Let it Rain

Ellen Newmark in the Himalayas, 2009

My friend and writing sister, Ellen, died last month. I got home from Europe and took a flight down to San Diego so we could say good-bye. She taught me so much about living life -- really living it -- and then she taught me about dying -- bravely, and with gratitude. She was my friend but so much more...too much, I've decided after many failed attempts, to convey in a blog post. 

We have all lost people we love. We have all felt the spreading void of their absence filling the rooms, the streets, the fields, the very sky, until we find ourselves pressed out on the ground underneath the weight of all that emptiness, wondering how? How can this be? And how will we possibly get up and face a world that feels so different now?

But we do get up, eventually, and we go on living -- really living -- because that is the best way to honor the dead, and ourselves. It is what Ellen insisted on.

She is gone, but still I feel her here. I feel her like I feel the scarf she gave me -- light, warmth, comfort, a hint of her perfume. How can this be? And yet it is.

Back in March, I wrote the following post, but I didn't publish it. There were a lot of scary things going on in the world, as there always is, and I was trying to wrap my head and heart around the fact that Ellen was not going to recover as we had so fervently hoped.

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There's a storm hitting us, and it's ferocious. The rain and wind batter away at our Barngalow, so loud now that our dog, Stuart, and our cat, Bob, keep looking up from their naps to the ceiling, then planting their eyes on me, asking What the hell? 

Through the window, the tree branches have transformed into a crowd of rioters, going at each other in a panic, throwing the weakest to the ground.

But it's only a storm, not a tsunami, not an earthquake, not escaping steam from a nuclear power plant, not a war-zone. We are warm and snug and safe in the moment, something I wish were true for everyone in this world.

My friend Diana and I had plans to drive an hour south and hike Mount Tamalpais today, but you know what they say about plans. Instead I'm still in my pjs, nursing an extra cup of coffee, thinking about all that's happened this past month. As Dickens wrote, "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."

My own dream in my own little corner of the world, finally realized. And yet, as more good news from my agent came in emails and phone calls, I watched the nightmare unfolding in Japan and then Libya, watched unfathomable devastation wreaking its havoc on people who had woken that morning much like I had woken, thinking about whatever it is we think about in those first moments when we're on autopilot. I'd like to say I always wake with gratitude, but sometimes my mind is bent on the need to get the coffee going, take the dog out to pee, pay this or that bill, and get this done or that done. We wake as if it's just another day, ho hum, la-tee-dah, as if we have all the time in the world. But the truth is, none of us have that kind of time. We're all going to die, but most of us don't know when or how. Most of us, myself included, would rather not think about it.

Someone I love very much is teaching me about dying. It's a privilege to talk with her. She knows things the rest of us can't know until we're willing to sit face to face with our own mortality. I am learning how to listen. I am trying to learn to quiet the NO that keeps shouting through my head so I can truly hear her. I am trying to learn how to someday say good-bye to her with acceptance instead of fear or denial or a clutching heart.

Today's storm will move on, leaving the sun to do its thing. The trees will rest in peace again, raindrops like crystals on a chandelier will sparkle from their calmed, harmonious branches as Mother Nature takes a deep breath, decides to return to civility. Yes, the sun will shine again, gloriously, but as always, keep casting its shadows, too.

It's such a mixed bag, this life. The sorrow -- we all know it wouldn't be so hard if the joy wasn't so damn sweet. And good-byes wouldn't be so difficult if the love wasn't woven through our core, connecting every part of us. But what can we do? Go ahead, I say. Love with utter abandon, drink up the joy with lip-smacking gusto. And when it's time to cry, let it rain. Let the raging storm have its way.

A Very Bad Blogger

I have been a very bad blogger. Perhaps as punishment, I should write that sentence a hundred times and then at least I'd complete a blog post and break the silence we've been experiencing over here at Who Moved My Buddha? for the last couple of months.

My Buddha has been doing cartwheels (in a detached sort of way) here, there, and everywhere and I am just now getting caught up with all the changes going on. (Okay. I'm not even close to getting caught up. Still back at, Wow! I have an agent!) So this will be a mostly newsy post so that I'll at least get you caught up.

The novel. Last you heard, I was zip-a-dee-doo-dahing through the Redwoods after a week of areyoufrigginkiddingme? news about The Underside of Joy, which will be published by Dutton in January 2012. It will also be published in 12 other countries, in 12 languages, including Hebrew and Chinese.

I am still...there are no words...at least not in English. I will have to ask the Chinese translator.

But. (There is always a but.) My dear friend and writing sister, Ellen, has been very ill. Her gorgeous book, The Sandalwood Tree, came out April 5th and was greeted by a mass of wonderful reviews. I was able to spend the first half of April with her -- time I already treasure. We talked and talked, as we have for more than 15 years. We talked about life. And about death. And about writing, always writing. To get a glimpse of why I love her so much, read The Sandalwood Tree.

And. (There is always an and, too it seems.) While I was visiting my beautiful, talented, funny friend, I got some amazing news. The Underside of Joy was chosen to be one of six books discussed at the Book Expo America Editors Buzz Panel.

But. As you know, with good news often comes more work, so we've been rushing to get everything done in time for BEA, which is in NYC May 23-26. As I've mentioned before, I'm a bit of a barnacle and not particularly adept at rushing, so I've been a few miles out of my comfort zone, leaping here and there over hurdles like a gazelle. (Picture, if you will, a gazelle wearing clogs. On her way to NYC.)

Fortunately, my edits went quickly and smoothly and were done before we heard the news. Next up were the copyedits, cover design -- which I love -- and author photo. My website is done. Isn't it cool? (More about that later.) And I finished making changes to the first pass galleys: my words, typeset, looking more and more like a real book. Holy Moly.

And...This week, Publisher's Marketplace posted my first review, and it's lovely. Huge sigh of relief. You have to be a member to access it there, but if you really, really want to read it and don't want to pay the $20 monthly fee, I've posted it under News on my site. Absolutely free. No membership required.

See? A newsy post. A little light and breezy. But in the middle of it all, here I am, not able to articulate the depth of sadness I feel about my writing sister's struggle that lies below all the happy news and excitement. If I were to try to name it? I guess I would call this the underside of joy, too.

Gratitude for My Writing Sister

A year ago today, I flew down to San Diego to hold onto the hand of one of my closest friends. Ellen lay in bed in the ICU, hooked up to a ventilator, as still as still can be. Under that stillness, a battle raged over her lungs. She will never again say, "As easy as taking a breath."

It's her story, so I'll leave it for her to tell. She's a fabulous writer and storyteller. She has been my writing sister for the past 15 years.

I will say this: She's home now, still fighting, but getting better. There have been setbacks, more hospital stays. But she finished a novel and turned it into her publisher. To keep her spirits up, she ordered a whole new supply of pretty pajamas and matching slippers online. And when yet another setback got too depressing, Cat Stevens crooning through her iPod ear buds reminded her how utterly gorgeous life can be, and what a privilege it is to be able to make art.

She's a prize fighter. She's a prize writer. When the bombs explode, she often pulls her pen from its cap like a sword from its sheath, and she gets the words down. She makes art. (She's shrugging as she reads this. She's saying, "Everyone has their battles. We all do the best we can.")

Except we don't always choose to do our best. I haven't, not always. Sometimes the fetal position is so inviting. But for the last 15 years, Ellen has been a phone call away, helping me to drop-kick the indulgent self-pity out the front door, to let in hope and perseverance. She's that kind of person, that kind of friend.

A year has passed, from one Thanksgiving to another. I know only two prayers really well. Last Thanksgiving I kept praying, Please. This year I'm praying the other one: Thank you.