Thirteen Years Ago Today, 'Here's Looking At You, Babe' Played Out for Real.

Saturday - Jeff

Thirteen Years ago today I wrote a post for MIE detailing a seminal occurrence in my life--the birth of a grandchild.  As my family prepares to celebrate today's thirteenth anniversary with reminiscences of the years of wonder and joy we've reaped from that miraculous event, I thought it appropriate to reflect back on memories of that day---at least as I recall it---by republishing my time-line scribblings as the reporter on the scene:

It was a 5:00AM Thursday morning.  Ugh, what an ungodly hour for an alarm to go off.  But if we hadn’t driven in last night from my farm in western New Jersey it would have been a 3AM wakeup.  Hmm, a quick check of the emails—what else does one do first thing in the morning?  It’s from a friend on Mykonos: “Call me. It’s important.”  My guess is it’s in response to my request for information about an esoteric Greek funeral practice tied into my new Andreas Kaldis novel.

I reply, “Am on way to the hospital.  Will call later.”

There’s another message from the same friend. “Call me after the baby is born.”

After the baby is born. Wow.  Seeing the phrase in black and white (pixels) makes an impact.  My baby girl is having her own baby this morning.  Her first.  It’s set for 7:30AM. 

I’ve been so busy this week cutting away the remaining trees downed by hurricane Sandy that I haven’t had time to work on my post for Saturday.  And I know that I won’t be able to focus on a “Greek piece” this week.  But come to think of it, with all the time Greeks spend obsessed with the “fixins” for babies, perhaps it might be a refreshing change to focus on the back end of the courting process.  My sort of in real time existential take on “Waiting for Baby.”

5:45AM.  We’re headed north to Huntington Hospital. It’s close by the Long Island Sound, not far from where we’re staying just south of the Long Island Expressway.  Officially the LIE is Interstate 495, Long Island’s commuter backbone, known affectionately to those whose lives are tethered to it as “the Long Island Distressway” or “The World’s Longest Parking Lot.”  I remember living out this way in the early 70s.  Beautiful place, offering a wonderful life…if you don’t mind rush hour commutes into NYC. 

6:00 AM.  Made it to the hospital and found the Labor and Delivery Waiting Room.  Impressive name.  Too bad the green carpeting and mismatched green-brown furniture doesn’t cut it. But who cares about the décor—which probably is why it’s as bad as it is—I just hope we get to see Karen before she goes into surgery.  She’s having a Caesarian delivery.  Strange name.  I always heard it came from the way Julius Caesar entered the world, but according to all-knowing Wikipedia (thank God the waiting room has wireless), that theory’s been debunked.  It’s now thought to derive from the verb caedere … to cut…as in to cut through the abdominal wall to deliver the baby.

It’s so much easier being a man.

I’m not worried. Nor is my daughter. At least she wasn’t when we spoke last night before she went to sleep.  Honest, I’m not worried.

6:15AM.  Karen’s mother, Judy, and Judy’s husband, Joe, arrive in the waiting room.  Three strangers also are in there and have been since before Barbara and I got there. They’re the quiet type.  Haven’t said a word to anyone.  But they won’t remain that way for long.  Judy—that’s my ex-wife—is naturally gregarious, capable of drawing monks vowed to silence into animated conversation.  She pulls out a photo of Karen taken less than an hour after she was born.  My handwritten note on the back gives the details. I was anal then. I was a lawyer.

6:45AM. Karen’s husband, Terry, pops into the waiting room to say we can see Karen. We follow him through a maze of turns and doorways, complete with one wrong turn attributable to an anxious pappy moment.  There’s the room and inside is Karen, all smiles and calm amid monitors and an IV hookup.  I can hear the baby’s heartbeat: loud, strong, and ready to take on the world.

7:15AM. Terry’s mom and dad arrive.  Three sets of grandparents hovering and waiting for the big moment. I sure hope the new kid is into hugging.  Terry says it’s our last chance to toss out name suggestions.  I’ll spare you that, but believe me when I say it’s easier to title a new book.

