Joan Bauer's Journal

Cracked Pots

My daughter Jean called the other day and said, "Mom, I have a metaphor for you." Instantly, my writer's heart was stirred because Jean doesn't mess around when it comes to a metaphor. She and her husband had just been to an exhibition of Japanese ceramics in D.C. where she learned of the "golden seams," a special method created by Japanese craftsmen to mend cracked ceramics. Instead of trying to match the color of the pot to make the crack less visible, they decided to flaunt the flaw by repairing it with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The result is wonderful, as the golden repaired cracks make the piece seem more unique and valuable.

I began to think of the places in my life where I felt cracked and broken; places I just wanted filled in so no one could see there had been an injury. And yet, what I've learned from dealing with those cracks, injuries, disappointments, setbacks, and times of grief and discouragement is far more than I've ever learned from any time of ease.

I guess without my knowing it, they'd been sealed tighter and stronger with a bit of gold. And gold doesn't just show up, it has to be discovered, then mined, then melted by a torch in a place so hot it's called the crucible -- that's what filters out the impurities. Then there's more time in the heat, a cooling off, and, finally, a hardening. 

May we look at our cracked pots with new eyes, celebrate the golden seams, and be colossally grateful. 

In the Company of Children

I was walking through the playground near my house when it beckoned to me. The swing, that is. I was never a climbing across monkey bars kind of kid, but a swing was one of life's great inventions. I looked around -- I was alone. I walked to the swing, plopped down and pushed off, slowly at first. But it didn't take long before I was stretching my legs to get maximum height and throwing back my head to feel the freedom of it all. I felt ageless, weightless, fully energized, and so happy. A woman with a toddler walked past toward the baby swing. She was smiling at me, but I felt awkward now. The toddler was eyeing me strangely.  I did a hard foot stop, got off the swing, feeling silly. That's when I saw the sign:

ONLY ADULTS  IN THE COMPANY OF CHILDREN ARE PERMITTED ON THE PLAYGROUND

It went on to mention that adults weren't to use the equipment either. I slumped off, all my glee gone, a rejected, misunderstood middle-aged swinger. I wanted to say to someone, look, I write for children. Well, not little children, exactly, but lots of my readers can't drive yet.  I'm always in the company of kids, metaphorically speaking.

And then I thought about what Jesus said: "Unless you become as a little child you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven." What distinguishes childhood anyway? Things like trust and love and not being so worried about what other people think. Kids have the capacity to fully embrace mystery; the sweet forgetfulness to make up instantly after a fight; the ferocious focus to catch fireflies.

I thought about my inner child and how I needed to listen to her more. She was talking deep: "Joan, do something fun. Get a cupcake." I obeyed instantly and when I got home holding my moist red velvet cupcake, another thought came to me -- put out your Easter egg collection.  I wasn't going to do it this year-- I've been traveling so much, I had so much work to do, but I got the eggs out that I've collected for thirty-some years -- the ones from Africa, Sweden, Croatia. I put them in a clear bowl on my table and stepped back so satisfied as new life surged through me. I've got to listen more.  

Going Deeper

A few birds are singing in my yard and I'm thinking, easy for you to chirp away -- have you seen the headlines? My yard is covered with snow from our big storm. I've got work to do to get ready for spring and I don't much feel like it. I had big dreams for my garden this year -- I was going to bring in a landscaper and get an arbor built. With the economy, that's not going to happen. For a minute I think nasty thoughts about greedy bankers and how we're all paying for the monumental money mess they've created.  

This is a time when we need to adjust. Work is changing, life is changing. It's a lot like winter -- bare branches on bare trees, everyone waiting for the ice to melt. But I like to think that underneath the surface of our lives is a place that is teeming with life and dreams and new beginnings. The biggest trees have the biggest roots. The trees that withstand the fierce winds and storms have roots that plunge deeper under ground. It's easy to look at the world right now and not think much at all about thriving. We're surviving, we're adjusting, we're making do, we're disappointed, we're angry, we're scared. We've never faced something like this before and most of us don't feel ready.

