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.]

Says my fourth grade son, very seriously, today after school.  The deep breath and pursed lips told me this was going to be big. 

“I know you put my presents under the tree.”

“What are you talking about?  We don’t even have a tree yet.”

“At Christmas, before, I know you’re the one that puts my presents under the tree.  Matthew Owen said.”

My disappointment was surely palpable.  I didn’t want this day to come.  Had I known that last year was the last year he would believe, I would have savored it more. 

I do remember thinking to myself that 2011 would likely be the last Christmas my last baby would believe in Santa Clause.  Sometimes I hate being right all the time.  Well, most of the time.  OK, sometimes.

I took a long breath myself, stalling, trying to think of a way to convince him otherwise, “And what do you think about that?”

He thought a moment; even put his finger up to his lips, and looked skyward. 

Then he threw his arms around my ample middle and rested his head on my soft breasts, because he’s still that small, and said earnestly, “I just want you to keep doing it!” 

He looked up at me with the smile that always melts my heart, and the love that is always in his eyes, and I felt his thank you, even if he didn’t have the words to say what he was feeling. 

This boy of mine, who almost wasn’t.


Posted this to #JustWrite, please visit The Extraordinary Ordinary to read some other fantastic blogs--or perhaps even TO WRITE YOUR OWN!

The list of healthy publications he’s created is long: Clean Eating (to which I’ve personally been a loyal subscriber since its introduction in 2008), Musclemag, Oxygen, Reps!, American Curves, Maximum Fitness, and The Eat-Clean Diet® series, featuring his wife, the lovely and supremely fit, Tosca Reno.  Robert Kennedy has had an incredible influence on health and fitness over a career that spanned more than 50 years. 

Those for whom fitness and healthy eating isn’t a priority anyway, may site Kennedy’s passing as a reason to say, “Why bother?  Look at what it did for him!”  Well let me tell you exactly what I believe it did for him and why we should absolutely bother.  It is also why I will be stepping up my own fitness efforts, reaffirming my Clean Eating efforts, and NOT in the least pulling back.

Robert Kennedy lived a full and vibrant life up until his last six months or so.  He spent every day doing exactly what he wanted to do and fulfilling all the dreams and ambitions he had from an early age.  For more than 70 years of his life, he rose each morning free of pain, with boat-loads of energy; “abundant good health,” he states in his poignant and thought-provoking farewell message in the July 2012 issue of Clean Eating.  Robert Kennedy exuberantly tackled each new day.  He enjoyed and shared great success and great health throughout his life.  

In contrast, we have come to accept daily aches and pains and multitudes of prescriptions as a rite of passage associated with aging:  Sallow skin, brittle bones, diabetes, high cholesterol, robotic knees and hips, pig valves, gout, obesity, Alzheimer’s, dementia and chronic pain…these maladies and a host of others have become widely tolerated by the American public with the advent of drugs and their abundant commercials that increasingly populate the evening news (whose apparent demographic is diabetics who have to pee urgently, can’t get it up, have heart disease, high cholesterol, gastric reflux & dry eyes) as well as every other page in many magazines.  And it makes me angry.  Pick up a copy of Reader’s Digest and you will find umpteen advertisements for a variety of drugs directed at aging Baby Boomers, and if the ads aren’t for drugs, they’re coupons for highly processed and chemically laden foods that are directed toward those on a fixed income and busy moms.  Pick up a Robert Kennedy publication, and you’ll see very much the opposite.

We are the most developed nation in the world, and yet we’ve about “developed” ourselves into oblivion.  We have come to accept feeling bad as simple truths in life and as part of the aging process: 

·         ADD/ADHD

·         Asthma

·         Autism

·         Autoimmune diseases that assign an acronym, but we don’t know the cause or the cure; we simply manage

·         Celiac Disease

·         Diabetes

·         Heart Disease

·         Infant mortality/ prematurity

·         Infertility

·         …unfortunately I’ve only grazed the alphabet. 

But it doesn’t have to be that way.  We need to wake up and smell the colostomy bag, stop making excuses and MAKE BETTER CHOICES!!  Demand better choices of ourselves and of our families.  EVERY bite matters, and EVERY day that we fail to fit in purposeful exercise absolutely matters.  As does each day spent in a dead end job or career or in a toxic relationship that does anything other than feed our souls.  I don’t want to be in my 70s and wake up each morning, hobble to the bathroom, remove my soiled Depends® and sit there and wait for nothing to happen.  I’d much rather my refrigerator be overflowing with a rich variety of colorful produce that I must toil over and prepare than carry around a Rubbermaid® container filled to the brim with multitudes of prescriptions, and constantly worry about how I’ll pay for those prescriptions, because without them I’ll die. 

We have been brainwashed to believe that this is the only way to age and that there is no such thing as aging gracefully.  Despite his unsavory ending, and I’m deeply sorry for his family that he wasn’t able to write himself a better, more deserving one, I remain convinced that Robert Kennedy not only found the way, but shared the way to live.  If not always longer, he’s certainly given us every example imaginable to live a comfortable, healthy, vibrant and happy life before our bodies, as he said, “go the way of all flesh.” 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  There is no alternative to that.  But how we get there is up to us, each and every day.  It’s never too late to embrace Hippocrates’ philosophy, “Your food shall be your medicine and your medicine shall be your food,” infuse our lives with positivity, a multitude of friends and loving family, laugh often, figure out how to make a living doing what we love, move—as our bodies were created to do—and begin living our best possible lives today.

