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I took a little sabbatical last week, and one thing that came up is that I miss my blog. Not the blogs I write for other sites, about whatever their message is, but my own, inward/outward blogs about walking through my life and my work and my garden. It is said that blogs are dying, that no one reads them anymore, but I do. So do you or you wouldn’t be here.
I have let myself become distracted by a thousand other tasks, distracted away from a form I genuinely enjoy and feels wise to me. In fact, the quest for wisdom, the desire to understand what wisdom is, what it means to be wise, to be an elder, a wise woman, has been dogging me lately. Natural, perhaps when a grandchild arrives and you see the future, a future that will not always contain you in this particular form.
The fast, short updates of Facebook and Twitter have shifted attention away from blogs/columns, but while it can feel good to keep up to date with the day to day happenings of people via those methods, there can be no exploration of ideas in those forms, at least I don’t know how to do it.
 spring slopes What I do know is that this slightly longer form, a column or blog, is perfect for me to mull an idea, think about something, share them with you, my reader.
So I’m going to commit to blogging again here. I don’t know how often….maybe once a week sometimes, maybe every day. We’ll see. There is much afoot in my world. A baby and books and walking and trips abroad. I am interested in exploring the idea of wisdom and might come up with a year-long project to see what that looks like.
We’ll see. For now, I wanted to let you know I’m returning to this form.
For this Mother’s Day Weekend, Walk in Beauty is free at Amazon. It is a searing, heartfelt tale of lost love and a secret child, the  terrible mistakes we can all make, and the possibilities love offers to heal even the darkest of wounds. I love this book madly, for the Navajo aspects, and the lost child reunited with her father. Luke Bernali was one of the first characters to ever walk on to the screen of my imagination, although it was nearly a dozen years before I wrote his story. He was my companion for a long time.
The special starts Friday and ends Tuesday, so don’t miss your chance.
Excerpt
Jessie glanced out the front window. “It’s cloudy. Won’t it be awfully cold?”
“Not really,” Luke said. “We’ll bundle up and put an extra pair of socks on. It’s nice up there this time of year. Do you remember Cheyenne Canyon? Helen Hunt Falls?”
Jessie chuckled, thinking of her ragged copy of Ramona, Helen Hunt Jackson’s famous novel of a California woman and the Indian, Alessandro, she loved. Jessie had discovered a dusty copy in the library when she was fourteen and read it three times—just that year. She’d lost count of how many more times she’d picked up the beloved book. “How could I forget?”
Luke grinned, and his face was suddenly ten years younger. He’d often teased her about falling in love with him because she had loved Alessandro first.
And in a small way, it was true. The first time she had seen Luke, hammering nails into the frame of her father’s new study, she had been riveted. As he worked in the heat of a California afternoon, his long black hair braided and dark skin shimmering with sweat, he’d been the most singularly attractive man she’d ever seen. His back was bare and long and dark, his arms strong and hard-muscled. A red bandanna tied around his forehead kept the hair from his eyes. She stared at him through her bedroom window, her stomach tight, unable to believe he was real. He paused, wiping a forearm across his brow. And then he looked up.
Jessie, romantic and young, had thought with a painful pinch, Oh, it’s Alessandro! Her heart flipped when he gave her a slow, mocking, sexy smile…..
####
In the mountains….
“You forget, Jessie, I was your number-one fan a long time before anybody else realized how good you were.”
Her gaze didn’t stray, but he saw a flicker of something oddly stricken cross her face. “I didn’t forget.” With a little shrug, not looking at him, she said quietly, “I’m pretty sure there would have been no paintings at all if it hadn’t been for you.”
He touched her hand on his arm. “So tell me about them.”
She looked at him, then back toward the up sloping path. “Well, I just sold a group called ‘Canning Time.’ It’s kind of a historical feeling, I guess—the thirties. Four women doing all kinds of things in a kitchen—getting the fruit, washing it, laughing.”
“I’d really like to see them.”
Suddenly she seemed to realize how intimate they’d become, walking close on the snowy path, enveloped by the silence of the winter day. She snatched her hand back and slipped it deep into the pocket of her coat. His coat.
Luke let her retreat. In a moment, he heard her breathy hum start up again. This time, the song clicked in. “I’m On Fire.” Evidently, he wasn’t alone in remembering how it had been between them.