7:30AM.  Nurse comes in to prepare Karen and says we have to leave.  We head down to the cafeteria for coffee.  I think I’ll write.  Not a chance.  Judy has new photographs of our son’s children to share. 

8:00AM.  Terry shows up in the cafeteria.  Things are delayed.  A woman who’s been in labor all night now needs an emergency C-section, so Karen’s time has been pushed back a bit.  The nurse told Terry to get something to eat and Karen to rest. We tease him about his “deer in the headlights” look…a natural segue considering his up close and personal SUV run in with a Long Island Bambi the day before yesterday.

8:15AM.  Terry gets a call from Karen.  Everyone’s listening as he says, “Wow.” 

He hangs up to a chorus of “What’s ‘Wow’?” 

Answer:  “Doctor said that since Karen isn’t in distress and other women are facing more difficult situations, her delivery is now pushed back to at least noon, maybe as late as 2PM.  But Karen has to rest, and we have the choice of hanging around in the waiting room or cafeteria until then or leaving the hospital and coming back later.

Barbara and I vote for going back to sleep.

9:00AM.  Back at the hotel I receive a SMS from Terry.  He suggests we wait to hear from him before returning to the hospital because the doctor said there are likely to be more delays. I try calling my friend in Greece.  No answer. I send a SMS on the situation to my son and brother.  I fall asleep.

11:00AM.  Message from Terry:  Looks like she’ll go in at 2.

12:30 PM.  I never realized how many Dunkin’ Donut shops there are on Long Island. Maybe it’s just how many times we’ve driven past the same one in the last twelve hours, but there does happen to be one right next door to the baby store we’re looking for.  Barbara suspects it has the “perfect” stuffed animal.  In exchange for her promise that we can go to Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee “after,” I join her in the hunt for bunny rabbit. It’s decision time: Do I prefer the pink, blue, beige, or white one?  I try feigning nonchalance:  “Whichever one shows the least dirt.”  That’s how I choose my cars these days, so why shouldn’t it work for bunny rabbits? 

I know, it’s pink for girls and blue for boys, but that requires you know the sex and we don’t.  Karen doesn’t want to know the ending before she finishes the story.  Sounds like a mystery writer’s daughter to me.

2 PM.  Back in the Labor and Delivery Waiting Room. It’s just the six of us on baby watch, plus a receptionist.  No one wants to talk about anything serious…even baseball’s off limits. It’s just old memories retold, recast, reminisced.  Funny isn’t it how life’s genuinely significant events are so often surrounded by mindless waiting.

A television mounted on the far wall is running a (badly written) soap opera. I’m sure the last time I knowingly sat in one place for so long with a soap opera playing on television was in some Greek hospital’s waiting room, but that show would have made more sense.  The only person watching it is the receptionist.  Perhaps it’s “General Hospital” and she considers it part of a work-study program.

2:15 PM. Another couple comes in.  Now it’s eight people plus the receptionist and she’s still the only one watching TV.  Two are reading newspapers, one a magazine, another a Kindle, two are on iPads, and one is just staring off into the middle distance. I’m typing away on my Macbook Air.

A Reese’s mini-pieces commercial comes on the TV.  I look up.  Finally, something on TV I can sink my teeth into.

More waiting.

2:30PM. Terry stops in to say Karen is now in the delivery room.  Everyone’s quiet. We know it’s time.  He leaves.

2:55 PM. An SMS from Terry.  “In for epidural.”

3:15PM.  The hospital’s PA system breaks the silence with Brahms’ Lullaby. We’re told it’s played throughout the hospital every time there’s a new baby born.

My heart jumps.  Could it be ours?  I’m really excited, almost in tears. “Oh my gosh,” says Terry’s mother, Joyce, to her husband, Tom.  Judy’s husband starts taking photos of everyone.  I try imagining my daughter’s face at that moment.  Six very excited people are now waiting for confirmatory news.

