I'd have to say that 2012 has been one of my best years, and I know without a doubt that it's due to something that changed within me. 

You've heard it before, and I'm going to say it again:  ATTITUDE.  Yes, it turns out, Attitude is Everything, and we ALL have the power to get there.  Now don’t stop reading because you think you’ve heard it before…give me a chance to explain:

When life gave me lemons (ie: living so far away from the place and the people I love), I Made Lemonade.  I Decided.  I Took Control.  I Took Action.  I Took Risks.  I DID SOMETHING.  I started to blog and I took creative writing classes, and I started my website, West Coast Posse, and I submitted an essay that was accepted and will be included in a BOOK this year!  Not only that, I'm writing my own book, and if I must, I will self-publish it this year.  I started this book YEARS ago.  It sat on my computer, it moved from computer to computer, but suddenly something switched inside of me, and I began actively pursuing ways to make it happen.  And.  It.  Will.  I will complete and publish, Bluebirds, the novel I know I was always meant to write, in 2013.

Now I'm a pretty determined chick, and I've done this before.  When I couldn't get pregnant, I Took Control.  I Took Action.  I DID SOMETHING.  When modern medicine failed me, I doggedly pursued and researched ways of improving my chances.  I questioned.  I changed.  I adapted.  I kept my goals of having a baby in my mind every waking moment, and I doggedly pursued my chosen path.  The path that spoke to me in whispers.  I was quiet, and I listened.  I didn't allow anything to shake me.  I kept at it, and kept at it, until I met success.  After six long years and one miscarriage, GlutenNaziMom was born, and so was GlutenNaziKid.  He'll turn ten years old in 2013. And in 2013, GlutenNaziMom, the website that I started four years ago, will actually become something.

I wanted to be a stay at home mom.  It felt like the right thing to do, and I have loved it.  Not every moment.  But overall, there’s nothing better I could have possibly done with the last 9.75 years than to see two daughters through adolescence and to see each of them, in her own way, get married (both in the last quarter of) this past year, and to see one spectacular little boy successfully navigate fourth grade. 

Being a SAHM has put a lot of pressure on my husband.  It’s cost us financially, but so did me working and being unhappy in one unfulfilling job after another.  I couldn’t see how to do both, but I’ve felt this niggling at the back of my mind that I was the key.  I was the key to my family’s financial freedom; to my own sense of purpose and fulfillment.  I’ve written my entire life, and it’s something I’ve gone back to again and again.  But I lacked the confidence to test the waters before.  They remain largely untested, but instead of ignoring the niggling, I’m listening.  I’m listening to that little voice inside of me, who’s been telling me for years that this was something I needed to do.  I’m not standing outside the fence, watching the merry-go-round of life happen to everyone else.  I’m not being a victim of circumstances that brought us back home and unemployed, I’m USING everything that’s happened before, everything that I know, every person I’ve met along the way, and I’m putting all the pieces together to make something happen in 2013. 

And I couldn’t have done it without each one of you.  Without every positive comment that gave me wings, and every negative comment that made me try harder, I could never have kept striving, kept believing, kept writing.  DOING SOMETHING, whether it elicits positive response or negative, is so very much better than living in a void, than doing absolutely nothing but waking up every morning and taking up space—than sucking the Light out of the Universe.

So I’m giving back.  You bet your sweet bippy, I’m USING what I know and who I know, but at the same time, I’m promoting others.  I’m sharing the love and the knowledge and the insight and the LIGHT and the belief that what I’ve learned in my forty-six years on this earth, and what you’ve learned in yours, can help others; can make life better and the future brighter for those who choose to Listen and to Take Action and to Start Something in their own little corner of the globe.  What’s Your Calling?

I now know that for each of us, We Are the Key.  Inside every one of us lies the power to stop complaining and stop sniveling and stop spreading doom and destruction and misery; to stop passing blame, but rather, to use everything we know to share and to inspire and to make THIS the year everything turns around.  Fiscal Cliff, be damned!  I’m not holding my breath and waiting for the government to fix my existence.  I’m going out there and making it happen for myself, for my family, and for anyone who wants to Decide—who wants to Choose—who wants to Take Action and come along.  If we each look inside and make it Our Responsibility and Our Purpose, and spread that Attitude and Intention to our neighbors and around our blocks and around our towns and around Our Nation and maybe even the WORLD—we Each Have the Power to Make 2013 The Best Year We’ve Ever Known!