But maybe we are. I try to think back on what I've faced in my life. My dad was an alcoholic -- I learned to separate myself from his disease and still love him. I was a waitress -- I learned to smile when I was irritated and survive the extreme demands of breakfast rush when I was the only waitress who showed up. My dad died tragically -- I learned to keep going. I've moved from place to place, overcame a serious car accident, said no to toxic relationships, dealt with great disappointments, kept believing when I was hopelessly stuck on a writing project, forgave people I never thought I could. I've learned how to live in New York City during and after 9-11. 

You've got your stories, too. We need to remember them and tell them to ourselves and the people around us as we go forward. We've not seen a world like this, that's true. But that could be said of living through the Sixties, or 9-11, or whatever personal tragedies we've faced. The headlines are grim, but we're not wimps. We've got serious roots, and thank God for them. So let's stretch them even deeper and stand strong against the storm. We did it before, we can do it again.

The Wrong Voices

Max my dog is licking my hand like it's a popsicle, particularly interested in my engagement ring -- it belonged to my husband's grandmother. I had to take the ring off when I had neurosurgery over twenty years ago after a man in a Volvo station wagon rammed into my car, injuring my neck and back. I remember the fear rumbling through me when I handed my husband the ring. I remember being wheeled down the hospital hall with Evan walking next to me. It was our seventh wedding anniversary and we were trying to kid about how next year we were going to go someplace where the food was better.

But today from all the memories of that horrid time, I'm recalling the voice and face of a lawyer. It was several months after my surgery, my insurance company said I had to sue the man who hit me. It was this lawyer's job to make it seem like I had lost no earning potential from the accident. Back then, I was a new writer making hardly any money. My lawyer had coached me on how to handle this and I was confident I could, that is until the sneering questions began.

Oh, so you're a writer are you?  How much money have you made?

How is it exactly that you spend your days -- being a writer, I mean.

What have you written that I'd know?

I'm trying to understand how you think this little accident set you back...I mean, professionally...is that the right word?

Those words cut through me. I felt like crying. I didn't respond well at first; I was tongue-tied, confused. And then I got mad. "Look, I've been killing myself to get the words right, to yank the stories out of my gut. It takes hours and days and years! You want me to bring in my boxes of drafts? I'm a writer, sir. Nothing you say can't make it so."

He asked if I would send him a copy of my first novel when it came out.  What a turkey.  I'm not comping you.  "I think you'd better buy it yourself," I told him. He laughed a lawyerly laugh. When I got home that day, I wrote like a thing on fire.

There will always be voices out there telling us we don't matter. It can be the memory of a snide lawyer, an inner critic, something from the past that keeps pulling us away from who we are and what's important. We've just got to learn to turn down the volume when the wrong voices rise up and get to work. But that car accident? It was the event that got me into writing for young people. I don't recommend it as career enhancement, but it was one of those ejection seat moments that propels you to a special place.

"So," people ask me. "How did you start writing for kids?" Well, you see, this guy in a Volvo plowed into my car a long time ago, and something in that just jarred the stories free.

My Valentine 4 U

I have a complicated relationship with Valentine's Day (see my novel, Thwonk). But it's time to celebrate chocolate without boundaries, to run to the store at the last minute and realize that only the bad cards are left, the ones that read, To my husband and forever friend/I pledge my love to never end/but grow more sweet and ever strong/For you, my dear, alone I long. It's the time to remember Valentines past, and this can be very grim indeed. My memories are of my grammar school where the popular kids got big valentines and the lowest of the low, like me, got ones with "Occupant" printed on the envelope. It's the time for some to be celebrated and some to be lonely. But it is the time to send a card, so here's mine to you:

I wish you dreams that are worth waiting for.

I wish you friends who won't just tell you what you want to hear.

I wish you the thrill of being paid to do something that you love.

I wish you an alarm to buzz when you're about to say the wrong thing.

I wish you wonderful comebacks for the bullies in your life.

I wish you confidence to not second-guess your supreme moments of courage.

I wish you energy on rainy days.

I wish you a joke that only you can tell that leaves people in hysterics.

I wish you moments of pure joy when you feel like a little kid.

I wish you memories that won't bruise you, and enough forgetfulness to let the small stuff slide.

I wish you the ability to laugh long and deep.

I wish you a bathroom to be there whenever you need one.  