3:30PM.  No one’s told us anything yet.  Terry’s mom walks down to the nursery.  Comes back with no news.

3:55PM.  Still no word. Where’s Terry?  Where’s an SMS?  The mothers are getting worried, the fathers are acting as if they’re not.

4:00PM. Tensions are rising. Talk is now onto politics.  If the baby doesn’t show up soon we might need to switch the TV to the World Wide Wresting channel to properly reflect the changing mood in the room.

4:05PM.  Right on cue Terry shows up in the doorway. His mother cries and hugs him. He says to come with him to see Karen and the baby.  “So what is it?” we ask.  He says they want to tell us the details together. Dramatists both.

It seems a long walk, but Terry knows the way perfectly this time and it’s only a couple of minutes before we’re standing in front of a large wooden door marked “recovery room.”   Terry knocks, we wait for someone to let us in, and six of us herd in behind him.  Karen is on a bed off in the corner covered in a blanket and wearing some sort of scarf.  I look closer.  It isn’t a scarf.  It’s a snuggly wrapped baby. Her baby!

Terry goes to the far side of the bed to stand beside his wife and child as my theater trained daughter announces,  “Baby was born precisely at 3:00PM, weighs five pounds, ten ounces, is eighteen inches long, and is a” … drumroll please … “She.” 

No longer an “it” but a she!  A babe!  A moll! A lassie! And a genuine beauty if I may say so myself.

We only have time to get in a quick peek at her before the nurse starts shooing us out of the room saying we’ll get to spend more time with baby and mom in about an hour.

As I’m leaving the room Karen calls out, “Dad.”

“Yes.”

“Come back, please.”

I walk over to her bed and lean down.  “Yes, honey?”

She whispers, “I watched your face when I told you about my baby.”

I smile.  “I was crying.”

“I know.”  And my baby cries as she squeezes my hand.

God bless you, my beautiful baby granddaughter, your Mommy, and your Daddy.

–Jeff

The Writer's Nap

Sujata Massey

Frederick Leighton's Flaming June

Napping after lunch is a tradition with adherents worldwide, especially in warm seasons and places. We had 87-degree weather yesterday in Baltimore—the second hot day in a row. Cherry trees are bursting into pink heaven outside my bedroom window. As I lie down over rather than underneath the sheet because of my street clothes, guilt snuggles alongside me, an unwelcome companion whispering that I didn’t make my morning writing quota. 

My sigh back at her turns into a yawn. There’s a curtain of fog inside my head, perhaps induced by the budding trees themselves. Brain fog prevents me from getting into flow whenever I want. I know from experience that sentences are most sprightly in the morning, but unfortunately this morning I dashed out for an appointment. And so, at 1:15 pm—right after lunch—I throw myself onto my bed with relief.

I know I’m not the only person who indulges; and I imagine how many people are napping in my neighborhood. Thirty-five miles away, the White House lies, and I have a brief image of Donald Trump napping that I quickly shove away.

Better to think about people in my lane: writers. The authors Vladimir Nabakov and Thomas Mann were habitual nappers who managed to also write classic novels. Patricia Highsmith napped, but usually at 6 p.m., setting herself up after a day of writing to soldier on into the night.

Patricia Highsmith

The Internet search calls up many more male writers as self-avowed nappers than it does female. I suppose women writers have often felt that stealing time to be able to write was a great privilege not to be squandered. As the mother of a one-year-old, when my baby napped, I wrote frantically—it was my only chance. I play out this idea to realize that in the 19^thand much of the 20^th century, women worked hard in the house, caring for children, and if someone got a moment to herself, and was working on a book—there was the focus. I bet that daytime sleeping was a privilege reserved for the elders among them—and was a sign of necessity for their health. Apparently, the legendary nurse Florence Nightingale made the discovery that rest was needed for recovery—though she typically spent less than five hours on sleep herself!

