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I am pleased to have author Corbin Lewars guest posting for me today. I know I can relate to this post, having children the same age with similar reactions to the arrival of a new box of my latest book. Enjoy.

It’s Here!

A package arrived on my porch yesterday and after fighting off the kids, who assume any and all packages are for them, I opened it up to see Swings.

“Hey look, it’s my book!� I called to them. They had walked away as soon as they realized the gift wasn’t for them.

“Which one?� my son Conor asked.

�Swings. My novel.�

“Oh, I thought you published that one awhile ago.�

“Yeah, didn’t you start that when I was in your belly?� Stella asked.

“No, not that long ago.�

I started to defend myself, but realized she was pretty accurate in her timeline. I started writing Swings when she was a baby. Technically she was out of my belly, not in it, but in Stella’s eight-year-old world books are written in a week, maybe a month, not eight years. She assumed I possessed this ability and countless of her drawings depicted me sitting at a desk with the words, “I wrote a book today!� coming out of my mouth. I covered my office with these masterpieces and when feeling frustrated or blocked, it helped to see the ease the fictional me had while writing. It reminded me that sometimes that ease wasn’t fictional, it was real.

“Is that supposed to be you on the cover?� Stella asked.

“No, it’s a novel, it’s not about me. It’s about a woman named Sadie. And that’s not necessarily Sadie either, it’s supposed to convey a feeling of freedom and—�

“Does she meet up with a dragon or a wizard?� Conor interrupted.

“No, no dragons in this book.�

“Then what’s it about?�

“Well, she’s a mom who is questioning a lot of areas of her life such as her work and her marriage and how to balance parenting with work and…�

“And then she gets on a spaceship?� Stella asked.

“No, I’m afraid there aren’t any spaceships either.�

“Why not?�

“I guess it’s more about her relationships and her thoughts than an adventure book. She doesn’t go anywhere weird or meet up with aliens, she…�

“Sounds like a lot of your books. Are you sure it’s not about you?� Conor asked.

This wasn’t quite the celebratory “It’s here!� moment I was looking for. Needless to say, my eight and eleven year old are not my target audience. Much to their dismay, I don’t write about wizards, mischievous young girls or magical places such as Fabelhaven.

I called a friend and invited her over for a real “It’s here� celebration. While tidying up for the friend’s visit, I noticed several of Stella’s books in my library. Stella has been “writing� books since she was two years old and many of them (which she of course completes in a day, if not a few minutes) are about a little girl and her mom. The mom is usually a writer and deemed “fun� for this reason as well as her ability to take her daughter to the park to play.

Earlier in the week Conor told me he saw my first book, a memoir, at the library while on a class fieldtrip.

“I pointed it out to my teacher and showed Oliver. They thought that was cool,� he said.

With that memory in mind and one of Stella’s books in my hand I felt very celebrated.

**

Corbin Lewars () in an author, developmental editor and writing coach. She holds a Masters Degree and teaches writing at national conferences and at Seattle’s literary venue the Richard Hugo House. When not writing, or helping others with their writing, she can be found shaking her groove thing with her two children in Seattle. Her novel Swings was released April 1 and can be found .

She tells me the story after school, without taking off her coat that carries the scent of walking home in the rain and the school bus and unknown smells I cannot name from her twelve-year-old world.

The story is about the boy she likes.

He cannot go to the sixth grade dance because his parents have said no. He tells her this on the bus, speaking close, I imagine, so others cannot hear.

But if you could go, would you have asked me?

Yes, he answers. Absolutely.

It takes me a moment to let this information inside, distracted still by work I’ve left in my office and Emerson and her little friend wanting snacks and to tell stories of their own. I pause. I turn back to her, realizing what she did.

That was really brave, you know, to ask him that, I say.

She hesitates for a split second and then grins. You’re right. It was brave.

Good for you, I say, humbled. I remind her of the quote about only needing twenty seconds of insane courage. She nods, remembering.

Days later, she tells me another story. He told me he wanted to talk to me after school. It was the longest thirty minutes of my life waiting until the bell rang.

She finds him in the crowded hallway, there eyes meeting like conspirators in a crime, then a flick of his hand to indicate, come here, with me. Pretend it’s just us.

Then they’re walking to the bus. Kids everywhere, like a stream of trout, all headed the same direction. I like you, he says.

I like you too, she replies.

That’s it. The exchange. They slip onto the bus, both hiding smiles behind their placid twelve-year-old masks. But they know the difference between what they show to the outside and what is in the inside, where their hearts live. They were brave and vulnerable. And now they have the truth to keep them warm, to fuel their journey in a hard life, for a while longer anyway � at least long enough to endure one more bus ride home.

This morning, I write another love story at my desk, the cats sleeping as one in their basket, paws encircled. I write of fear � how it keeps my star-crossed lovers from one another. As a storyteller, it’s my job to keep my characters apart for as long as possible, otherwise it’s a boring story no one wants to read, but really I want them to confess their feelings from the moment they first know. I like you. I like you too. Sadly, my characters are adults. They’ve been battered and broken, lied to and cheated on, deserted and ridiculed. The twelve-year-old within them has long ago been dismissed and shamed and called a fool. They’ve loved and lost and now they’re afraid.

Fear is the opposite of love. I know this to be true, and yet I’m afraid too, even as I take all these risks with my work and with my heart. I’m just out here flapping in the breeze, not knowing what will happen with my career or with love. Sometimes the fear of rejection and failure paralyze me with their insidious branches, strangling me so that I cannot do the work I am meant to do. In those moments my heart is no longer soft, but hard and cold, calculating, distrusting. I imagine myself an old lady living on the streets with no money, no one to look after me, no one to love. My children, disgusted by all the risks I took, have deserted me for a stable, safe life. And as I walk the cold streets in my imagination, I rue every moment of insane courage I ever had. I shame myself for all the moments of vulnerability, all the times I said, I like you and didn’t hear back, I like you too.