Biting back a grin, he started humming along, loud enough for her to hear. A bright pink splash of color flooded her cheeks. He nudged her gently, chuckling.
She bent her head, but said nothing.
They walked for a long time in the soft gray day. Jessie finally protested that she needed to rest, and they paused at the edge of a wide, high field, blanketed with unbroken snow. Giselle and Tasha raced into the snow, kicking up sprays and tumbling each other into it.
Luke felt the cold air and the brisk walk in his blood as a tingling glow. Next to him, Jessie leaned against a pine, laughing as she watched Giselle. “I should get her a dog,” she said. “I had no idea how much she liked them.”
“Tasha’s not just any dog. She’s the greatest dog I’ve ever had.”
“Really?” Jessie grinned up at him, cocking her head. A fall of hair rippled down her arms. “What about Boris?”
“Yeah, Boris was great, too.” He rubbed his cold nose with cold fingers, thinking of the shepherd that had accompanied him on his wanderings for ten years. Every night for three weeks after Jessie left him, Boris had paced the house and howled mournfully.
“What happened to him?”
“He was so big, his hips started to go. I had to have him put to sleep. He couldn’t walk anymore—I even had to carry him outside to do his business.”
She regarded him steadily, a softness of sympathy in her eyes. It struck him all at once that it was Jessie standing here next to him. She was smiling gently, as if she wanted to tell him she knew how hard that had been for him, that she knew he’d wept privately when he buried his dog. She was the only one he’d ever let close enough to see that weakness in him. Embarrassed, he glanced away.
Overhead, an enormous blue jay—a camp robber—claimed a branch. With a flurry of wings and noisy straightening, he harangued the intruders, screeching at them like a fishwife to get out of his territory. Jessie laughed.
“You still like those evil creatures?” Luke asked.
“Yes, I do.” She grinned. “They’re sassy and strong.”
Drawn by her grin, he stepped closer and then paused. All at once, the tumult of emotions that had risen at the surprises of the past day dropped away. Left in its place was a calm, sharp desire—a hunger that had never ceased, not in eight years; a need that still thrummed through him, like the eternal sound of drums in a heartbeat. He wanted her. Plain. Simple. Clear.
He licked his lip. “You’re a blue jay,” he said, touching the array of bracelets on her wrist and then the earrings winking through her hair.
“Am I?”
Earlier, she had kept up walls of fear between them when he stood this close. Now there was nothing, only Luke and Jessie the way they’d always been. Before she could protest, he bent and brushed a kiss over her cold lips.
The contact sent a zinging rush over his nerves. In the tiny second it took, he felt the slight dryness of her chapped lips and a hint of the warm moisture beyond. Her hair brushed his cheek, and her chin jutted up a little so she could meet him halfway.
He lifted his eyes to meet her surprised gaze. A snowflake caught on her cheek and he brushed at it, feeling his heart thump and his soul swell a little from the headiness of finding something lost. In her eyes he caught a flicker of pain and fierce desire. He winked.
Before she could protest, he quickly stepped away and joined his daughter in the snow.
* * *
The walk back took much less time. Jessie felt oddly free and calm as they hiked down. She and Luke didn’t speak, but she felt his kiss lingering between them, not quite a promise, not fierce enough to be a threat. He seemed as content as she to simply be quiet.
Back at the truck, Giselle begged to be allowed to ride in the rear with Tasha. Jessie frowned, and Luke shook his head firmly. “Nope—there are tools and all kinds of other junk back there right now. Maybe another time.”
Exhausted by the long walk and her romp with Tasha, Giselle looked mutinous. Jessie recognized the expression and stepped forward to gather her into a hug before she fell to pieces. “I think,” she said to Luke over her daughter’s head, “we have one very tired young lady here.”
He returned her smile. “I’ve got some stew at the house. Some lunch and a nap and she’ll be fine.”
“I really think we need to go back to the hotel.”
“Why would you want to pay good money to eat at a bad restaurant when you can eat my home cooking for nothing?” he said lightly, opening the bed to let Tasha into the truck. “If you want to go back to the hotel after lunch, I’ll take you.”
Holding her daughter close to her chest, Jessie looked at him. His black, glossy hair was tousled from his play in the snow, and the wind had stung dusky color into his high cheekbones. Tasha leapt into the truck and turned to give an adoring, thankful lick to her master’s chin. Luke scrubbed her ruff, smiling fondly.
