Friend or Foe

Behold the lowly dandelion, scourge of gardeners everywhere. Google the poor plant's name and the first thing to show up is how to kill it. This is something I've never understood. If it weren't for the dandelions, I'd have a total of about three flowers on my property. In a good year.
Dandelions are just as cheerful and bright a harbinger of spring and summer as their fussier cousins, daisies and asters, which actually have to be purchased. Dandelions are free. Maybe they are the essence of freedom. Certainly, no one thinks grim, funereal thoughts in the presence of dandelions, as they do with lilies. Dandelions are neither demanding nor pretentious, resting contentedly on the opposite end of the snob scale from roses, irises, and dahlias.
The dandelion is easy to grow, resistant to disease, and--drum roll, please--they are edible. Soup. Salad. Wine! Our pioneer ancestors must roll in their graves at our cavalier treatment of this versatile botanic specimen.
In case the above facts are not enough to persuade you of the dandelion's importance, how about some pure sentimental stuff? For how many children is the dandelion the first plant they can identify? For how many mothers is a bouquet of dandelions the first gift their child offers them? Who hasn't made a wish while blowing away the fluff of a spent dandelion?
Yet, no florist I've ever encountered would include dandelions in an arrangement. None of the proud gardeners I know would tolerate them anywhere near their precious herbaceous beds. The average American would rather cover his lawn with poisonous chemicals than allow one Taraxacum to invade the lawn.
That seems a shame, especially when they so quickly turn to wishes.

So Not Cool

You know what this is. Everyone in the world recognizes the logo in this photo. Well, practically everyone. There may be someone on the planet who communicates via jungle drums and dines on tree bark and ants who has never worshiped at the altar of St. Arbucks.
Full disclosure: Minus the dietary habits, I am closer to that poor clueless castaway than I am to the average American, since I never drink either of the two beverages essential to most writers (no alcohol, no caffeine--how do I survive??). I rarely set foot in a coffee shop. However, since I am a writer, and I don't live in total isolation, I'm occasionally given a Starbucks gift card. In fact, there have been several of them floating in the detritus of my handbag for years.
Not long ago, I found myself stuck waiting for the groomer to finish with Woki. (Yes, I spend more on his haircuts than I do on my own.) With time to kill on a frigid winter morning, I wandered into the Starbucks next door to the groomer. It seemed like a good morning for a nice cup of tea, so after determining what elaborate tea-based concoction to request, I got in line with the cool people who know the drill. I figured if I watched closely, I could manage to place my order without making too much of a fool of myself.
Wrong.
Here among the beautiful ones, I was so out of my depth. The three men in line all sported designer stubble, ear buds, and distracted expressions. I imagined they were fretting over sports teams, the financial markets or, less likely, the car that had been parked in the handicapped spot outside. Of the eight or ten women in line, seven wore their blonde hair in a ponytail, four had perfectly applied makeup, all of them wore Lulu Lemon yoga pants, and not one of them weighed more than 100 pounds.
So the line crept forward, and I listened to the patois of Starbucks: half-caf double venti latte with hazelnut; grande, iced, with soy; triple half-sweet carmel macchiato. And as if that wasn't confusing enough, why does tall = small?
With increasing alarm, I saw the two people ahead of me pay not with money or gift cards, but by holding their phones to the credit card device (at least I think that's what it was). Hey, I've got a phone. It's even a smart phone. Trouble is, I'm not cool enough to tell it how to pay for my tea.
It became MY TURN.
I ordered a drink by the name printed on the overhead menu, not entirely sure what it would be. "May I please have a London Fog?"
Server--oh, pardon me--barista's reply, "What? What do you want?" Like I was speaking Hurro-Uratian.
I pointed to the menu and repeated my order slowly. She nodded, scribbled something on a cup which she handed off to a co-worker. I, in turn, handed her a grimy gift card. She took it carefully, as if it might be contaminated. Okay, maybe that wasn't unreasonable.
I sauntered casually to the little counter where drinks appeared and recognized mine easily enough, even though it was now called a "tea latte" rather than the much cooler sounding London Fog. Settling into a corner with what proved to be a delicious beverage, I surveyed the shop, content to be sitting amongst the young and caffeinated with my iconic paper cup. I might not be cool these days, but once upon a time, I could have given everyone in the place a run for their money . . . or their phones.

