs. 

I saw a billboard a few weeks ago in the San Fernando Valley. “Make this the year” it said. “PEACE. Pass it on.” If I’m looking for signs from God or whatever ethereal being I trust with my destiny, it can’t be more blatant. I later ran across a car with this licence plate.  “Soul Hug.” Another sign.

I am so proud of Ivy for graduating from college, at a time when the world is so foreign. But we are all graduating, each day, as we learn from the past and change our futures.  We can’t hug (outside of our household) right now, but there is still an awful lot of love out there. Give everyone a soul hug, and remember that we are all in this together.

Peace. Pass it on.

-Carly G.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White Noise

A couple of years ago, I bought a white noise machine for the bedroom. I’d heard about them for years but never saw the point. I like to sleep with quiet, not noise. Ivy’s dad bought one years and years ago, before Ivy was born. It wasn’t white noise though, it was rain and forest sounds. That was fine but then there would be a random cricket or a bang of thunder and I’d pop awake.

But I bought this machine anyway, probably on a Black Friday sale or something, I don’t recall. What I do recall is that by about day three, I couldn’t sleep without it. It shut out all the other real life noises, like dogs and cats jumping off the bed, or Sugar Glider barks, or crickets in the bathroom, or neighbors driving by. And mostly, it quieted the noises in my head.

I won’t go so far as to say there are voices in my head, because that sounds too much like insanity. But there is a lot of noise all the time, a lot of my own thoughts, and replays of songs, or television shows, or general music, plus the sound memories of a million different experiences from the day going a thousand miles an hour. There are endless what-if scenarios running on all the time, being played out layer after layer. Sometimes the white noise machine isn’t enough but it certainly takes the edge off.

I bring this all up because about a month ago I decided I needed to give up added sugar. My weight has gone up and down a bunch of times since I started this blog. I’m on an upswing now. I’m pretty heavy but holding fast and not gaining. I gave up eating meat about six months ago and gained weight because I was eating a lot more carbs. I’m sticking to being a vegetarian but there’s no excuse for all the sugar. Plus, as I age my cholesterol is going up. I’d never read labels for sugar before and certainly never really thought of it as anything but my harmless and much-adored drug of choice.

The first few days of not having sugar were miserable. I was shaky and so hyper even I wanted to slap me. Seeing the effects of withdrawal sort of woke me up to how addicted I truly was. After that initial adverse reaction though, I became calm. Too calm. The noise in my head was gone. It was uncomfortable for me, this silence. There was just…nothing. I felt depressed, which is not like me.

As moods go, I’m mostly zippy and bubbly all the time. I’ve been likened to Winnie the Pooh, Pollyanna, and Holly Hunter’s role in Broadcast News. But suddenly I was flat and sad. I took some vacation time from work to use up days and binge watched TV. I didn’t write at the same time or work on my dollhouse or read. I just sat. I was worried I was actually “depressed” and not just blue. Then I became concerned that maybe this was the new normal. Maybe this is how regular felt and I was usually so (sugar) high all the time I didn’t know it.

I craved the erratic chaos in my head, the wide-awakedness, the creativity I couldn’t staunch. But it was just white noise inside. I had physical energy. Too much really, so I was still jazzed up that way. I did a ton of yard work and carried 130 bags of mulch, some in the rain, to spread. I laid weed barrier and hurt everything in my body. I weeded the hill and sliced my dirt-packed finger on a palm tree and kept working.  But the frenetic mental self, the crazy Carly inside, she wasn’t there.

I met a guy in an airport once who asked if I was Hypo Manic. I said no. He said he was and he took meds for it and it changed his life. He explained that most people hover a little above and a little below the normal mood range. And people like us, we’re almost always up up up. It’s not as drastic as bipolar. It’s like mini bipolar. But without as much down. At least that’s how I understand it. Back then I questioned why the heck I’d want to tamp down my constant happiness.

But after the last few weeks I kind of get it now. Part of me was sad because I missed the high, the explosion of mental positive energy and creativity that NEVER SHUTS DOWN. And the other half of me was so damn relieved to rest. To shut down and stare at the TV and binge watch Netflix shows. That side of me dreaded when the next wave of super energy would come back because I realized then how utterly exhausting that can be.

