Thursday, September 20, 2012
Amazon's Lending Library
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Road Trip!!!!!!!!
Crossing the country by car with my 22 year-old son was a trip I will always remember.
Every two hours we would exchange jobs and the other would drive. Having MS, I felt some trepidation before leaving on what would be five days of driving. What would it be like sitting for hours and hours? Would my stomach survive eating highway food? Would my son sleep the whole way? Or, would he venture to converse with his Mom? How could I possibly listen to his Ipod music for hours and hours?
Turns out five days is a looonnnnng time to sit in a car. From Southern Arizona to Washington, DC. After two hours, we would get out switching jobs, and the actual movement of just going from sitting to standing was a bit of a challenge. Muscles stiffen up pretty quickly, and I would find myself walking as if I just got off a horse. But, I would stretch it out and take over the wheel.
For me it was never about the destination, but about the trip. My son is starting a new chapter in his life as he enters grad school in a state 2000 miles away. We all know what happens. Angelina said it best in my novel: “Life gets in the way of living.” After grad school, he will likely pursue his PhD, then get a job (cross your fingers), then meet a lovely lady, then settle down, etc. etc. His new life will be in the D.C. Metro area. My husband, daughter and I will be flying to the East for our vacations.
This is something that had to happen. For my son to pursue this educational road and be successful in International Relations - Conflict Analysis and Resolution, there was never a question that D.C. would be the hub of that activity. After all, there are no embassies in Arizona.
This mother-son sojourn was my way of holding on to him for just a little bit longer. I kept any discomfort to myself, having vowed he would not hear me complain. After all, this was my idea. Yet, he was solicitous of me showing concern for my comfort. I love that kid! Plus, for the next three days, we had fun setting him up in his new environment.
There’s a quote from a song that always makes me tear up: “We watch them grow, just to let them go.” I’m not sure I will ever get used to it, but I’m very glad I insisted on this trip and will never regret it… even after I return home and remain horizontal for a few days. For this short while, MS will stand for My Son.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Outside My Comfort Zone
Stepping outside of my comfort zone or
How to become one Tough Mudder.
Last weekend my son and nephews entered in the Tough Mudder race in Southern Calif. For those of you who do not know what a Tough Mudder race is; allow me to explain.
It is an obstacle course – not unlike those Navy Seals use for training. You jump into vats of ice water, then hoist yourself over walls, army crawl through mud, while being zapped by electrified wires (NOT KIDDING). Some people actually run it as a race, some walk it. They are held throughout the country (Google it), but this one was at a snow resort, so I’m guessing fewer people were actually racing up Black Diamond mountains. The entire race took my son with his team of six, approximately five hours to complete.
Through poor planning on the part of the organizers, they ran out of bananas, parking meant taking a shuttle to the ski resort and then after the long tedious race, when all you want to do is lie down and sleep, they had a 2½ hour wait to get onto a shuttle to return to their car. Since the sun was setting and they were wet and mud-covered, they were handed space blankets to keep warm.
It sounds to me that this is not really a race as much as an endurance test. No one in their party attempted to be the first to cross the finish line, They just wanted to be able to have the opportunity to say they survived the Tough Mudder from start to finish.
Now, I am proud they did it and happier still that no one was injured. But, I pondered why anyone would push themselves to the limit.
Why must people climb the tallest mountains wearing oxygen masks? Why must someone swim across vast expanses of water (even shark-infested), if they haven’t fallen overboard? Why do people push their bodies to extremes?
Trust me: I don’t get it. There was a period of two years when I was working out with a personal trainer. I felt it was my duty to keep my multiple sclerosis in check, by being at my fittest. I worked with an excellent trainer who was well aware of my strengths and weaknesses. I did get stronger and I did lose weight. But, after my workout I went home and collapsed. Then I was in pain for the next two days. "But it’s a good pain" – that’s my husband talking. I gave him looks of daggers, because to me PAIN IS PAIN. Then I would return to the gym and begin the same routine all over again. Workout, collapse, limp around in pain for two days.
Well, I finally got it! If my MS was going to create pain anyway, I didn’t need to cultivate it in a gym. So, I stopped going. Lo and behold, I have been pain-free since. Not of course, free of my MS pain, which I will always have. But free of that good kind of pain that kept me grimacing for days on end.