Along the way, whether from our families or our experiences, we’re taught to play it safe, to live in fear and scarcity. We have these voices inside our head that want to take us down, batter us into submission. Mine are loud. Don’t let anyone see who you really are, what you really want, what you’re afraid of, what makes you want to dance or cry and everything in between. Don’t show your soft underbelly � it’s ugly, unlovable. As a matter of fact, you’re unlovable so it’s best to hide away. Don’t write about all this muck and mud that lives inside you and let them all see what a mess you truly are. Don’t tell him you like him. Can’t you play hard to get? You’re so stupid and ridiculous with all this wanting, all this ambition. And for God’s sake, get a real job.

But I can’t, I guess, no matter how loud the voices. Maybe I fought so hard to move past fear that now I can’t ever go back to living small and safe. I lived that way for so long and it brought only a numb fog that made it hard to get out of bed in the morning. Despite all the times I’ve failed, I believe that to stop trying is the true failure. For all the risks I’ve taken, for every time I’ve been vulnerable and suffered a broken heart or looked really stupid, I’m still willing to fight, to remain in the game. Maybe I’m utterly and completely wrong. Perhaps my writing career will not flourish as I want. Perhaps I’ll never find a partner to share my life with. But I’m going down fighting. And regardless of the outcome, I refuse to believe that we are not somehow rewarded for the choice to live out loud, to take risks, to be vulnerable.

So here I am. Present in the moment. Risking everything. Writing the truth. So for now, I’ve won the fight. I imagine not sinewy branches but the blossoms of a cherry tree or the green leaves of early summer � how they flutter so happily in the breeze.

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Readers often ask where I get inspiration for my stories and characters. Most of the time it’s from my own experiences, not just observations of others but of my own deepest fears, losses, and insecurities. I find the parts of my life that are the most difficult to write about are always what I absolutely should be writing about � the magic comes when we tell the truth. And really, why else would we write, if not to tell the truth?

I spent a lot of time crying on the bathroom floor the year after my divorce, hoping my children could not hear me. I wrote about it in BLUE MIDNIGHT, drawing upon my own experience and of the strong women I’ve known in every period my life. After loss, heartbreak, rejection, we may weep on the bathroom floor, but ultimately we get up and fight another day. We have to. For our children, for ourselves. Hot tears may flow but not forever. There is victory in remaining to fight another day. I know every woman on the planet knows this to be true.

This is an excerpt from BLUE MIDNIGHT. It is the evening before Blythe’s young daughters are to fly to Hawaii for their father’s wedding to his 30 year old mistress. She weeps on the bathroom floor.

Six weeks ago we’re in the car, turning onto Douglas Avenue where we live. The trees are barren; the sky dark with storm clouds. On the radio, a familiar song plays. Emerson is in the back, still small enough she needs a car seat, staring out the window and up towards the sky. She see elephants and jumping squirrels in the clouds and calls them out to us. But now she is quiet. I cannot know what is in her mind, what she sees in the clouds today, if anything. Ella is next to me in the front, only inches shorter than I, and wearing mascara and bras. Now, while folding laundry I sometimes confuse our jeans.

“Everything is so good right now,� says Ella. “That I just know something’s going to change to mess it all up.�

She’s a worrier, like my mother.

“Can’t you just be happy in the moment?� I ask this, even though I struggle myself with this idea of staying in the moment, even though I’m convinced it is the answer to happiness. I ask this, knowing her answer. She cannot. It’s not how she’s made.

She sighs and turns away.

Yesterday it was six weeks later. I drive alone to the store, taking the long way across 202 to North Bend instead of the freeway with its passing cars that spray dirty water and trucks on their way to fight the mountain pass. I take the long way because I hope to see elk in the pasture and because I love to listen to music alone and think about things like words and stories, and because I want to see the trees that run along Snoqualmie Parkway. They’ve bloomed. White blossoms hang in luxurious, succulent bunches, seeming heavy, as if the branches defer to their beauty, bowing in a swoop and sway under the weight of these fleeting flowers.

These fleeting flowers, quite simply, make me happy. Nature’s perfect gift, sent to remind us that beauty such as this is to be savored while we can. They remind us to stay in the present. Soon they will fall and green leaves will replace them. Change is inevitable.

Just weeks ago the cherry trees bloomed along our streets and already the green has replaced pink.

Yesterday driving down a side street of our neighborhood where cherry trees line the sidewalks, Emerson said, “The blooms come and go so fast. They’ve fallen already.�

“That’s why we have to look at them as much as we can while they’re here,� I said, feeling mournful at their passing, and thinking of how things change constantly, both good and bad � thinking of the change that had come to me just the day before.

“Yes. Really look at them. Right, Mom?�

“That’s right.� Emerson and I are dedicated to the practice of ‘seeing�.

Now, on my way to the grocery store, my windshield wipers dismiss the rain. Music plays from the radio, a song as lovely as the blossoms. I reach the meadow where the elk sometimes roam the valley eating grass, oblivious to people or the surrounding mountains. The elk are not there today, just water laden grass, dormant blackberry bushes, blooming trees. I drive on, my mind roaming from my shopping list, the chili in the slow cooker and then to my current manuscript that waits on my desk. Quite suddenly, the pang comes. That dark uncertainly. A twist in my gut. That blinding fear that is the ever-present unwanted guest of a writer’s life. A big change came this week in my professional life â€� a change I did not want â€� a change that was one of my worst case scenarios. Embrace it, my loud, grown-up voice pounds in my head where she lives, all smart and resourceful and adaptable. You can’t predict the future. Maybe it’s the best thing that could happen and you just don’t know it.Ìý

But what if it isn’t, that small, scared voice that lives in my chest, whispers in answer.

