Socialize!  Find us here--->>
GANEPossible.com
  • Welcome!
    • #Write2TheEnd
    • Press / Media
    • GANE Possible Calendar
  • GANE MOMENTUM-WORK
    • Gallery >
      • Contact/Disclosure
      • Newsletter/Email Signup
      • Puppy Dog Tales
      • #JudyBlumeProject
  • GANE Empowered Wellness
    • GANE Wellness Blog
  • GANE Insight
    • GANE Insight Blog

GANE Insight: Kim Jorgensen Gane's Blog

I'm no longer directionally challenged--I have a clear vision to celebrate #MOREin2014 via GANEPossible.com. Preempting my novel in progress, Bluebirds, I'm very close to releasing my first GANE Possible publication (prescriptive "Dr. Mom" nonfiction), Beating the Statistics: A Mother's Quest to Reclaim Fertility, Halt Autism & Help Her Child Grow From Behavior Failure to Behavior Success. I'm also working on completing my memoir, My Grandfather's Table: Learning to Forgive Myself First.

It took a lifetime to get here. This blog documents my quest to self-fulfillment through my writing, and ultimately to shifting my focus to Beating the Statistics & My Grandfather's Table and speaking about them. They are the wellness and the memoir parts of my journey that had to be told, so that Bluebirds can one day be the meaningful, but fictional *story* it aspires to be.

Follow Kim on Facebook

REMEMBERING 911

9/11/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
I was working in our restaurant when a customer burst through the door and asked if we had a TV.  We did not, so he ran to his shop and brought us a little black and white one, the kind with the old rabbit ears.

It was the quietest that restaurant had ever been, the most food ever left on plates, and the tips were sparse.  The only hollow sounds were those of burners clicking, ventilation blowing.  Even the newscasters left many silent spaces between their attempts to speculate and explain.

There was no explanation.  Nothing could make sense of anything we were seeing.

The laughter and the joy and the community camaraderie you could always find at our restaurant were gone in an instant.  Like a giant vacuum had come in and sucked it all away, and it never did get its life back.  I’m sure there are others that were much more closely impacted that still feel like they’ve never gotten their lives back.

The restaurant industry was hit particularly hard, however, when (what felt like, and in some ways probably was) the world decided they wanted to hold on to whatever hadn’t been lost, eat at home, be with their children, gather close around the family table again.

Our restaurant was too young and couldn’t bear the sudden downturn in business that shut off the summer season so soon and so finitely.  Sadly, we had to close the following April, almost exactly three years after we’d opened.  We should have closed the previous November, and to this day we feel the financial ramifications of not doing so.  But we were worried about our employees through the winter, and it was so hard to let go of the dreams, the intentions, the maybes, the what-ifs.

Had we not closed when we did, I believe with every piece of my soul that my son would not be here.

Infertility was a battle I fought every day we owned that restaurant.  I had a miscarriage on a morning that no one was coming in to open and cook and be ready for customers at 6 a.m., but me.  I was bleeding.  I knew it was happening.  But I couldn’t leave.  We’d been trying four years at that point.

The month after we closed though, after my pH was suddenly, magically in balance absent the daily stress of operating the restaurant, which has an adverse chemical impact on the body, I saw my bluebirds, and I was given hope.

We traveled to England for my husband’s work.  That’s what the UK was called when I was a little girl, and it was the homeland of both of my maternal grandparents—there was no question, I was going.  Even amid all the money troubles we had like so many other restaurant owners across the country, I felt such a connection to my heritage and like my personal healing had truly begun.

Just a few short months later, after six long years—72 some months of disappointment—I had reason to take a pregnancy test again, and it was positive.  Even though we lived in a world that was broken and crazy, for us the Universe had finally aligned, and I knew it was meant to be.

Because I believed so deeply in the omen of those bluebirds sent by my Gramps.

Because tragedy and struggle happen, but life is for the living, and it goes on.

And every day that we wake up.  And we throw off our covers.  And we set our feet on the floor.  Has the potential to be beautiful.

God bless this one.


0 Comments

SPECIAL BACK-TO-SCHOOL #JUDYBLUMEPROJECT GUEST POST BY AUTHOR JIM DENNEY, PART ONE: MARTIAN GIRL

9/9/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
Happy Back-to-School with the #JudyBlumeProject!  I have a very special surprise, even to my partner, Dana @thekitchwitch, with a four-part series that begins today with installment one.  On Thursday, I will post installment two, with installments three and four posting next week, again on Monday and Thursday.

I am thrilled to present this amazing guest post in four parts by author, Jim Denney, of the Timebenders series.  I became friends with Jim on Twitter, my son has read (LOVED!) the first book in his series, Battle Before Time, and Jim thinks the world of Judy Blume, and our little #JudyBlumeProject (GAH!).  As a MG author himself, he thinks so much of Judy Blume, that among his many projects, he took time out to write and share this riveting story, Martian Girl, with US!  GRATEFUL!

I'm certain you'll enjoy this ode to seemingly everyone's favorite, Judy's Margaret.  Check out our Facebook page, we now have a PROJECT PAGE, and you'll see that nearly every post to date includes AYTGIMM among the most meaningful and life-affirming of Judy Blume's prolific works for generations of tween girls during the angst-ridden onset of puberty.  And rightly so.  I hope this shows that any manner of respect you'd like to pay to Judy will be considered, and I hope this will inspire more men (young or young at heart) to contribute their thoughts and memories to our wonderful little project that one day hopes to be published as an anthology to honor our Judy.  
 (Love ya, Dana!  Hope this brightens your back-to-school!  Read this to the Minxes--maybe it'll make them think twice about peeving off my momma-friend!  "Straight to Mars, I tell ya!")  JK, kinda.

Without further ado, I'm thrilled to present...drum roll....



MARTIAN GIRL
BY JIM DENNEY
Part One:  My Last Day On Earth

        


        Tomorrow's my last day on Earth.

        My dad says, "Zandria, you always over-dramatize things." But I'm not over-dramatizing this. I'm leaving Earth tomorrow.

        So God, if you're out there somewhere, please do something. I don't want to go to Mars!

        I'm talking to you on my Amulet, God, because Mom told me I should pray every day and I should keep a diary. She said, "You always have your Amulet on a chain around your neck—you should use it to record your thoughts and feelings."

        But I have to be honest with you, God—I'm really not sure I believe in you. Mom wants me to talk to you every day, but Dad says you don't exist. So when I'm around Mom, I'm religious. When I'm around Dad, I don't mention your name. And when I'm by myself, I'm confused.

        I have to be careful that no one else is listening when I talk to you. So let's just keep this between you and me. I mean, if you're there.

        I'm really sad we're leaving San Pedro. I like it here. I like going to the beach. I like my friends. San Pedro may be old and dirty, but it's my home. I'm thirteen years old, and I've never been farther away from home than the Santa Monica Pier.

        Dad always promised that someday, when he had enough money saved up, we'd go to Disneyland. But he never saved up the money, and now I'll never get to go. And I'll never get to see Yosemite or the Grand Canyon or New York either.

        Why do we have to move to Mars? Horrible, cold, dreary Mars! I have to stop thinking about it or I'll cry.

        They won't let us take many of our belongings, so we held a big yard sale and sold almost everything we own. I had to sell all my dresses. Mom said they don't wear dresses on Mars. Everybody wears baggy white jumpsuits. Yuck.