I can still see their black silhouettes--bats soared overhead against the dark of the night sky.  The yard beyond was illuminated by a big farm light that buzzed on a pole, though it wasn’t much of a farm anymore.  Pieces had been sold off over the years to encroaching industry; plastics companies that left mounds and mounds of synthetic scraps of all shapes and colors.  Bits and pieces my brother and I would collect to play with as money or food or just to inspect and toss at the fence.

We played for endless hours at my grandparent’s house.  We ate small, firm green pears until our bellies ached and we climbed the graceful, swaying willow tree, with the beckoning low branches that met at its base, stretching up like a welcome hug.  Except for the bats, this was the place I felt safest.  It was the place I felt most loved and where all our family came to gather.  Cousins, aunts, uncles and all of us, around big lace-covered tables laden with my grandmother’s delicious, aromatic cooking and colored by the loot from my grandfather’s garden.

Mornings after I slept in the room that had been my mother’s, we woke to the smell of breakfast cooking.  Thin, almost rubbery pancakes were plentiful to roll around fat sausage links and dip into sticky maple syrup that dripped down my chin.  We drank sugary, milky children’s tea from my grandmother’s dainty porcelain cups, dotted with exquisite painted violets.  I remember many summer afternoons when my grandfather and I walked in his garden; his bare, hairless knees peeked out from his shorts as a corduroy-slippered foot pressed a pitchfork into the loamy soil, turning it to reveal clumps of sweet, round new potatoes.  It was my job to fish them from the earth and carry them enfolded in my shirt to my grandmother who scrubbed them and later served them doused in salty, buttery goodness.  My grandfather’s large, firm finger disappeared into the soil alongside a fat carrot that would be left submerged until it matched or exceeded in girth and length.  He handed me round, firm but yielding tomatoes, still warm from the sun.  I bit into them like apples, and their juices dripped down in scarlet rivers off my filthy elbow.   I was covered in dirt, pink cheeked and tow headed and nothing mattered but the bees and the bounty. 

I remember my grandfather’s fondness for birds—budgies—I later learned this was an English thing when I was finally able to visit my maternal grandparents’ homeland, after they both were gone.  He always kept bird feeders among the forsythias in view of the front picture window, and was proud of the many varieties he attracted; cardinals, my favorite, orioles, canaries, his favorite, gold finches and every other kind and color imaginable.  A firm believer in hard work and a daily nap, he would lie back on the sofa, smoke his pipe and watch the birds.  Once all the smoke-rings had wasped away and the scent of the blue-tinned, apple wood tobacco had faded, he would close his eyes in the stillness, only the ticking clock and his snores disturbed the cool silence I treasured. 

Perhaps that’s why bluebirds came to tell me after six long years that my son would finally be; perhaps my grandfather sent them.  Two days in a row, two bluebirds came to the feeder outside my kitchen window.  I knew they were a sign; an omen that everything would be OK.  We had just closed our restaurant and financially our future was very uncertain.  There was the work trip to Britain my husband wouldn’t have been allowed to embark on without me, but otherwise there was only uncertainty:  temperature charting, endless research on endometriosis and polycystic ovarian syndrome, chiropractic visits, drastic dietary adjustments, yoga, chakra balancing, progesterone cream, cleansing and fistfuls of supplements filled my days when our teenage daughters were in school.  Failure and fear filled my thoughts, until I saw those bluebirds and experienced the lush, colorful spring of London.  Suddenly my chronically acidic pH was perfectly in balance, and hope was my friend.  This was April.  And by June, I would have cause to take a pregnancy test again; prayerful that this time would turn out better than the loss we experienced two years before.

The bluebirds weren’t the only sign my grandfather sent.  When I finally gave birth to the boy I’d waited so very long to hold, my grandfather, dead at 100 years of age just the year before, came to me in a deeply vivid, drug-induced dream.  Not the bent over, feeble, occasionally sound minded, but impish and twinkle-eyed nonetheless grandfather, but the Grandpa of my youth.  The one who sported Elvis Costello glasses, a dapper seer-sucker suit and a straw hat; all of his five-foot-four-inch frame with its great, strong farm hands the size of a man’s over six feet tall, with their “educated thumbs” that could crack walnuts and put every man in our family on his knees during the required, humbling handshake greeting.      

Perhaps it was merely a memory of when I was not yet two and my baby brother was born; the hospital halls were lined with backless, vinyl, mustard-toned benches, and the hushed nurses hurried along in their skirts, white hosiery and clunky white shoes, not the scrubs and white Birkenstocks worn by my actual nurses.  Someone else was with him.  Man or woman, I’ll never know, because my husband woke me, thinking I was having a nightmare.  But I wasn’t.  I was deliriously happy to see the Grandpa of my youth, so very proud to show him my baby boy and grateful for the chance to thank him for the bluebirds.

Photo courtesy of:  Sandysphotos2009 (20100415_86  Uploaded by Snowmanradio) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons