Leaving Home

Leaving HomeI didn’t leave home until my mid-forties. I was forty-five to be exact. Transferring from junior college, I was a Regent’s Scholarship recipient at UC Berkeley. At that time, I lived in Monterey, over two hours away from Berkeley. Too far to commute. And I wanted to live in Berkeley; was fascinated by that city and all it offered: an international atmosphere with many languages spoken on campus and in the streets and restaurants. How genuinely proud I was! UC Berkeley or Cal for short, one of the world’s most prestigious public universities, and I was going there!

I went to look for a room with my husband. We never did discuss whether to move there together with our youngest son, who was fifteen at the time. This was about me, and I was excited, not only to attend Cal but also to find my own room. A room of my own. Away from family. Had not had my own room since I lived with my parents; moved from them straight to my boyfriend and future husband. We were high school sweethearts and were in love and inseparable.

Soon we had children, three of them. When the older two started college, I was jealous. Having never gone, I started attending the local community college. And after two years there and two years at Cal I graduated with my B.A., the same year as my daughter. To attend college is to gain knowledge but also, and perhaps more important, it is a time to grow up, mature, and be on your own, away from family.

So, it was for me! Not only had I been with my husband for many years, I had been with my parents for as long and more. We had always lived where they lived, or they had lived where we lived. Close. We even had businesses next to each other. Our children were their first grandchildren. We invested in a restaurant together, which eventually failed. Exhausted, I decided to go back to school and transferring to Cal meant leaving home. Finally.

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Holding On

IMG_8599Simply Red’s song, Holding Back the Years, is a favorite of mine. Part of the lyrics is repeated throughout: “I’ll keep holding on”. I’ve always been intrigued by this sentence. Holding on to what? Nevertheless, I resonate with the underlying meaning. To me, holding on is much easier than letting go. Holding on means having control. Letting go means sensing loss.

I want to hold on and most of all, I want to hold on to the person I think I am. People tell me I have a strong sense of self. I take it as a compliment, even though, I’m not quite sure what it means. One thing I know is my child-self, as I imagine, sense, and visualize my pre-adolescent self vividly: how I felt, how I behaved, how I acted, how I responded; all of that is truly me and perhaps, this is my sense of self; the self I’m holding on to.

I started writing at that age and loved it. I created stories that my teacher didn’t believe came from me. I created plays that we performed – my friends and my siblings – in my parents’ barn. But when I hit puberty, I left that behind and wrote a diary about boys. I gradually lost it – the pure and innocent child-self and grew into a Ms. Perfect who married and had a family, spending her adult years as expected. Still, I subconsciously held on, if not consciously, to that child-self, to that sense of self.

Some say we don’t have a self – that it’s an illusion to think so. Yes, I can follow that, because we constantly go through change with all we do and with the people we know and meet, but for me, the idea of a self is akin to knowing what you like and what you don’t like. And the pre-adolescent child knows this, instinctively. And follows it, if allowed and given space. Naturally curious, my child-self is happy when exploring and creating, never fully knowing the final outcome. Happy with the process and grateful for the product of my doings. Therefore, I’ll keep holding on.

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In my Writing Space

IMG_2602Back home and in my writing space. Second floor, with two windows, looking out over the main drag in town. Across the street is a store full of relics and treasures. The kind of store that pulls you in because of the treasure factor. You want to explore. The idea of exploring promises some kind of reward. And I wonder which is the more satisfying: the exploring part or the reward part?

Compare it to writing. To write is to explore and a finished writing piece becomes a reward. And really, one part is part of the other part. And while you write, you imagine your finished piece of writing. For example, I imagine a collection of short stories about women – my reward – from exploring the existential idea of being a woman. However, it may not be where I end up.

Going into the store of treasures is like going into my mind of treasures: I’m not certain about what’s there, but through exploration I’m almost certain to end up with something. The thing is to be persistent about exploring. The reward will materialize.