It was so easy for Luke, Jessie thought. He just opened up and loved things—dogs and cats and cloudy days and little girls. So easy. And they all loved him right back.
Just as Jessie had.
Her silence stretched a long time. Luke seemed to sense her gaze and he turned. Across the snowy ground, with a child of their making and a cold wind between them, they looked at each other. His strongly chiseled face was grave. She hoped hers showed nothing, but was afraid he could still read her all too well.
“Hotel or rabbit stew?” he asked at last.
Jessie couldn’t repress the chuckle that rose in her throat. “You didn’t tell me it was rabbit.”
He slammed the doors closed on the back of the truck and winked. “Tastes just like chicken,” he said, tongue-in-cheek.
Jessie inclined her head, thinking with relish of his fragrant stews. “It’s been a long time.”
“Is that a yes?”
She nodded. “I guess it is.”
He grinned, and the expression gave his eyes a devilishly sexy tilt. “Will you show me how to make Mrs. O’Brien’s biscuits?”
“I don’t know,” she said, pretending reluctance. “Maybe her biscuits are one of those things that just needs a woman’s touch.”
“Maybe. It’s worth a try, eh?”
“Sure.”
Giselle fell asleep before they had driven out of the canyon. She slumped against Jessie’s shoulder. “I am definitely buying this child a dog,” Jessie said quietly. “Tasha wore her out—and believe me, that’s no small feat. She’s like that battery—she just keeps going and going and going…”
Luke glanced at the girl. “She’s out cold now.” He shook his head and signaled to join the main street out of the canyon. “She’s so much like Marcia, it’s almost eerie.”
“I guess you’ll want her to meet Giselle.”
A strange expression flickered over his face. “Mmm.”
“‘What?”
He touched his jaw, shifted the truck and glanced in the rearview mirror. “I, uh, already made arrangements. She’ll be here this afternoon sometime.”
“You had no right do that without my permission.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I did it last night when I was feeling so blown away. If you want me to take you to the hotel now, I will. Marcia doesn’t know it’s you guys—I just told her there was somebody I wanted her to meet.”
Jessie stared at him, holding the warm weight of her child against her, and suddenly realized it was not only Jessie who was upset by all this. Luke, too, had to grapple with the demons of the past. “No,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”
He gave her a grateful smile and reached over to touch her hand. “Thanks, Jessie.”
All at once she realized how much she had relaxed in his company. He was so damned easy to be around, so easy to talk to. He never seemed to expect anyone to be anything except just what they were.
Alarmed, she moved her hand gently from his and saw a ripple of hurt cross his features. Pressing her lips together, she resolutely turned her face to the window. “It’s only fair.”
His voice sounded tired as he said, “Fair doesn’t have much to do with any of this.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “I guess it doesn’t.”
From Breaking the Rules, a fast-paced, sexy, adventure-romance originally published by Intimate Moments. I love the escapist aspects of it, and love both Zeke and Mattie’s need to protect themselves, and hide their pasts, even as they are falling in love. And just for the record, if you want a brand-new first edition of the paperback, it will be a tiny bit pricy–lowest price is $152.
Luckily, it is free for the next five days on Kindle. Grab it while you can.
EXCERPT
It was Zeke’s habit to rise early, one born in childhood when he’d awakened to help his mother weed the garden, knowing it would be the only time he could have her to himself in a day.
So even now, when his work was in the evenings and sometimes ran very late, he found himself wide-awake as dawn broke the night sky. Over the past months, he’d developed a habit of going to the canyon, knowing that if he got there early enough, as with his mother, he’d have it to himself.
Of all the flyspecks on the map he’d blown through the past eighteen months, Kismet would be the hardest for him to leave behind, a thought that bothered him this morning – just a little. He had a rule about getting attached to things. When you got attached, you got in trouble. People, animals, places – he didn’t let himself get too comfortable with any of them. Probably time to move on.
But this morning, he was here, and that was good. He stripped at the edge of the river, taking deep pleasure in the brush of cool morning air against his skin. Overhead, a tangle of larks and sparrows sang to the light, as if it were a unique event. He smiled at them, standing on the bank for a moment to brace himself . Taking a deep breath, he touched his stomach in preparation, and with a whoop, jumped into a deep pool.