But what if it is?

A song I love comes on the radio. I turn it up. At a red light, I halt. A white bloom lands on my windshield. I look to the tree from which it came. Its branches are rustling in the wind, its blooms hanging tight, embracing the rain. The light turns green. I move forward.

I watch her sleep in the early light of morning. It is when I see her best. I can look without fear of being seen, without fear of my intense love frightening her or burdening her, knowing I cannot expect her to love me as I love her. She is my child. My job is to keep her safe, to make her strong, independent, ready to live in the world without me. My job is to love her. But for now, she is my little girl. Sweet, smart, funny, kind, intuitive. She smiled at five weeks old, I always say to anyone who will listen, and has been smiling ever since. Now, eight years old, with limbs and organs and a brain that grow even as she sleeps, it’s difficult to imagine she was ever that tiny.

When I stay this still, perched on the side of the bed, with the spring light that came round again, as it does each year, I see the details of her face. Freckles the color of nutmeg scattered over her nose. Buck teeth that will soon be bullied into a straight line of submission, push out her upper lip so that it looks like the bud of a rose. Black lashes splayed on pink cheeks. Honey hued hair tangled and matted. Her small hands, chapped from washing, move in her sleep, searching for what, I cannot say.

I memorize all these details for later. I will take them out to examine whenever I please. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps when I am old and crumpled and hold her baby in my arms.

She moves in her sleep, tossing an arm over her head. My heart seizes with love watching all this innocence. This goodness. This untarnished spirit. Stay this way, I think. Don’t let the years change you.

But I know it is an almost impossible fight. We learn along the way to harden, to protect, to hide. It happens slowly, without our noticing. A cruel remark from a schoolmate on the playground. A shaming in front of the class by an insensitive teacher. A lie told to us by someone we trusted. The souring of a friendship. The boy we love that doesn’t love us. The loss of a loved one. We learn of torture, war, school shootings, murders, rape, racism. The twin towers fell as we watched, helpless. These experiences seep their way into us, little by little, until we’re declared a grown up. A Grown Up in capital letters. Hard. Savvy. Distrusting. Skeptical. Ready for the world, we tell one another.

And I suppose it is necessary, all this hardness and logic and cynicism so that we might venture out into this tough life and come back still intact for dinner.

But knowing all this, I know this too. I want for her to stay soft, to remain trusting even when it’s proven time and again to be unwise, to never give up on love, to be kind even in the presence of cruelty. Fight it, I think. Fight with all your might to stay exactly as you are now, as you were made. Smiling. Sweet. Kind.

This fight to stay soft is my own fight too. To remain hopeful and trusting, to dismiss the cruelty of the past so that I might see clearly the kindness in the now, is an ever present war of my own. To shake off the shaming, the criticism, the lies, and open my arms to love, to beauty, seems impossible in light of all that has come before. But I must. If I don’t, I become like those who hate instead of love. And this cannot happen. Not to me. Not to you.

Watch them sleep, a friend’s mother told us when our girls were naughty toddlers and we were exhausted and depleted. All the sins of the day are forgotten, by both of you, when you watch them sleep. So I did. So I do. And in this watching, I am reminded of my own innocent vulnerability. It’s there, under the hard shell that allows me to remain intact for dinner. It remains. It comes round again like the spring light. How I love this girl is proof, I think now, that I am winning the fight. I turn my face to meet the slant of spring light that beckons from my window and let it warm my cheeks. And so I live to fight another day. For love, always for love.

As you know, I love romance and am especially fond of stories about marriage proposals. I also know what it feels like to watch my baby girls grow up, knowing someday they will each be some lucky man’s wife. And, he better treat her right or my mama bear instincts might not be pretty. But, I digress�

Author Arleen Williams shares her intimate feelings as her ‘baby� is asked to share her life with the man she loves. Sigh. Beautiful.

As an added bonus, she’s added the first chapter of her novel, “Biking Uphill�, after the post.

Enjoy.

The Proposal

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Early February 2015

When I walked into the kitchen, I knew something was up. There was tension in the air, electricity. I felt it.

The kitchen is small. Stove to the right. Refrigerator on the left. Sink on the back wall. Husband Tom stood at the stove frying piles of chopped veggies in his favorite cast iron skillet � green zucchinis, purple onions, yellow peppers, red tomatoes. He focused on building his signature frittata, his back toward our daughter’s boyfriend, Elliot, who leaned against the narrow counter space between refrigerator and sink.

“We’re not usually together, I mean alone, without Erin,� Elliot said when I walked in. “I should’ve said something sooner.�

I heard hesitation, a nervous tone in his voice. “What’s up?� I asked, nudging Tom to attention.

“I’m getting the ring � hopefully by the weekend � they had to remake it to fit my grandmother’s diamond � she gave me a diamond � I want to marry her.�

I don’t remember all the words. My thoughts were flying in every direction: they’re so young, they love each other, they’re good for each other, he wants to marry our baby, turn around and pay attention Tom, he wants to marry our baby.

Where did the years go? The years of a colicky baby, a toddler who couldn’t sleep, a curious loving girl who walked to elementary school with dog and dad in tow, a sullen middle-schooler, a determined high schooler? What happened to soccer games and summer camps, to swim meets and dance recitals? Where did those endless hours of waiting go? What happened to that intense fear as she learned to ride a bike, walked the neighborhood alone, went to her first teen parties?

Then, at seventeen my baby graduated both high school and community college, moved into her first apartment alone and two years later earned her degree from the University of Washington. Where did the girl, the years go? So full. So fleeting. So finite.

