I’m into dragonflies–no, I don’t collect dragonfly paraphernalia or have dragonflies all over my house, I just like dragonflies. It’s because of my mother.  She gave me my first dragonfly (a pendant on a silver chain) when my son was born 31 years ago with the caveat that I couldn’t put it on until I was prepared to live a bold life.  What the hell did she mean by “live a bold life”?

My life was fine the way it was, peaceful, quiet, full of the joys of new parenthood, good friends, and a caring spouse. I certainly had no intention of following her path—moving 2,000 miles away without a dime, far from home and family, turning my life upside down, and starting over on the West Coast. And worse, when she brought me the necklace,  she was in the midst of a cross-country RV trip–sort of Travels with Charley without the French poodle and Steinbeck’s way with words. Did she honestly think I was going to leave my new baby and husband and start wandering around the country like a damn gypsy? I put the pendant away, buried it in the bottom of my jewelry case.

It wasn’t until long after she died that I finally began to see what Mom meant about being bold, and I truly believe it was the emotional chaos of menopause that helped me understand. I was and often still am, a restless mess of a woman, needing something and having no idea what it is, wanting change and yet not knowing why or how. Feeling like I’m missing out, but having no idea on what. I started writing again, tucking stories and ideas away in notebooks. I swam to find relief, I buried myself in work, I cried a lot…and I realized something significant.

Mom was right, I wasn’t bold. But she didn’t expect me to do what she did—she simply wanted me to be bold enough to figure who Nan was, to dig deep inside and find Nan’s dreams. I loved being a wife and mother, but for years, I’d wanted to write, to finish a novel. For years, I’d wanted to travel, to see new places and experience new things. Nobody was stopping me from doing those things, I’d chosen to stay close to home, always afraid to step away from the safe and secure nest I’d created. I didn’t believe I could do anything at all on my own—I’d run a household, raised a great kid, started a fairly successful editing business, and yet, I had no faith in grown-up Nan.

But one Thursday morning in 2007, after a long, cleansing cry, I dug in my jewelry case for the velvet box that held Mom’s dragonfly. With a deep breath (and an eye roll for Mom, who I’m sure was looking down and saying “bout fuckin’ time, kid!”), I clasped it around my neck.  The silver pendant was cool against my skin as I got online, picked a B&B in Michigan, made a reservation for one, and headed north. It was the first time I’d driven more than 90 miles all by myself. I spent five days in that B&B on the shore of Lake Michigan, channeling my mother, discovering Nan, and releasing at least some of the fears I’d lived with for so long.

I’ve had Mom’s dragonfly around my neck ever since and in the past four years, I’ve written two novels and have two more in progress. I’ve acquired an agent, built up my editing business, and made a couple of trips to Washington, DC all alone, even mastering the Metro! And I’ve fulfilled a dream I’ve had since I was a little girl—I traveled to Paris and Ireland with my son and daughter-in-law. Yeah, husband sometimes looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, but I think he kinda gets a kick out of his bolder, more grown-up wife. At least, he’s not complaining…

She never got to see me wear her gift, but whenever I see a dragonfly, I know it’s Mom, flying by to say, “Hey, there’s my bold girl! You finally got it!” And I always smile and think, “Well, maybe not completely, but I’m on my way! Thanks, Mom…”

…is over. About ten years ago, Neighbor Mary and I started swimming at a convent/conference center near my house. Tuesdays and Thursdays, we went to water aerobics at eight-thirty a.m. and then often, I’d swim laps with the sisters on Wednesdays and Fridays. I love to swim…I don’t follow astrology, so I have no idea if Libras are water people, as opposed to air and earth and fire. I just know I love being in the water. I always have.

I learned to swim in Lake Michigan. My mom taught all four of us kids when we’d go up to Muskegon State Park for camping weekends.  She insisted we all be able to save ourselves, if necessary, in the cold water of the lake—good thinking, Mom. Then I swam in high school—the only part of gym class that interested me in the least. I’m a damn good swimmer and I love the weightless feeling of being in the water. No, it’s not necessary to call in Sigmund to figure that one out—big woman, weightlessness—pretty obvious, I know.