The contents of Lynn’s stomach splattered the tops of her bare feet without warning, speckled the couch, and quickly seeped between the floorboards.  She’d dropped her coffee cup which shattered, it’s contents joining her barely digested breakfast that was now everywhere. 

Ben had forced her to eat something; made her a cup of coffee, and handed her one measly piece of toast with smashed banana, even though she hadn’t felt like eating in days.  This was the longest she’d been home in…what was it?  Seven?  Ten days? 

The mirror told her this morning what Ben had known—she needed a shower, she needed to really eat something, and she needed to be someplace other than the hospital, even if only for a couple hours to sleep in her own bed and have a few moments respite.  He’d told her he would stay with Samuel until she got back.  This wasn’t the way she wanted to spend the time; cleaning vomit and the perfect home-brewed cup of coffee she didn’t get to drink from the microfiber, from her still damp hair, from between the floorboards, from between her toes.

Lynn sighed; continued to survey the mess, without really seeing it clearly.

Poor tiny Samuel.  He hadn’t vomited in days, because he’d finally been placed on a feeding tube. 

She missed the sound of keys jingling in the lock.

“Yoo hoo!  Anybody home?”  Her mother’s voice shattered the dim stillness.    

“Mom?”  The word croaked out between dry lips.

“Hello, Dear…what the…?”

Betsy quickly surveyed Lynn’s dim look, still outstretched hands that shook slightly, trace of spittle on her lip and in her hair, and moved to the mess on the floor. 

“Oh, Lynnette, what’s happened to you?”

She deposited her things in a nearby chair, after checking to make sure it wasn’t dirtied, and guided her daughter to tiptoe just enough away from the splat.  She rushed to the kitchen, searched drawers for a dish cloth and waited as long as she dared for the water to warm slightly.  She hurried back to Lynn and gently wiped her face, her hands, and down the length of her honey-toned hair.  She bent with effort to wipe the tops of her feet, wiggling the cloth between her toes.  Betsy took her elbow and guided her to sit at the dining room table, all the while, her lips pursed and eyeing her daughter from time to time over her glasses.

As she watched her mother go about wiping up the floor and scrubbing at the couch, she waited for the onslaught to come.  This was, in fact, the perfect situation for her mother to get all worked into a pissy frenzy and let loose, Lynn thought dully.  Clean and bitch, clean and bitch.

“You’ve probably caught something from that damned hospital,” she finally half mumbled, while she scrubbed vigorously.  A clump of hair escaped from the heavily sprayed helmet she wore, and bounced to the effort.

 “Why on earth did you have to take this on, Lynnette?  With everything you’ve been through, what were you and Ben thinking?  He never should have allowed it.  I told him there was no way I was picking up any more pieces with this fixation of yours, and here I am, cleaning up this goddamned mess.”

Lynn watched as her mother hefted herself up off her knees, her face reddened with effort and anger, and lined, perhaps, with worry.  With years of worry, she supposed, though the often stilted or merely absent communication in recent years left Lynn wondering whether she did care.  She couldn’t imagine what, in fact, her mother was doing here.

“Mother.  Why are you here?”

“Ben called last night.  He wanted me to come.  So I came.”  She gestured around the room, then hurried to the kitchen to dispose of paper towels, broken crockery, and to rinse out the dish cloth. 

Lynn watched her squirt it with soap and work it into a lather before rinsing it again and again.  She looked back at the couch and could see a swoop of clean area where the dust had been cleared from under it.  Her arms felt like lead, and as badly as she still wanted a cup of coffee, she couldn’t seem to muster herself to get up.

“Could I have some water?”

“What?  Oh yes, yes of course.”  Cabinets opened and closed until she apparently found the one she needed.