Cloud of Unknowing

Last night, I took this shot of an unusual golden cloud formation over the south end of Forest Park. There are all sorts of cheesy metaphors that I could spin (mostly to justify using this photo, which I find pleasing), but I think instead I'll simply tie it to a quote one of my fellow writers shared with me last week. The quote resonated because I don't often come across musings on the word  that forms the basis for this blog title. I've lost track of the number of people who have told me Liminalesque is a terrible title for a blog--and I agree with every one of them, but I'm sufficiently stubborn and enamored of the word to ignore the good advice. The passage below appears on page 244 of The Practice of Happiness: Political Economy, Religion, and Wellbeing  edited by John R. Atherton, Elaine Graham, and Ian Steedman.

"'Limen' is the Latin term which translates as threshold . . . There are those from within the spiritual traditions who perceive the liminal space to be the location for growth and change, the space betwixt and between where God is often leading be where we feel uncomfortable and insecure. The tried and tested has to be left behind and we have to be willing to live with the not knowing and not being in control . . .The temptation is always to return from this scary place too quickly, to retreat from this 'cloud of unknowing' . . . by resorting to quick-fix solutions and interpretations. Few of us know how to stay on the thresholds or to remain in the liminal spaces. . ."

Now, while I don't agree with every notion stated or implied here (the title alone makes me want to hide under my desk), I have to admit that I wholeheartedly endorse the idea that the liminal space is equally scary and full of potential. Like everything else I commit to written language and put out in the world, this blog takes a toll on my courage. Yet, I'm compelled to wander in my "cloud of unknowing" with the hope of . . . well, I'm not even sure about that.

Fun Stuff

Usually, the winter months of January and February are so very dreary they seem to drag on forever, but that hasn't been the case this year. Some of the credit goes to El Nino for making the weather tolerable--even pleasant--for a few choice days, but the real honors go to the fun stuff on my calendar. Pictured at the left: me with the Crystal Lake Book Club in late January. What a fun Sunday afternoon I spent with them! We had an interesting discussion of major themes and characters in my books, preceded by a fantastic brunch. These ladies are smart, charming, and terrific cooks. (When did you say you'd like me to come back?)

In mid-January, I was also a guest speaker at the Lake Bluff Library Book Club. Once again, I was flattered and honored to be asked to talk to this group of intelligent, thoughtful readers. Only a couple of members are pictured with me here because I got so caught up in the great discussions, I totally forgot to get pictures until after the event when most people had already left. Again, this is a group I would love to return to when I have another book to discuss. They asked so many excellent questions and clearly picked up on some of the subtler themes in my stories.

Another big event in January was the publication of an article about the writers' group I founded and facilitate in Lake Forest. My thanks to Nicki Koetting at The Lake Forest Leader for a great write-up! Out group has been going for nine years, now, and though we've had ups and downs with membership, we currently have a great group of highly skilled writers. Each meeting, we read manuscripts from one or more members, and I provide an exercise prompt to hone writing chops between our monthly meetings. This month's prompt is to write about something you've never noticed before. To add an extra element, there is also a challenge to use two or three words that are not in your usual vocabulary. I've chosen "niveous" and "hamate" as my two words. (Trolling the dictionary for these gems is amazingly relaxing.)

Finally, the greatest event of the winter (and the most distracting) was the birth of my third grandchild and first granddaughter, Sarah.
She's now two weeks old, and I'm just getting back to work on a regular basis after happily dropping everything to welcome her and help tend to her 18-month old brother, Graham.
Now, however, the characters in my next book are jumping up and down, screaming at me to pay attention to them and leave the real people to the real world.