I wish you a heart of good cheer and a soul filled with hope.   

Happy V Day,

Joan

And for my husband and true Valentine of twenty-seven years, who cooks and manages my website and does umpteen things to enhance my life each and every day, no card could say how I feel. Even if I got to the store a week early, there just wouldn't be one good enough.  

The Glee Factor

We all want good MPG (miles per gallon) for our cars; increased RAM (random access memory) for our computers; we want to lower our LDL (bad cholesterol) and raise our HDL (good cholesterol). We know it's good to achieve MHR (maximum heart rate) when exercising, but not for too long and so we look to our THR (target heart rate) to balance things out. At night we hope to get enough REM (rapid eye movement) to sleep deeply. But scientists have yet to discover the GPD (glee per day) measurement for healthy living.

Glee is the state of deep delight in which a person, depending on the personality, begins to grin broadly, giggle, toss something jubilantly into the air, sing, skip, whistle, or beam. Due to its intensity, glee has been found to effect the emotions much like a post workout calorie burn -- ten seconds of pure glee, for example, can dispel one hour of worry.

The Glee Factor was first discovered seven years ago by my daughter, then an undergraduate at the University of Chicago, when she found in a store a tiny glass-blown sheep (no bigger than one quarter inch tall) with a wry half smile. This sheep was a riot, and Jean began to laugh beyond normal laughter. I bought it for her, laughing, too. Jean named the sheep Glee. It has never failed to produce concentrated cheer.

The Glee Factor is not restricted to miniscule glass sheep, but it does require an awareness of the gleeful things around you. Try to have at least one moment of glee each day (more if you're feeling out of sorts) and remember to write it down. As you do, your GPD numbers will rise and you might find that you are tossing things merrily into the air at will. If this happens to you, you are duty bound to spread the word. For anything that can turn glumness into guffaws and discouragement into delight must be shared with others.  

Fresh Starts

It's snowing here and I love the snow. I love to ice skate, love to wear big sweaters and boots and eat hearty stews and build fires. When I was little I always felt that snow signaled a fresh start because it changed the way everything looked and took boring, gray streets and made them glisten with promise. It was like heaven opened up and said, here you go, start fresh today. I think of that as Barack Obama is about to become our 44th president, as Martin Luther King's prophetic voice rises in hope and courage across the years, as Bruce Springsteen sings on the steps on the Lincoln Memorial, as the plane is pulled up from the cold waters of the Hudson -- the miracle plane, the miracle pilot, and all the passengers safe.

May it snow a little longer and cover all the places we need to see changed, may the music keep playing, and may hope flow over us and upend our fears and stop the memories of so many bad endings. May we embrace hope like never before in this historic week of fresh starts and bold beginnings.

STOP IT!

There are things I need to stop in 2009. Management consultant, Peter Drucker, always asked top CEOs this disarming question:  What have you stopped doing?  He said when we figure out what no longer works, it opens the door to new opportunities.  One of the first things I need to stop doing is ignoring the fact that I've re-injured my knee, and then to stop telling myself that I don't have time to do my knee exercises. But the problem with the exercises is that they are boring and I get so sick of doing them in front of TV's parade of talking heads, but I decided that what my knee, brain, and heart really needed was a good dose of watching something that oozed into my soul. And so I found my Les Miserables 10th anniversary tape, which always stirs me; I put in on and began exercising, counting the reps. 

Now the issue about exercising to Les Miz is that the music packs such an emotional punch that I tend to lose count. And so when Jean Valjean is arrested for stealing a loaf of bread, it's hard to do leg lifts slowly, especially since this is the moment that my puppy Max decides to join me, jumping up and trying to hang from my leg. "No!" I tell him and lose count again. And now the music is going ever deeper and my heart is beginning to anticipate the great tragedy that is about to befall the mother, Fantine, who has a young child and has been through the mill. Fantine is singing in a way that makes me cry and this disturbs Max who begins to lick my face. I lose count again, but move to the inner thigh strengthening, at which point Fantine the mother is not doing well, and now the phone rings and I am crying and my husband, who is downstairs and not dealing with life and death issues, shouts, up, "Can you get it?" Well, the answer is, I suppose I could, but I'd rather not, because Fantine is dying and I am crying while tensing and releasing my inner thigh, wondering what is going to happen to Fantine's little daughter, Cosette. Of course, I already know because I've read the book and seen the musical any number of times. But you know how it is with a great story -- you just don't let yourself rush ahead, you stay with the agony until the end and let yourself be swept away. 

