Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 7

Rethinking Priorities

Photo by Bich Tran on Pexels.com

It is time to choose next year’s classes for my three middle- and high-schoolers. Going through this process this year made me realize how much the upheaval of the last year has actually benefited me as a parent–strengthened and sensitized me, reshaped and reordered my priorities.

I was a straight-A student, and as such, parenthood is an uneasy balance of setting high expectations without placing undue burdens on my kids. I’d already been through one hard reset even before COVID.

But watching the weight of virtual schooling on my kids did what no amount of self-talk ever could. It cured me of anxiety over honors and AP classes. This year, we’re approaching the process from the perspective of “academic rigor, yes, but within reason. Mental health comes first. Way out in front.”

We’ve also reset our attitude toward activities. I had begun processing the deep breath that was the stay-at-home orders last April, when I wrote “The Freak-Out and the Grand Pause,” but I didn’t yet know how to handle it. I knew it wasn’t realistic to simply do a draconian purge of activities. The shutdown taught us that those activities were a gift and a privilege. But at the same time, I often felt stretched to the breaking point.

A year into the pandemic, life is what I call “back to normal, except with masks.” We’re crazy freaking busy again. But as things started up again, I articulated to one club leader, “We’ve always been people who were all in. If we did an activity, we were there for every event. That’s what it meant to be a good member of the group. That is not going to be us anymore. We learned that we needed some down time at home as a family, and we’re going to take it.”

I’ve had conversations on that topic with my kids, too. We haven’t exercised that privilege yet, because right now they’re all so starved for those activities and interactions, we’re taking advantage–even though it does feel overwhelming at times. This spring is going to be intense. But at any time, we could be COVID exposed and stuck at home for 10-14 days, so for now the calculation tips toward doing as much as we can.

It helps, though, knowing I have standing permission from my psyche to call it when it needs to be called.

How about you? Have things reopened where you are? How are you viewing the balance of “too much” versus “activities are a privilege we can’t take for granted”?

An Update On My Chromosomally-Gifted Girl

A few weeks ago I posted on Instagram about my chromosomally-gifted girl’s adventures in color guard costuming. The response was so sweet, it reminded me that for all my personal interests of music and fiction and photography, it’s my daughter you all like to read about the most.

It’s been quite a while since I wrote about her. I believe it was two or maybe even three years ago when I promised an IEP update and failed to deliver. But it wasn’t because of busyness or distraction. It was a conscious choice. Things got pretty, um… hot… in our IEP world for a while. I didn’t want to vent online, lest it make things worse.

So what’s her life been like in that time? Well, Julianna did three-fourths of 6th grade at her home school. Her IEP for this year was the very last thing we did before the COVID shutdown. In fact, we moved up the second half of the meeting because we anticipated the closure. (Yes, I did say “second half.” Because our IEP meetings take 4-6 hours.) By the time school started in August, we had spent 11 hours having meetings to plan the 20-21 school year. I’d hazard a guess that since then, we’ve had another 11 hours’ worth of meetings.

The good news is that we are over the moon thrilled with her teacher this year. She’s switched schools and is in the classroom we didn’t want her to be in—but the reality was that to remain in her home school this year, she would have had to do virtual learning, with me as full-time para, and that was simply not feasible. Let’s be frank. I’m a pretty good flute teacher, but I suck as an educator to my kids.

The district really rose to the occasion. They arranged it so she could Zoom into her home school for choir and social studies and science as long as virtual learning was going on. That was done from her assigned–IN-PERSON–classroom.

In other words, this year she’s been in person 4.5 days a week.

And her teacher this year has blown us away, seeing issues and finding solutions no one else has ever flagged. Julianna is absolutely thriving. But when the district reopened for hybrid learning at semester, we had to choose. The two-school model was no longer viable. We kept her in the new school, and as we approach IEP time for 21-22, we are contemplating leaving her there for 8th grade as well. Some moving parts remain, but for us, the rabid inclusion advocates, to be considering leaving her in a “district classroom” (which we would have called “walled-off” or “segregated” or “self-contained” before) is a really, really big deal. And a testament to this team. As difficult as 2020-21 school year has been for my other secondary students, it’s been a 100% win for Julianna.