Florence Nightingale

Things are slowly changing. Tricia Hersey is a poet, nonfiction writer and activist famous for her books Rest is Resistance and We Will Rest in which she explains her practice of resting as an act of self-care and protest against the unrelenting, capitalistic grind. I’ve read about scientists proving that a fatigued brain has more trouble finding answers and creative solutions than a rested one. Though it’s not just sleep that does it—walking in nature works, say if you’re in a workplace or at school and don’t have a cozy bed in which to retreat.

Brain power also increases after taking a walk in nature.

My pattern used to be to regularly stroll with my dog after my own lunch. I did it because I know that if I move vigorously after lunch, my blood sugar curve doesn’t look like Mount Olympus. Blood sugar that’s too high is itself a reason for sudden fatigue.

There are plenty of ways to spend one’s time when not writing. I will continue to practice both walking and napping. I may have dreamed up a way to combine both. And this looks like sinking into a chair on my upstairs porch, or on a bench in the park, and letting my eyes ever-so-gently fall closed.

Setting my alarm now for 25 minutes.

Vincent Van Gogh’s Bedroom in Arles 

An exclusive excerpt of AN ARTFUL DODGE & thoughts on "historical truth" versus "verisimilitude"

Karen Odden - every other Thursday

I'm thrilled to be able to share the sneak preview, first three chapters of my new book! There's a link at the bottom to read them for free!

But before you do ... I want to say a few words about writing about the Victorian period and the tension between historical truth and verisimilitude. 

One of my favorite anecdotes that illustrates this tension comes from my friend Susan Elia MacNeal, who writes the Maggie Hope series, which begins during WWII, with Maggie serving as a secretary in Churchill's office. For her research, Susan went to the War Rooms, where she read facsimiles of Churchill's letters in his handwriting. In his letters, he uses the abbreviation "OMG." If you think about it, it makes sense -- it's the age of the telegram, when abbreviations saved money.

Now, if Susan were to put that detail in one of her books, she would be sustaining historical truth but destroying verisimilitude -- which we could define as what the reader believes to be true about the period. Imagine the outcry! I can hear the chuckling Goodreads reviews now ... "What's Churchill going to write next? LMAO?" 

None of us writers want to push the reader's "disbelief" button. When it comes to including elements that pull readers out of the story -- well, we have to pick our battles. Sometimes we hit that button inadvertently. 

For example, a few years ago, a reviewer wrote something along the lines of, "I love your books, and they're pretty accurate, except you have Inspector Corravan drinking coffee, when Victorians drank tea."

I've been explicitly warned not to engage on social media platforms over reviews. But had I engaged, I would have replied, "Yes, Victorians drank a lot of tea, and the image of women drinking tea has been widely documented both in words and images (such as this painting, above). But in the 1870s, there were still 7 million tons of coffee being imported annually into England, most of it arriving through the London docks. Elaborate silver coffee services (that you can still see in museums) were still being produced."

That said, even though it's historical truth, I might not have had Corravan drink coffee had I realized it was going to hit the "disbelief" button.

However, there are elements that I'm willing to hit the "disbelief" button to include. The most important is giving my Victorian heroines agency. 

Sometimes, I receive comments along the lines of, "I just don't believe [your heroine Annabel or Nell or whoever] could go running around London the way she does. Weren't Victorian women confined to their homes?"

It's a valid question. TV shows and movies show Victorian women indoors, at balls, drinking tea, languishing in chaises, reading novels, riding in closed carriages. Books by Victorian writers including Anthony Trollope and Wilkie Collins and Mrs. Henry Wood often show women in somewhat stifling surroundings. 

But keep in mind two things. First, these characters are mostly unmarried, upper-class women who are going on the marriage market. They need to be watched and guarded lest their honor be lost and they become unmarriageable. That was a real, historical risk for women of a certain class -- but not for all classes. Second, these characters are fictional! Writers (for TV or of novels) gain a lot of plot advantages by constraining their female characters in particular ways -- in making certain acts impossible. It creates tension, anxiety, stress, frustration -- all good plot drivers and conflict-generators. 