The water was a biting, icy shock – exhilarating as it stabbed through his hair and needled his flesh. He touched bottom and pushed himself back up, then lazily paddled in the broad pool, admiring the colors around him.
Back in Mississippi, rivers were wide and muddy and slow, as if the heat sucked their energy from them. Their banks were covered with cattails and grass. This river was crystal clear and mountain-cold and ran fast through the canyon it had carved from red sandstone. There was no mud to speak of, because the streambed was the rock itself.
The beauty of it was that the water had played capricious games with the soft rock, creating slides and carving pools and ignoring little flats, with no rhyme or reason. Later in the day, it would be crowded with tourists, come from the campgrounds nearby to enjoy the miracle.
He kicked out and submerged himself again, now used to the invigorating cold. He looked at the sky, vividly blue above the red of the rocks, and wondered that such color could exist.
It was only then that he became aware of a prickling uneasiness. With a flush of embarrassment, he wondered if some campers had wandered over. He’d been coming here since summer started and had never been discovered. After a few weeks, he’d shed his cutoffs in favor of skinny-dipping just because it seemed natural to do so in such a place. Keeping himself covered to the shoulders, he spun around slowly, peering into the trees at one side of the water. Nothing moved but a squirrel, who chattered in some irritation at Zeke’s gall invading the quiet so early. He grinned to himself, relieved, and splashed backward to lean on a rock in the warming sunlight.
It was only then he caught sight of her, standing at the foot of a path that probably led straight back to her little cabin.
Mary. He wiped water from his face and straightened. “Well, well, well,” he said. “I’m just runnin” into you all over the place.”
She carried a small paper bag and a thermos. “I come here every morning to eat my breakfast,” she said, and pointed to a small outcropping of rocks on the other side of the stream. A natural staircase led to the perch. “I won’t bother you.”
“Maybe I’ll bother you.”
“I doubt it.” He saw that it took some effort, but she resolutely headed toward the perch, leaving her sandals at the edge of the stream to splash through the shallows to the stairs. When she reached the top, she settled herself primly with her bag in her lap. “You mind your business and I’ll mind mine.”
Zeke half smiled. She probably had no idea he’d left his clothes in a pile at the edge of the water, or she wouldn’t be quite so calm. The pool he stood in was deep enough to cloak his nakedness, but if he moved at all, the clear water wouldn’t hide much. “Nice sentiment,” he said, “but we’ve got a little problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, Miss Mary, all my clothes are over there on the bank.”
A flash of something crossed her face – satisfaction? She raised her eyebrows. “I guess you’ll have to wait until I’m finished with my breakfast
 The original cover to finish your swim, then, won’t you?”
Zeke licked his bottom lip. It had been a mistake to underestimate this woman. She might look young and naive, but there was something hard as barbed wire running beneath it all. If he hadn’t been so rattled by that mouth yesterday, he would have realized it, too.
“Not necessarily.”
She shrugged, cracking open a peanut. Her composure was utterly unrattled this morning, and he wondered what had brought about the change.
“I think you’re pretty mad at me, aren’t you?”
“Why would I be mad? You deliberately tried to embarrass me at the restaurant, then you followed me home, dropped all these innuendos, then made it sound like I was the one who initiated things.” A blaze of color touched her cheeks. “Not to mention the fact you stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“All right, all right.” He raised a hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Sunlight angled through the high trees and over the canyon wall to strike her face. “I’ll turn around if you want to get out.” Continue reading Two people pretending they don’t need anybody at all….
Since my last post, these are the things that have happened in my world:
Amara was born over two days. It was not an easy labor for mama, but I was very honored to be there and watch my first grandchild make her way into the world. She was born February 18, and this is a picture from that day:
Two days after she arrived home, my beloved Christopher Robin fell ill. We first believed it was food poisoning, so he gave up all food and slept for a day. The next day, I decided it might be appendicitis. I was right. It was a very terrible case of appendicitis, about as bad as you can get and still survive, and he spent four days in the hospital, then another ten days at home in bed. I made periodic trips to kiss Amara, but mostly, I urged CR to drink more tea, and eat eat eat eat….!