My thoughts flew as this serious and nervous, kind and hard-working young man stood before me and told us how he worried the ring wouldn’t be ready and how he planned to propose to our daughter, and how he hoped it was all okay. I wrapped him in my arms and assured him that he was already part of our family.

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Friday, February 13, 2015

I brooded all day unable to shake the cloud that held me. I’m not a superstitious person. It wasn’t the whole Friday the 13th thing that had me down. I told friends I was fighting a cold, didn’t feel up to a promised bike ride or dinner out. But that wasn’t it either.

I suppose I was nervous. My daughter was spending the weekend at an oceanfront cabin with her beloved. He was about to ask her to share her life with him. I wanted the fairy tale proposal to be perfect. I lounged on their monster sofa that fills our living room � they’re staying with us as they save to buy their first home � trying to read, watching nothing on television, and feeling as old as my mother in the years she developed dementia.

The phone rang at 6:49 p.m. I didn’t recognize the number and almost didn’t answer. Erin, I thought.

“Mom, we’re engaged!�

Her voice bubbled with joy as she described the roses, the proposal, the ring. We shared tears over the miles. My heart filled. The cloud vanished. The call ended.

I phoned Tom with the news and told him to accept the call from an unidentified number. Then, I relaxed into the monster with a smile on my face and accepted the inevitable truths: my daughter’s getting married, I’m growing older, and I’m okay with both.

***

Arleen Williams is the author of three books: Running Secrets and Biking Uphill, the first two novels in The Alki Trilogy and The Thirty-Ninth Victim, a memoir of her family’s journey before and after her sister’s murder. She has also co-written a dozen short books in easy English for adult learners.

She teaches English as a Second Language at South Seattle College and has worked with immigrants and refugees for close to three decades. Arleen lives and writes in West Seattle. To learn more, please visit and .

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ONE

The northern California hills were spring green as they sloped to the Pacific. I rode through cool morning fog and coasted to a stop at the far end of Front Street. After chaining up, I wandered amongst the white canopies lining the long street that curved through downtown Los Arboles as vendors set out their fruits and vegetables, pastries and flowers, arts and crafts for Sunday Market.

Delphinium, iris, and poppy crowded five-gallon buckets, the fragrance and color calling to me. I wanted to fill my arms, my cottage, my heart with their beauty, but I had rent and tuition to think about. Cut flowers didn’t last.

I moved on through the long rows of booths with nothing but time to spare. I fingered silver earrings and dangling crystals. A rich blend of aromas teased my senses: fresh baked breads, tacos and tamales, candles and incense.

The crowd was thin. The tourists still snuggled between warm sheets in beachfront hotels. The vets and hippies still in the hills deciding if this Sunday they’d come down and face the world long ago abandoned, a world gone sour. The students still home, far away, with families and friends and lovers. Not me.

Place is only part of the equation of love and home and family. Place doesn’t fill all the holes in the heart. I was better off in Los Arboles. A full-time student, full-time resident, full-time outsider.

As I bought a few apples, a carton of strawberries, some mushrooms, I wondered if any of this produce had felt the warmth of my students� hands. I smiled at the thought: me with students. At the end of fall quarter, I’d started a class for migrant farm workers two nights a week in the living room of their simple apartment. The men gave me gifts of produce. The women cooked. And what food! I’d never tasted such wonderful food. At home in Mound City, I had never been allowed to eat with the migrant workers or to join the children’s games in the sweet shadows of the apple orchard. In school, we had never been in the same classes or social groups. Now I imagined one of my students picking the deep green romaine I stuffed into my backpack.

Then I saw the pottery.

It was a jam-packed booth, the tables covered with soft Indian prints, the interior lined with shelves loaded with heavy pottery in reds, yellows and browns. I’d never been drawn to pottery, but there was something special about this work. It seemed to pull me into the booth by an invisible string.

“Come on in, Biker Girl. Take a look. A touch.�

I had no idea where the voice came from. It floated disembodied through the air. “Hello?�

“Come in. Look about. Take your time.�

I stepped between the shelves and tables, looking, touching, fearing. I couldn’t afford to break anything. Not the most graceful, this I knew about myself.

“You look like someone in serious need of a teapot.�

“Excuse me, but where are you?�

Just as the words left my mouth, I saw a small figure sitting on a low stool in the shadows at the back of the booth. Our eyes met.

“You think you might help an old lady to her feet?�

I gave her my hand, but the woman rose with little need of my help. Spry and strong, she stood to my shoulder in a long peasant skirt, a university sweatshirt, and wooly socks in Birkenstocks.

“That’s better. Now let’s see what you need, young lady.�

“Nothing. I mean, I love this work, but I can’t afford anything.�

“Let’s forget that for a moment and see what calls to you.�

“C²¹±ô±ô²õ?â€�

“Yes, calls. The work calls to you, tells you what you need, what it has to offer.�

“Whose work is this? Who made all this stuff?�

“Well, I did, of course.�

I stared at the tiny, old woman with snowy white hair pulled into a braid that hung to the middle of her curved back. I could see her leaning over a potter’s wheel shaping clay into teapots, bowls and platters. I could see the mud and water. But I struggled to see her lifting the heavy trays in and out of the kiln.

“The kiln’s gotten a bit difficult these days,� she said as though reading my thoughts. “But my son helps me out. Comes by, he does, to help me load and unload. He sets up the booth each Sunday morning and takes it down at the end of the day. My grandson used to help, but he’s off at school now.�

As I listened, my hand slid over the round, plump curve of a teapot. I glanced down and gasped.

“That’s the one.� The old woman smiled as she picked up the sunflower yellow teapot.

“But I don’t even know how to make tea,� I said.