I don't believe in giving women characters undue amounts of agency and justifying it by calling them "spunky." I try hard to be accurate, and that includes showing my heroines behaving plausibly within the strictures and mores of the time.

 

However, one of the ways I work around the conventional constraints in fiction and give my heroines legitimate agency is by having them be members of the lower and middle classes, or orphans with no father or older brother to oversee their actions. In real-life Victorian England, who's watching these women? Virtually no one! Their honor and virtue and morality didn't need to be so desperately protected. Their goal wasn't necessarily to marry. Working women walked all over London alone, without chaperones. They went to shops, they bought breakfast from street vendors, they visited galleries and museums and the Crystal Palace in 1851. They worked in hospitals, in wealthy families' homes, in dressmaking shops, in bakeries, in music halls, in shops, and in brothels. 

And in AN ARTFUL DODGE, they work as thieves. Kit Jimeson is a member of an all-women thieving gang operating out of the Elephant & Castle area of Southwark (above), south of the Thames. My fictional gang is based on the historical (real) gang of women thieves who were working out of E&C beginning in the 1870s. In later years, especially in the 1920s, they'd become known as the Forty Elephants, and they were active into the 1930s. Scotland Yard tried repeatedly to shut them down. To read more about the real Forty Elephants, you might look up Brian McDonald's excellent book Alice Diamond and the Forty Elephants: Britain's First Female Crime Syndicate. 

To read the first three chapters of AN ARTFUL DODGE and to meet Kit and her friends for yourself, click here: https://bit.ly/4uoYSIN

Writers Who Cook

Annamaria on Monday

Some of my friends and I have joined together in a group we have labeled WWC.  We meet up for long-standing, intermittently scheduled gatherings of authors and sometimes their spouses.  In a couple of cases, both are authors.  We are twelve in number, but because of busy lives we are hardly ever all together at once.  This past Saturday, we were just six, including five writers.

WWC began after a conversation at an MWA-NY event when my friend Gary Cahill and I were chatting about cooking and began wondering why so many writers like to cook. The best answers we came up with then, and since over the years, concern the fact that both writing and cooking are nourishing - in one case of the body and another of the soul or the intellect.  Or perhaps it's because writing is done alone and the result is shared but only after much time has passed and  when the author is not present.  Whereas with cooking, consumption often follows quickly and the cook is there to share in and see the satisfaction.  My contribution to this discussion, which gets laughs, but I maintain is not entirely silly, is that you do it standing up.

Our meetings always begin with a first course we call the amuse bouche: pizza prepared by Gary, who according my very picky tastebuds, is the best pizzaiolo on this planet.  Here is the first pizza for this recent event as it was going into the oven.

And before we took the first bites.

There are always at least two pizzas, but, as usual, once we started munching, we were too distracted by deliciousness to take many pictures.   

When it comes to writing, Gary is also a splendid short story author of literary merit. 

Our next course was an appetizer of gravlax, perfectly prepared by Jeff Markowitz.  Exquisite! 

Jeff's mystery stories are equally great. Some that are hilarious.  Man others deep and moving. His latest is a historical, with a look at societal issues that resonate today, 

Jeff's Wife Carol Markowitz also writes historical fiction, with a backdrop of WWII.  Just now, she has a story in the 2025 anthology of The Military Writers Society of America.

For the main course, I made sea scallops in a brandy sauce served over rice, with asparagus. 

The last writer this time was Richie Narvaez, who writes wonderful New York , both novels and short stories.  His latest is in an anthology of crime fiction having to do with climate change.

Lucky us, Richie's wife Denise is a pastry chef, who this time brought us cookies of her own making, designed in a mystery theme!  Yum!!
 

 Happy Reading and Buon Appetito!

