“We don’t heal without hurting. For a while, the cure for the pain is the pain.”
 
Mary Pipher in Women Rowing North.

Besides cookies, cake and an occasional Culver’s Deluxe Butter Burger, writers need field trips to feed on something other than their bodies and souls.
 
I’m so grateful to Milwaukee’s great institutions (and one Appleton institution) for schooling me. Here’s what I learned in one week of field trips:
 

• Charlie Radke is a magician. He does not draw, measure or plan his exquisite wood sculptures. And by sculptures I mean mostly one-of-a-kind cabinets and some tables and chairs. A drawer pull might inspire him to create a cabinet. Or a piece of wood. Or a tiny metal leaf. GO SEE the exhibit of his work at the Milwaukee Art Museum!
• Imax isn’t always Imax. Imax theater is not an Imax theater. When I visited Milwaukee Public Museum’s behind-the-scenes “Inside Out” program I learned that their theater features five projectors which are computer-controlled to blend images into an Imax-like experience.
• A classical guitarist probably doesn’t sleep. How could he when it sounds like he is playing seven different instruments? A recital by Zoran Dukic, a renowned classical guitarist from Zagreb, completely blew me away at UWM’s Peck School of the Arts.
• Cash is good theater. Johnny Cash is not one of my favorite singers but “Ring of Fire: The Music of Johnny Cash” staged by Milwaukee Repertory Theater had me on my feet clapping at the end. Tender, heartbreaking and healing.  
• Time-travel is possible. I went to a MacDowell Male Chorus at Lawrence University and, though he’s been dead for 10 years, I swear I heard my dad singing.  
  

When cooking and reading appeal more to me than writing does, I get a little anxious. Is the mojo fading? I still write every day but with more awkwardness and less enthusiasm.
 
This orchid photo reminds me to accept these fallow periods. I ignored the plant for nearly a year and still it exploded into blooms and buds.       

Some people have trouble remembering the difference between fiction and non-fiction. So, instead of a sign that reads “Fiction,” some bookstores kindly label those sections in their stores as “Made Up Stories.”   
 
Because conversations are not so easily labeled, I thought you should know that when you talk about me or speak for my state of mind, it’s fiction.



Green Parrot, c. 1820 India, East India Company School, 19th century. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.

Exotic sights embellish my travels. Lush rock towers partition Halong Bay. Goats ornament a Moroccan argan tree. Titanic shields shingle the Sydney Opera House. But the most exotic sight for me when I travel is me. The armor of my habits and routines falls away as I fall into new experiences and, without the usual protections, I am transformed.   
 
I fell into mud on one trip which allowed me to cry for the first time since my divorce. An allergic reaction to bat guano swelled my face which allowed me to be alone and write all day. I fell in love for a minute with a delightful man which helped me see that another love was possible. And all that falling and swelling helped me heal from a sorrow that I would not, could not acknowledge in my everyday life.
 
No wonder I’m relieved to be home. And no wonder, after a couple months of routine, bon voyage is mon bon ami.
 

 My mom was the ultimate penny pincher. Actually, she was a penny pounder and worked so hard at it, she parlayed a lifetime of low income into enough money to sustain her for two years in a memory care unit with some left over to treat her kids when she died.
 
She read every word of newspaper advertising inserts and took advantage of every coupon, every discount she could. And bragged about her savings.
 
This week, as my friend and I enjoyed free terrace-reserved seats at the Milwaukee Brewers baseball game, I realized I am my mother’s daughter. I earned those tickets by using my grocery store discount card. This year, with that card, I also earned free gas and free Summerfest tickets.        
 
Now I’m a committed penny pincher. I take advantage of Happy Hours as well as free or low-cost courses through my community’s library and recreation department. I sign up for email notices from retailers I visit regularly. It’s worth the little bit of bother because, for instance, CVS occasionally offers a 40% off coupon.  
 
And because I’m within senior citizen range, I can take free courses at the university, on Wednesdays I get 15% off at Kohl’s department store, on Tuesdays I get 60% off at an AMC movie theater and every day I get 15% off my Amtrak ticket.      
 
Thanks mom. And happy mother’s day!       
 

My doctor said, “Well, quit your day drinking,” when I told her I was worried about all the times I’ve fallen. Ha, ha.
 
My brother assured me, dad was clumsy too. And friends gave me ice packs for my birthday. Ha, ha, ha.
 
And I laughed along. Until this last bloody fall. And by bloody I mean “stain the pavement” bloody. I tripped on a sidewalk flower bed with my hands in my pockets. Though my scraped and bruised face mostly healed in a week, the inside of my nose is still swollen a month after the accident. A daily reminder.
 
So I’ve changed my ways and vow never to fall again. I walk slowwwwly. I work my abs as often as possible. I pay attention. And just in case my vow stumbles, I keep my hands out of my pockets.

I thought I was pretty happy. Broken in places, yet overall quite happy. Apparently it's going to get even better in couple years, according to research quoted by Mary Pipher in her new book, "Women Rowing North: Navigating Life's Currents and Flourishing as We Age." "The happiest people are women aged 65-79," she wrote. I can't wait to read it.

Here's a quote from the book that one New York Times book critic lauded:

"Grief isn't just something to endure; it also is a reflection of our capacity to love."

A fellow condo owner harassed me verbally with sexual undertones. I ignored what I considered a run-of-the-mill nuisance and figured I’d deal with it later. Then the security guard who witnessed it filed an incident report and my building manager sent me a let’s-get-him letter.
 
We want you to know this conduct on his part will not be tolerated…. the board kindly asks you… to submit a written statement of the incident… The board is committed to have all residents feel safe and secure.
 
Then I sent her a way-to-go with my incident statement.
 
Your attention to this issue is so heartening. I was resigned to having to deal with his behavior myself as I have had to do in the past with other men… it is reassuring  to know I'm not alone in resolving the issue and that the association will protect my well-being.
 
To which she responded with a three-sentence blank stare.
Thank you for your response.  I have forwarded it onto the Board as more information on the incident helps with the Board trying to address the issue. If, at any point, you feel threatened I always recommend contacting the police department to address.
The police? What? Where’s the internal commitment to security? Even just one sentence reiterating their dedication to my well-being would have tempered their blow-off, their recommendation to call the police, to cover their asses. That’s all it takes. One sentence to restore a victim’s belief that they were wronged and are protected.
 
I want to share that distinction with them. But I’ve got a harasser to fend off.
 
And, sister. You’re no sister.
 
 

I start saving other people. Even though they didn’t ask for my help… Maybe if I talk to her one more time, she’ll take her meds. Maybe if I can get his dad to stop supporting him, he’ll get a job. Blah, blah, blah.
 
Luckily, I only do that in my mind now. I don’t grab the phone or jump in the car.
 
But aren’t I just adorable? Instead of dealing with my shit, I want to torture other people. 
 
Art: Temptation of Buddha by the Evil Forces of Mara, 700s. Northern India, Kashmir, 8th century. The Cleveland Museum of Art Open Access Collection.