“Then it’s about time for your first lesson.� With a firm hold on my arm, the old woman led me to the back corner of her booth. Next to her stool, a small table held an electric kettle and a sky blue teapot, the blue of the distant horizon where it reaches down to the Pacific Ocean.

I stood and watched as the woman plugged the kettle into an extension cord tucked under the canvas wall. Then she struggled open a square tin and spooned some loose tea leaves into the blue teapot. A few minutes later when the kettle whistled, she poured hot water over the tea leaves, put the lid on the teapot and wrapped it in a colorful dish cloth.

“There now, you see. It’s not so difficult. Hot water, tea leaves, and a magical pot. That’s all you need.�

“A magical pot?�

“The magic of love, of attraction. Like the sunflower yellow that pulled you into my booth. The pot is for you and you are for the pot.�

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t afford a teapot.�

“Have a cup of tea with me, Biker Girl. Then we can talk about what we can and cannot afford in this brief life of ours.�

I accepted the steaming cup the old woman offered me. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I had nowhere to go, nobody to see, nothing to lose. I settled into a canvas director chair next to the old woman’s stool and then jumped to my feet, sloshing tea on my khakis. “I’m sorry. You take the chair. I can sit on the stool.�

“Young lady, I’ve been sitting on this stool since long before you first saw the light of day. Nobody sits on this stool but Mama Lucy.�

“Mama Lucy? Is that what you want me to call you?�

“That’s right. Now what’s your name, Biker Girl?�

“Carolyn. Carolyn Bauer. How do you know I ride?�

“Small town, dear Carolyn. A student, I suppose.�

â€Ô¨±ð²õ.â€�

“But not a happy one.�

“Not so much, I guess.� I stared at the cup I was holding. “What is this? It tastes different from any tea I’ve ever had. It’s wonderful.�

“Glad you like it. It’s my own blend. Mostly chamomile with a bit of lavender and rose hips.�

I turned to the sound of shoppers. A middle-aged couple in plaid Bermuda shorts and matching windbreakers moved through the shelves of pottery. “I should let you go. You have customers.�

“Never mind them. They’re not going to buy anything.�

I looked at the old woman’s watery, blue eyes. “But how do you know, Mama Lucy? How do you know they won’t find something they want to buy? And what makes you waste so much time with me when I can’t afford anything?�

“Ah, my dear Carolyn, wipe your tears. You’d be surprised what an old woman knows. Now come, let’s wrap up that teapot of yours.�

“But I told you, I don’t have enough money. I could give you about half today, but I’d have to wait for my next paycheck to give you the rest. And really, I shouldn’t. I have to pay rent and food and …�

“I don’t want your money. I want you to take your teapot and make hot tea every evening. And I want you to come back next Sunday for another cup of tea with Mama Lucy.�

With a slight shove, the old potter pushed the wrapped teapot into my arms.

“But I can’t just take it,� I protested.

“Of course, you can. Now off you go on that bicycle of yours. Wear your helmet and be careful. I’ll see you next Sunday.�

With a gentle, but firm hand in the small of my back, Mama Lucy guided me out of the shadows of the booth and into the bright midday sun. Blinking back tears, I turned to the old woman and gave her a quick hug before joining the growing crowd of Sunday shoppers. Little did I know months would pass before I returned to visit the old potter.

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TWO

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I moved through the busy market, backpack slung over my shoulder, cradling the wrapped teapot in my arms like a newborn baby, fearful of the jostling shoppers, the random skateboarders, and the not-so-leashed dogs. When I reached my bike, away from the busy market, I loaded the padded teapot into my backpack. Once certain it was secure, I unlocked my bike and took off.

The hill lay ahead of me, steep, daunting, and always a joy. Biking was a passion, had been for as long as I could remember. A passion born of necessity, but still a passion. Back home I had no other form of transportation. There were no buses. There was no way to get into town, no way to get away from the orchard at all. If I wanted to go anywhere, I rode. When I was finally old enough to get a driver’s license, Dad wanted it so bad, I decided I didn’t want it all.

So here I was in California, still without a license or a car, still pedaling wherever I went, still keeping in shape climbing hills. I sweated and puffed and groaned, but it felt great. The best part, besides that it was cheap and I wasn’t closed into a nasty, packed bus, was that I noticed things from a bike people speeding by just plain missed. The heady scent of spring, the birds chirping, and the breeze rustling the leaves.

Every now and again a carload of frat boys would slow down, trail me with their catcalls and dirty invitations, make nasty comments about my legs or butt or boobs. But most of the time I felt safe and healthy and even a bit virtuous pedaling a hill that I knew none of those damn jocks could ever climb. That day it was a quiet ride home from the market. The hill led to the university and the university was deserted. Spring break.

The road curved and leveled a bit, serving as a breathing point, a place to psych myself up for the final challenge. On one side of the road, the hill rose above me with only a few homes scattered here and there. On the other side, the hill dropped into a deep eucalyptus grove and I could catch the distant tinkle of a stream, one of many that fed the river running through town and out to sea.

Something caught my eye in the heavy shade of a large eucalyptus tree a few yards off to the side of the road. A shape, a movement maybe. I slowed for a better look. Behind the tree a small figure huddled. Although she had her back turned towards the road, the curve of her body and the long jet black curls told me it was a girl. There was something in the girl’s position under the tree, the way she was rolled into a lonely little ball that pulled me to a stop.

I walked my bike off the edge of the road and through the tall grass towards the tree. As I moved closer, the girl scrambled to her feet, startled by the sound of my bicycle wheels moving through the grass and leaves. As she spun around, I saw her tear-stained face. She snatched a bundle and bolted towards the woods.