Lynn didn’t know why she had to look so hard.  Her kitchens were laid out exactly like her mother’s had always been:  spices and hot mitts near the stove, silverware, dishes and glasses nearest the dishwasher, cleaning things under the sink, and at least one junk drawer nearest the phone.  Even though she hadn’t exactly gotten to know the home her daughter shared with her husband, she ought to have been able to figure it out.  Maybe she was making a point.  Lynn wouldn’t put it past her.

“No, Mom.  Not from the tap.  There’s a pitcher in the fridge.”

Exasperated, Betsy made a dramatic gesture of dumping it into the sink and schlepping to the fridge, wrenching it open, and sloshing water into the glass.  She handed her daughter her glass of water and then made another dramatic gesture of getting her own from the tap.

Betsy drummed the counter for a moment, then rolled her eyes and brought her water over to sit with her daughter at the table.  She placed an uncertain hand over her daughter’s. 

“So, what’s going on with the little boy, Lynn?  Is this it?” 

Lynn could see her mother trying to be sympathetic.  But she couldn’t quite let go of the weeks of silent treatment that easily.  She pulled her hand away.

“You mean, what’s going on with my son?  He’s days away from death, Mom, that’s what.”

“Oh, Lynnette, how can you call that boy your son?  You’ve only known him a few short weeks.  How could you let yourself get so involved in this madness?  You’ve set yourself up for nothing but a heartache.  It’s insane.  You look horrible; clearly you’re sick yourself….”

“I don’t expect you to understand any of this, Mother.  I certainly can’t explain to you, of all people, the connection I feel with Samuel.  He simply is my son, was already my son, before we even made it official.  He was my son from the first moment I began reading to him in the hospital.  I don’t understand it fully myself…it just…IS.”

“Why couldn’t you have adopted a nice, normal child who you could actually be a mother to?  Just holding court in a hospital, waiting for a child to die, is no way to be a mother!”  Betsy stood suddenly, rocking their half empty glasses.

Lynn stood to meet her fiery eyes, “Being with him as he dies is the only way to be Samuel’s mother!  He’s seven years old, Mother.  How could he possibly die alone, with no one ever having loved him?  Even after he dies, I’ll be Samuel’s mother forever, which is better than being no mother at all.  I didn’t know whether I had the capacity to love another child.  Not until we did this.  Ben has wanted to adopt, but I wouldn’t even consider it.  Yes, my heart will be broken, but it will also be full; full of the realization that I can love a child who isn’t biologically mine, even an imperfect one.  And that is a beautiful thing, Mother, whether you agree with the methodology or not!” 

Lynn’s tears were flowing freely now.  Wrenching sobs shook her shoulders, as Betsy stood there, frozen and stiff.

“I didn’t choose this.  I didn’t know this would happen when I rode the elevator up to the Peds floor that day—when that little boy looked at me with those eyes—I, I couldn’t look away… I certainly couldn’t walk away.  Oh, Mom.  However will I finish this?”

Betsy’s arms engulfed her daughter roughly, and her own tears mixed with her fresh shampoo and awakened it’s orange blossom scent.  Several moments passed before either of them could speak.

Betsy pushed away from her daughter gently, brushed hair and tears from her face and cupped her cheeks in her cool hands, forcing her to look up. 

“You’ll just do it, that’s how.  Because that’s what mother’s do, Lynn.  They clean up vomit, and they wipe tears, and they hold their children while they sob, even if they’re mad as hell at them.  And if we’re lucky enough or cursed enough, we get to be there to hold them when they need us most.  I’m so sorry I haven’t been here for you, Dear.  But I’m here now.”  Betsy took her daughter’s hand, “Now where are your shoes.  We need to get you back to the hospital.”

By Kimberly Jorgensen Gane, © 2012, all rights reserved.

[Our prompt this week was the beautiful photo above, by Diana Gonsalves, which fit a scene I needed to write perfectly.]

