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My 23-year old daughter just marched into my bedroom. She paused and looked at me, then headed into my arms for a very long hug.
She’d just finished reading the latest draft of my novel, Dog Park (in one sitting), and was feeling all the feels. The ending is kind of poignant.
It’s funny when people who know you personally read your work. They try to pick out who is who from your real life, piecing it all together and sometimes they are right. “Dad, there’s a thing about your knees in here!” she yelled from the other room earlier today.
“Why would you write that about your brother?” she asked another time.
“It wasn’t about my brother,” I replied, explaining that characters can have traits of people we know but that doesn’t make it about them. The character she was referring to was a compilation of several different people and mostly stuff I made up.
She also said, “The book was darker than I expected.”
“It was darker than I expected too,” I laughed.
We talked a bit more about it, and she said, “I can’t wait til’ it’s a movie! It would be so good on screen.”
If you know my child, you know she isn’t a good liar. This was sincere, from her heart. She may be a little biased, lol.
It’s a new territory having a grown child read my work. It feels, sweet.
From her lips to God’s ears.
Aside from being a writer, I am an RN, working in the field of addiction treatment. A patient recently told me that because she is no longer spending every dollar on street drugs, she is able to buy little presents for her grandchildren, and it makes her feel SO GOOD to be able to give them these things! This is what keeps her motivated.
It reminded me of when I was a teenager working at CVS, and I would bring home cheap little Matchbox cars for my toddler twin brothers, and they would be thrilled, and I just loved that feeling of making them happy.
Maybe you are someone who finds it difficult to receive? A compliment, a gift, a favor. Love. I know I often have a hard time with receiving these things.
Perhaps we can remember this woman, and how much it truly means to be able to give, and not take that away from someone else. May we make it a practice to graciously receive. 🤟❤️
So, I’ve been working on a novel about a cast of characters who meet at a dog park and one of the main dogs in the book is a Dachshund named Choco. He is actually a combination of a few dogs I’ve known, all the best traits, the perfect dog. I’ve hired an editor friend and she is looking over the manuscript presently.
Recently, I attended a workshop at Greenville Yoga and the teacher, Liz, led us in a visualization exercise where we imagined something that would bring us joy. I imagined Dog Park being published. After the exercise she invited people to share, but no..I couldn’t possibly. I always feel shy in groups I don’t know, and especially insecure about my writing. With close friends, I’m not shy…but anyway. I kept my mouth shut.
Then, the woman on the next mat shared that her happy place would be a job where she was a doggie matchmaker. She joyfully described being the one to connect foster dogs to new families, imitating Oprah, she said, “You get a dog! You get a dog! You get a dog!” Everyone laughed and shared in the joy of her vision.
Was it a sign? Should I share? I almost put my hand up, but didn’t.
Then, the next person said, “I have a Dachshund, and I want more of them. So my dream was to have about six of them and I saw all these little joyful stubby legs running around in my visualization.”
What were the odds both women would share about dogs? And about Dachshunds specifically? I took the hint.
Raising my hand tentatively, I told the group (about 20 people), “I am writing a novel called Dog Park, and I imagined it being published, and I almost didn’t share, but it is about a Dachshund named Choco, and I sort of felt like the last two who shared cued it up for me, and I decided to be brave enough to say it out loud.”
Sighs, and laughter, the room was so happy for me, and Liz said, “Okay, all of us are imagining Dog Park being a New York Times best seller!”
She suggested we find a way to keep our visions close to us, to be reminded of them every day. I thought of getting a Dachshund keychain, and when I got home I went straight to Etsy to find one.
In my book, Choco loves to run with the big dogs. I found this keychain and it arrived quickly. I experience joy every time I look at it. First, I mean, look at that dog. Second, I put my dream out there, and had total strangers get on board, root for me, and support me so lovingly. I feel that energy whenever I see it, and I see it every day.
I sent a Liz a photo of the keychain, and thanked her for the inspiration.
She wrote back saying she knew Dog Park would be a best seller, based on the workshop.
From her lips to God’s ears, and Choco’s.
I have been growing a garden this year. And I have been growing a novel. I have been growing a new set of nursing skills, working at a clinic for those with opioid addiction. I have been growing a new community, starting out in a new state. I’m growing a love of hiking, and growing a new relationship with my youngest child as he makes his way in the world needing me less, but not not needing me entirely.
Growing is my sense of awe and compassion for people with addiction, at how they continue to put one foot in front of the other given the burdens and traumas they carry, and the sorrows they hold, and the obstacles put in their way by society and so often themselves.
I’ve been growing my ability to set boundaries. Growing my ability to say no.
I’ve been growing my yoga teaching skills.
Growing, is my appreciation for those who do what they say they will do. Those who are who they say they are.