Her other new adventure is winter guard. She is participating in flag and dance with the two middle schools that feed her “tallest brother”’s high school marching band. Last night was the dress rehearsal and provides today’s visuals.

All she’s missing in this picture is the sparkly face mask. (Which is adult sized, incidentally….ear loops tied in knots to shorten, and I still had to twist them to keep it snug against her face!)

Five on a Friday with Cara Sue Achterberg

As promised, we’re starting something new today! One of the great things about the publication process is how many other authors I get to “meet.” We all hear about the big, flashy books by big-name authors, but there are a host of gems we as readers may never even hear of. I’m seeing a lot of those books these days as I help other authors, and I thought I’d use my little platform to feature some stories I’ve really enjoyed.

We start with Cara Sue Achterberg and her gorgeous book, “Blind Turn,” which released yesterday.

About the book:

Liz Johnson single-handedly raised an exemplary daughter—honor student, track star, and all-around good kid—despite the disapproval of her father and her small town. How could that same teenager be responsible for the death of the high school’s beloved football coach? This is Texas, where high school football ranks right up there with God, so while the legal battle wages, the public deals its own verdict.

Desperate for help, Liz turns to a lawyer whose affection she long ago rejected and attempts to play nice with her ex-husband, while her daughter struggles with guilt and her own demons as she faces the consequences of an accident she doesn’t remember.

Can one careless decision alter a lifetime? A tragic, emotional, ultimately uplifting story, BLIND TURN could be anyone’s story.

Let’s start by asking about you as a person. What should people know about you, Cara?

I am a wide-open person, which means I’ll tell you nearly anything. I think that comes through in my writing. When I write fiction, I write from my heart and wrestle with everyday issues and day-to-day humanity. I want people to read my writing and find something in it that applies to their own lives—lifts them up, inspires them, or makes them examine their own thoughts and motivations.

I am also a dog rescuer. I have fostered nearly 200 animals, written two memoirs about my experiences, and am the co-founder of Who Will Let the Dogs Out, an initiative to raise awareness and resources for shelter dogs and the people who fight for them. When I am not working on fiction, I am writing to save the lives of animals who deserve so much better in a country as rich as ours.

The other thing I would want people to know about me is that I’m approachable—I love talking to readers and writers, especially young writers and writers just getting started on their writing journey. I’m happy to engage with people via email, social media, and in person. Writing is a solitary act, but it is not a lonely one, at least not when it leads to new friends and connections and meaningful interactions.

That’s the best thing about the writing community! So–you and I have both written books with, let’s say, a “difficult” premise. My main character has lost her whole family. Yours is dealing with the aftermath of a teen texting-and-driving accident. Did you ever have people say, “Oh, you can never sell that book, nobody will read it”?

The first publisher we approached with this book (seven years ago!) ultimately passed on it with the bizarre (to me) explanation of ‘we don’t want to touch texting and driving’. That made it clear that the book would hit a nerve, but it also made me realize my story was important.

I wrote it because of an accident that occurred in the next county over from mine. I was in the midst of teaching my oldest son to drive—a terrifying parental right of passage—and the story haunted me. In that accident a teen driver killed an entire family with no real explanation (other than inexperience or possibly distraction).

I couldn’t shake that nightmare, so I wrote through it, which is how I deal with pretty much everything in my life. I wanted to sort out how a family could move on from a tragedy like that and how a ‘good kid’ could cause such devastation. I think ultimately a tragedy will change a life –not just in terms of pain, but in terms of growth.

That’s so beautiful. You and I clearly have a lot in common with our writing philosophies. But I think readers don’t always realize the insecurities we writers go through–imposter syndrome, the fear that the naysayers are right and nobody WILL read this book… What’s your take?