        The few things we still own are loaded on the rented van in our driveway. We have to sleep on the bare floors of our poor little empty house tonight. It's so sad!

        Early tomorrow morning, we'll drive to the Spaceport and take off for Mars. Even though I hate leaving San Pedro, I don't blame Dad. It's not his fault he lost his job at the factory.

        Stupid bad economy! Dad says there are too many people, not enough jobs, and not enough money to go around. I don't know why the government doesn't just print more money and give it to us. I mean, doesn't that make sense, God? But no! The government can't help my dad have a job here on Earth, but it can pay us to move to Mars!

        I think the government is stupid.

        I don't know very much about Mars, God, but it must be a really awful place if the government has to pay people to move there. Dad says it won't be so bad. I asked him if I'll get to ride a bicycle or take walks on Mars. He said no, it's too cold outside and there's no air pressure, and my blood would boil, then turn to ice. I'll have to live in a tunnel under the ground for the rest of my life!

        See? It's going to be just awful.

        Mom cries all the time over nothing at all. Today I tried to help her feel better about moving away. I said, "Well, at least I won't miss the hole in my bedroom wall where the rain water drips in."

        Mom burst out crying and said, "Oh, we never fixed that leak! Our poor little house! We'll never see it again."

        Really, who cries about a stupid little leak in the wall?

        But it makes me sad to leave our house. It's tiny and kind of run-down, but it's the only house I've ever lived in. It sits on top of the hill, and I can see the ocean from my bedroom window.

        When I was packing my things this morning, I heard Mom and Dad talking real quiet in the next room. I know it's wrong to eavesdrop, but I stopped packing and I went to the door and listened.

        Mom said, "Jasen, I'm so scared. I can't help it. I keep picturing our transport blowing up in mid-air. We'll all die—just like those two hundred people on the Aurora."

        Dad said, "Hannah, the Aurora was an old ship—one of those rusty converted freighters. I booked us on a brand-new passenger ship, the Nebula—safest ship in the fleet. Nothing's going to happen to us."

        "I know it's silly to worry, but I can't help—wait! Listen!"

        "Listen to what? I don't hear anything?"

        "I know. It's too quiet. You don't think Zandria overheard—"

        "How could she hear us whispering from the next room?"

        Well, whispers really do echo in an empty house. I heard every word they said. But I didn't want Mom and Dad to catch me listening, so I crept away from the doorway and pretended I'd been working the whole time.

        Dad poked his head through the doorway and said, "How's it coming, Zan?"

        I said, "Fine," and kept packing.

        Do you think the transport might blow up, God? I don't think so. I think Mom worries too much. But that's what moms do. Dad says the Nebula is a safe ship, so I'm not worried. I just wish we didn't have to go to Mars.

        So, God, if you're out there, if there's anything you can do, could you fix it so we don't have to go? I guess I'm asking for a miracle. Do you still do miracles?

        I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but here's an idea: Maybe the factory where Dad worked could call him and offer to give him his job back. Then we wouldn't have to go.

        If you have a better idea, God, that's fine with me. But you'd better hurry up because there isn't much time. We're leaving tomorrow morning.

                                                                                   #

        Hello, God. It's me, Zandria, again.

        I guess you couldn't make a miracle happen, because here we are at the Spaceport, getting ready to go to Mars.  

        It was awful leaving our little house for the last time. Mom cried, I cried, and Dad kept muttering and swearing. Mom bawled all the way to the Spaceport. After about half an hour, Dad yelled at her, "Hannah, just stop this! There's no sense crying. We have to go to Mars and that's all there is to it."

        Mom stopped crying, and she looked at Dad—and then she said the worst word I've ever heard my mother say. I didn't even know she knew that word. She hardly ever says anything bad—but oh, what she said! Then she put her hand over her mouth—and started bawling all over again.

        When we arrived at the Spaceport, we saw two transport ships on the launch ramps. One was the shiny new Nebula, the transport we have tickets for. The other is an ugly old ship with black re-entry burns all over the hull. It was so scorched and grimy, I could hardly make out the name of the ship: Titan.

        "I'm sure glad we're booked on the Nebula," Dad said. "I pity the people who have to fly in that other hunk of junk."

        So we went into the Spaceport and that's where we are right now. It's super crowded and super noisy. There are zillions of people all around, and they're all going to Mars with us. I can look out through the big windows and see the Spaceport crews unloading the crates from our van and putting them into the belly of the transport. Problem is, they're loading our stuff into the wrong transport. They're loading it aboard the Titan.

        For ten minutes, Dad's been at the Mars-Line Company desk, yelling and pounding his fist. The Mars-Line people keep telling him to calm down or they'll call Security. But they don't know my dad!

        He waved our tickets around and said, "These tickets say we have a reserved cabin aboard the Transport Nebula!"

        The man at the desk just smiled and said, "I'm sorry sir, but we had to switch you and your family to the Titan." He pointed to the burned-out old freight-hauler on the launch ramp.  

        "The Titan?" Dad shouted. "You ought to call that thing the Titanic! It's a disaster waiting to happen! We're not getting aboard that death-trap. It's even older and more broken-down than that transport that exploded last week—the Aurora."

        The man stopped smiling when Dad mentioned the Aurora. "Please lower your voice, sir," he said—and he didn't sound polite anymore. "If you'll look closely at your ticket, you'll see that the company reserves the right to substitute a different transport. I assure you, sir, that the Titan is every bit as safe and spaceworthy as the Nebula."

        Well, the man was obviously lying. The Nebula was shiny and new. The Titan was burned up, patched up, and ready to fall apart if anyone sneezed at it. And when I heard Dad call it a "death-trap," I got scared.

        Mom's sitting next to me, crying and moaning, "I knew it. We're going to blow up in a big fireball, just like the Aurora." Is she right, God? What if that old transport really does blow up—with us on it? 

        Dad's still arguing with the man at the desk. He just said, "I demand you put my family on the Nebula, just like the ticket says. If you don't, I'll sue this company for fraud!"

        "Sir," the man said, "please read the fine print on the back of your ticket. The Company reserves the right to make substitutions."

        They're arguing and Dad is swearing--

        Uh-oh. Here come the Security officers. They're talking to Dad and making him sit down and be quiet.

        It looks like we'll be leaving on the Titan. Or the Titanic, as Dad calls it. So we're going to Mars—if we don't blow up first.

        I was really counting on you for a miracle, God. I was hoping you'd think of something. But we're going to Mars on the Titanic. I hope you won't get mad at me for saying this, God, but I'm kind of disappointed in you.

                                                                                      #

        Well, God, this is just about the worst day of my life.

        They put us on a tram and took us out to the Titan. The closer we got, the more we could see all the dents and pits and patches in the hull.

        The tram pulled up at the boarding ramp, and we got off. Dad looked the Transport Titan up and down and said, "They should have junked this relic years ago."

        That set Mom off again. "We're going to die," she said. "I just know it."

        A man in uniform by the boarding ramp said, "Have a pleasant voyage."

        Dad called him a nasty name.

        We went up the boarding ramp and found our section.

        The inside of the ship is even more run-down than the outside. The seats are patched and stained. The floors are sticky. There's a funny smell.

        Dad said, "This ship is a garbage scow!"