I strongly advise most of you NOT to listen and follow my newly-acquired way of thinking. Exercise is good for people with MS. Just not this person. And that becomes my choice. I choose not to push myself to my limits. I prefer to stay within my comfort zone.
Now I may not be one Tough Mudder (as it were), but I am pushing myself outside my comfort zone in a different way. Not with my body - oh no, I’ve learned my lesson - but with my mind. My creative mind.
With my first novel, “Once in Every Generation” I was well within my comfort zone. Even though it was fiction, it was semi-autobiographical. I knew what it was like to step into the spotlight and I knew what it was like to get diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I also wrote within the genre of which I read. I like books about interpersonal relationships.
Here’s where I am leaping (giant leaps) outside my zone of comfort: the novel I am working on now with great intensity and excitement is a combination of contemporary and historical fiction. Though based on the life of a real person, it combines real life characters with fictionalized events. The research has been extremely inspiring for me.
You will read about a true person who survived the Holocaust, only to have to relive it in her elder years. There is mystery, drama, humor, and even a chase scene throughout the backstreets of London.
Totally outside my comfort zone! And as I type I can feel the adrenaline pumping. I look forward to sitting down at the keyboard and writing. This has become my Everest, my pushing the limits, my Tough Mudder race (without the mud). And I can finally understand why people push themselves outside of their comfort zones. I finally get it! Yes, I am one Tough Mudder, after all.
Stepping Outside My Comfort Zone
Stepping outside of my comfort zone or
How to become one Tough Mudder.
Last weekend my son and nephews entered in the Tough Mudder race in Southern Calif. For those of you who do not know what a Tough Mudder race is; allow me to explain.
It is an obstacle course – not unlike those Navy Seals use for training. You jump into vats of ice water, then hoist yourself over walls, army crawl through mud, while being zapped by electrified wires (NOT KIDDING). Some people actually run it as a race, some walk it. They are held throughout the country (Google it), but this one was at a snow resort, so I’m guessing fewer people were actually racing up Black Diamond mountains. The entire race took my nephews and their team of six, approximately five hours to complete.
Through poor planning on the part of the organizers, they ran out of bananas, parking meant taking a shuttle to the ski resort and then after the long tedious race, when all you want to do is lie down and sleep, they had a 2½ hour wait to get onto a shuttle to return to their car. Since the sun was setting and they were wet and mud-covered, they were handed space blankets to keep warm.
It sounds to me that this is not really a race as much as an endurance test. No one in their party attempted to be the first to cross the finish line, They just wanted to be able to have the opportunity to say they survived the Tough Mudder from start to finish.
Now, I am proud they did it and happier still that no one was injured. But, I pondered why anyone would push themselves to the limit.
Why must people climb the tallest mountains wearing oxygen masks? Why must someone swim across vast expanses of water (even shark-infested), if they haven’t fallen overboard? Why do people push their bodies to extremes?
Trust me: I don’t get it. There was a period of two years when I was working out with a personal trainer. I felt it was my duty to keep my multiple sclerosis in check, by being at my fittest. I worked with an excellent trainer who was well aware of my strengths and weaknesses. I did get stronger and I did lose weight. But, after my workout I went home and collapsed. Then I was in pain for the next two days. "But it’s a good pain" – that’s my husband talking. I gave him looks of daggers, because to me pain IS pain. Then I would return to the gym and begin the same routine all over again. Workout, collapse, limp around in pain for two days.
Well, I finally got it! If my MS was going to create pain anyway, I didn’t need to cultivate it in a gym. So, I stopped going. Lo and behold, I have been pain-free since. Not of course, free of my MS pain, which I will always have. But that good kind of pain that kept me grimacing for days on end.
I strongly advise most of you NOT to listen and follow my newly-acquired way of thinking. Exercise is good for people with MS. Just not this person. And that becomes my choice. I choose not to push myself to my limits. I prefer to stay within my comfort zone.
Now I may not be one Tough Mudder (as it were), but I am pushing myself outside my comfort zone in a different way. Not with my body - oh no, I’ve learned my lesson - but with my mind. My creative mind.
With my first novel, “Once in Every Generation” I was well within my comfort zone. Even though it was fiction, it was semi-autobiographical. I knew what it was like to step into the spotlight and I knew what it was like to get diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I also wrote within the genre of which I read. I like books about interpersonal relationships.
Here’s where I am leaping (giant leaps) outside my zone of comfort: the novel I am working on now with great intensity and excitement is a combination of contemporary and historical fiction. Though based on the life of a real person, it combines real life characters with fictionalized events. The research has been extremely inspiring for me.