On the work front, I’m juggling three projects: the first is the arrival of The Garden of Happy Endings as a real live book in stores and ebook  readers near you on April 17. There are signings, conferences, blog tours, giveaways, and I hope you’ll check them out. I will have a schedule up next week sometime. I love this book very much, and hope you will, too. It showed up nearly whole, throwing down a gauntlet that kicked my rear all through the spring and summer last year. There are gardens and dogs and sisters and a woman who became, through her courage and questing, one of my favorite characters ever.
Second project is finished: the rough draft of my online serial novel The Mirror Girl, the first book in a three-book YA urban fantasy/sff series is finished!
The third is the book for next year, involving all manner of research and food and the losses we think we can’t possibly survive, and the people who help us through–fathers and friends, animals and love affairs, hobbies and work we love. Very engaged and excited about this book.
And it might be true that time I might have spent blogging has been spent kissing the downy cheek of a little girl.
Wouldn’t you kiss her, too?
In the moment……
It is a late Friday afternoon in February. My dog Jack is snoring on the floor behind me. My old cat Athena is comfortably sitting in the sunshine , peering out at the world. The kittens randomly leap on the back of the chair, up to the desk, over to the bookcase, hoping to get me to come open a can of food for them. I am waiting for my son to call and say that we’re going to the hospital so that his wife can be induced, a call I have been waiting for–and THEY have been waiting for all day. It was supposed to happen at 6 am. Then 9 am. Now 6 pm.
We are very, very ready for her to be here. Yesterday was long enough by itself, since we heard the news on Wednesday afternoon that Morgan probably needs to deliver. But there were…electrical problems on the floor at the hospital. They had to postpone. I would be lying if I said this didn’t make me anxious, but I am also a believer in things working together for good, so I’m focusing on the fact that it would have been worse for her to be in labor when the power snagged.
So presented with an entire day, what have I done? A lot of Facebook. A lot of texting with my sisters. I made a stab at writing new material for The Mirror Girl, but the first time was a bust, so I took a little nap. I woke up and shot a bunch of photos with my new camera, mostly playing with depth of field on little tiny things (you may have noticed I love shooting very little things up close), made some lunch read more Facebook.
BORED. I can’t really go to the gym because I had a stomach bug earlier this week and it kicked my butt, so I’m restricted from the gym for the week. Not even yoga. Yesterday, my dog was so slow on the final stretch that I got worried about him, so he got a bone instead of a walk today.
I finally did write some pages on The Mirror Girl (which is almost finished, at least this first book is) and did another round of deep research on childhood leukemia, which figures into the new book for Bantam. I sent out some emails for The Garden of Happy Endings and made a list of things to do for the release, April 17. (I will be at several events through April and May, so be sure to check back.)
(And by the way, if you’re collecting the old titles, two more have gone up, Light of Day and A Minute to Smile. Check out the covers–aren’t they pretty??)
But really, all I’m doing is waiting for Amara.
Here is one of the photos I shot. I love old silver and tiny spoons and salt cellars in particular. Have you ever had one?
What do you do when all you’re really doing is waiting?
 It is blizzardy and deliciously wintery here today, so I thought you might like reading Lucien’s Fall, available now at Amazon Kindle. Lucien is one of my all time favorite heroes, reckless and beautiful and very nearly unredeemable.
A taste, if you’re so inclined:
The riders raced up the road madly. The gleaming, sporty phaeton rocked dangerously in the rain-rutted course. The other man rode on a beautiful, lean black horse; beast and man were illuminated with the bars of hazy light falling through thick tree branches. They were young men, London rakes, a breed of man beneath Madeline’s contempt. She found their arrogance and idleness a bore.
And yet, as they laughed and shouted, each goading the other to a faster pace, Madeline felt her blood rise in a strange excitement. It was in particular the man on the horse who caught her eye. He wore no powder or wig, and his thick dark hair was drawn back into a queue with a black ribbon. His body was long and sinuously made, and he rode as if he and the horse were one being. From where she stood, his face gave the impression of exotic tilts and powerful bones.
But it was the hedonism Madeline ordinarily found so distasteful in such men that drew her now, made her take up her skirts and run toward the opening of the maze so she would not lose sight of him behind the hedge.