Oh my gosh, YES! For many years I didn’t even attempt to get anything I’d written published because I thought—who am I to think I can write a book? Having a publisher behind you helps, but it’s still you putting your heart on the page, handing it out to the public, and then bracing yourself to have it stomped on. I saw a film once (blanking on the name) that compared being a writer to being a boxer—it’s just you out there in the ring, totally exposed, your skill or lack-there-of will be clear to everyone and even if you’re good, you could take a beating.

Thankfully, my books have been well-received. I’ve made so many new friendships with readers and other writers. It’s always risky, though. I teach creative writing and I tell my students that all the time. You have to be brave. You have to be willing to risk being embarrassed and ridiculed. You can’t worry about what people will think as you write, if you do then your writing will always be in a straight-jacket, or worse yet, it will be watered down and mediocre.

Forgiveness is a strong theme in BLIND TURN: Jess’s need to forgive herself; the town’s need to forgive Jess–these were really front and center. But Liz has people she’s struggling to forgive as well. You tie it all together so beautifully. Is there a guiding vision behind all your writing?

In a recent interview (on the excellent podcast, Lovely Books), I was asked if second-chances were a theme in my writing. I’d never thought of this. The interviewer pointed out that I spend a lot of my time and energy trying to save dogs that need a second chance, but in my fiction it seems evident that I believe in second chances for people too. I’d never considered that as a theme to my writing, but it is a foundational belief of mine—everyone deserves another chance. No one is unredeemable.

And quite definitely forgiveness is also a guiding vision in my stories. I believe that forgiveness is necessary for real love of any kind. In order to love, we have to choose to forgive, sometimes on a daily, even hourly basis.

For me, it’s always redemption. Characters are always broken and in need of healing and redemption. A lot of commonality there! Do you find that your books end up reflecting realities in your own world and, in turn, shining light back on them? Were there any moments like that in the writing of BLIND TURN?

I can’t remember who said that all writing is autobiographical and I would quite definitely agree. In writing Blind Turn, I worked through some of my own issues with forgiveness. For instance, I’ve always wrestled with the idea of penance being necessary for forgiveness – and that struggle came out in one of my characters. It wasn’t something I planned, in fact, I remember seeing the words on the page and thinking, “Oh! This is what I’ve been trying to figure out.”

I’m not a planner; I don’t map out my stories ahead of time. I spend a lot of time getting to know my characters and then place them in a situation and see what happens. I follow the story wherever it takes me. Occasionally, I realize I’ve followed it down some odd path that has more to do with my life than the characters, and I have to retrace steps and go back to where the wrong turn occurred.

This book has had such a long, winding path to publication. More than anything else I’ve written, this book’s journey has been a journey for my own heart and a test of my commitment to pursuing this crazy dream of being an author.

You’ve given us a lot of food for thought! Thanks for stopping by!

Cara Sue Achterberg’s new novel, BLIND TURN, is available from all your favorite booksellers. Find the links on her site!

Cara Sue Achterberg is the author of four novels, two memoirs, one work of non-fiction, and multiple blogs. She is the cofounder of Who Will Let the Dogs Out, a nonprofit initiative to raise awareness and resources for shelter dogs. Cara currently lives in New Freedom, Pennsylvania, and Bentonville, Virginia with her husband and far too many animals. For more information visit CaraWrites.com, or look her up on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.

A little fun for Epiphany week

Normally, my husband’s and my choir does a “Farewell to Christmas” concert on Epiphany Sunday. Of course, in COVID era, we haven’t had choir, so our family decided to do the concert ourselves via the church’s live stream so the tradition would remain unbroken.