But it’s more than that. The water is peaceful place and swimming is a Zen thing for me. Whatever else is going on in my life can be soothed away if I’m gliding through the water. Some of my best story ideas have come to me while I’ve been in the pool. So, when finances (or rather, lack thereof) forced the nuns to close the conference center and the pool at the beginning of this year, I was very sad.  I was sure I’d never find another great place to swim.

But I was wrong. My Sis  PJ, and Mary and  I discovered a new gym almost exactly halfway between us and the pool is gorgeous, surrounded by huge windows on three sides, and always sparkling clean.  Mary,  PJ, and I swim laps side by side in the sunshine or we go to water aerobics classes if we’re looking for more of a workout. It’s a great place, we’re having fun, and we get to spend time together. So, one door closed, but another one opened.

I miss swimming with nuns…even more I miss saying that I swim with the nuns because inevitably, I was asked, “What do nuns wear to swim?” And I got to make up something really outrageous and fun, like “they swim in their habits, wimples and all” or “well, this isn’t widely known, but nuns skinny dip. After all, it’s their pool and that’s how God made them.”  Now that the pool is closed, I can reveal the truth—nuns swim in swimsuits, just like you and I. Sorry…wish it were more entertaining.

Men, avert your eyes. This is a strictly girly post. I’m serious…it involves panties…

Why is it that when I finally find a bra or panties that I adore wearing, that are comfortable, wash like a breeze, and feel like a part of me, they suddenly stop making them? I swear this happens to me all the time.

About five years ago, after a long, long panty search, I finally found some cotton-and-lace cuties that fit well, didn’t creep up my butt (giving me an annoying wedgie), and were reasonably priced. I bought a dozen pair, mentally preparing myself for their inevitable demise. I loved them, so of course, they’d disappear in a matter of months. But lo and behold, the store kept stocking them. Wow! I was in underwear heaven, knowing every time I went in, my panties would be there, possibly in new colors and designs. It’s a cheap thrill I know, but when you’re staring fifty-eight in the face, you take your thrills when and where you can get them.

Last week,  I went to my store’s website to check out the new colors and order a few more pairs, but they were nowhere to be found in the online catalog. Panicked, I clicked the “Clearance” link, not really believing that after all this time, they’d stop carrying my faves. Well, there they were in the frickin’ Outlet and down to just a few pairs left, none in my size. I called the local store and the rather bemused-sounding clerk verified my worst nightmare: my cotton-and-lace panties have been discontinued.

I’m devastated (well, okay maybe not devastated, but certainly very disappointed!). Now I have to start over. Scour department stores, specialty shops, and online retailers to find a new brand of panties. And they aren’t a returnable item, so I’m going to have to head out, buy one pair of several different types and do the great panty experiment all over again…crap…

…seriously. I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I have a good vocabulary. My mom insisted that we have extensive vocabularies and use them appropriately. I’m a whiz at spelling and usually if someone asks me what a word means, I can come up with the correct definition without running to a dictionary. I’m a bodacious Scrabble and Boggle player. My grasp of language and it’s appropriate use is  part of why I’m a terrific copyeditor (I have clients who’ll testify, honest!).

So it surprises me to find that I’m using expletives more frequently as I get older. And I’m not talking about the occasional “crap” or “damn.” I’m talking the real words—the ones that would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap when I was a kid. You know, the words from George Carlin’s infamous list. (Google it!)

I’ve never really been a language prude, but I’ve always been someone who disdained “bad words” as language uneducated people used. However, I’ve discovered that often the best word, the very best word I can use in some situations is a bad one. Sometimes people behave like  asshats and that’s the only suitable word to use to describe them, so I’ve used it—but always appropriately. I’ve developed serious menopausal short-term memory loss, so shit! pretty much takes care of the frustration of not remembering where I put my damn reading glasses. And sometimes, in the throes of a particularly gnarly hot flash or when my emotions are in a confused knot, I just want to scream FUCK! So I do and it makes me feel better.