“Wait. It’s okay. Can I help you?�

The girl stopped. Her shoulders drooped. For a brief second, her dark brown eyes met mine. I stopped, respecting the distance between us.

“It’s okay. Do you need help?�

“I no speak English.�

Crap, I thought. All those useless Spanish classes. �Ayudar,� I managed. “�Yo te ayudo?�

I smiled and hoped I looked safe. To my surprise, the girl sank to the ground, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.

I moved closer and saw the girl was really no girl at all, but a young teenager. She was thin and petite with huge dark eyes, but she was no child. She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in a long time. Her clothes were little more than dirty rags and there was a faint, unpleasant smell. Nothing I could identify.

I laid my bike on the ground and pulled off my backpack. The yeasty sweetness of fresh-baked bread floated between us as I dug the loaf from the pack. I tore off a large hunk and held it out to the girl with the word, �Comer.�

The girl looked up and met my eyes, her own still moist. With a dirty sleeve, she wiped her face. Then she snatched the bread from my outstretched hand. Like a beaten dog, she scrambled a short distance to wolf down the food.

I waited, awareness of the girl’s pain and deprivation creeping up my spine. The girl–for I couldn’t think of her as anything but a girl–was alone and hungry. Where was her home, her family?

As she ate, I spread my sweatshirt on the ground between us and pulled the rest of the food from my backpack. I laid out the bread and cheese, apples and strawberries. The girl watched from her distance. I saw her glance towards my bike.

“That’s what’s missing. Water.� I pulled two water bottles from their racks and offered one to the girl. “Are you thirsty? Go ahead. Water. Agua. ¿Sed?�

Again the girl came forward, but this time she didn’t dart away. I saw the gratitude in her eyes as she reached for the bottle and drank long, greedy gulps. I sat down and waited. When she finished drinking, I motioned to the food. “Let’s eat.�

The girl moved closer and finally sat opposite me.

I looked at the apple and cheese, then rummaged through my backpack again. When I pulled out my knife and snapped the blade open, the girl jumped to her feet. “Oh,� I gasped. “It’s okay. Look, it’s for the apple. I won’t hurt you. I promise.�

I sliced an apple in half and then in quarters and cored each quarter. Then I took one of the quarters, peeled it and took a bite. I smiled at the girl. “See, it’s good. Yum. Bueno.�

I peeled another quarter, set down the knife, and offered both a peeled and an unpeeled quarter to the girl. “Which do you like better? I hate the peels.�

The girl stepped closer, reached for the unpeeled quarter, and then moved away again to eat the piece of apple at a short distance. I quartered another apple, then sliced the cheese before I stashed the knife back in my backpack. Then, I looked up at the girl and motioned her to sit down. “Come. Eat with me. I won’t hurt you,� I repeated.

The girl stepped forward and sat down.

“Try this cheese. Queso. It’s good with the apple.� I put a piece of cheese and apple together and popped it into my mouth.

Instead of copying me, the girl took a small piece of bread, laid the cheese on top and put it in her own mouth with the trace of a thin smile around her eyes. I laughed and the girl’s smile widened.

“My name is Carolyn. What’s your name?�

The girl remained silent.

I tried again. �Me llamo Carolina. ¿Cómo te llamas?�

The shy smile spread across her face. â€�Me llamo ´¡²Ô³Ù´Ç²Ô¾±²¹.â€�

“Antonia. What a beautiful name. Qué bonito nombre.� Again, the girl smiled. “What? Is my accent so very funny?�

“Oh yes. Very funny.�

We sat and talked, or tried to talk, for what seemed like hours under that old tree. We pointed at things and named them, first in one language and then in the other. Whenever we got stuck, Antonia pulled a tiny, battered dictionary from her pocket, and we searched for the words we needed. It didn’t take long for me to appreciate Antonia’s English was far better than she let on and definitely far better than my Spanish. I lost track of time until I saw her shiver and realized it was getting late. The sun was already starting to sink on the horizon.

“I need to get going,� I said. “Home. It’s time to go home.�

Antonia sat still as I gathered the remains of food into my backpack and zipped it closed. Then I stopped and took a long look. “What about you, Antonia? Where is your home? ¿En dónde vives?�

Antonia looked down at her lap and said nothing.

“Come on, Antonia. Where do you live? Where is your house? ¿Tu casa?�

�No tengo casa.�

“Where do you live?�

Silence.

“Where are your parents? ¿Tus padres?�

�No sé.�

“You don’t know?�

�No. No sé.�

“Where do you live?�

Again, silence.

“�Antonia, por favor, en dónde vives? Where is your home?�

“No have home. Live here.� She opened her arms wide to encompass the woodlands surrounding us.

“Here? ¿´¡±ç³Üí?â€�

â€�³§Ã­.â€�

I knew I should ask again about her parents, but it was getting late. I also knew that what I was about to do could get me into trouble, but I couldn’t leave her there to fend for herself. “Come, Antonia,â€� I said. â€�³Õá³¾´Ç²Ô´Ç²õ.â€�

She didn’t move.

“Come to my house. Mi casa. Come and rest. Take a bath. Wash your clothes. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.�

I stood, lifted my bike, and began to push it towards the road. Glancing over my shoulder, I motioned for her to follow me.

Ìý

Twenty-five or so years ago, I sat in the summer sun on a patio in a Seattle bar, sipping a beer alone. Having recently moved to Seattle from Los Angeles I did not know many people and had gotten used to doing things alone. On this day, at this particular bar, my motivation was not the beer but the fact I had a crush on the owner. I’d come in the hopes that he might notice me and return my crush. I did not know he had a girlfriend.