My parents watched the concert and when I talked to them that evening, there was no conversation about music…only giggling over the kids’ various funny moments. But the best one of all is kind of hidden in the ten minutes before the concert began. A moment got captured in the audio that we have wanted to capture but haven’t figured out how. So I am sharing the video with you today, solely so you can skip ahead to the 9:26 mark. Turn the volume up and listen closely to my two oldest children…

Go ahead. I’m waiting…

Did you hear it?

“Stop it, Alex. Stop it!”

“You’re a pasta noob.”

“Stinky butt!”

Alex has been calling Julianna “pasta noob” for a year or more, and it is my barometer of his mood. He only calls her that when he’s happy. But it drives Julianna ABSOLUTELY BONKERS. She hates all nicknames, in fact. All the cute nicknames of her little girlhood are taboo now. But you know brothers. If they can get under their sisters’ skin, they’re going to needle for all it’s worth. Finally my husband, after months of joking and cajoling, told her when he calls her “pasta noob,” she should retort, “stinky butt!”

The first time she actually did it, there was great rejoicing and much hilarity in the house. And now it’s a Thing, but you can’t orchestrate an exchange like that for video commemoration! That’s why I’m so happy that it got captured organically on Sunday. Even if it was at church. On Facebook Live.

Five on a Friday

Here’s a heads-up for your early January: I’m starting something new!

I’m going to start a new series called “Five on a Friday,” in which I’ll interview women’s fiction authors in five questions. Stay tuned–our first goes live on Friday, January 8th, when I’ll welcome Cara Sue Achterberg, whose new release, Blind Turn, releases that week.

the care and feeding of the soul in a time of pandemic

For years, I have endeavored to make December—Advent—all about the soul. It’s going to be busy, but that doesn’t mean it has to be harried. Advent is a time to turn inward and till and fertilize and basically make my heart fertile ground for the presence of God.

This search for stillness has been part of my “brand.” I even wrote a book about it.

It’s been tougher than usual for me to find that sense of quiet, of inner stillness, this year. Promoting a debut novel is, well–wow, that’s all. Meanwhile, The Next Book sits in the wings, taunting me, tantalizingly close to a first draft but refusing to toe the line. Two submissions in a row, my critique partners have said, “uh-uh.”

To be clear: they’re right, and I don’t resent it. (I think I figured out my fix this morning.) But it does mean slowing, stopping on the shoulder of the interstate and climbing a proverbial mountain to get the view from the high place–and then repeating a long stretch of highway…again and again and again.

And of course, I have two kids schooling at home. Next week I’ll have three, one of them the highest-maintenance of all my children.

During Advent, the thing I love to do most is sit alone in the darkness, wrapped in a blanket, and write or sit quietly, thinking and praying, by the light of the Christmas tree, with my Christmas playlist on the computer. If I can distill my ideal of Advent down to a single image, that’s it.

But I don’t get to do that this year, because I’m never alone. I mean, I carve out a few minutes here and there between 5:30 and 6 a.m. (Or 4:15 and 6, as it was this morning. Warning: midday nap ahead.) But basically, I’m in the presence of others at all times these days.

One of my kids takes up a ton of space: itchy with boredom, bopping up and down the stairs, talking and laughing loudly on class zooms, constantly negotiating for some other space than the one he has.

Another of my kids might never come out of his room except to eat, but that means constantly weighing when it’s time to stage an intervention, versus stepping back and letting said kid grow into healthy independence. The mental exertion required for that sort of parenting is more taxing than the other.

I love my family and I have reflected on my Catholic blog a couple times about how there are surprising blessings hidden in this pandemic time. My relationships with my children are shifting in subtle but beautiful ways.

Even so, I’m accustomed to having the house to myself most days, and the ability to use it to fill my soul. During the good weather this year, I made time to go out biking or hiking. But now that the weather’s turned unfriendly, the slow, stifling weight of being always around other people, responsible for other people, is draining me.

We haven’t given much attention to this side effect of the pandemic. Isolation from friends and extended family? Yes. The difficulty of discerning where to draw the line? For sure. The complex calculations that ensue when one person in a family gets exposed, and every time a new person goes down, the quarantine clock starts over for everyone else? Mm-hm.