Growing is my capacity to recognize grief isn’t just about physical death. It is no small thing to lose friendships you thought were solid. I am growing in acceptance of what is.
For a while now, I’ve honestly felt kind of hopeless. But the tiniest roots are taking hold. I feel them reaching and grabbing onto something solid once again. I look up from my desk at the giant trees outside my window. Their branches stretch tall toward the heavens, growing, growing, their leaves rustle in a gentle breeze. Their trunks are enormous, sturdy and strong. Each of them once, a tiny seed. Each of them once, a mere possibility.
Why do you sometimes go by Ilonka? And why do you also go by Michelle? Make up your mind already, lady.
My legal first name is Ilonka. My middle name, Michelle. When I was a child, my parents and extended family called me by my middle name. This stuck all through high school. There were always at least three Michelles in my classes growing up, and I’d wondered what it would be like to have a different name, to use my first name, etc. so when I got to college I decided to try it out. The problem was, I went to a community college to start, and knew many of the other students attending. It was confusing for them, and their confusion made me squirm. I felt like an imposter, imagining them thinking, what the heck is she trying to pull, calling herself by this strange name? But, this is where the first set of people who call me Ilonka come from. It ultimately became too stressful for me to have to explain that it was my actual name, and to draw that kind of attention to myself, and so I reverted back to using my middle name by the time I transferred to a four-year state university.
I happily used Michelle for the next 20+ years, and all was well. I did sometimes wonder what it would be like to use my first name though.
When we moved to Florida in 2013, I figured this was my last chance. I was in my forties. I knew no one, and could introduce myself however I wanted. So I began using my first name. All was well. It was interesting how people you meet just automatically call you what you tell them your name is? It’s fantastic! It is also interesting how people who have known you forever are NOT going to call you a new name. I say this not to judge or blame them. I have a friend who I called Kathy all through high school, and come to find out, she preferred Kathleen. 30-years later it still takes a lot of effort for me to switch to Kathleen in my brain when I am addressing her. I get it.
There were the rare few sweet souls, who diligently made the switch, or attempted to. I can count them on one hand and love them for trying. I feel quite a bit of guilt for their struggle with it.
My kids and my husband didn’t bat an eye when I started using my first name. They’d never called me Michelle or Ilonka anyway. Whatever, mom.
So…all was well for Ilonka, until the 2016 election. Now Trump was president and the name Ivanka was in the public consciousness. Starting around that time, I suddenly, multiple times per day, was mistakenly called Ivanka instead of Ilonka. It got to be too much. And since I had this other perfectly good name, my middle name, that half the people I knew already called me, and had always called me, I decided to switch back when we moved to South Carolina.
I really don’t care whether you call me Ilonka or Michelle. At this point I weave back and forth seamlessly, almost how one feels comfortable being called a nickname. So please, whichever name you are used to, call me that with wild abandon. I’m using Michelle for my writing, as my first book was under that name and it is what I am currently using, and probably will be from here on out. Blame Ivanka.
Hope that clears things up for anyone who was wondering. Though I am sure on your list of things to think about or concerns for the day, these names of mine are nary a blip.
Charlotte’s Web is the book that made me a lifetime reader. I was about eight-years old, and the child of an alcoholic. Life was stressful, but I had no point of reference and nowhere to go with it. Charlotte’s Web had me crying my eyes out. Even though it was so very sad, I felt better after reading it. I needed that cry. Did you have a gateway book that set you on a lifetime path of reading?
Out on my morning walk, I look up and seemingly out of nowhere a pedestrian appears about 50 yards ahead on the sidewalk, walking in the same direction I’m going in.
I am irritated.
This part of the walk is irritating in general, it is a small stretch on a busy six-lane road. I’m only on it for about five minutes, as it connects me from one gated Florida neighborhood to the next, where I walk in little bubbles of peace, (so spoiled) with hardly any traffic at all.
But there she is.
She’s not walking fast enough for me not to gain on her.
If I run, I could pass her by quickly, but it is hot-as-hell and I’m not running. I do not have the right bra on for that.
She’s going almost my pace, but a teensy bit slower. I don’t want to scare her as I come from behind her. I wish she wasn’t there. I either have to slow down, or I have to awkwardly walk beside her at almost the same pace for a while before passing her.
With the social isolation of Covid-19, you’d think I’d welcome seeing another human on the path. Am I getting so used to being alone, I don’t even like people anymore?
Wouldn’t a healthy response to seeing another person be gladness?
But lo, I am not glad.
A spiritual teacher, and I can’t remember who, said something like:
“When you are in traffic, and irritated with the traffic, remember that you too are the traffic.”
I laugh at myself. Here I am, thinking it’s all about me. As if I have more claim to the sidewalk than she does. How very U.S.A. of me.