        Mom turned around and tried to get off, but the flight attendants made us all sit down. Then they strapped us into our acceleration couches. One of the flight attendants stuck a patch on Mom's arm when she wasn't looking. In two seconds, Mom went to sleep with a smile on her face.

        Now we're getting ready for launch. I can talk to you on my Amulet because Mom's asleep and Dad's on the other side of Mom—he can't hear what I'm saying.

        They're counting down for the launch right now. Thirty seconds to go.

        Please, God, don't let us blow up like the Aurora.  

        Twenty seconds.

        I wish they'd put one of those patches on my arm. If we're going to blow up, I'd rather be sleeping like Mom when it happens.

        Ten seconds.

        Dad just leaned forward and gave me a wink, as if to say, Everything's going to be okay. I hope he's right. God, please let him be right.

        Oh! It's happening. The engine noise is so loud! It's like an explosion that goes on and on. Everything's shaking. My teeth are rattling.

        We're moving. The ship is climbing the ramp. I wish there were windows so I could see the world going by.

        I think we just shot off the end of the launch ramp. It feels like we're shooting up into the sky.

        Why is the transport shaking so much? Is that normal?

        Oh! Did you hear that loud bang, God? Something must be wrong.

        The whole ship is making horrible groaning noises. Is it coming apart? People are screaming all around me.

        Oh! There it goes again—a horrible bang! What was that noise? Did something break off the ship?

        What are those popping sounds?

        There's another bang! Oh, God, please hold our ship together. Don't let it blow up or fall apart.

        Look at Mom, will you? Still asleep!

        Oh, my stomach! The whole ship lurched.

        All around me, people are crying.

        I looked at Dad to see if he's scared, but he won't look back. He's staring straight ahead and his hands are gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles are white.

        God, when will it end? I'm so scared. When will it--

                                                                                       #

To be continued on Thursday in "Part Two: A Terrible Distraction"

Picture

























Jim Denney is the author of Writing in Overdrive: Write Faster, Write Freely, Write Brilliantly. He has written more than 100 books, including the Timebenders science fantasy adventure series for young readers--Battle Before Time, Doorway to Doom, Invasion of the Time Troopers, and Lost in Cydonia. He is also the co-writer with Pat Williams (co-founder of the Orlando Magic) of Leadership Excellence and The Difference You Make. Jim is a member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA). Follow Jim on Twitter at @WriterJimDenney.

Thanks again to author, Jim Denney, for his generous and entertaining contribution to the #JudyBlumeProject.  I think it's wonderful that he's delivered this story from the female perspective for our project.  Timebenders #1 was an excellent choice for my reluctant 4th grade reader (his first on a tablet, which he was also reluctant about).  
Check back Thursday for more!
Picture
It also bears mentioning that the #JudyBlumeProject has enjoyed fabulous support from @TigerEyesMovie on Twitter, Judy's and son, Lawrence Blume's first ever MOVIE(!) based on the Judy Blume novel, Tiger Eyes.  We are so grateful for their shares, retweets, and the heads up they've given us on some wonderful posts we hope to include in the #JudyBlumeProject.  SEE THE MOVIE-->, give them a follow and please help spread the word.
2 Comments

THE FALL OF DISNEY'S PRINCESSES AND WHAT WE'RE REALLY WITNESSING

8/26/2013

9 Comments

 
Picture
Lindsay Lohan, Amanda Bynes and Miley Cyrus have all *enjoyed* early fame at the feet of the Disney machine (or in Bynes' case, Nickelodeon), and thanks to our greed for anything they once produced. 

And then they’re not so cute anymore.    

These young people work from the time they’re my son’s age (10) or younger.  They’re traded like commodities, they’re dumped, they’re ignored, and in some cases I’d venture to guess they’re even abused.  They have no friends.  They wait endlessly in trailers surrounded by adults (some of whom are their own parents) who are there merely to make a buck off their cuteness.  And what happens when they grow up and become anything less than a bombshell to be used, traded and exploited in other ways?  

They could have a life.  But they haven’t been taught how. 

They haven’t been taught to expect friends to appreciate them as human beings, or to identify the alternative.  They feel they must buy their friends, or out-cool their friends, or out-shock their so-called friends, and then the spiral will suck them up and cast them out when the winds die down.

I can’t imagine the stillness, the emptiness, the loneliness, the devastation when those winds die down.  When the jobs dry up, and they’re no longer working longer days than laws are supposed to allow, surrounded by hair and makeup and Kraft Service.  Especially when they inevitably find themselves in that nowhere land between Disney Princess and Disney Mom.  What then?  They know no other way than to seek attention; to wear their failures out in front of a lens for the paparazzi and you and me and the entire world to see and to judge.  They become fodder for late night jokes, and for hash tags they can’t escape, because they can’t look away.  They need reentry training like an ex-con.  But for them, it doesn’t exist. 

They COULD have a life, but they don’t know how. 

In some cases, their education on the fly may have left them less than prepared to do anything outside the Disney business.  They could write and produce their own projects, but they’ve probably never been taught to manage anything or to build anything or to create anything.  They follow directions.  They do what they’re told.  They keep quiet.    

We live in a world that’s become callous and lacks compassion and that values little beyond beauty and entertainment value. 

No one is writing jokes for them anymore, or orchestrating scenes on their behalf, and no one ever told them they’re worth anything beyond a script written by someone else.  No one ever told them that God doesn’t make mistakes; that they’re perfect just as they are without the team of hair stylists that straighten their hair and makeup artists that cover their freckles and wardrobe that disguises the undesirable and the ugly and the fat and the too long or too short parts of them--those who make them presentable to the world, but who otherwise may ignore them, or talk behind their backs and perhaps label them spoiled brats.

So who’s responsible?  How can we point and laugh and shake our heads in disgust and not accept at least some of the blame for the abyss that occurs after Disneyland casts them aside, when we are the Princess-hungry Disney wolf, lying in wait for them to fall.


AUTHOR UPDATE 08/28/13:  It's bound to happen, as the discussion continues...but I came across a post that follows a similar vein and feels worthy of sharing.  I kept mine very simple and to one point (something I'm not particularly known for, but I'm working on it).  The reason I lent my voice to the discussion at all, amid Syria and everything else that's happening in the world, is because self-esteem and mentoring young girls and women is something I'm concerned about. I have four young nieces and I've raised two daughters, and once upon a time, I was a girl myself who, when I was precisely Miley's age, gave birth to a daughter whom I raised alone, with no child support, for the first six years of her life.  I know every way from sideways how fast girls can be lost, and how difficult it is for us to forgive ourselves for some of the choices we make when we are young, and then find our way to believe we deserve to take back our lives.  So yeah, I care.  If you haven't already, please check out Rihanna's post, "A Letter to Miley Cyrus," that's gone positively viral, with some pretty rough comments among the positive ones.  She expresses her compassion for the difficult parts of growing up as a child star, as I did, but she calls Miley out about the, as I stated below, personal responsibility for her choices in the matter, and why they're so important.  Because they are trying to figure out how to define themselves and who they want to be, Pop Culture changes the way regular young girls view themselves.  When we know better, we do better, and there is a missing piece inherent in some who grow up a child stars that I believe predisposes some young women like Miley & Lindsay & Amanda to a massively skewed sense of themselves. 