You will read about a true person who survived the Holocaust, only to have to relive it in her elder years. There is mystery, drama, humor, and even a chase scene throughout the backstreets of London.
Totally outside my comfort zone! And as I type I can feel the adrenaline pumping. I look forward to sitting down at the keyboard and writing. This has become my Everest, my pushing the limits, my Tough Mudder race (without the mud). And I can finally understand why people push themselves outside of their comfort zones. I finally get it! Yes, I am one Tough Mudder, after all.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
I'm No. 1! I'm No. 1!
Yea! Please, tell your friends. "Once in Every Generation" is No. 1 on Amazon in this category:
Books - Literature & Fiction - multiple sclerosis.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
HELP WANTED: Dream Interpretation Needed.
Sorry it has been a while since my last blog. In fact my last post was by a guest blogger. But the simple truth was that I had nothing to write about. And I refuse to bore readers with the details of my everyday life (like some bloggers).
But just to update you, I have been writing with a ferocity I have never felt before. I am very excited about this story and that’s why this next novel is moving along. Though still in its rough draft state of infancy, I have a clear vision of where it’s going.
The purpose of this post is to reach out and see if there is anyone out there who can help me. You see, for the past 25 years I have had a recurrent dream. It is a dream with variations on the same theme. As I dream I recognize it as such. Moreover, I believe it is connected with the novel I am currently writing. Perhaps, for 25 years I have been destined to write this story.
So, for those who are not interested in dream interpretations, feel free to stop reading at this point. You won’t hurt my feelings. For those who are interested I would love you to leave a comment here, or email me at: lauren@laurenbgrossman.com.
Each dream involves a large house with many rooms. I am the owner. As I enter each room there is a door which leads to other rooms, which lead to more rooms, etc.
Example of a dream I had maybe 20 years ago, but is still vivid in my mind: I have just bought a house and I enter a room. It has dark paneling and lots of built-ins. The former owners must have left in a hurry because the drawers still are full. At first I am annoyed that I have to clear out their mess, but then I realize that you never know what you might find. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure, right? I leave that room to explore my new house, and I enter a room. It is as large as a warehouse. There are many beds in this room. Metal springs and thin mattresses – the kind you had when you lived in a dorm in college. They are all strewn about the room n disorder. I make my way through the room and pass into another room, which is obviously some sort of trailer. I think to myself, “Oh good, I own a trailer, too.” There are other smaller details, but that is the gist.
Another dream is in an apartment I live in which has doors that lead to many other rooms. Some have stairs to climb to get to the next room.
The one particular dream I had which lends me to believe it is a connection with my novel was this: A white manse which I have gone through, though I never make it through every room for there are too many. I find myself at the bottom of a hill looking up at the manse. It sits on a grassy knoll with an identical manse slightly angled next to it. I am with children at play. A nun comes for us (I am Jewish) and tells us to follow her. I realize this residence is an orphanage and I live there. I can still see it clearly.
As I said, the dreams are the variations on the same theme. But why do I have these recurrent dreams? Not every night, not even every month, but several times in a year, I will awaken and recognize the theme.
Here’s the clincher for those readers who have stayed awake reading with this post: My novel is about a real woman who survived the Holocaust because her parents could not afford to feed her. Like many people had to do, they sent her to an orphanage run by nuns. It is only a small portion of her story, which I have turned into an historical fiction. But I had the revelation while rereading the story that it connects to my dream of when I was an orphan looking up at the white manse on the hill.
Karma? Reincarnation? Coincidence? Too much spicy foods before bedtime?
Seriously, if you have any thoughts I would welcome them. It has baffled me for 25 years. My hope is that if it is a connect to this novel, that the dreams will end when I finally go to publication.
What are your thoughts?
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Guest Blog - Spring Break, Revisited
Welcome Terry Crawford Palardy as our guest blogger
Spring Break, Revisted
On a true spring day,
Temperatures in the fifties
Sun behind a thin veil of clouds
I am remembering…
It is spring break week for colleges, but not for public schools. It has been a full year since I’d last sat on the porch each morning of this blessed week with a pot of tea, there to scribble restful thoughts into my notebook.