All this time I’m slowly gaining on her.
Taking a new strategy, I look at her. Like a person, not like someone who is in my way.
She’s preppy. She’s wearing shorts and a polo shirt. She’s got a pony tail. She’s probably about my age. No. Maybe older. Maybe 60.
I ease in with some metta, in my mind:
May you be peaceful and happy.
May you be free from harm.
May you be as healthy and strong as you can be.
May you live your life with ease and well-being.
That felt pretty good. From there, I continue:
May you and everyone you know and love be safe from Covid-19.
May you have the gift of taking many deep breaths today.
She’s now 25 yards ahead, oblivious I am behind her.
From here I can see she’s got brown hair with honey colored highlights.
May your hair come out exactly how you want it, every time you go to a salon.
I add:
May you eat delicious and healthy food.
May you feel good in your clothes.
Still gaining on her. No longer irritated.
If you are hurting in any way, may you be consoled.
If you are afraid in any way, may you feel held and supported.
I’m committed now, and on a roll.
May your car never break down!
May you always have health care!
May they never stop making your favorite Ben & Jerry’s flavor!
May your inner dialogue be kind.
May you be free.
I’m really gaining on my new friend.
May your day be filled with laughter.
May you never be without a good book.
May you find a good and trustworthy handyman to fix all the things that need fixing in your home at a reasonable price!
I’m ten feet behind her, she glances over her shoulder, notices me, and then, suddenly I’m at my turn, I’m going right, but she’s staying straight. As I head into my neighborhood I look back, thinking,
Bye! Sorry about my attitude earlier!
(Not that you knew anything about it).
Thank you.
Amen.
The new monthly Flow Writer Drop-in class starts on Friday, August 21 at 4PM. Mark your calendars for the third Friday of every month!
This class is a taste of the 4-part series. Come monthly, or drop-in as you like. No obligation to sign up for the series. Flow writer dabble. Would love to have you join us as we move and breathe and write and share (only if you want to) and grow.
These are some of the things I saw yesterday:
The ocean. Calm, hardly any waves.
A motor boat with an American flag on top, zipping past across the water.
A man asleep on a bench. His belly big and round in a too tight, dirty, light blue t-shirt.
A mural on a wall with bright colors featuring the round and joyful faces of children.
I saw a couple in wedding attire, at 7AM. Posing for photos. Her dress white, she wore flats. Her two attendants wore red. She walked into the dirty public rest room at the beach in her wedding dress. I worried. For her dress. For her future. And I wondered, are they just starting their day? It’s awfully early. Or did they get married yesterday, party all night, and this is why she’s lackadaisical about dragging that dress into a filthy, bathroom? (If you know these bathrooms, the floors are usually covered in a combo of wet dirt and sand). I’ll never know.
I saw a group of about a dozen black bicyclists. They were men and women, so beautiful, and fit, and friendly. A few of them bid me good morning as they sped past and over the intracoastal waterway.
I saw boats in the water. They looked dreamy from far away, but from above on a bridge I could see that was fantasy. They were rusty and beaten up and did not look romantic. There was an industrial feel to them.
I saw a bunch of women taking a Zumba class in the park. A middle-aged man (my age)walked by and referring to the class across the way did a little Zumba dance with a twinkle in his eye as a nod and hello to me as he kept going.
I saw a group of homeless people hanging out, having what seemed like a party. Sitting on a public wall, they were loud, greeting each other. Hugging. One man, or was it a woman? In a tank top, he/she/they released huge plumes of cigarette smoke into the air, social distancing the least of his/her/their concerns.
This was all before 8AM.
As writers we tend to notice things. We hang back and observe. We catch the flicker of sunlight through the tree leaves. We notice the timber of a person’s voice. Many of us keep an active notebook going of little tidbits, gems we pick up on the road to save for later. Writing requires mindfulness.
This act of observation is true of yogis as well, but it is more of an inward focus. When we practice, when we meditate, we do our best to stay in the moment. We tune into our bodies, so we can notice our feelings, our emotions, and not let them have their way with us so much. We practice and practice and we fall down and we blow it, and we get back up and keep coming back to the mat, back to our breath. Noticing. Breathing. Falling. Feeling. Practicing mindfulness, trying to be present.
Where does this emotion land in my body?
What does this scene evoke in me? How can I bring the visceral feeling it gives me to the page so a reader might feel it too?
Writing and yoga both help me process being alive. If I go too long without either, I feel out of sorts.
Both help me find more compassion for myself and for others. For me, they go hand in hand.
This breath in.
This breath out.
If you are inspired to, I hope you will join me in a 4-part Flow Writer series at The Sattva Wisdom Center, starting July 12. Early bird discount ends July 6th. Sign up here.
Michelle O'Neil,Writer 