Here's why I felt compelled to share it, and you can read the rest of Rihanna's post, here:

2. I know I mentioned that a 12 year old should never have to be a role model, but as you have been very clear, you are no longer 12. You are 20. Therefore, you now have the responsibility of being a role model. So when you sing about getting a line in the bathroom, getting high on Molly, shaking it like you’re at a strip club, and doing whatever you want, you are sending the wrong message to girls everywhere. You see, you are the exception to the general rule. When you do those things, you get media attention. You get paid for club appearances. You get checks in the mail for your iTunes downloads. But when our girls do that, they get pregnant. They get addicted to heroin and end up on the streets leaving their family and friends in constant fear and grief over them. They drop out of school. They get kicked out of college and lose their scholarships. So, they really do end up shaking it at a strip club in order to pay the rent for themselves and their deadbeat boyfriends who can’t hold a job because of their alcohol dependency. You see, your music paints a false picture of what reality is. Partying and using drugs doesn’t lead to number one hits and nights filled with champagne, limo service, paparazzi attention and Snoop Dogg (lion?) calling you his homie. It leads to disaster, poverty, heartache and unfortunately for some, death.
9 Comments

BACK TO SCHOOL WITH A TWIST, or MIDLIFE WITH A SIDECAR

8/20/2013

5 Comments

 
Picture
I heard Sheryl Sandberg, CEO of Facebook and author of, Lean In, speak at BlogHer ’13 last month, and I must admit to being surprised at how much I identified with her message.  The question the Lean In campaign asks each of us is,  “What could you do if you weren’t afraid?”  I’ve lived my life afraid for as long as I can remember, and I’d venture to say my husband has, too.  He’s run and relocated to the next corporate job because he was afraid of losing the last one.  I’ve written my whole life, but fear of failure as well as fear of success prevented me from sharing anything I’d written until I began blogging just over two years ago.

“They” say the definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior over and over and expecting different results.  I guess my husband and I have been a little insane for going on the last twenty-one years.  When the inevitable challenge has presented us with the same obvious choices, we’ve gone with our usual response, until now.  This would be easier to grin and bear if we weren’t both at the same time attempting to make a midlife change to our knee-jerk response to life’s struggles, all while providing for a young child still at home.  
Every time I find myself not able to breathe or with a screaming headache, I try to understand and accept that it is taking all my husband has not to chase the easy money--for his American male, fifty-something work ethic not to risk another likely corporate disappointment, running on that hamster wheel.  We’re former Joneses in witness protection, only there’s no per diem. For my strapping 6’2” former firefighter/paramedic/police officer not to do what he’s always done--compromise his own happiness to feed us--but instead to marinate in this place where for the first time the actual possibility of failing to provide a roof over our heads does, too, is akin to taking a hot poker to his nether regions, something Corporate America has done enough.  Instead he’s limping along with his heart not quite in consulting as he builds a photography business on the side and dreams of having a food truck.  Things I want for him perhaps more than he wants them for himself.

Every fiber of my old self wants to run out and wait tables, tend bar, go back to being a miserable administrative assistant, or to throw together a hasty garage sale, even though everything I’ve done over the last two years has told me to keep writing, that I’m on the right path, that this me I’ve finally come back to is the me I was meant to be all along.  So instead, I’m composing this post from my new writers studio in a hip, lofty old factory turned (thankfully ridiculously cheap) artists’ Mecca, where I’ll focus on finishing my novel, and take the earnest leap to query and submit my writing for paid publication.

Our 500 thread-count sheets no longer possess the elastic wherewithal to remain tucked, and almost neither do I.  I try to be comforted knowing we still have friends with a big basement and even bigger hearts, and that we’re in this together.  We’ve been back home in Michigan where we belong for a year now, and where we have much easier access to our aging parents and married daughters.  This has been one of the longest summers in our history, but the ability to conduct our midlife crises nearer the support of friends and family has to be the only thing that truly counts right now.  

We will get through this, and come out the other side, hopefully having been rewarded and having taught our children to make choices that lead them to fulfilling lives much earlier than we did, even if today I wonder whether Ramen™ is available yet gluten free.

Maybe our son will always remember 5th grade as the year he had no new school clothes and carried a recycled backpack (hey, it’s a Jansport™, those things are guaranteed for life, right?), but hopefully he will also remember it as the year his parents eventually got it right.  This is the year we embraced the thrill ride of finding out who each of us is, instead of caving-in to what the Joneses would have done, even if neither of us has any fingernails left.  I’m calling it, 
Midlife with a Sidecar, where we’re all three taking the turns and holding on for dear life.  
5 Comments

#JudyBlumeProject Update -- SEEKING SUBMISSIONS -- Still Open

8/11/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
UPDATE 09/25/13:
LOOKING FOR
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES?!
THE #JudyBlumeProject
NOW HAS A PAGE!!!
READ THE CONTRIBUTIONS
TO DATE AND
JOIN THEM!!!
My e-mail icon is at the tippy top of this page.
2 Comments

I'm in a Mind-Still-Blown Haze Post BlogHer'13--If I Have to Tell Me Again...!

7/30/2013

14 Comments

 
Picture
It’s back to work, and I find myself still reeling, hung over, really, but not in an alcohol-induced haze, more in a mind-still-blown haze from my weekend spent with almost 5000 other remarkable women, and a few men, at #BlogHer13 in Chicago.

I say other, because one of the most remarkable discoveries, reminders, I got this weekend was that I, too, am a remarkable woman.  This is something I tell myself sometimes, but don’t really believe.

I go through the laundry list:  You had a child alone at the age of twenty, whom you raised alone for the first 7 years of her life, you owned and operated a restaurant as a white woman whose husband was only home on the weekends, in a 98% black, severely socioeconomically depressed city for three years, you usually successfully managed a blended family and raised two beautiful, loving, remarkable women, you healed your own infertility and successfully added a beautiful baby boy to the then teen his&hers daughters you already had, recovered him from and prevented further vaccine damage, and you survived a two-year stint an entire country away from said daughters, and used (half of) that time to grow and discover yourself and you didn’t (quite) manage to kill your husband (not my story to tell, yet).   

And then there’s the professional stuff that’s happened in the last two years:  you were featured on BlogHer 3.5 times, you submitted an essay which was accepted for inclusion in a book that’ll be out later this year, and the theme for that essay earned you a Voices of the Year Honoree nod from BlogHer.  You wrote and taught Creative Writing for Fourth Graders to your son’s class over three sessions, and spoke before the local Depression and Bipolar Alliance about the connection between gluten intolerance and depression, anxiety, bipolar, and neurodegenerative disease.  You have so much more in you, just busting to get out, and all the while, you’re working again on your novel about a woman dealing with infertility.  Almost forgot, you taught yourself and built two complete websites all on your own.

It’s everything, it’s so much, and yet it’s nothing compared to some women.  This struck me over and over again, particularly as I listened to the other Voices of the Year Honorees who read their beautiful pieces to us on a stage, emceed by none other than The Queen, Latifah, herself.

As I commented on Feminista Jones’ post about Queen Latifah emceeing the #BlogHer13 Voices of the Year Reception: 

“I have adored Queen Latifah ever since ‘Bringing Down the House,’ and probably well before.  For her heart, strength, humor, obvious intelligence, talent on SO many levels, and her spectacular beauty that is the antithesis of petite, she is a role model who tells me to be myself even when a huge part of me wants to hide because I'm not the size zero I once was.  My family placed far too much importance on looks.  It's been a battle to find the midlife value in my own heart and my own intelligence and my own voice.  In a moment of false clarity, my weight can wash away all I’ve gained.  I'm five feet tall.  It isn't difficult to simply look over me; to not see me at all, [or to not see myself]. 