A Bit of Greek Humor to Help Us Get By.

 

 

Jeff—Saturday

There really isn’t much uplifting news to report these days, aside of course from this Weekend's Sweet Sixteen NCAA Basketball games. But there remains humor to be found ... at least for Greeks. 

So, rather than droning on about what confronts us on so many fronts, permit me to share with you a bit of uniquely Greek humor. Unique I say, because it brings Greek gods into play in jokes I lifted directly from jokes4us.com.

What game did the Greek Gods play?

Hydra and go seek.

What did the Ancient Greeks wear on their feet?

Tennis Zeus.

How do Greek women get ready for a toga party?

With A Hera appointment.

Have you seen the movies about Greek Mythology?

No? Well you odyssey them.

                                                                                                                 

What do you call a musician petrified by Medusa?

A rockstar.

Why doesn't Aphrodite date tennis players?

Because love means nothing to them.

What did Poseidon say to the sea monster?

What's Kraken?

Why does Ares only have a Sony Playstation?

Because he is the "God Of War."

Who did Artemis invite to her birthday party?

Her nearest and deer-est friends.

What breed of horse was the Trojan horse?

A nightmare.

What do you call the Arnold Schwarzenegger action movie about the Greek Bailouts?

The Last Action Gyro.

And punny you should ask, but yes, now you know why I have such an affinity for Greece. :)

—Jeff

The Little Five

 Michael - Alternate Thursdays

Most people know about South Africa’s Big Five. These are the iconic Bushveld animals that people come halfway around the world to see in their natural environment. They are the Lion, Leopard, Elephant, Rhinoceros, and Buffalo. So then what are the Little Five? They are also fascinating creatures, just a lot smaller. And their namesakes are the Big Five. Let’s take a look at them (in reverse order):

The Red-billed Buffalo Weaver

Red-billed Buffalo Weaver

Masked weaver putting the finishing touches to his beautifully woven nest

Although these birds are part of the Weaver group, they are not at all in the class of the charming masked weavers that build intricately woven nests. With masked weavers, the males will offer the females several options, and she may reject them all. If she does, the male will completely demolish the nests and start again.

Thorny dead acacia branches seem a favorite construction material

Buffalo weavers, on the other hand, build large communal nest that are anything but elegantly woven. They are built from twigs and sticks arranged in an apparently haphazard fashion but producing “lodges” containing several nest chambers. The males persuade as many females as they can to take up residence and then they defend them from other males. They flap around noisily announcing their sovereignty. Probably they aspire to having their likenesses on gold coins. Occasionally, the whole construction becomes so unstable that it collapses. Then the whole flock will move on to another location and repeat the whole chaotic process.

Very proud of himself

They are large (for weavers) and quite handsome in their way, but not very bright. I once saw a predatory hawk make its way around the communal nest reaching in and grabbing chicks while the weavers carried on no end but did very little. Eventually, some (much smaller) birds took matters into their own hands (so to speak) and chased the hawk away with aerial acrobatics and dive bombing. Afterwards, the buffalo weavers went on with their business as though nothing had happened.

The name Buffalo Weaver comes from their habit of following buffalo herds to feed on the insects the large beasts disturb as the move through the bush.

The African Rhinoceros Beetle

Okay, so no prizes for guessing how they got their name.

They are appealing creatures, and don’t sting or bite, but unfortunately can do damage to groves of palm trees. Still, nobody’s perfect. They are large for beetles and popular pets in some parts of the world. The horn seems to be for arguments with other males.

The Elephant Shrew

Eastern Rock Elephant Shrew

Elephants shrews are almost ridiculously cute. They use their long noses to search around for insects, which they then flick into their mouths. In fact, they are not actually shrews or even rodents, but have their own order.

We had the pleasure of seeing several living on a large rock outside our cabin at the Mountain Zebra National Park. Their antics were much more entertaining than those of most of the larger animals.