As a writer,  I’m not proud of this, but as a woman, I’m kind of intrigued with the relief that one good loud FUCK can bring. You know, maybe my language isn’t really deteriorating at all, maybe it’s just getting more colorful—yeah, that’s it! And even though I’ve added profanity to my vocabulary, I’m still not going to apologize to my son for slapping him when, at age fifteen, he used a word that I’d repeatedly asked him not to use in my presence. Sorry, I love you, but you fuckin’ deserved it, kid.

I finished a big editing gig today and I don’t have anything new coming until next week—that’s unusual for me. Normally, one job follows another and sometimes they even overlap. It’s a good thing to be so busy and to know that work is coming in and that my clients need me. I love that feeling. But today, I heaved a large sigh of relief after I sent the invoice for this project…not because of the project—it was fine. Rather, it was because I was completely jacked up about having a few days to work on my novels.

So, did I stay at the computer and write? Nope. I did laundry, weeded in between the raindrops, checked the blogs I follow, caught up on email, and cleaned the kitchen. I even did an extra check of Facebook, which means I’ll surely hear from my friend and FB sheriff, Tim. And then I opened the living room windows and curled up on the couch to read a book. It’s Jenny Cruisie‘s Maybe This Time. What a treat! I have it on my Kindle and as usual, Jenny’s done a glorious job of character and world building.  Her books are always a wonderful escape and I confess to escaping this afternoon for about three hours.Thanks, Jenny!

I’ll write tonight—I owe my critique partner two chapters from the new novels, but there wasn’t really a better way to spend a gray and rainy afternoon than snuggled on my big comfy sofa with Jenny’s book. Oh, and by the way, I love, love my Kindle! I balked about getting one, but since I’ve asked my agent to submit my novels to epubs, it seemed only right that I learn about digital reading. It’s fantastic! It goes everywhere with me, I can read late at night in bed without disturbing husband’s sleep, and I’ve discovered all kinds of new authors and rediscovered old favorites, like Gene Stratton Porter and Charlotte Bronte and Mark Twain…fun!!

I hate, hate, hate being so body aware, something that has just happened since I reached the age of menopause. No, I’m not talking about my weight or my body’s appearance this time. I’m talking about the inside of my body. Every little twinge or ache or pain or gurgle sends me rushing to the Web to figure out what’s “wrong” with me.

My shoulder hurts and my left arm aches—dear heaven, I’m having a heart attack! Doesn’t it say right there on womenandheartattack.com that left arm pain is one of the first signs in a woman? Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod—take an aspirin, call 911… My mom died young of a heart attack…crap, I’m going to be right behind her…no, wait. Stop. Think. Could this have anything to do with lifting weights for thirty minutes this morning at the gym? Gee, ya think?

My head is hurting. You know, right behind my left ear, a sharp pain, no it’s throbbing—what if it’s a stroke? Quick, to the Web! Ah ha! Headache, one of the first signs of stroke. I knew it! Do a fast survey: vision is clear, speech is fine, no numbness anywhere…ohh . . . kaaay. (Sigh of relief here.) Dammit! Maybe it’s brain cancer—my dad died of cancer. Never mind that it was lung cancer caused by fifty years of being a heavy smoker and I’ve never smoked in my life, but… Nan! Stop. Think. Maybe it’s my springtime allergies. Or possibly too much wine with supper last night… Or maybe it’s just a plain old headache. Gee, ya think?

My calf is sore. I mean really sore, like painful, seriously painful. Upstairs to the computer. Googling “calf pain.” Oh great, I have PAD—peripheral artery disease. I knew it. I’m losing blood flow, they’re going to have to amputate my leg, just like Aunt Mae…crap. Oh, wait. Stop. Think. Could it be the cycling class I attended yesterday? Forty-five minutes of intense biking uphill and over the flats? Gee, ya think?

I’d be seriously worried about my “Internet hypochondria” if I was all alone in it, but one of my dearest friends—a fellow menopause fairy—does this, too. Dee and I are on the phone at least thrice monthly. Conversations start with, “Okay, so I have this pain…” And then we both dissect it, diagnose it, discuss it, and sympathize like mad. In the last year, we’ve both “suffered” from a veritable buffet of diseases, almost all associated with getting older.