This is my brain shit, not yours, and you probably have enough of your own shit and don't even think to look past.  When I write, when I blog, I perceive that people recognize my intelligence and hear my voice first and, I pray, accept me for my heart before they see my size.  Writing, posting is bliss because for the moment *I* can forget.  I thought I was growing past it.  But even among all of [the women of all kinds, races, shapes and sizes], even attending as a #BlogHer13 Voices of the Year Honoree, at times it was insurmountable to introduce myself.” 

Why do we discount ourselves?  Why is it that I can sit in a room full to the brim of other midlife bloggers, recognize myself in them, yet feel too self-conscious to reach out to them as they have reached out to me after BlogHer?  Many of the Generation Fabulous women have since generously put out their arms and welcomed me into their fold.  How is it that I didn’t know before I attended that panel discussion that there are so many midlife women bloggers out there? 

How is it that we are still so underrepresented in every facet of life: corporate boards, politics, sponsorship, etc., etc.??  How is it that we so often don’t even recognize it?  We are 51% of the population (hence the book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics), and yet we represent less than 19% of congress?  It seems we are largely complacent with being slotted into the role of teachers and school board members, raising the children, building the foundation of our future—all vitally important stuff that many of us probably don’t want to leave to the men.  But the fact that we are not nurtured to do otherwise isn’t good enough.  The fact that many of us don’t even think to seek otherwise isn’t good enough. 

And woe to those of us who didn’t attend college.   Whether or not it’s truth, the lack of a college education, time spent staying home with our children and the consequential holes in our resumes, can paralyze many of us with fear.  It halted me.  I allowed my lack of a college education to stop me from becoming something more, from finishing my book, from seeking and touching more of me.  

Until I left my hometown in Michigan, hit San Diego and was forced to take a hard look at myself, I existed, I loved, I enjoyed life to a degree…I wanted more, but I was holding my breath. 

I’m no slouch.  Two college level creative writing courses in San Diego, a modicum of encouragement from my professors, and I haven’t looked back…but what if…?

Well, as Kelly Wickham of Mocha Momma said in her Voices of the Year reading about being a single mom that resonated with me so deeply, “that is unacceptable.”  Kelly also wrote in “Untold Stories are Sometimes Secrets,” about,” feeling invisible as a person of color at times.”  I want her to know that I often felt invisible as a very short woman before I was heavy, and only more so now as a short heavy woman.  Perhaps we all put on our own invisibility cloaks for any number of reasons…acne, too large breasts, bad teeth…the list of things we can’t magically change about ourselves goes on.

Before #BlogHer14, here’s something I can change:  I will endeavor to stand proud, to embrace all that I am, inside and out, to *believe* myself to be your peer, just as Queen Latifah tells me. 

Before #BlogHer14, I will reach out to other women.  I will return the embrace of Generation Fabulous, and follow in their well-forged steps.  I.  Will.  Finish.  Bluebirds.  I will seek more speaking opportunities, I will query publications.  I will get paid for my writing.  And as of tonight, I am going to submit my book to a publisher! 

And come #BlogHer14, I will extend my hand to you no matter what I weigh, and I will help wake up the next generation of fabulous women to all they already are, even if they don’t get to witness people like Sheryl Sandberg and Rita Arens and Kelly Wickham and the almost 5000 strong of us amazing, powerful, diverse women for themselves.

What halts you in your tracks?  Or how have you managed to overcome your own personal invisibility cloak?
If you heard about the #JudyBlumeProject at #BlogHer13, SUBMISSIONS ARE STILL OPEN!! 


14 Comments

Flexing My FUN:  New Passion for Flash Fiction

7/15/2013

6 Comments

 
PictureUrban sky. Photo courtesy of David Mark, Pixabay, via Flash! Friday
I’ve developed a new passion, and it’s one that doesn’t threaten my hubby in the least.  Whew! 

I’ve discovered I have a passion and somewhat of a knack for Flash Fiction, and I wanted to share some of my stories with you here.

There are several opportunities I’ve come across via Twitter, and in fact Twitter itself is a good exercise for tightening up your writing, let me tell you!  I’ve never been someone with a shortage of words (probably why my hubs is more the strong, silent type), and you really discover what’s necessary and what isn’t in 140 characters! 

Same is true of Flash Fiction.  The requirements are varied depending on the contest holder’s prompt or not and set word count, but therein lays the fun.  To discover whether you can tell a complete story with rich, sympathetic characters in a finite number of words is great practice even for longer novel writing, and maybe particularly for longer novel writing.

My creative writing professor, Don Matson, PhD, of the University of California San Diego, tasked us to read many Flash Fiction pieces such as Ernest Hemmingway’s, “Hills Like White Elephants,” Raymond Carver’s, “One More Thing,” and Robert Parker’s, “The Professional.”  Of course we wrote some of our own, though it was a process I didn’t appreciate or enjoy very much until recently, when I began to see more of it done by women. 

According to Wikipedia’s description, Flash Fiction seems to have been a craft made most notable by men.  O. Henry, Bradbury, Kafka, Vonnegut, and other greats share a reference with short, short fiction, so perhaps you can understand my hesitation to attempt to join their ranks.  Thanks to social media and outlets like those I’ll share below, however, many women are quite successfully trying their hands at the art of less is more.  I’ve found it a great way to get your feet wet, to practice restraint, and to exorcise those little bits and pieces that swim around in your brain, or that might prove to be sprouts of bigger stories one day.   

It’s a process I’m delighted to participate in whenever the moment inspires, and I find it’s usually a knee-jerk reaction or image that pops into my mind, based on the topic or prompt.  It’s like something comes over me, and that is perhaps the best lesson of all.  It’s absolutely delectable to follow those little seeds wherever they take me, especially as a mental break yet mental exercise from working on my Novel In Progress, Bluebirds.  I find that each little success I have makes me feel only more validated to call myself a writer, which is in itself a gift beyond measure.

PictureCapbreton. Photo courtesy of Makunin, @ Pixabay via Flash! Friday
If you are a writer in your deepest of hearts, and wish to take a crack at some Flash Fiction yourself, I encourage you to start reading it first, and to give it a try through one of the many outlets available today.  Win or not, I’m always delighted with my results, and the pace of the contests often frees me from procrastination and the compulsive and usual need to rehash, review, tweak and perfect each little word.  It’s kind of a skinny-dipping-under-a-full-moon approach that I find deliciously freeing (cause Lord knows I don’t do THAT anymore…if I ever did….  I’m not telling!!)!


Flash Fiction is often dark, but it doesn’t have to be, as you can see from my first win with @99fiction, Never Dreamed:

[Posted here as ever so slightly edited, still 99(!) words or less]
Never Dreamed

She stands before them, the backs of her knees sweat, fingertips tingle.  A crisp long red velvet skirt, handmade with matching hair bow, love and pom pon fringe, her only conscious thought. 

Small at five upon vast planks, the Christmas congregation ponders what will come.

