Wrong.  The fact is, sometimes we forget how to really breathe. Stresses pile up inside us and we try to hold in fear and sadness by holding our breath or breathing too shallowly.  I know I do this.  Mindful breathing, on the other hand, releases stress and fear and sadness.   We can be aware of our breathing by paying attention to the feeling of air flowing into the lungs and then letting the breath out, back into the world.   Just… breathe…  Ah, if only it were that simple!

In this third part of my life I’ve decided it’s time for me to learn the art of breathing.  I want to breathe away my fears and judgmental attitudes toward myself and others;  for too long I’ve clung to them like an addict clings to her drug.  I want to “get clean.”

Mindful breathing requires practice, though; lots of it.   Mindful breathing is, in fact, an integral part of the practice of Zen Buddhist meditation. Start by being aware of your breathing a few times each day.  Breathe when you feel fearful or sad.  Breathe when you’re by yourself; driving in a car, sitting in a chair, rising in the morning, going to sleep at night.  Notice, as you consciously, slowly breathe in and out, how your heart-rate slows down and a sense of peace begins to steal into your core.  You might even  feel a spiritual connection to the world both seen and unseen.  That’s because mindful breathing is a sort of prayer; each breath can be a ‘thank you.’

So… just… breathe…

To me, there’s a faint tinge of melancholy in this seasonal transformation because I’m a summer person.   My husband, on the other hand, is eager for fall and its partner, winter;  Halloween, Thanksgiving, riots of color in the leaves, and snow on the mountains, he loves it all.  But as for me, California girl that I am, I perk up in the summer like the eager sunflowers we used to grow in our garden. I love fresh produce, the busy local farmer’s market, paddling with my kayak buddy, sitting on a beach with a friend, having an occasional G & T or margarita. . But winter… Well,  I’m not crazy about snow in my yard, though it’s certainly lovely when it sparkles in the evergreens and dusts the mountains.   I most definitely don’t like driving on icy roads.  As for spring,  I could do without the seemingly endless rain;this is the time of year  locals call the mud-season.

But I’ve mostly reconciled myself to living in the pretty-far north.  I’ve found that the short, dark days of late fall and winter bring their own pleasant rhythm.  We watch more movies, play an occasional board game, read more, drink red wine, bake, make soup,  enjoy each holiday in succession, and – for those of us whose backs and legs can handle the sport, ski.

So come on autumn; I’m ready for you!

I’ll share just a few good memories:

• The Willie Nelson/Waylon Jennings concert in Oakland.  To this day, whenever I hear “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Be Cowboys,” my mind goes directly to our family rockin’ out to those two legendary entertainers.
• The Lovin’ Spoonful concert in Santa Barbara.  Back when I was deep in the throes of Beatlemania, I was devastated that I couldn’t attend one of their concerts.  So Dad took me to see a real, live rock & roll band.  How did he stand the screaming girls around us?  It had to be sheer love for his older daughter.
• Traveling across the U.S. on a family vacation to see historic sites; touring British Columbia, Canada; yearly vacations to Lassen National Park.  The four of us had a blast on those trips; there was a lot of laughter.  And singing (thanks, Laura!).  I’ve had the travel-bug ever since, for which I’m deeply grateful; I’ve learned so much about myself and the rest of the world because of my journeys.
• As an adult,  going to see Joe Cocker in San Francisco, just me and Dad.  How many women would actually want to attend a concert with her father?  Well, I don’t know; but I loved it!
• Christmas.  Easter.  Fourth of July.  Happy holidays, all of them, thanks to my parents.
• Birthdays. Dad and Mom always made me feel special.
• Church.  The whole family went to church every Sunday; it was the foundation of my values.
• Ties.   Dad always liked the ties I picked out for him; or at least he pretended really well that he did!
• Dad’s owl imitations.  I’ll say no more.

Thank you, Dad; I love you.   I’m truly a fortunate daughter.  Happy Father’s Day.

Ch…Ch…Ch…Changes…. I hope we can adjust, bend and grow with them; with grace.

Ugh; he stinks of mutton, Ninyve thought, wrinkling her slender nose.  One of my least favorite aromas, that. And it has such a tendency to linger in the air.

Ninyve was still thinking about the smell when she turned a corner and came upon a young man slumped disconsolantly against a crumbling stone wall.  Later – much later – she decided that something about him must have caught her eye, for she found herself abruptly halting to stare at him.   But she could never remember exactly what it was; her usually knife-sharp memory seemed to have been somehow dulled.

Still, it didn’t really not matter why Ninyve stopped; it was enough that she did.  The the gods’ great wheel of fate had been set in motion.

Here’s my piece:

Alert, still, the little black cat sits on the windowsill.  Golden afternoon sun slants onto her ebony-smooth fur, picking out an occasional silky strand of silver in the inky coat.  Delicately raising a sooty paw to the window, she bats at a bee that bumbles by outside.  The cat is suddenly alive with energy, quivering like a dusky thundercloud brimming with lightening.  Tensely, she follows the bee with her green eyes until it is lost in the lightless forest beyond the house.  Then, when it is gone, she tosses her small sable head, tipped by a nose dark as coal, and resumes her waiting pose.

