Month: April 2020

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An Inspirational Journey: Part One

Nye Beach

First Stop: Newport, Oregon

Having spent over twenty-five years in a city with a population exceeding one million, it was time for a change. I began dreaming of small town life. 

Like any self-respecting Gen-X female with a dream, I looked to Pinterest for answers. Why not? It’s like having your own personal oracle with an easy-to-reference visual guide.

Now, to find the right key words to enter into the almighty search bar. First, I tried, “Best small towns in the US.” I found some fascinating places, but they didn’t seem right. I didn’t want to be too far from my family. I tried, “Best small towns on the west coast.” Again, I found some gems. But, I’ve always loved the beach. I decided to explore small, quiet beach towns. It could happen! “Best small beach towns on the west coast.” Wait. I wasn’t made of money. I tried again. “Best affordable small beach towns on the west coast.” There. Perfect.

The oracle produced just enough information to build my curiosity about Newport, Oregon. I grabbed the kids and we took a trip way, way up north.

Nye Beach, Newport, Oregon

Fun fact! I discovered Newport gets about seventy inches of rain per year. In contrast, our home town gets about seventeen inches. It’s dry and hot, and though some people may prefer this type of weather, I’m not one of them. So, yeah, seventy inches sounded just fine to me.

The journey to Newport was lengthy but worth it. I loved it, as did the kids. We explored the beaches, the parks, the local aquarium and the surrounding neighborhoods. The air was fresh and clean, the area was lovely, and the locals were even lovelier. Pictured below is the slide at Coast Park. Yes, it’s as cool as it looks.

Coastal Park in Newport, Oregon

The kids fell in love with a restaurant in the little downtown area near our hotel, deciding they must have clam chowder for every single meal. (They also decided my fabulous ring was ridiculously large, and each pulled out an item from their pocket of “similar size.” Whatever, kids. You wish you had my fashion sense.)

I appreciate that my kids have a sense of humor, despite that the jokes are normally at my expense.

Our final verdict: Although we loved Newport, we decided that it was an amazing place to visit but not quite right for us to make a home. At least, not presently. It would be too far from our family in the bay area,  Hmm. Maybe when I retire.

To be continued…

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Excerpt from Coming Alive Chapter 2: Heebie Jeebies

“That’s right, Uma! Someone did the reading last night!” I turn my back to her. “Incoming!” I fling the lollipop right into the outstretched hands of the young woman. The class whoops as Uma blushes in pleasure.

Beaming, I raise my hands. “Score!” 

Two boys in the back mock-bow to my greatness, so I grant them a curtsy.

“OK, OK. As Uma so astutely explained, negative reinforcement is not the same thing as punishment! They are actually opposite concepts. This is probably the most misunderstood principle in the field of Applied Behavior Analysis. If all of you leave my class today understanding the term, I win at life. I’m depending on you, people! No pressure… Who can give me the definition of negative reinforcement?”

Four students raise their hands. Good sign! Some semesters I hear crickets chirping when I ask this question. “Robert! Go!”

Robert takes a deep breath. “OK, I think I got this. Negative reinforcement is the removal of an aversive stimulus that…increases the likelihood a specific behavior will occur in the future. Like, if you have a headache, you take medicine and the headache goes away. Because it took the pain away, you will take the medicine again in the future. Wait. Was that right?” He winces and gives me an adorably hopeful look.

My thirty students look like babies to me, but they’re adults. Technically anyway! I scan the room to find a sea of beanies, long hair, Ugg boots, fuzzy pajama pants, and ratty T-shirts, but they’re all beautiful to me.

“A nice summary and a perfect example. I like how you put the definition in your own words. It’s one thing to memorize the scientific definition, but another to truly understand it. This is an applied science, people! We apply it!”

I grab another lollipop to toss. “Incoming!”

The candy bounces off Kelly’s head before smashing on the floor. 

“Oops! My bad. You OK, Kelly?” I ask.

She laughs and waves a dismissive hand in the air. 

Maybe I should switch to gummy bears? Oh, well.

I clap my hands. “Speaking of applied science, let’s apply it now! Break into groups of four and come up with some examples for each principle of reinforcement and punishment. Each team with correct responses gets an extra five points added to their next quiz grade… Just saying…” I give a cheeky grin and wiggle my eyebrows as my students get into formation to begin the activity.

I plop down on the desk with a sigh and flip open my laptop. Is it ridiculous that simply remembering to tally participation points is the hardest part of my job? I need a teacher’s assistant! Nicolas has one for his statistics classes and he always looks so put-together. Of course, he would look immaculate and organized in a hurricane. I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to kindergarten wearing cardigan sweater with a briefcase and collating file folder in hand. As for me, it’s like pulling teeth to remember what happened ten minutes ago!