She broke through to the open stretch of lawn between the maze and the Elizabethan house of Whitethorn just as the man urged his horse into a full run. Light dappled faster and faster over his dark hair, his dark horse, his long legs. Next to him, only a little behind, the phaeton rocked noisily.
As they neared the end of the drive, Madeline burst into a run. The man on the horse left the road and bolted across the same lawn. His speed was almost dizzying, and he headed with purpose for a shoulder-high hedge that edged the house garden.
Madeline froze. They would both be killed.
But even as she clamped a hand over her mouth, watching in horror, the black beast leaped with stunning grace over the squared hedge. Horse and man hung—haloed and gilded by the afternoon light—for an endless time against the sky.
As he hung there, suspended in midair, looking like Pan, like some untamed beast come in from the wild, the man laughed. The sound rang with robust defiance into the day, and Madeline felt her heart catch with a sharp pang.
To be so free!
Order this book now.
Since November, I’ve been writing a serial novel for a blog, The OtherLand Chronicles, which I’ve written about here several times. After two months, I have some observations.
I began on November 1, for NaNoWriMo, a lark. Or so I thought. The truth is, this story has been rattling around in my head for more than three years, gathering bits and pieces to itself. Every so often, it came to me with a new shiny something, like a child who wants to play, and I would say, “Oh, that really is clever, but I don’t really have time right now to do anything with it. Hang on to it, okay?” The book-child wold nod and amble away, admiring her little treasure.
Over and over and over this happened, until I realized that I had a LOT of material. Like an entire world and backstory and a story arc long enough for a trilogy. It was all born from my walks in the parkways around Briargate, and that’s a lot of walking. Every day, year in, year out, me and my dog and the story brewing.
Any writer knows that sooner or later, that work has to be done. It will force its way into your schedule no matter what else you’ve got going on, and it will make itself so very attractive that you will have no choice. You’ll be seduced.
I was seduced. Now I find myself writing an entire book in public, which is not the most comfortable thing in the world. It forces me to find more time to write than I usually would, and for the first time in years, I’m really a hermit. I don’t want to go anywhere. I have work to do. So much work, all of it so different, and so much fun in its own ways.
I also discovered that as much as I’d like to do a “serial draft” where I don’t change anything, that was just not possible. I had to go back and do some revisions for the sake of the story. I had to rewrite a couple of scenes pretty substantially and move a couple of them around, and until I did it, the book stubbornly wasn’t going to let me move forward.
But here’s the thing: this is my play project, so I get to make the rules. My promise to the readers of the material is that I will finish. I will not quit until I have a complete story. Turns out my promise to the story is that I have to serve it first. Which is always the way.
For the record, I am having a blast. This is as entertaining as anything I’ve done.
If you haven’t been reading along and wish to begin, start at the beginning.
If you have been reading, I finally got new material up after the long Christmas break. Start at Chapter Eleven, Scene 4
I am pretty sure I’ve talked about Gretchen Rubin’s book, The Happiness Project before. The book is upbeat, illuminating, and surprisingly practical. One of the steps I love most is her approach to creating a map of living. Each of us have a different set of goals, a dharma and purpose unlike that of anyone else. It’s helpful to put that down in writing.
These are my 12 personal commandments, which are connected to the secrets of adulthood. I used Rubin’s list as a model, but adapted them to me and my reality. Maybe you have a list of your own you’d like to share.
1. Be Barbara
This is taken directly from Rubin. It reminds me to be ME, not some idealized version of me. Or as my old Unity minister used to say, “I am God expressing as….Barbara.” Which is an exhilarating thought, really.
2. I am 100% responsible for my own happiness
Never as easy as I think it will be. For example, when I am driving and some rude driver cuts me off, how can I be happy? But I can, as my friend Heather does, tell myself another story about the action. Maybe that person has a sick child or is rushing to the beside of his best friend.
This also counts when I am irritated with some aspect of daily life or a person in my life….100% means all the time. The weird thing is, this particular secret carries a huge amount of relief.
3. If I look good, I feel good.
This doesn’t mean trying to be botoxed and skinny. It is to remind me that while it’s okay to wear yoga pants and my hair in a scrunchy while I’m working, I feel 10x better if I get my hair cut on time and wear only clothes I really love. It means putting on the nicer shirt and taking the time to do my hair before CR comes home. Little stuff, that’s all. (And this probably makes me sound like a slob, which would be impossible for a daughter of my mother.)