It’s been a month since I gave up added sugar, or at least knocked it way down. I feel okay now, not sad, not excited just kind of even. I still get a little burst of happiness from hugging Ryan or the pets, or looking at the flowers in my garden, but I’m not Roger Rabbit happy, and that’s okay.

Maybe as time goes on my brain will continue to readjust to the lack of sugar, and will rewire. I will be super hyper all on my own, driving everyone around me to drink. Or maybe the little white noise machine in my head will keep running, and I will know how it feels to feel quiet, to feel placid.

This is my first blog in a month or so and I guess that says something about my emergence from the “drug” withdrawal. I made it through Easter without Cadbury Eggs which is a feat all on its own. Today I picked up a Snickers three times in the store and set it down. I then picked up a Three Musketeers. I set that down too and left with fresh strawberries.

I’m not saying sugar has shaped my personality, only allowed it to flourish and go unchecked and unbridled. Maybe I won’t be writing a book a year, and writing screenplays and stories and trying to learn Spanish and renovating the house and volunteering and working full time…but I’m good with that.

For the first time in my life, I think I’d be good to just sit for a while and be content and hear…nothing.

To accepting tranquility,

-Carly G.

 

 

 

 

 

The Benefits of Poverty

When I was small, we didn’t have much money. Back then, people didn’t live off credit cards. If you couldn’t afford something you saved until you could have it. We didn’t buy impulse things. We made lists for Santa, and for parents at birthday time. We got new school clothes once a year and those were put on layaway for several weeks.  When early September came and we went to K-Mart or Bradlees to pick up the big box of layaway treasures it was always one of the most exciting days of the year.

I could probably name every time we ever went out to a fancy dinner. It was rare and special. When we went grocery shopping, we had a list. We didn’t buy everything on the shelf that looked yummy; we got what we needed and made it last, usually long enough until the next payday.

For entertainment we played games or went out to play or watched television. I spent a lot of time with my  beagle, and my notebook in which I wrote stories. We went to the flea market and browsed. We visited family. When I was in high school I hung out at the used record shop and thrift stores and would go home with great bargains, feeling very proud of myself.

We never went on a sleep over vacation but had a few day trips to the beach, and sometimes went to the drive-in. Six dollars a car load for two movies. Not bad for a whole family.

And clothes? I remember whining because I wanted a pair of Jordache jeans when I was in the middle school. Everyone had them but they were ridiculously expensive. When somehow my parents got them I felt like the richest kid in the world. One year we saw Izod alligator patches at the flea market. I was so excited. If my mom bought those and sewed them to my cheap sweaters no one would know. She sewed one on a little high. I recall going to school and not realizing until someone told me, that my alligator  was almost up on my shoulder. I fought with whomever it was that it wasn’t a fake Izod. But it was.

There were downsides to this idyllic existence. Worrying the rent wouldn’t be paid. Not having a house like all my friends. Being hungry sometimes. We didn’t starve but there wasn’t the glut of food around. We had old cars that sometimes didn’t run. For a while we didn’t have a car at all, but there was a bus and I could walk anywhere I needed to go.

The shame and longing I sometimes felt instilled in me a drive to not end up like that. I wanted to do whatever possible so my future children would have everything. So I did what a lot of people do. I got a house I couldn’t afford and took trips and bought my daughter all the name brand shoes and clothes and toys she wanted. I got myself in debt. A lot of it. I’m still working out of that. Would I do it again to save her the embarassment of being “a poor kid?” Probably, but to a lesser extent.

But there were also times in my adult life when I wasn’t living beyond my means.

When I got out of high school and got my own place, I went to college nights and worked two jobs. My apartment was tiny and I lived on Ramen Noodles. When I met Ivy’s dad, on Fridays we’d get a large pizza for six dollars. That was our big night out. When we bought a house later, he and Ivy-a toddler then- built a stone wall outside made from slate he picked up over time in the woods or the side of the road.  I made crafts for people to give as Christmas gifts because we didn’t have any money. I once bought a VW Bug for $100. It never passed inspection but it was a memory. All our cars were from auctions and that was okay. It was hard time but it was real. When we split up, Ivy and I were pretty broke and when they gave food away after office lunches, those often became our dinner. We ate out sometimes but it was the dollar menu or we’d split meals or drinks. I held it together for us and it was…memorable. Me and Ivy against the world , holding our little family together and taking pleasure in the small things.