OK, think. Who said what again? Damn. Damn, damn, damn! 

Now I’m tired. Again. Why is it that every class feels like a performance? It isn’t that I wear a mask—my enthusiasm for my field and affection for my students are quite genuine. It’s just that my energy has an on-and-off switch. It brings me back to my theater days as a kid. Regardless of my mood or level of exhaustion, I knew the show must go on and I would always give it my all until the curtain went down. God, I miss those days! And they certainly taught me how to pull myself together despite whatever emotional rollercoaster I was on. 

Having something to focus on is the key. At home, my son is my tether; at school, it’s my students. They are walking, talking reasons to get out of bed in the morning. Combined with sheer will, knowing they depend on me has helped me get through even the hardest days. 

Over the years, the intense, stabbing emotional agony has faded. The pain is more like a dull roar now. It’s always there but I can usually function through it. It’s kind of like the difference between standing under or standing next to Niagara Falls. It’s certainly less painful to stand next to it, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t ignore Niagara Falls.

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Some Good News

Looking for a pick-me-up? Aren’t we all! 

Sometimes escapism is just the thing at a time like this, especially when I am reaching my breaking point and need a release from the pressures of homeschooling (thank you, internet, for your service in helping me with that one), working (again, thank you, internet!), and determining the odds of finding a decent loaf of bread at this store vs that one. 

I openly admit that I am the queen of escapism, even on my better days! Diving head-first into a book or movie allows me to travel to a different time and place, become a different person, or, my personal favorite, turn me into a superhero (or at the very least, turn me into the person standing next to one and unabashedly ogling him). I can be transported away from my drama and into someone else’s for a while!

Eventually, however, the time comes that I have to crawl out of my head and take time to be present. In the moment. But, damn, this is hard! If I spend too much time reading news or thinking about our current circumstances, my brain takes me to a dark, dark place. 

I recently saw a YouTube video that reminded me of something extremely important. Something that I, expert escape artist that I am, really needed to hear. 

When times are the hardest, it’s even more important to take time to appreciate what we have, think positivity, and find ways to bring joy to others. Here’s the key: This isn’t done as a way to escape from the chaos and anxiety of our current circumstances, but instead is done amidst it! It’s about finding ways to “ride the wave” of this current chapter in our lives while remembering to laugh and love and make the best out of it.

It’s a way of saying, “Yes, this thing and that thing (you fill in the blanks) are happening, and that makes my heart heavy. I acknowledge it, but I also see what else is happening! This thing and that thing are happening, too, and that makes my heart lighter!”

For those of you that haven’t seen these videos yet, I promise you that this YouTube channel is an absolute must-see! Actor John Krasinski adds a cheeky take on his experiences with the stay-in-place, and shares good news from around the world. Every episode I’ve seen so far has had a jaw-dropping fun surprise!

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCOe_y6KKvS3PdIfb9q9pGug

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Who is Liz and Why Should I Care?

Great question! To avoid the highly existential nature of this question, I’ll stick to the facts and just the facts.

Let’s start at the present, as that is the most relevant information for my purposes here. I’m a writer! I know what you’re thinking: “Well, duh, you have a blog so yeah, you’re a writer…and aren’t we all writers, really?”

To that, I say, “Yes. Yes we are.” So let me be more specific. I have written my first novel! This has been an exciting time for me, and I am thoroughly enjoying the creative process. As I prepare my first novel for publishing (not there yet!), I started this blog to get the ball rolling, so to speak.

Turning back the wheels of time, I will also inform you that I have had a career working in the field of applied behavior analysis with children on the autism spectrum for the past twenty-five years. (Long time. I’m old.) Keep in mind, for those of you that might be wondering, my novel is simply a novel. It isn’t a parenting book, a how-to book, or a collection of research articles placed in a friendly, easy-to-read format. (Though that last one would be really cool if someone wants to give that a shot! I’d read it!) It has nothing to do with my field, other than that the heroin of my novel has a similar occupation (write what you know, people).

I have two amazing kids, one of whom will no longer be technically called a kid in a few weeks (though I probably always will). Full disclosure: My kids both think it’s weird that I wrote a novel. My youngest has come around, though, and is now attempting a novel of his own! He loves to read and is thoroughly annoyed that I won’t let him read my book (it does have a few naughty romance sequences and some characters with serious potty-mouths), and insists that I write a new series just for him so he can read it all the way through. I might just do that. First things first, though.