My husband gets the phone as Fantine sings her final song.  I begin the teeny knee muscle movement when Max crawls into my lap and lays his head across my knees causing all exercising to stop. I weep with these characters as the music rushes over me.  Not everyone can have an emotional catharsis while spending quality time with their dog.  Stopping things isn't always easy, and life is filled with endless interruptions, but just starting the stopping can open the door to a soulful, tender release.  

The Light Show

It had seemed like a good idea. It was New Year's Eve and I was walking behind my husband, sister, and brother-in-law in a very dark forest in New Zealand. They had flashlights, I didn't. It was close to midnight. I was tripping a little because I couldn't see the ground. The deeper we got into the woods, the more nervous I became, even though my sister and brother-in-law lived in New Zealand. 

"There might be snakes," I mentioned.

"There are no snakes in New Zealand," my husband said.  

I doubted this. "They might be lost," I mentioned. "And crabby." I thought about being dragged off by some fierce, reckless creature. "Tell me we're not lost," I pleaded.

"We're not," my husband said.

How do you know? We've never been here before. For all the hiking we've done, we've never once walked in a dark forest close to midnight!

The crunch of our boots was the only sound as we walked. The silence was so deep, I grabbed Evan's hand. Then one by one the flashlights were turned off and my sister said, "There they are." I could barely see her hand pointing. I looked through the darkness and saw little lights up ahead, like dim, white Christmas lights glowing. We'd found the glow worms.

I hadn't expected expected them to look like this. I don't know what I'd expected -- fireflies, maybe? Little worms blinking on and off like Disney insects...certainly not the array of hundreds of tiny lights in the bushes.  It was magical. "Hi kids," I whispered. You don't shout in the presence of glow worms.

We stood there in silence looking at the light show. I could have stood there all night. And I kept thinking, there are just some things that need the darkness to show their stuff. I want to remember that going into this new year, a year that's sure to be packed with dark economic challenges. May our eyes be opened in 2009 to see the light glowing in the most amazing places.

Christmas Past

I remember the church that year; the stinging pain in my back was so strong that I was trying to concentrate on the flowers on the altar, the candles by the stained glass window. I remember seeing my daughter, then six, singing with the choir of children. I remember it as close to my worst Christmas ever because a week before I'd been in a car accident and the pain in my back and neck was terrible. A few months later I would have neurosurgery, but on that Christmas Eve twenty years ago, I was feeling bleak and lost and afraid. I hadn't been able to do much since the accident, I was hurting all the time, here it was Christmas and I didn't care. I just wanted to go home and get in bed.

That's when the kids dressed as shepherds began walking down the aisle, followed by kids dressed as animals -- the usual pageant parade. The woman playing Mary started down the aisle -- her face was glowing, my back was in spasms. My husband put his hand on my shoulder, "Are you okay?" No. Not close to it. Here I was, a new, struggling writer and I'd had this car accident and ever since then I couldn't focus too well and I didn't know what was going to happen. "Are you okay?" No.

The woman playing Mary was carrying a real baby in her arms as the man who was Joseph walked beside her. Every year the pastor asked a couple from the church with a new baby to play Mary and Joseph in the pageant. And then I remembered. I watched the woman, Mary, carrying the baby down the aisle. She was radiant. But that was impossible because a few months ago her baby had been born with a serious birth defect. And now that baby was the Baby Jesus, and now his mother was laying him in the manger in front of the church as her real husband, playing Joseph, watched. And it was then that I began to cry. I thought, how can she do this? How can she look so happy after everything that's happened? But she did. I don't remember anything else about that service. When I got home I went upstairs, got in bed, and wept, and somehow in the weeping I lay down the burden of my accident, the chronic pain that I could hardly handle, the fear of the future, and the unnamed fears I didn't even understand. And I just let Christmas come into my room and into my heart.