So, Gentle Readers, are we alone in this phenomenon of too much cyber medical information? Do any of you ever panic at a twinge of pain, research it for hours  on the Web, and then think, “Oh Lord, it’s the big one, Elizabeth…I’m comin’ to join you…”?

I don’t know how many people remember Joe Brooks, but he died this past weekend. He was a jingle writer and the composer who wrote “You Light Up My Life,” the song that made Debby Boone famous. That was good song, but it got overplayed and overused and became almost banal before we got bored and moved on. But I remember Joe Brooks for an obscure, sappy movie he made and starred in called If Ever I See You Again. The acting was…not good, the premise rather silly and sophomoric, but in 1978, I went to see that movie six times in the few weeks it played in my town. I went all alone to the afternoon matinee. I never discussed it with anyone or invited anyone to come along—those afternoons in the dark theater were my epiphany as a romance writer.

It wasn’t that Brooks was a good actor, he wasn’t—he was a song writer. It certainly wasn’t the storyline or the dialogue or even the beautiful California scenery. But something in Joe Brooks touched the writer in me. I’d set my fiction writing aside and was running an antiques business and writing articles for a local magazine. But the romance writing was there…waiting.

In the movie, when he stood in front of the orchestra, conducting the title song—a love song he’d written for a woman he’d lost, his expression touched me and I knew I’d found the hero of my first novel. www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQTOcdU88fg&feature=related Now as it happens, that hero didn’t get written for another nineteen years and in those years, Joe Brooks’s life took a sad turn. But he floated in my subconscious—a conductor, tall and lanky and gentle and artistic.

Joe Brooks was the inspiration for Liam, the symphony conductor hero in my first novel. Not the troubled 73-year-old Joe Brooks who took his own life, but rather the sensitive young conductor from one five-minute scene in If Ever I See You Again, and I’m sad for losing him. Now that he’s gone, all I really want to remember about Joe Brooks is that, in those brief moments of that silly 1978 film, he inspired my first  hero. You never know, do you, how odd little moments in life will affect you or set your creative juices flowing?

Rest in peace, Joe.

Well, I woke up this morning to birds singing and the sun trying to burn through a little spring fog. I was still in my own bed, in my own house  but I didn’t assume, as others might, that the Rapture had not happened and I didn’t get to go to heaven. I checked Yahoo! News and a couple of other sites for verification. Nope, it appears that we are all still here on Earth.

I’m so glad! I like it here, I like my life and my job and my friends and family. I like my little garden out in front of my house on the prairie. I like being an editor and I love being a writer. I’d really hate to leave this place before I got published–although being published in heaven (surely God will love my books!) would probably be pretty cool, too.

But, I’m still here, so I’ll just keep plugging along, writing and editing and keeping the faith that one day very soon I’ll get the same magical call that my dear friend Sandy (www.sandy-james.com) got last week, telling me that my manuscript has been accepted.  It’s gonna happen and when it does, I will be…well, rapturous!

Okay, I confess, I’ve had a tiny knot in my stomach all day today and it’s still there. I don’t actually believe that the Rapture is going to happen today–my common sense and my good Christian Church Disciples of Christ upbringing have come to the rescue every time I started to clutch. I know that people have been predicting the End of the World as We Know It for centuries, but thanks to the Internet, this is the first time I’ve been so aware of one of these calls to arms.

A part of me has to give the folks who spread the word some credit–they did one heckuva job getting their message out to the world. And I admit to a grudging respect for someone who believes so fiercely in a cause they are willing to give up everything for it. I don’t have that kind of tenacity about much, except my kid, who I’d walk through fire for if he needed me. I pray God’s gracious hand of protection around them as they rebuild their lives starting tomorrow.

Husband and I spent the day doing yard work–planting flowers and mulching and mowing and weeding. It felt important today to do something that involved celebrating new life, something that said, “I believe in life and the eternal blessings of God’s love for this Earth and His children.” Then we cooked steaks on the grill, added roasted potatoes, peas, fresh strawberries, and a delicious tempranillo and had a quiet supper together–just like any other Saturday night. The normalcy felt right.

Yeah, the little knot is still there–probably will be until I wake up tomorrow morning and find that the world is exactly as it should be, but I accept the peace that passes all understanding and I believe that God so loved the world…