The introduction plays.  Words are trapped in a cupboard, too high.  She takes a deep breath and opens wide as a sparrow.  If speaking was required, she would have failed, but with music comes words, with words come smiles. 

A few bars have set her fate.  An attention seeker is born.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

My second win was with Mary Papas for, The Dinner Date, I believe we had to be between 300 and 500 words, this is 409, and I hope you’ll give Mary’s books of flash fiction a read:

[Posted here as since slightly edited]

The Dinner Date

She applied her scarlet lipstick, following the delicate shape of her flume with care.  She leaned close to the mirror to remove an errant speck of mascara from her lid with a perfectly matched and manicured fingernail. 

Step back; assess.  Her smooth black dress was perfectly pressed; cinching at the waist and crossing in the front to reveal just a hint of her décolleté. 

Not bad for this birthday marking her mid-fortieth.  She wished her husband was home to celebrate, but alas, international business and money and substance called more noisily.  She hoped her fiftieth would hold enough importance for him to stay home, or that he might invite her along.  Though she’d grown weary years ago of accompanying him on such demanding business trips. 

In the meantime, she admired the blaze of diamonds at her ears and wrist; consolation gifts of his absence from other important occasions--guilt appeasers, loneliness absolvers; pretty, but accusing.

She would not be dining alone this evening, however, and she thought deliciously of what her date might wear.  He was probably brushing his teeth and carefully gelling his hair just now.  Perhaps he was selecting a tie in her favorite color; some shade of lavender or Icelandic blue, to match his roguish eyes.

Evenings out were rare for them:  stolen moments amid the pace of reality; of responsibility; of all at once drudgery and chaos.

She donned her glittering shawl, slipped her slender, red-tipped toes into her most delicious and precarious red pumps, and carefully made her way down the curving stairs to where he waited patiently at the bottom.

He gazed up at her with a smile that reflected her beauty; that said she was the only woman in the world, and always would be.  She paused midway, reveling in it; knowing it was fleeting.

At last she neared the bottom.  She grasped the confident outstretched hand he offered to help her meet the gleaming marble.

He wrapped his arms lovingly around her small waist, and she warmly returned his embrace.

She kissed the top of his head, as only her red heels allowed her once again to do; not caring whether her lips left a mark there.  In fact, she hoped they would leave an indelible impression right down onto his heart.  He’d promised her they would when she’d delivered him to kindergarten, clutching her kiss in his palm, trembling and holding back tears, five all-too-short years before.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

And I’m deeply honored to have received an Honorable Mention for Retribution, in the most recent Flash! Friday Contest that occurs weekly, amid some very tough competition (I love that Rebekah works so hard to find us great photo prompts like the two above, and that our micro fiction is entered as comments under the prompt to be enjoyed and commented on by all).  It is 272 words:

[Posted here as ever so slightly edited, same word count]

Retribution

It had been years since she’d seen anything more than this small slice of sky…years since she’d seen a flower bloom, dipped her toe into a cool stream, or dug in and turned the dirt, or picked a tomato off a vine she’d cultivated from seed or sprout. It had been years since she’d bit into its flesh, still warm from the sun, letting its juices drip down off her elbow in a scarlet river.

The last time she’d dug in the dirt is what landed her here.

The Brighton Women’s Correctional Facility, smack in the heart of her hometown’s downtown, was supposed to be a place for rehabilitation and learning. But what really happened beneath that small slice of sky, through which seldom a bird or plane passed, was neither rehabilitation nor learning. She supposed you could call it “learning” to survive in one of the roughest, most rank women’s prisons on the planet. Learning how to get fed from one meal to the next, by bargaining or stealing or unsavory favors. Learning how not to get shanked for looking cross-eyed at no one. Learning which ball-busting guards to avoid or befriend, and learning precisely what it would cost you.

She could still smell the loamy spring soil, and feel it’s coolness in her hands. She remembered waiting for the perfect moment to do what needed doing, however much she didn’t want to, and however much she did.

Once he’d touched her baby sister, Daddy had to die.

Every day under that small slice of sky was worth it.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

Last but not least, it didn’t win or earn a mention, but just because I loved it, here’s another 209-word example of one of my Flash! Friday entries, Impasse:

Impasse

Persephone’s eyes blinked at the searing bright light. Her ears welcomed the waves and the ocean breeze that caressed them, and her skin eagerly drank in the moist air. If only it wasn’t sea water as far as her troubled eyes could see, her parched lips and tongue and gullet and very cells would drink it in, too.

Her fingernails were bloodied and torn by her attempts to scale the pitched wall left broken and crumbling in the wake of Zeus’s anger.

It was her only hope of escape.

Hermes’ deal that granted her a mere six months above, just wasn’t enough. This latest squabble between Zeus and Hades, felt like the perfect opening; pomegranate seeds, be-damned!

Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the sunlight, but it felt hot on her desiccated skin. She knew the salt water would cause her wounds to sting mercilessly, but she couldn’t get herself into the water fast enough. She hoped she could resist the temptation to drink it, to lap it up like an eager puppy. Her thirst was so great.

It was a long way down.

She looked back the way she’d come.

She looked at the azure water, crashing below.

She would have cried.

But she had no tears.

--Kim Jorgensen Gane ©2013, all rights reserved

Oh yes!  I’ve enjoyed another amazing success!  I’m attending BlogHer ’13 in Chicago at the end of July, because I’ve recently learned that out of the hundreds of thousands(!) of blogs posted to BlogHer in the last year, I’m a top 100 VOICES OF THE YEAR HONOREE for my second featured post, “The Enlightened Middle Majority and Why the Sides Are Alienating Us.”  Enlightened Middle Majority is the same post that has been adapted for inclusion in the book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics, that’s due out sometime in 2013.

I hope my stories will convince you to try Flash Fiction yourself, because you just never know where it might lead...and what the hell...why don't you enter a little below in the comments!! 

I'd love to read 200 OR FEWER WORDS OF FLASH FICTION OF YOURS about FOLLOWING A DREAM--any sort of dream!  If you have a Twitter handle, please include it and your word count.

No contest, no deadline...just challenge yourself, ENJOY and be inspired! 

Yours truly, WRITER, and author:

--Kim Jorgensen Gane

6 Comments

Guest Post by Heather Greenwood Davis, aka Globe Trotting Mama, aka Sheila the Great: Long Lost Letter to Judy Blume

7/11/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Dear Judy,

In Grade 4, I was Sheila the Great.

I’m not kidding.

Despite my fuzzy hair and brown skin, I was convinced you had me in mind when you wrote the novel.

I was also Margaret and Tony and Peter.

I started a newspaper at my school in grade 4 because of your books.  I dreamed of being a writer because of your books.

And because at first I wasn’t sure how to do that, some of my earliest writings are letters to my grandmother that were copied almost verbatim from various pages of your novels.

Yes, I plagiarized you at the age of 10.

I apologize.

But I’m not sorry because those letters were never sent and 30 years later, my mother delivered them to me along with a host of other childhood silliness and the joy and tears that resulted from reading my words – your words- are worth any sanctions you may have to take.

What you gave me was a gift; an outlet.

I was a first generation Canadian kid with Jamaican parents trying to find my way through the school system. I didn’t understand cliques or bras. I didn’t know what questions to ask until you came along.

You gave me a guideline to being normally abnormal that has guided the rest of my life.