Turns out the girlfriend was sitting right next to me. I don’t know who started talking first but we spent the rest of the afternoon sharing our stories and laughing. Robin. Pretty blond, athletic, intelligent eyes that did not stray when I talked. A whole body listener � and this infectious laugh that gave me the feeling that the world was grande and ripe and interesting. Shortly into the conversation I realized she was dating said crush, but by this time he was long forgotten because when you find a friend for life you know it right away. I have been blessed with girlfriends of the soul mate variety in all stages of my life and Robin is one of them. And, as true girlfriends know, you don’t compromise a friendship over a boy.

She didn’t end up with that particular boy anyway. Later, she met the man of her dreams, got married, and moved to Portland to start a life with him. Although miles, the business of motherhood, and work, keep us from seeing one another as much as we’d like, when we do, it is as if no time has passed.

Recently, she started aÌý project that is so inspiring I insisted she share if with my readers via my blog. I love risk-takers and people who are willing to put their heart into whatever they do. Her mantra (see below) is most certainly the way to live this one beautiful life we have. The way her business has unfolded is a true testament to one of my beliefs â€� when you do something you love, all good things come.

Below is her story. I hope you’ll be as inspired as I am. When you order your shirt (I know you’ll want one) be sure to send it to her a photo so she can post it on her site.

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HAPPY.HEALTHY.BALANCED.PEACEFUL.LIFE.

I came up with this mantra years because it both motivated me and gave me a measurement to aspire to. I decided to put these words on a shirt, at the prodding of my brother, in my handwriting, and am inspired every day from women who share their stories on why they want to wear this tee.

I gave one to my friend Stacey, who posted a picture of herself wearing it on Facebook, and people started asking about how to get one. By day 2 I had created a Gmail account to direct people to if they wanted to inquire about how to get my tee. During the next few weeks orders kept coming in. I humbly asked my friends, and their friends, if they would post a picture of themselves, in my tee on their FB wall. This is truly how my business started to pick up. Each day seeing new pictures of women, and sometimes their daughters in my shirts, has been such a gift. I am brought to tears often by the generosity and support from other women!

HHBPL tees are in 2 retailers in Oregon, Aries Apparel for Girls and Rachelle M. Rustic House of Fashion. I am also, and perhaps most proud of, partnering with Girls, Inc. of the Pacific Northwest. Girls, Inc. Their mission statement is:

Girls, Inc. of the Pacific Northwest Inspires girls ages 6-18 to be strong, bold and smart. Our gender specific programs and researched based curricula provide girls with the confidence and self-esteem to access a bright and economically independent future. We will be donating shirts to their Mind + Body Program which is for girls 12-18 years of age.

To order these tees (now in 3 styles) go to:

Website:

Twitter: @HHBPL

Instagram: ROBINSCHIFFCOSTE

Facebook:

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Welcome Author Marshanne Mishoe as she shares an honest piece about how tricky it is to raise teenagers. I have to agree, potty training seems easy compared to raising my ‘tween�. I know any parents of teenagers will relate to this one!

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Parenthood is Tiring

Happy were the days when my children were tiny and I could have some measure of control over them. My friends and I often say that we would take six un-potty-trained toddlers to one teenager any day. It’s really true. Parenting a teenager is not just frustrating and crazy � it’s downright scary!

For those of you yet to breech the teenage years, I’ll try to explain my angst. I have two boys and a girl, ages 17, 14 and 11. The oldest, of course, is my guinea pig. I have experimented with curfews, discipline, boundaries and responsibilities with this one. He, of course, has fulfilled his role as a teenager and pushed everything to the very limits I set. He has always been a good kid overall, but he has been tempted by all the regular temptations� sex, drugs, underage drinking, etc. These are things that can have a permanent effect on his college prospects and, more seriously, on his very life!

This one skirts the very edge of these scary behaviors, always claiming he can handle it, whether it is hanging out with friends who smoke pot or seeing his girlfriend in our basement without our supervision. Just supervise, you say? Just tell him he can’t see those friends. Good suggestions, but also fairly naïve. My husband and I do our best to supervise and we try to keep him hanging with the right crowd, but each month, as he approaches graduation, we seem to be having less and less control. In fact, we started losing control when he could legally drive the car alone. Where has he been? And just what has he been doing while he has been out with the car? Like I said, the answers can be scary.

I know there are those out there who are screaming at their computer that we just need to, “take back the control.� All I can say is I just wish I was as righteous as them. Keeping up with a teenager is a constant job, 24-7. We try our hardest to hold the line, but we also realize he is getting older and has to accept some of the responsibility for himself. Right now he is making some decisions we don’t agree with. He’s just 3 months shy of high school graduation, and while we aren’t giving up any ground with him yet, we have decided to give him a little more freedom to either prove us wrong or suffer the consequences.

The stakes are high. His health, well-being and, again, his very life are at stake. So we tighten up where we can, but soon enough, he will have complete say so over how he spends his time. It seems like a lot to heap onto his narrow shoulders.

The 14-year-old is following closely behind the 17-year-old, and then my “little� girl is quickly bringing up the rear. We can’t get tired of parenting just because we have “been through this before.� We have to be just as diligent with the last two as we were with the first. Here’s just hoping that we don’t wear out before we finish the parenthood job!

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ABOUT Marshanne Mishoe

The Mind of a Child is Marshanne Mishoe’s first novel. She started her writing career back in the mid 1980’s as a television news reporter and anchor. She worked at WIS-TV in Columbia, South Carolina for the better part of a decade, and before that she had a two-year stint as a writer and producer for SC-ETV’s satellite branch in Beaufort, SC.

Marshanne now makes her home just north of Atlanta. She lives with her husband, Steve, and their three kids, Jake, Spencer and Marishay. Their dog Millie would be highly incensed if she were left out, so she lives there too.

Visit Marshanne online at .