4. An Uncluttered Environment Leads to an Uncluttered Mind
Simple. I don’t have to have sparkling clean floors, but need to reduce visual clutter as much as possible.
5. Exercise always helps
I need daily walks and fresh air and lots of hard, physical exercise. I am grouchy without it. If I’m cranky or overwhelmed or tired, I almost always need to get outside or go swimming or go work out. The deeper the grumpiness, the more I need to do.
6. Sleep Gives You A Clear Head
I am a morning person. Like, obnoxiously so. I like to wake up early and get going on the day. That means I’m genuinely tired and ready to quit by 8 or 9. Because I grew up with vampires, I sometimes feel sheepish about this and will often try to stay up until 11, like other people. All this does is make me tired. Going to bed with a good book at 9 is a great choice for me.
7. Overindulging Always Has A Price
Just what it says. Too much sugar or wine, too many video games, too many cookies…and I don’t feel great.
8. Work and Meeting Goals Makes Me Happy
I am lucky enough to adore the work I do. Sometimes, however, I can procrastinate myself into a corner and then I have to work too hard to be able to enjoy the process. Much much better to set reasonable goals and show up every day to get the work done. I feel so much better this way.
9. Tracking My Progress Is An Effective Tool for Conscious Living
I am a born diarist, and seeing my day to day habits in black and white makes me aware of what habits and actions actually form the basis of my life. That allows me to be accountable and to make changes if I so desire.
10. Celebrating others makes me feel happy
Everyone likes to be noticed, honored, get presents and cards.
11. Meditation is my way of listening to God
I like meditation, but I am surprised how often I’ll say to myself, “I don’t have time this morning.” Making time makes a difference.
12. I am always practicing to be an elder
Our society revers youth, not elders, but we need our elders to guide and help lead. To be the Wise Woman I hope to be one day, I have to learn what that means, and how to embrace it. That means listening to my elders instead of dismissing them. It means seeking instruction and guidance. It means practicing awareness of what I say and how I say it and how that influences others.
How about you? Can you think of some things you’d put on your list?
This morning, I’m sitting at Bongo Billy’s coffee shop in Buena Vista, looking straight at Mt Princeton, which is one of the most gorgeous 14ers in a state packed with them. I’ve just posted the pages I wrote early this morning in my cabin overlooking Cottonwood Creek. Had to come to town to get a wifi signal. Doing it made me feel a bit of a city-slicker, but when you fall in love with a story, it goes with you. It’s one of the great things about being a writer.
I am madly in love with Bartholomew and Alia and the world they are revealing to me. I love having the the little deadline every few days so I can write some pages, and stick with it, but I also love that I’m writing it for me. I always write for myself, of course, but the artistic freedom in doing whatever I want for pure, total fun is rejuvenating in a way I hadn’t expected.
Now I’m off to soak in the hot springs and put together a vision board for the new year.
If you want to follow along, go to http://theotherlandchronicles.com/2011/12/chapter-9-scene-2/
In the meantime, hope you are all having a day as fine as mine.
Ambling around the internet this morning, I found this challenge from Book Chick City:
 Since I’m often setting goals like “go to the gym seven hundred times a week,” the idea of reading a hundred books of FICTION in a year sounds like a dream. I bet you read that much most of the time anyway. I know I do.
It seems a luxurious delight worthy challenge for our insanely readerly selves. I signed up. Maybe you’ll want to join me. Click the icon.
Also, speaking of reading: The OtherLand Chronicles, the serial urban fantasy/YA/? I started for NaNoWriMo, is still in progress. Just started Chapter Nine this morning. Posting M-W-F through December. Having so much fun it’s just sinful. ;)
To start at the beginning, go here: http://theotherlandchronicles.com/2011/10/starthere/
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Barbara Samuel O'Neal is the author of more than thirty award-winning novels, including Rita Award Winning THE LOST RECIPE FOR HAPPINESS, THE SECRET OF EVERYTHING and HOW TO BAKE A PERFECT LIFE . Her newest book THE GARDEN OF HAPPY ENDINGS is available APRIL 17, 2012! 
A native of Colorado, Barbara loves teaching, travel, reading, writing, yoga, walking, food, cooking, photography and...okay, reality television.
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