The funny thing about our world these days is that Social Media vehicles like Twitter and Facebook have made it much smaller than it once was.  Due to the recent events in Newtown, Connecticut and the immediacy of shared information, other countries are suddenly offering their input and participating in a dialog that was once uniquely American.  I’m new to Twitter, but I’m becoming more and more aware that I could be talking to someone across oceans, and certainly across thousands of miles of tundra.  I could be talking to someone who isn’t American, about a topic that concerns Americans, because suddenly it weighs heavily on the hearts and in the minds of the world.

Such was the case last evening when a dialog began about gun control and mental health between two mothers in two different countries.  In the shorthand that is unique to Twitter, we only whispered at the surface, but I am building a great deal of respect for her views on success and failure, and we and the brilliant minds at Leadership Voices agree on the need for an urgent global discussion on mental wellness.  Irene Becker is a business coach and consultant with Just Coach It in Canada, and I am actually working with a business coach, Nancy Kaye, of Define Your Destiny in San Diego, California.  These women and others like them share a vision of the potential that can be reached by many who may have previously seen themselves as failures.  And it’s quite possible these two fine, smart, beautiful spirits who are trying to heal the hearts and the minds of the clients they work with, one at a time, may share some other similarities in their views on gun control.

I have a unique perspective on the issue of gun control, in that my husband is an ex-police officer/ firefighter/ paramedic and is a nationally recognized security expert who specializes in Business Continuity Planning that encompasses active shooter and violence in the workplace programs. 

We’re from Michigan, and we tend to be prepared sorts.  That being said, neither of us is against federal mandates for stricter gun control policies as they pertain to the consistent vetting (across the country) for past criminal and mental health issues, right to privacy be damned—I would not be opposed to such background checks on all members of legal age in a prospective household, a waiting period not to exceed a week, for example, safety checks and required safety courses.  With his background, my husband was part-owner of a gun store in our town for a time and served as gunsmith and armor to many of the local law enforcement agencies.  On occasion I worked in that gun store, and thus had to go through the extensive training and testing and obtain a Concealed Pistol License (CPL) myself.  I understand there are those who have very differing views on and feelings about guns than many of the rest of us in the US, as I’m sure we do on other issues.  Much like the taboo of mental illness, this wasn’t something I often felt I could talk about in California, as I imagine it wouldn’t be in many circles in Canada and other countries.  I must tell you, however, as a 5’0” woman who has been the victim of date-rape and who spent years as a single mom, I rather enjoy feeling competent and prepared; less scared and less like a potential victim all the time.

I suspect the incidence of all crimes is lower in Canada than in the US.  But here we are, and suddenly taking guns away from law-abiding citizens while leaving them in the hands of criminals and psychos who don’t abide by the laws of the land, amounts to piss poor planning.  However, Leadership Voices, Irene and Nancy are definitely onto something when they speak about the amount of stress under which our society lives and functions on a daily basis.  I’ve seen it first hand, having lived in Chicago for a time when our daughters were young, and more recently having lived in San Diego for two years.  We have chosen to return to our small, Midwestern town, where the pace and the demand and the traffic and the competition and the stress is far lower than what we experienced in either of those two bustling metropolitan areas, and frankly where I’m less afraid (and better prepared) to walk the streets.  There was a school shooting at Kelly Elementary School in Carlsbad, California, not fifteen minutes north of our house when we first arrived there.  There were two incidences of highway snipers that occurred in the short time we lived there, the 2nd one ending with an incident AT our freeway exit.  There were robberies in malls, there were home invasions, there occurred two murders of cab drivers two exits to the south of ours in an area we frequented with out of town guests; all and much more in the short time we lived in California.

In our experience and in fact, the problems don’t stem from those of us who legally and responsibly own guns for the protection of our homes.  The problems tend more to come from those for whom guns have been purchased by others, or from those who illegally possess guns.  My hometown in Michigan sits on a stretch of highway that runs between Detroit and Chicago.  There is a great deal of drug running that occurs, and there is plenty of gun violence that occurs in the socioeconomically depressed and welfare dependent town that sits right across the river from ours.  We cross the river to go to the movies, and we cross the river to do our Christmas shopping.  Thus, we are occasionally the victims of muggings and other crimes, particularly this time of year, and shoplifting and petty larceny is rampant. 