Another thing you might want to know is that I am a widow, and have been for eleven years. And to bring things full circle, I will explain that I started this project as a way to work through my grief. You see, my heroine, Mira, is also a widowed mother too, and pouring my thoughts and experiences into her and this fictional story has been an incredibly therapeutic experience, if I’m being honest.

It might sound odd to some people, especially if you have never lost anyone, that I still need to process grief eleven years later. Mira puts it best when she says, “The pain has changed over time. It’s like the difference between standing under and standing next to Niagara Falls: It’s far less painful to stand next to it, but still, you can’t ignore Niagara Falls.” So, yeah. It’s like that. Maybe you know what this feels like, too? Well, anyway, if you read the book, I promise you will. But don’t panic because if Mira inadvertently breaks your heart (spoiler alert), she promises to put it back together again.

Lastly, I will hint to you that I am just getting started! As I said, I am preparing book one (Coming Alive) for publishing as we speak…write…read? Whatever. You get what I’m saying. But guess what? I have also written books two and three, and most of book four! Sadly, these are not ready to prep for publishing yet, but that is coming down the pipeline, too.

So, that’s me in a nutshell! Questions? Comments? Oh, and before you ask me, I will preempt you and answer the age-old question. My favorite color is green. And usually pink.

Love, Liz

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Excerpt from Mira’s Awakening, Ch 8: Like a Buoy

Mira: Eleven Years Old:

I’m sailing with my dad on a small boat in the San Francisco Bay. It’s my first day in an actual sailboat, and it’s exciting! I love hanging out with Dad when it’s just us. He makes me feel special. He’s funny and he teaches me things that I can brag a little about later. Well, it feels like bragging but that isn’t the right word. 

I’m shy and it’s hard for me to talk to most people, so it’s nice to have something interesting to say when someone in my class asks me what I did that weekend. Dad taught me how to ski when I was just five years old, and now I’m really good at it! People seem impressed when they know I learned so young. 

Of course, there was that one time when I was really little, maybe seven or so, that I took a turn too wide and fell partway down a cliff. But then I stopped. The snow was very powdery, and there was a tree right in my path that stopped me from falling all the way.

I remember lying there on my back, looking down to the bottom of the cliff. I couldn’t move for fear that I would lose the security of the big, beautiful tree holding me in place. I could see all the way down to the bottom, and it was a long, long way down. There was a snow plow down there and some kind of truck. I remember thinking how odd that was…and how small it looked. I could see to either side of me: pretty much just snow. Weird that I fell right here. Right where this tree could catch me. I couldn’t see the trail at all, and I didn’t dare try to look because that might move my body around too much. 

I didn’t know how far I fell, and I couldn’t see the trail I fell from, but I could hear. I could still hear my dad. I was scared, but I remember thinking, as long as I can hear my dad, I’ll be OK. He told me he was coming to get me. That was good because I knew Dad wouldn’t lie to me. Sure enough, I felt his big, strong hand reach out for me, grab me by the back of my ski jacket, and pull me straight back up the trail within seconds. 

Dad brushed the snow off my snowsuit. He congratulated me on not losing a single ski or pole, instructed me on how to take cleaner turns, and told me to keep going down the ski run. So I did. Much, much more carefully, though.

Dad also taught me how to ice skate; he taught me how to sand down and restain wood furniture; he taught me a few tap dancing moves, too! I want to do theater like he does if I can ever get the courage to audition. Then I’ll always have something to talk about! I won’t just stand there, staring at the floor waiting for my brain to start working. I don’t know why I freeze up when people talk to me. I just do. Until I’m really comfortable with them, that is. But even then, sometimes I’d rather just be quiet and say nothing.

It’s a windy day, and he has his hands full, teaching me the ropes and helping me practice sailing terms. He shows me where things are in the boat and teaches me how to tie off. The most common thing he has me do is move from starboard side to port side, to compensate for the direction the wind is blowing. It’s really picking up and making the little boat a challenge to handle. 

Not sure if he gives me the wrong direction, if I go the wrong direction, or if the wind is just too powerful for it to matter. Whatever the reason, in an instant and with no time to brace myself, I’m suddenly flung violently into the water.

I barely have time to register what happened before instinct kicks in. I’m a good swimmer and can do things like handstands and somersaults underwater at our local pool. I’m strong. Plus, my dad made me put on a life vest before we got anywhere near the water. So, my body just swims me up to the surface without even a thought.

But when I get to the surface, the precious air I need is nowhere to be found. I can’t emerge from the water! Reaching my hand out, I hit an immovable barrier instead of the air. It hurts to do it, but I open my eyes underwater to orient myself, then rear back in terror at what I find. White. No blue sky. All I see is white. Everywhere! I push at it, but it’s no use. Panic sets in and my mind goes into overdrive.