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Thank you to San Miguel de Allende

IMG_0474My last night in San Miguel de Allende with my host, Sharyn and guitar player, Luis. Look at the spread: margaritas, beef tacos, hot sauce, guacamole, and pico de gallo. After our dinner there, we went on to two more bars, so, needless to say, we had a ball. As the matter of fact, I stayed up that night, because my driver picked me up at 2:30am to make an early flight out of Léon to Houston.

Thank you, Sharyn, for a great stay in a lovely apartment. Thank you, San Miguel, for being so colorful and mysterious (in the course of 14 days, I discovered new restaurants, new shops, new avenues, new coffee houses, new street vendors, new art scenes, every day). Thank you, people of San Miguel, for being so friendly and welcoming to a stranger who does not know Spanish very well. Thank you, to me, for taking on this trip on my own and for having a productive time writing. Thank you, to you, my reader, for following along.

I set out to transition myself into my writer-self and that I have done! I have my writer space here in Calistoga and am psyched to develop my short story collection and my novel.

You can follow along on my writing process at http://mysticstringsbooks.wordpress.com/

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Strangers on the Plaza



In the center of San Miguel de Allende is Plaza Principal, always called the Jardin. Every day people gather here and sit down on one of the many benches. Some eat, some read, many check phones, some people-watch, but all take a moment to be in the moment. So, have I on several occasions.

On one such occasion, a couple sat down next to me and eventually, the woman started a conversation with me and her husband went over to start up a conversation with some of the local guys. This couple was from Texas, right on the border to Mexico by Rio Grande. Mexican by birth but resident of Texas most of her life, she loved being of two cultures. Here, we connected, since I’m of two cultures as well.

Our conversation went on most of an hour, as we had many other similar life experiences to share, not least the fact, that we are both mothers and grandmothers. It was one of the more endearing conversations I have had with a stranger. We were both in the moment, without demands or expectations, and completely free to enjoy each other’s company.

To feel this way with people I know, I have to mentally step back and bury my knowledge and judgment of this person, to listen with a fresh ear and an open heart. So worth it.


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Toys to inspire setting and imagination

La Esquina, Museo del Juguete Popular Mexicano. On the corner (la esquina) of Canal San Francisco and Nùñez lies the Toy Museum of San Miguel. A must-see for me. Looking at toys as an adult, I invariably connect with my child-self. I still have a few toys from my childhood: my favorite doll, four hand puppets, and a wooden lego bus and firetruck.

As a child I set up theater and wrote plays and had my friends and my siblings act them out. I wrote one called: ‘Da den gamle mølle brændte‘, in English:  ‘When the Old Mill Burned’. I don’t recall the plot, only the title. In school I wrote vivid stories (one a week) and my teacher asked me: “Did you come up with this by yourself?” Of course, I did. But slowly, my animated imagination was usurped by rational thinking and in junior high and high school, I struggled to write.

Now, at the toy museum, I’m pleased to reconnect with my child-self and re-kindle my imagination, which never died, merely was dormant. As a painter I have painted fairytale figures, another connection to my colorful childhood, which was full of Hans Christian Andersen fairytales. In fact, my paintings are childish in expression, because they have to be. Now, I know.

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Feliz Día de la Independencia Mėxico!

A special time to be in San Miguel de Allende. Mexican Independence Day, which is celebrated over several days. Centro of San Miguel is the place to be: Mariachi bands, food vendors, souvenir vendors, puppets, parades, and lots and lots of people. They come from Mexico City to San Miguel, where the celebration is particularly festive.

The coincidence of this festival with my birthday is a good omen. I’m here to transition into my writer self on a conscious and deliberate level and to become the independent writer I want to be. I see it as changing space. I leave an old space (of work), occupy neutral space for a little while (in San Miguel), and then move into my new space of the professional writer.

This was my plan and I think it will work. I can feel it working. It is important to be in a neutral space in-between the two spaces that are very different: going from a full time paid job to a self-employed position. And my in-between space in San Miguel helps me close one door, so another one can open. Gracias México.

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