When I married the second husband, it was different. We turned my cute fixer upper into a show place. He owned nice cars. We took extravagant trips all over the world. Yes the culture was good for Ivy and me but there was never that sweetness, that special connection and excitement over bargains or stretching a chicken to last a week that came before. When we split up, I became stuck in material-things mode, bought what we wanted, took trips. Hence the debt.

Now Ryan and I are living in a cute rental house that we toy with buying. This year, 2016, I decided to become insanely frugal to save a down payment. With this process I was suddenly reminded how refreshing it feels to not spend money. To work with coupons and store hop and visit thrift stores on the 4th Saturday of the month to get fifty percent off. Getting a vintage painting for $3 is exciting. Buying a week’s groceries and vowing that that is what we are eating, reminds me of those old times. I regret forgetting where I came from because it was a place where working for what you had, and appreciating it all was the norm. It was better.

I realize now that you can make pretty good money and still be frugal, still revel in the feeling of remembering what you really need and forgoing the impulse stuff. When you strip away the thousands of dollars of wasted spending, or clicking on every Amazon ad that looks appealing, when Buy-it-now become a taboo not a habit…it’s pretty cool. It’s freeing.

There seems to be a stigma in being frugal when you don’t have to be, that is similar to being poor. People question you, look down at you when you don’t want to go out to expensive dinners or on trips. When you decide to buy most of what you need at thrift stores. When you buy cheaper bulk meat in the smaller ethnic grocery stores and refuse, again and again, to buy the luxuries. Yes, there is a marked difference between needing to do this and wanting to, but it’s brought back a long-lost feeling of peace, or earning and working for everything I buy. That victory is lost when you just buy everything you want with no patience, no waiting, charging it all and losing track of what matters.

Family matters. Working hard and following dreams matters. Saving for your future and building financial security matters. Spirituality, religious or otherwise, matters. Thousands of dollars in Amazon purchases and resturarant tabs? Not so much.

Here’s to a happy, frugal, and proud 2016. There’s no shame in simplicity.

Carly G.

 

 

Goodbye 2015

I haven’t written a blog in a long time. Maybe I’ve been too busy, or too content. But here it is, New Year’s Eve 2015 and too much time has passed.

I’ll start by saying that even with some ups and downs this year, it’s been the most peaceful year that I can remember. Work has been stressful but about halfway through the year I had a paradigm shift in my thinking. It’s just a job. Only a job. I’m not a surgeon or a teacher or a politician. I work for a bank. Enabling myself to realize that though my function is important to the process, it’s not life changing and not worth any emotional angst I awarded it.

My company works with a charity called Spark that brings eighth grade children to the office once a week in ten week shifts. We are matched one on one and mentor the students to take what interests them and show them how to make a career out of it. I did two shifts, one in March and another in August. The first little girl was an artist and the second a budding novelist. Both experiences were wonderful and rewarding. I will be working with the second girl this March when we will learn about screenwriting. I feel fortunate to be working with such great kids and am thankful for the charity that brought us together.

Ryan and I are fine. We are comfortable and have very little conflict. I think the combination of being older, more passive,  and compatible is key. I told Ivy recently that Ryan tolerates me better than anyone I’ve ever met. I suppose if there is a downside, it’s that we are so content with each other, watching old movies and hanging around in our cozy house, that we border on being antisocial. I don’t think that is a bad thing but we should maybe venture out more in 2016. For the first time in my life, I am placid most of the time. Things are easy and peaceful and I no longer worry about a shoe dropping. It’s just…nice.

Ivy is in her second year of college, starting her fourth semester. She’s endured her share of drama at school but that is part of the growing up process. I have worked very hard not to micromanage and fix. This has been my biggest challenge. But she met a nice boy the begnning of the year and, as with Ryan and me, I think he helps to balance her.

After months of not writing a single word of fiction, all of a sudden I am back on track. I’ve written a bunch of new stories, sold a few, wrote a novel, and a screenplay. I am back to my productive too-much-coffee, too-little-sleep self but without the inner angst.

And finally, I lost the  weight I’ve lamented about for years. I still have a bit to go but I’m getting there. Looking forward to whatever 2016 brings. Happy New Year to all!

-Carly G