The Leopard Tortoise

Leopard tortoise. No rush...

The Leopard can’t change its spots and neither can the leopard tortoise, although the pattern may fade as they get older. They are the fourth largest species of tortoise and may reach two feet in length. In common with other large tortoise species they are long lived and my reach 100 years old.

I once had a (nearly) crushing experience with a large one. Driving a Land Rover, looking for larger animals, I suddenly realized there was one in the road in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and the vehicle stopped, but the road was downhill and it slid forward some way. When we examined the situation, we realized that the front wheel was actually jammed on the tortoise's shell. The animal had followed Tortoise 101 and disappeared into its shell. The shell wasn't cracked or damaged, but it was firmly held with the tire pressing on one side of the shell. I wanted to reverse the vehicle, but feared that the Land Rover might roll another few inches forward when I released the break before the reverse gear took. That could be disastrous. So we spent some time jamming and hammering large stones in front of the other wheels first. The operation was a success, and in due course the tortoise emerged, took a good look around, and then moved sedately into the bush. Apparently hyenas sometimes get through those shells, but nothing else has much of a chance, not even Land Rovers.

The AntLion

One is grateful that these are very small...

Each hole has a minimonster hiding at the bottom

Alone of all the Little Five, Antlions aren’t restricted to Africa. Uncommon among insects, it’s the larval stage that is the more interesting with their neat sand traps to catch ants and other small insects. Burying themselves in loose sand, the wait at the bottom of their conical pit traps for something to slip in. Then they'll grab it with their fearsome (for ants) jaws and enjoy a good meal. They have a slow metabolism so can take their time between meals. It may take a year to reach the stage where they pupate and change into adults.

  

The adults are rather lovely creatures, making one think of diaphanous dragon flies, but they live only a few weeks. Finding a mate and laying eggs is about it.

One of the remarkable and enjoyable things about the African bush is the enormous variety of life. Maybe one isn’t always blown away by sightings of the Big Five, but there are always other creatures with interesting lives, behaviors, and pedigrees to enjoy. It is truly a gift.

Notes from the Saggy Middle

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

I suspect all writers (and too many readers) are aware of the 'saggy middle' stretch where nothing much seems to be happening.

It kind of feels like that's where we're at in Singapore right now. Everyone's recovering from the crush of major festivals: Christmas- Chinese New Year- Hari Raya Aidilfitri and there's just a little time to breathe now that it's Lent and Easter doesn't come till April 5 this year.

I was thinking that I had nothing to write about this week--not because nothing has happened, but because so many small but good things have.

The best of these is, I have a new office assistant:

I can't believe we didn't realise how smart Sophia is--she just didn't understand our expectations. Now she not only walks on a leash, as soon as she sees me unhooking her harness she lies on her tummy and lifts her two front paws to slide them into the correct loops.
I might be biased, but isn't that dog level genius? She also responds to 'Sit' and 'Stay' even when other dogs are around and holds the current record for digging out treats hidden in egg cartons or wedged into toilet rolls.
Best of all maybe, she's come to understand the yoga mat in my exercise room isn't a second toilet!

Now she sleeps in the corner while I put my daily time in.

But I'm glad I'll be going to yoga and pilates classes again soon. We'll be having the sea burial ceremony (ashes in an approved sea burial pot) for my dad in law this coming Saturday and then the official mourning period will be over.

I've also really enjoyed the first German class we attended. It's been a long time since I've got to study something according to schedule and I realise I've always approached things by plunging in and going full immersion. But I'm seeing how my fellow students work in structured systems, making vocabulary lists and so on.

So I'm taking this as a chance to learn about learning instead of relying on excitement and momentum!

I've also got to a point where I feel like I know (for now at least) where the next book is going. I can feel it taking shape, bones and organs forming and I'm hoping to get a rough draft down by the end of next month.

And through all this I'm very aware how lucky we are to have quiet moments and safe spaces here, with eveything that's going on in the rest of the world.