This week, as a last blast of winter weather is approaching the Chicago area, I've done the grocery shopping, cleaned the house, and organized myself to hunker down and get to work. And that sounds absolutely delightful.

What Are the Odds?

Okay, so there are lines going out the door at convenience stores and gas stations because people have gone crazy over the Powerball Lottery. The prize is, as of this writing, $1.3 BILLION. A sum I would wait in line for, except that--as I quote from some unknown but wise source--this is a game for the mathematically challenged. The odds are 292 million to 1 that plunking down real money for a chance at the fantasy is a complete waste. I've never been a gambler. Too many other ways to get rid of money.
You're winning odds are better for getting hit by an asteroid, being elected president of the United States, or becoming a saint. (Well, in my case, that last one might not be valid.) As someone who enjoys math (though I admit probability is my least favorite branch), I just don't see the attraction for a game with that much weight on the losing side.
So that begs the question, "Why exactly do I think my chances are better as a writer?"
Entirely likely success will be just as much of a wild goose chase for me as it is for those people in the gas station line. Still, we all have our dreams. Without them, life would be dreary indeed. I wish all those people in the lines the best of luck, especially the couple who want to use their winnings "to buy out Trump."
And I'll continue to take my chances in the publishing business.

Blogged Down

No news that a discarded Christmas tree is one of the saddest of sights ever. The most iconic symbol of holiday cheer and happiness kicked to the curb like an old drunk.
This entire month has passed in the usual blur of work, shopping, cooking, parties, more shopping and, in between all the holiday fuss, writing. Short stories, one with deadline in January (who thought that was a good idea??), a new novel clawing its way to the surface, book promos, etc. And this blog. Even though I don't have a vast following, posting once a month is my own personal touchstone, the place where I prove to myself that I can do this, with or without permission, support, or any other extrinsic reward. Hey, this is the writing life. Extrinsic rewards are in short supply.
But I was utterly "blogged down" trying to think of something interesting enough to me, let alone any poor sucker who happens across this entry.
Finally, today, December 31st, at just past three in the afternoon, I figured out what I'd write about: soldiering on even when it feels like my work is about as appreciated as last year's Christmas tree.
I'd seen a tree across the street, tossed in the snow, the perfect image. Scurrying into my coat, I went out to take the photo.
The tree was gone. Recycled. Turned to dust.
Oh, God--was this a symbol of my writing future? I had the choice to cave in or refuse to take such treatment from the Universe.
Somewhere, surely, there must be another tree lying at the side of the road. I hopped in the car, trying not to consider the sigilistic aspects of my quest. No tree = no blog post = no writing future.
But the Universe smiled, or possibly smirked, and seven or eight blocks from my house, I found the tree pictured above. So perhaps it is a sign after all. Perseverance. Always. Amen.

Letter to a Stranger

In honor of Veteran's Day and all the men and women who have served this country, I am posting the contents of a letter I wrote to someone I've never met. A writer friend asked a few fellow writers to pen a note to his father, a WWII vet, so here is what I came up with:

Though I don't know you personally, I'd like to thank you for your service in World War II. 
My father, though American, served with the British Royal Engineers in North Africa and Italy, and I grew up hearing some of his stories. As I got older, I realized these stories--funny ones, scary ones, reminiscences of people and places he always hoped to see again--were only the vignettes he was willing to share. There were many more memories he kept to himself.
He instilled in me a fascination for that period in history, and I am currently working on a short story set in England in 1944. In the course of my research, I learned about Operation Tiger, a rehearsal for D-Day conducted on Slapton Sands on the south coast of England. The exercise went terribly wrong when a convoy of LSTs approaching the coast was discovered by German E-boats out of Cherbourg. 946 men were lost. Because of concerns that D-Day plans would be disrupted, this tragedy was kept secret for 40 years. 
While this story may not be news now, I relate it here so that you will know such sacrifices will not be lost in the tides of time. Decades after the event, there are still those of us who are learning anew how indebted we are to the service men and women of WWII. The strength and courage of your generation will not be forgotten.