Among the difficulties of the recent events in Newtown, CT, for me, is the fact that it has taken away an insular sense of security I once treasured here in my hometown.  Mine is very like the town of Newtown: lakeside, quaint, picturesque, we parent and love one another’s children without restraint; we look out for our neighbors.  Sandy Hook Elementary is a school very similar to my son’s.  The staff and the children who lost their lives, and ALL of the town’s and the nation’s and the world’s parents and citizens who grieve them, look and sound very similar to those in our town.  And even while I grieve my own and my children’s loss of innocence in such times, I have a strong sense that the past several years of economic destruction in many American families has left us heartbroken and emotionally, mentally, and financially battered.  Those with the capacity for hope and the mental stability to do as Irene so aptly describes in her essay, Winning the New War, to use our Constructive Discontent to Fail Forward, will survive and with the help of people like Irene and Nancy use our skills to grow and perhaps even to excel in these times.  It is the perpetually poverty-stricken, the sick and the tortured, the ones who suffer from undiagnosed and untreated mental illness, PTSD, and even chemical imbalances that can sometimes be attributed to something as simple as food sensitivities, who are clearly more susceptible to urges that lead them to take their pain and their anger out on innocent victims.

But patting them on their heads and holding their hands and telling them that it will be OK and being afraid to discuss mental illness or to reach out for help that isn’t there; caring more for their civil rights than for their mental health and the safety of others, clearly isn’t doing enough to ensure the health and safety of the public at large, and it must be immediately addressed. 

Americans will always feel differently about guns than Canadians and those in other countries do, because Americans have had to fight hard for our freedoms, and Americans have had to fight for the weak and for those who have been inhumanely treated by their own governments.  But what of our own?  We are the self-appointed and globally-appointed protectors of freedom and justice in this world, and that ideology isn’t likely to change any time soon.  Now we just need to find a way to heal our own troubled nation and protect the children in our own backyards and schoolyards, classrooms and hallways.

Taking the right to bare arms away from law-abiding Americans is akin to “changing the minds” (a la Paul Ryan in the vice presidential debate) of Middle Eastern nations or changing women’s minds about the right to choose—from either perspective.  That’s a war nobody wants to take on.  Perhaps we can, however, come to a reasonable compromise about important things like background checks for all persons of age in a prospective household, waiting periods, trigger locks, safety checks and safety courses.

I wouldn’t be GlutenNaziMom if I didn’t relay the fact that much of the anger and the malcontent that exists in our country can be attributed both to what is lacking (vital nutrients/ variety) and to what is present (GMOs, sugar, chemicals and additives) in our Standard American Diet—S.A.D.  And there’s a reason the acronym is so very, very SAD.

We must realize that all of the pieces and the parts are connected.  I am a sometimes reasonably liberal and sometimes reasonably conservative chick—founding member of the Enlightened Middle Majority—who occasionally likes to very safely shoot guns, who has chosen both life and otherwise, and thus could never presume to “choose” for another woman, and who has pulled herself out of the depths of poverty as a single parent and for a season contemplated suicide, and who believes that Health Care Reform as it sits is faulty, at best.  How can it support itself if NO ONE is paying a copay?  The math simply doesn’t work.  And what earthly good can it do if we don’t address mental health in the process?  If we continue to fail to address or even discuss Welfare Reform?  Mind, Body, Spirit; it’s all interconnected, from an individual standpoint, and from our nation’s. 

Guns and the right to bare arms, religious freedom as well as the freedom not to worship are organic and fundamental pieces of the ideology on which this country was built.  Mr. President, you may have won the election because for just enough the alternative was unpalatable, but you have a long way to go before you win over and heal the hearts and the minds and the pocketbooks of the Greatest Nation and of the world.  And until we as a nation come together, support one another, and collectively do so, unthinkable and unacceptable horrors such as the one in Sandy Hook Elementary school last Friday, such as the one in the mall in Newport Beach, California, three days before, and the one in the movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, before that, will only continue to happen and likely continue to escalate.  I think we can all agree that nobody wants to see that happen in their corner of small town America, or anywhere.