When my mother bought me “Letters to Judy: What your kids wish they could tell you.” I was insanely jealous of the fact that these kids had written to you and that you were responding.

I was far too in awe to have thought of sending my thoughts as well.

So now that I have the chance here’s what I’d like to thank you for:

Are you There God It’s me Margaret : It led to an awkward conversation between a father and daughter when I snuck up behind him to ask what a “period” was and “how I could get one.”  Good times.

Forever: The sneaky way you didn’t announce that this book wasn’t like the others, allowing me a full fifteen minutes of jaw-on-the-ground reading heaven before my mother came bounding up the stairs after getting a tip off from another parent. I’d also like to thank my mom for always hiding the “not until you’re older” book  in the same spot allowing me to continue my reading on the sly.

Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing:  For giving me insight into the world of a boy, giving me something great I can share with my sons so they can get to know you too and siding with me in the acknowledgment that baby brothers were put on this earth to test your sanity.

Thank you for Iggie’s House that had a character that looked like me, and for Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great, Blubber, Then Again Maybe I won’t, Tiger Eyes and all the others that kept me up way past my bedtime, flashlight in hand.

All those years ago when I thought there was no one who understood me, you popped in with characters that have stayed with me my entire life.

I’m so glad to have the chance to finally write the letter I couldn’t all those years ago.

Your pal,

Heather

aka Sheila the Great


Heather Greenwood Davis is an award-winning feature writer with more than 20 years of journalism experience.  Her stories have appeared in numerous publications including most recently the June issue of "O" The Oprah Winfrey Magazine.  A yearlong trip around the world last year with her husband and two sons (ages 6 and 8) led to the family being named National Geographic Traveler Magazine "Travelers of the Year."  Stories of their travels and lessons learned also appear online at www.globetrottingmama.com.

Heather thanked US for the chance to purge her soul, but we couldn't be more grateful to her for sharing her memories of growing up with Judy Blume.  I couldn't be more grateful that she permitted me to share it with you as a guest post on my blog, and it ain't over, folks!  We welcome you to do the same or to participate via your own blog!  UPDATE:  Find out everything you need to know to participate ON THE #JudyBlumeProject PAGE!!

Copyright © 2013 Heather Greenwood Davis.  All rights reserved.  Reprinted with permission from the author.


0 Comments

Guest Post by Denise DiFulco:Tales of a Fifth-Grade Education -or- The Books

7/3/2013

0 Comments

 
yours forever
Photo attribution:  Mathias Klang, http://www.flickr.com/photos/wrote/

Denise DiFulco is proud of herself for getting this #JudyBlumeProject post in right under the wire...and then we moved the wire, to an as yet undetermined time! Keep them coming, folks! With great stuff like this, we couldn't possibly stop now!  

Here's everything you need to know about the #JudyBlumeProject, including GUIDELINES to submit your own piece, as well as all the wonderful contributions to date.
Enjoy this moment in time #JudyBlumeProject piece by Denise DiFulco, writer/editor/author, at denisedifulco.com.


It’s the period book. Everyone calls it that. They never say its awkward, seven-word title. But also, that’s what it is: the period book. The one where the girl gets her period. And a bra.

I am 11 years old. I have neither my period, nor a bra. But I want to read the period book. Everyone is reading the period book. All they talk about is the period book. If I don’t read the period book, they certainly will talk about me.

Mom hasn’t yet pulled me into the basement, as she one day will, to talk about “it.” Not the just small “it”—the period “it”—but the big “it.” After a conversation where I declare I know what “it” is, she won’t say we need to talk about “it.” Instead she’ll tell me, “We need to talk about the birds and the bees.”

I know nothing about birds and bees and what they have to do with “it.” What I do know, I’ve learned from the other book. “The Book.” The one about the big “it.”

Finding “The Book,” the big “it” book, isn’t so easy. It’s not in the school library. It never would be in the school library. There are two copies at the public library.

This I know.

They sit atop a revolving rack—steps away from the librarian’s desk—some corner of their covers shorn away, spines bowed into an arch. On the front, a picture of a locket, suggesting the secrets within. I spin the rack, inspect the book about the fat girl, glance toward the desk. She’s looking down. Another turn. The locket reappears. A second check to be sure, only this time she smiles. I walk away.

Weeks pass and the girls at school are whispering and giggling in the halls. I, too, want to trade in whispers and giggles. I want to know what they know.

One day as I arrive at my fifth-grade desk, a friend shoves her hand into my knapsack. “Here,” she says. “Don’t tell anyone.”

I peer inside. It is “The Book.” The book about the big “it.”

The locket is half torn from the cover, but the contents are intact. I tuck it inside my desk to read the first page, then the second, then the third. Class has begun. I draw my loose-leaf binder over the lip of the table, the bottom edge of “The Book” resting on my thighs. The teacher is speaking, and the class learning something, I am sure. I am learning, too.

Next day I re-establish my cover: Binder pulled out, book beneath, resting on the edge of the tray. Its spine is so well-worn pages seem to unfold themselves. I am opening with them— following the words into another room—so when the teacher calls on me, I don’t answer. She walks around my desk, and as I realize this, I allow the binder to slip over my lap. She does not see.

Yes, I am learning.

Next time I’m more careful. I raise my hand. Answer questions. Look down thoughtfully. Continue my education.

By the time the bell rings, I, too, can whisper and giggle, trade in information so precious and rare no one dares speak its name. Somehow I am changed, though real change is far away. Many questions answered and so much yet to know. Like the noises. What are the noises?

I know they are important. There is no one to ask.
Denise DiFulco is a freelance writer and editor whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Washington Post, Ladies’ Home Journal, Martha Stewart Living and numerous print and online publications. She currently is working on her first novel—loosely based on family history—which chronicles the life of a Jewish man who leaves Nazi Germany and renounces his identity only to find he can’t escape his past. Denise is blogging about her fiction writing at her recently launched blog, Setting Anchor, Setting Sail: A Writer’s Journey.

I'm SO very grateful to Denise for allowing me to share her story here! 
Copyright © 2013 Denise DiFulco.  All rights reserved.  Reprinted with permission from the author.
0 Comments

From HealHealthcareNow: Changing the Way We View Fertility and How We Treat INFertility

6/30/2013

0 Comments

 
I've been a mom for twenty-six years. 

I was a single mom first at the age of twenty, intent to do everything backwards, it seems.  I met my husband when my daughter was five, and became a married mom, and a step-mom to a second delightful girl, two years younger to the day than my daughter.  They were fast buddies, and eventually, when my husband adopted my daughter, truly became the sisters they were from the moment they first met.

My husband and I each had a child from prior relationships, so when I turned thirty we got to work *practicing* with every arrogant assumption that we would be fruitful together.  Two years passed without a pregnancy, we'd moved and I became a stay-at-home mom for the first time, and I got a puppy.  A furry little replacement baby until the Universe decided it was time for the human variety.

It would take six years, during which I was diagnosed with PCOS and endometriosis, suffered one loss, two surgeries, a multitude of disappointments, was one ovary down, and on my way to a likely hysterectomy if I didn't find an alternative to the conventional INfertility path.  The path that focused on IMpossible, and UNlikely, and ADVANCED age, and FAILURE.  The path that, the temperature charting and obsessing of which, caused untold stress, weight-gain and wrinkles.  I hate wrinkles, dammit!  And it contributed to adrenal fatigue and chronic acidosis, and babies won't grow in an acidic environment.