Connect with Marshanne online

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Add The Mind of a Child to Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

On the day I turn forty-six I wake in a hotel room in Gold Beach, Oregon. I’ve spent the last three days teaching a dialogue workshop at the while my daughters stayed with my parents. Before I open my eyes, I stretch my legs across the queen size mattress to the empty space, feeling the cool sheets on my warm limbs. I succumb to the softness of this strange bed, knowing this is a stolen moment in a hectic life. Soon I’ll be back to the thick of it, the pace of motherhood and work, but for now I have this.

Finally, after that luxurious moment lingering between wake and sleep, I open my eyes. From the sliding glass door, sunlight creeps through spaces not covered by the heavy curtain. In the distance I hear the familiar ebb and flow of the ocean crashing against the shore. I slide from the bed, my feet landing on scratchy carpet. This bed � it’s higher by several feet than my one at home and makes me feel like a small child when school hallways and beds and the high diving board at the town swimming pool all seemed large and unconquerable but also exciting and filled with endless possibilities.

Shivering, I pull on my sweatshirt from the night before. It smells of wood smoke from last night’s bonfire. I reach into the left side pocket and wrap my fingers around a rock I found on the beach. It’s green and shaped like a heart. I picked it up and put it in my pocket for Emerson. She loves hearts and rocks. She sees hearts everywhere. She taught me to see hearts everywhere too, as I found this stone heart amidst thousands of ordinary sea rocks.

Last night, after my duties at the conference were complete, I’d met old friends (from my college days when I spent summers working at the Oregon Caves) for dinner and a bonfire on the beach. With flames from the fire hot on my cheeks and the stars as bright as I can ever remember, we talked of the past and future. We shared nods of understanding about the present. We talked of siblings lost to illness, my failed marriage, our children. We marveled at how the years tumbled along into now. But no matter the days since we last saw one another, as in the case with all true friendship, the past did not erase the familiarity between us. People do not change, we agreed. Even battered, we come back eventually to who we are deep down in our core.

Now, after showering and packing, I drive south on 101, past view upon view of blue sky reflected in the Pacific. It’s 70 degrees, unheard of for February on the Oregon coast. Proof of God, I think, when I come upon the view of Harris Beach. Beauty such as this cannot be an accident.

Music plays from my Pandora station. The mysterious algorithms seem to know it’s my birthday because favorite songs play, one after the other. I think about this life I’ve made from the rubble, from the moment I had to start again. Seven books. Two thriving girls. Deep friendships. Family. A sense of gratitude and contentment wash over me, like the first time we put our faces to the sun after a long winter.

I stop at a viewpoint and stand looking over the ocean, feeling small and humbled the way one does. What is this lightness that’s come over me, I wonder? And then it occurs to me. It is not the sun or the sea but the absence of shame. Since the divorce I’ve felt ashamed. Words, labels, following me around like notes attached to a string around my wrist. A failed marriage. My fault. Loser. A broken home. Single mother. I’m sorry. Guilty.

I’ve carried shame like a bag of sea stones on my shoulder.

The waves crash below me. Scent of salt and seaweed. A seagull cries overhead. I close my eyes for a moment imaging that bag of shame stones turning to dust, until they are nothing but ashes in an urn. When I open my eyes, I reach my arms out to the sea, tossing this invisible dust into the sea breeze. I can almost see it hovering over the waves before falling, falling, until swept away by the power of the waves.

I remain for a few more minutes. It occurs to me that perhaps the reason I have not attracted a new love is because this shame was like fog over the Pacific in the early morning, obstructing the glorious view from my good heart, my worthy soul, my quick mind. Perhaps shame attracts only darkness.

I’m here on the other side, I think now. I made it. I made it to tomorrow. I made it to now. I made it to views of the ocean, sunlight in February, bonfires with friends, a stone heart in my pocket. More books to write. Two sets of blue eyes across the dinner table. Maybe even a stone heart of my own to hold near, to love. I made it back to believing in endless possibilities. Battered but not broken. Battered but unchanged just the same.

I put my face to the sun. How good it feels after the long winter. Like freedom. Like love. Like God.

I drive back to my life. Free.

Ìý

I started DUET FOR THREE HANDS when my youngest daughter, Emerson, was two after hearing a story about my great-grandmother while at a family reunion. Emerson is now eight. I worked on it on and off for all those, but did not feel it was truly ready until recently. It is a true testament to never giving up on something you believe in, even if it takes what feels like a lifetime. I couldn’t have done it without the support of several friends who believed in it even more than I. Without their encouragement this book would have remained in a drawer.

Although quite different from my other novels, I hope it will resonate with my current readers, as well as pick up a few more along the way.

DUET FOR THREE HANDS is available now on and . I can’t wait for you to read it, and would very much appreciate your leaving a review once you’ve finished.

A story of forbidden love, lost dreams, and family turmoil.

The first book in a new historical series from bestselling author Tess Thompson, Duet for Three Hands is equal parts epic love story, sweeping family saga, and portrait of days gone by. Set against the backdrop of the American South between 1928 and 1934, four voices blend to tell a tale of prejudice, fear, and love. The Bellmonts are the epitome of the rich and elite in Atlanta society, but behind the picture-perfect façade are hidden moments of violence and betrayal.

After marrying into the Bellmont family, Nathaniel, a former concert pianist who is nearly ruined by his wife’s unrelenting ambition and unstable mind, finds hope in the promise of his most recent protégé. His brother-in-law, artistic Whitmore Bellmont, and the maid’s daughter, Jeselle, have a secret relationship despite their drastically different circumstances and shades of skin. Unfortunately, most of the world disagrees with their color blindness.

All four lives intertwine on a collision course, threatening to destroy, or liberate, them all.