I had taken the week off to recuperate from a growing sense of malaise, fatigue, confusion and sadness. My career would be ending soon, sooner than I’d planned. I decided to consider it a vacation week, like the college students had. I found it a precious time of year, with the worst of winter behind us, and the true beginnings of new life just ahead. I wished in that week that every teacher could experience a true spring break.
Some mornings I would simply watch the weather, listen to the birdsong, and sniff the fresh moist scent of buds breaking through recently thawed earth. Other times I would write at a frenzied pace as life itself happened: the chickadees’ and nuthatches’ noisy quarrel with the squirrel, contrasting with the mourning doves’ quiet, fluttering arrival to forage beneath the feeder, and the chipmunk’s incessant chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp from the front doorstep, where he sat on top of the garden statue of a bunny, his short tail looking like an anchor tucked between the sun-warmed ears of the statue. The creatures in view were ever changing, never still. The sparrows would arrive en masse, taking over the feeder, leaving the larger but timid cardinal hiding deep within the branches of the pines nearby. I would scribe their chatter, and describe their behaviors, but try as I might, I could never quite capture their natural beauty with my words. One week of spring vacation could never be long enough.
Afternoons of that special week were dedicated first to a restorative nap, and then a valiant attempt at spring cleaning, of winter wardrobe weeding and donation deliveries, and sorting through the stacks of unattended miscellaneous mail, always set aside during the school year, less important than the bills and such, and always requiring at least a glance before being cast away. If weather allowed, and energy sufficed, an outdoor patrol with garden gloves to pull last fall’s debris off the little spring shoots and a camera to capture those blossoms that did arrive before week’s end. Washing the windows was anticipated, but not accomplished during
that very short week.
Evenings during my spring ‘vacation week’ found me back indoors, feet up, school bag at my side and piles of student work spread about nearby awaiting grades to fit the comments already written. My notebook lay neglected then, as work bled into the home scene consistently. Many evenings I wished I might have the student beside me as a page was being reviewed; to point out a difficult passage, and make a suggested change with immediate feedback and response … how much we could accomplish together, one to one … but with one hundred students and only me, that could never happen. No chance to praise and take delight in work well done and little time to coach and encourage the one who had shown little understanding of the task. The comments I wrote always said so much more than the isolated letter grade at the top of the page, but the grade alone would hold the student’s attention and the comments were often all for naught. So many hours invested outside the schoolroom, far removed from the intended target of those instructional notes. My labor of love would be put away quickly as the student went off to the next class, another subject, and a different teacher with different papers to return, grades and all.
I tried to continue through the rest of that spring to summer, to finish that last year of school on my feet, with pride. But I was humbled by the increasing forgetfulness, and sadness, and fears and tears. Rising each morning became more difficult. A permanent substitute was in my place now, and while I was welcome to stop in and guide her through the curriculum and materials, I was unable to fill even that role. I spent more and more hours asleep each day, and in my dreams visited my classroom, only to find it was no longer mine. I dreamt of being lost, I dreamt of being misplaced in time and place, and I dreamt of being no longer needed. In my dreams I became a different person, a stranger even to myself… after thirty years of being a teacher, I became an unknown.
It has been a year since that wonderful week followed by that difficult end of my career. I used some of that time to visit doctors, to try new medications, to rest, to take walks during the daylight rather than at the weary end of a workday. I learned how to reduce our expenses to fit our pension. I leaned what I needed to know about our new health insurance that accompanied my retirement. I learned how to let go of the responsibility I felt each year for one hundred new students. I learned not to fear letting their parents down, or letting students down, and letting myself down. I learned that I did not have to remember every family situation and health issue and learning style of those hundred new students each year. I learned that it was alright to be finished. I learned that there is life beyond the classroom, beyond a career.
But I do miss them, all of them. I miss the students’ smiles in the morning, their pride in their work, their delight in understanding something that they were learning. I miss my colleagues, my partners, my friends, and our meetings together where we discussed all of our students and their lives and their learning. I missed, for a short while, the regularity of a schedule, and learned that without that external structure I could find my own within. And I know that the balance has
shifted, and the time taken from my family for my students is now free for me to spend with those I love at home. I am beginning to know who I am now, this different me. And I am happy. And my spring break is now long enough, and need never end.
Terry's links:
Amazon Author's Page: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00580PJ9Y
Website: www.beyondoldwindows.com
Facebook: Terry Crawford Palardy, and Terry's Thoughts and Threads, and Multiple Sclerosis, an Enigma
Twitter: @thoughtsthreads
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