And so, I sought another path.  A path of healing, a path of spirituality, a path of empowering myself to follow my instincts and use my intuition to take control of my wellness and my FERTILITY; a path that would lead the little spirit I wasn't ready for before, to finally come to be my amazing, bright, imaginative now ten-year-old son.  I've come to understand that the Universe had known better.  There had been so much more I needed to know before I was ready to mother my son.  He was born when our daughters were sixteen and fourteen, and everything I thought I knew about being their mom/step-mom, I had to relearn when it came to my son. 

Please continue reading on Heal Healthcare Now, and JOIN Dr. Lissa Rankin, MD, and others like her, either as an empowered patient, as a facilitator, or as a medical professional/practitioner!!  Be part of the change you hope to see in the world!

Picture
0 Comments
<<Previous
Forward>>
    Write2TheEnd | 

    Kim Jorgensen Gane

    Author|Award-Winning Essayist|Freelance CommercialWriter|GANE
    Empowered Wellness Advocate, Facilitator, Speaker

    Kim is a freelance writer, living and working on Michigan’s sunset coast with her husband, youngest son, a standard poodle and a gecko. She’s been every-mom, raising two generations of kids over twenty-seven years. Kim writes on a variety of topics including parenting  through midlife crisis, infertility, health and wellness, personal empowerment, politics, and about anything else that interests her, including flash fiction and her novel in progress, Bluebirds.  Oh, and this happened!

    Kim was selected as a BlogHer '13 Voices of the Year Honoree in the Op Ed category for this post, an excerpt of which has been adapted for inclusion in the book, 51%: Women and the Future of Politics, to be released late 2014.  Visit her Wordpress About page to see her CV.
    View my profile on LinkedIn
    BlogHer '13 Voices of the Year Community Keynote Honoree
    Picture
    Creative Commons License
    This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
    Picture

    Subscribing is sexy, and may be fortuitous!

    Join our list!

    * indicates required
    Email Format

    Archives

    April 2015
    November 2014
    August 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    January 2014
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012

    Featured on BlogHer.com

    Categories

    All
    2013
    2014
    911
    Abortion
    Add
    Adolescence
    Adoption
    Amanda Bynes
    Amtrak
    #AmtrakResidency
    #amwriting
    Amy Jo Burns
    Ann Imig
    A Novel
    Anthology
    Asperger's
    August Mclaughlin
    Author
    Autism
    Ava Chin
    #BacktoSchool
    Back To School
    Beauty Of A Woman Blog Fest
    Benton Harbor
    Bigotry
    Blended Families
    Blended Family
    Blogging
    Blogher
    #BlogHer13
    BlogHer '13
    Blog Hop
    Bluebirds
    Books
    Brain Health
    Breast Cancer
    Brownies
    Budget
    Bully
    Bullying
    Challenge
    Change
    Children
    Children With Disabilities
    Choice
    Choices
    Christmas
    Cinderland
    Costume
    Crackbook
    Ct
    Cyber Bullying
    Cyber Friends
    Dairy Free
    Destiny
    #DF
    Discrimination
    Disney
    Diy
    Dog Puke
    Dr. Lissa Rankin
    Eating Wildly
    E Books
    E-books
    Education
    Empowerment
    Empty Nest
    Endometriosis
    Enlightened Middle
    Exercise
    Facebook
    Face To Face
    Face-to-face
    Fall
    Family
    Fear
    Featured
    Feminism
    Fertility
    Festive
    Fifty Shades
    Flash Fiction
    Flash! Friday
    Friends
    Galit Breen
    Gane Possible
    Generation Fabulous
    #GF
    Girlfriends
    Giveaway
    #Giveaway
    Gluten Free
    Glutennazimom
    Google+
    Government
    Government Shut Down
    Grief
    Guy Kawasaki
    Halloween
    Handmade
    Haven
    Heal Healthcare Now
    Health
    Hepatitis B
    Hepb
    Hillary Clinton
    Holidays
    Holistic
    Homework
    Hope
    Humblebrag
    Humblebraggart
    Humblebragging
    Humor
    Immunization
    Income
    Infertility
    #Infertility
    Influencer
    #ItGetsBetter
    It Gets Better
    Jim Denney
    Judy Blume
    #JudyBlumeProject
    Judy Blume Project
    #JustWrite
    Just Write
    @KimGANEPossible
    Kim Jorgensen Gane
    Kim Singing
    #KindnessWins
    Language
    Laura Munson
    Lean In
    Life
    Lindsay Lohan
    Listen To Your Mother
    Local
    Low Cost
    #LTYM
    Math Facts
    Md
    Mental Health
    Michigan
    Midlife
    #MidlifeBlvd
    Midterm Elections
    Miley Cyrus
    Mind Over Medicine
    Mom
    Montana
    Mother
    Mothering
    Moving
    Nablopomo
    Newton Ct
    Obama
    Obamacare
    Online
    Oprah
    #OwnBossy
    Parenting
    Patty Chang Anker
    Pcos
    Peg Fitzpatrick
    Pinterest
    Platform
    Poem
    Poetry
    Politics
    Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome
    Popular Media
    Poverty
    President
    Progress
    Puberty
    QueenLatifah.com
    Racism
    Rain
    Reading
    Reality Tv
    Recipe
    Reclaim Your Fertility
    Religion
    Reproductive Rights
    Retreat
    Review
    Ruth Curran
    #SABD13
    Sahm
    San Diego
    Santa
    School
    Self Discipline
    Self-Discipline
    Self Esteem
    Sex
    Sheryl Sandberg
    Simplifying
    #SingleMom
    Single Mom
    Single Parenting
    Social Media
    #SomeNerve
    Some Nerve
    Soup
    Southwest
    Southwest Michigan
    Spring Forward
    Stay At Home Moms
    #StepMom
    Step Parenting
    Step-parenting
    Submission
    Suicide
    #SuicidePrevention
    Suicide Prevention
    Support
    Tablet
    Tea Party
    Technology
    Thanksgiving
    The Bachelor
    The Book Thief
    The Hunger Games
    This Is Not The Story You Think It Is
    Thrift
    Timebenders
    Time Change
    Time Warp Tuesday
    Train
    Twitter
    Unexposed Talent
    Vaccination
    Vmas
    War On Women
    Waxing
    Whitefish
    Women
    Workshop
    #Write2TheEnd
    Writers
    Writers Workshop
    Writing

    RSS Feed

*GANEPossible.com is an anecdotal website and in no way intends to diagnose, treat, prevent or otherwise influence the medical decisions of its readers. I am not a doctor, I do not recommend going off prescribed medications without the advice and approval of a qualified practitioner, and I do not recommend changing your diet or your exercise routine without first consulting your doctor. These are merely my life experiences, and what has and hasn't worked for me and my family. You must be your own best medical advocate and that of your children, and seek to find the practitioner with whom you have the best rapport and in whose advice and care you can entrust your health and medical decisions.


Mailing Address:
420 Main Street, Suite A
St. Joseph, MI  49085
Please email to schedule a consultation,
Hours by appointment:
kjgane(@)ganepossible(.)com

I Blog with Integrity, please treat my content with integrity: Copyright © 2020, Kimberly Jorgensen Gane, This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License..