             Looking at Paris in this light, Kate thought, could get a person in real trouble. 

She propped her elbows on the iron railing of the tenth-story balcony and sighed.  Paris was everything she’d always imagined it would be.  Every bit as romantic, too, and that was definitely a problem.  Determinedly pushing aside the persistent image of a tall, broad-shouldered young man with tousled auburn hair, she bit her lip.  What was she to do about Philip?  She certainly hadn’t expected someone like him to enter her life only two days into her long-awaited vacation to France.  He just didn’t fit in with her plans.

Kate stared out at the city, mesmerized by its beauty.  Buildings, fountains, sidewalks were all burnished by golden light from the late-afternoon sun, and aromas from neighborhood restaurants – frying garlic, pan-seared scallops, baking bread – wafted up to her nose.  Inhaling the enticing smells, she realized suddenly that she was hungry. Not surprising, really, since she’d spent the day poking into shops, visiting outdoor markets, ducking into thrillingly ancient cathedrals, and all she’d had to eat since the hard roll and coffee this morning was a piece of fruit and a wedge of cheese she’d purchased at a little grocery store.

“Time to scavenge for dinner,” she said out loud, turning away from the vista before her and opening the sliding glass door of her hotel room.  “And I refuse to think about Philip.  I will simply enjoy a good meal… all by myself in Paris!”

After heaving a deep sigh for true love and strappingly handsome, tall-booted men to whom riding a spirited horse is second nature, I started thinking about why I enjoyed Kearsley’s books so much.  And, since my reasons are applicable to many books in the romance genre, I thought I’d share them with you.  OK?  Good; here goes.

Kearsley’s prose isn’t overly flowery and she doesn’t go into too much detail about her characters’ looks.  If I have a quibble with Diana Gabaldon’s wonderful Outlander novels it’s that I grow a wee bit tired of Jamie’s shimmering, golden-red hair.  It’s amazing how many ways an author can describe hair in different lights and circumstances.  Kearsley, on the other hand, seems to prefer giving a general description of the characters and then allowing her reader to mentally fill in the blanks.  I quite like this approach.  Here’s something else I appreciate: Kearsley shows us the passion building up between her couple, takes us with them into the bedroom to consummate said passion… and then closes the door to the reader until the next morning, when it’s made very apparent that it was a wonderful night and these two people are meant to be together.  This is not to say that there should never be a romantic sex scene in a novel –  it can be awfully fun – but I found Kearsley’s approach surprisingly satisfying.   Finally, the author  includes enough accurate historical information to make the plot interesting to a history-buff like me but doesn’t add so much that one feels expected to take an exam upon completion of the book.

Spot-on writing, Ms. Kearsley, and I hope you keep putting out these lovely, sigh-worthy novels.

Let’s go back to that first reason for writing – fun.  If you’re a person who has always struggled with the written word, then this concept makes no sense at all.  But if – like me – you started jotting down little poems and stories in elementary school (and they weren’t even a school assignment), and continued feeling driven to write through adulthood, then you get it.  For you, there’s something singularly satisfying about rounding up and corralling just the right words, whether it’s for a non-fiction magazine article, a poem, or a moment in a novel.

I particularly like the poetic form called Haiku, because the strict format  (first line, five syllables; second line, seven; third line, five syllables) forces the poet to express herself with just a few, choice words.  It’s much harder than it might sound; give it a try.

Keep on writing.

Texting is one of those topics that get many adults all hot-under-the-collar.  They decry it as ending the fine art of communicating face-to-face, or even via the good ol’ telephone. And, they grumble, teenaged and twenty-somethings will develop permanent bowed necks from constantly texting away on their “smart” phones.  Said teenagers and young adults, naturally, argue that texting is convenient, easy, and fun. 

Frankly, I don’t see any point in moaning over a technology that’s probably a permanent aspect of our world; we may as well get used to it.  However, I do think it could be better controlled, and to that end, I’d like to propose a short list of texting do’s and don’ts:

- Parents, don’t give a cell phone with texting capability to a child under the age of about 15. A frighteningly high percentage of children use texting as a tool for bullying, and this is causing endless grief in elementary and middle schools (I know, I’m a teacher). If you feel your child has to have a cell phone, get one without the texting feature.

- Don’t text under the table while you are 1) having a meal with a friend or relative, or 2) you are at a movie theater, play, or any other type of performance.  At public performances the glow of your phone can bother sensitive people…. like me!

- Don’t leave the dinner table before the meal is over to text someone. Yes, I mean you, my son.

- Obviously, don’t EVER text while driving. EVER.  EVER.  Even if it’s not against the law in your (unenlightened) state.

- Don’t break up with your boy/girfriend via texting. That’s a very low-class, mean, rude thing to do.

Not too complicated, is it?  And now, please excuse me; I have to go text a friend….