Not only did I fall into the water, the entire boat capsized. And it’s on top of me! I’m caught under the sail and I can’t see where it ends! And I’m going to die.

I retreat inside my head, something I am very used to doing when things get bad. I don’t even try to help myself. I don’t try swimming in a different direction for fear I’ll swim the wrong way. I don’t think to swim down deeper so I can see the end of the sail. No. I’m frozen in place. No way out. Until there is.

A big, strong hand grabs my life vest and yanks me hard to the side. Within a few seconds, Dad has me free from the sail and breathing again. And I’m safe, and I’m OK. But I’m also not. Shock sets in and I’m still completely in my own head.

On some level, I’m aware and grateful that Dad just saved my life. I’m also aware that I was in mortal danger and I did nothing to save myself. Nothing! I feel shame that I didn’t act. That I froze in the face of danger. I didn’t even move! What does that say about me? I’m a coward, of course. I already knew that!

I dimly process another small boat coming out to help us, pulling us on board, and towing our boat to their nearby dock. I’m shivering and someone hands me a towel. I dimly process a nice teenage girl hugging me and trying to comfort me in my obvious distress. I see everything through a cloud, drifting through the rest of my day. I barely speak. I barely think. In my head, I’m still stuck under the sail and I stay there for a very, very long time.

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A Writer’s Journey

Have you ever started a project for the love of it, got bored of it, then suffered through an identity crisis when you realized you might not love it after all? That’s what happened to me. I have always enjoyed writing, so you would think I would love to journal. So I tried. Then I tried again. Then I tried again…You get the idea.

“What’s wrong with me?” I thought. “I love to write, so this should be a piece of cake! This should feel like play!”

Yeah, it didn’t. It felt like torture. Maybe it would have been fun if I lived the life of a pop star, a jet-setting millionaire, or even just one of those cool hipster moms who can make homemade bread while teaching her children morse code and taking a conference call. That’s most assuredly not me (I can’t even manage to open my mail, for God’s sake!), so journalling kind of made me feel like a pathetic loser, if I’m being honest.

One day, I stared at the blank page of my journal, and decided I had nothing interesting to say (again), so I flipped back the pages of my life. I went back and back again to read previous entries. As I read my thoughts and descriptions of different chapters of my life, my imagination started taking over.

Two words kept ringing in my ear: “What if…” 

When reading about my educational journey, I asked myself, “What if I went for that doctorate after all, instead of sticking with the master’s?”

When reading about my thoughts about my father, I asked, “What if he survived that aneurism? How would my life have been different?”

When reading about my grief over the passing of my husband, fully convinced I would never love another man again, I asked, “But what if I met another version of him? Could I love again?”

It reminded me of Sliding Doors. In the movie, the life of the main character takes on two completely different paths, all based on a single, simple decision that started a butterfly effect in her life. We all make these decisions, whether knowingly or unknowingly, of course. To get the PhD or stick with a master’s? To get on the motorcycle or not? To take job A or job B? To leave for work early or late? To sell the company or try to stick it out through the hard times? To eat the chicken or the beef (or the tofu)?

The questions went on and on, and before I knew it, my journaling took a completely different turn. I took aspects of my life and flipped and altered and smooshed and fine-tuned until it morphed into fiction. 

In the novel, I wrote a completely fictional version of myself and the story developed a life of its own.

What fun it is to play with a different sort of me! What a blast to turn people who have influenced my life into characters I can give life to in a different way! Such freedom! Each time I asked, “What if…,” the storyline developed a new turn. It kept pouring out of me faster and faster and faster until, all of a sudden, I had drafted three novels and was not even close to done yet. OK, the draft of book four is almost done, too, but not quite.

Now, I know what you’re going to ask me next. You’re going to say, “Liz, that’s super cool! Where can I buy fifty copies of your amazing book?” Sheesh! I mean, I’m honored and everything, but I’m not published yet so hold your horses! (Your enthusiasm really does mean the world to me, though, so thanks for that.)

I gave myself a year (now it’s more like eight months) to polish up book one (never written a novel before, after all) and find representation. I know my weaknesses (they are many) and know that I need help with all the…um…other stuff involved in being a writer. And, just to prove how little I understand, ask me a question about what it takes to market and sell a novel and you will hear crickets chirping. They will be adorable crickets, but crickets nonetheless. And even if I did understand (I am an excellent student, so I could learn), I have crap organizational skills so I would never be able to keep on top of all of it. Just keeping it real, people!

In the meantime, I will post excerpts and other nuggets here on my new blog for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!

Love, Liz