But this strain, the feeling that your soul is slowly starving–no. When your soul needs one particular thing, and that thing simply can’t be had, what do you do? For me, it’s solitude and the ability to be still. For others it’s company and companionship. It’s nobody’s fault. It just is.

How do we fill that great, gaping emptiness?

The facile answers to that question are insufficient. I’m not looking for those. Or any answers, really, because I think actually, there aren’t any. It’s just an invitation to reflect on what that thing is we’re missing, the thing the pandemic has taken from us—to recognize it, to own it, and to lift it up and maybe even offer it up. Maybe that’s the way I make my heart fertile ground this year.

Carpool Karaoke, Elementary School Style

Photo by Tim Samuel on Pexels.com

The scene: the after-school carpool, yesterday.

The characters: A second grade girl and a third grade boy who are totally inseparable, except when they’re screaming at each other. Today they’re not screaming, so they’re inseparable. Oh yes, and me. All of us masked, because COVID.

Girl: “Ooh, Mrs. Basi, you CAN play Story of My Life in the van! The screen says “connect phone.”

Me: “Well, no I can’t, because I don’t have a smart phone.”

Girl: “WHAT?????!!!!!!????!!!” (Yes, every one of those punctuation marks were there. They practically hit me in the back of the head.) “You’re like, forty! How can you not have a smart phone????????!!!!!”

Boy: “She hates smart phones.”

Me: “Yup. I hate smart phones.”

Girl: “But—but—but—smart phones have TIKTOK! And SNAPCHAT! And TEXTING!!!!”

Me (laughing under my mask): “I absolutely loathe texting.”

Boy: “Yup. She HATES texting.”

Fast forward a day, to a different vehicle–the one that DOES have a CD player–and imagine the windows down on a 70 degree day in December, driving down the highway, all three of us belting “Story of My Life” and “Wrecking Ball.” Because we can.

This screenshot brought to you by #soundtracksofourlives. Just because.

Gifts for Readers

2020 has been a reading year for me–more great books than I could possibly share. But I thought, since it’s gift-giving season, I’d share six of the books that have really stuck with me from my reading this year.

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How To Walk Away (Katherine Center) is a gorgeous, hope-filled, uplifting story that follows a woman who’s learning the same lesson I learned when my daughter was diagnosed with #downsyndrome — that life is forever changed, but that’s not a bad thing; having your world upended can make you a better person with a better life.

Every Now And Then (Lesley Kagen) follows two tweens who totally deserve to be called “trouble”! They get themselves wrapped up in a nefarious mystery surrounding the local mental hospital, which eventually puts them in considerable danger–but most of the time, you’re just enjoying being a fly on the wall and laughing at their missteps.

Wildland (Rebecca Hodge) — Facing widowhood and resurgent breast cancer, Kat is hard-pressed to find a reason to fight, until she ends up in a forest fire, responsible for two kids and two dogs and totally cut off from escape. Gorgeous, gripping, and ultimately uplifting.

The Late Bloomers’ Club — Louise Miller spins a story of small-town New England and two sisters–responsible, big-hearted Nora, and free-spirited, big-thinker (but somewhat entitled) Kit, who unexpectedly inherit the financially troubled estate of the town’s “cake lady.” Charming and lovely–and uplifting. (Are you sensing a theme?)

I’ll Be Your Blue Sky (Marisa De Los Santos) introduces Clare, who’s rethinking her wedding at the 11th hour. A chance encounter (or was it?) with an enigmatic elderly woman, Edith, gives her the courage to call it off. When, a few weeks later, Edith dies and leaves her a beach house, Clare goes to investigate and discovers a mystery to unravel.

The Printed Letter Club — Katherine Reay presents a cast of characters who hurt, inspire, push and pull on and learn from each other in the context of a small-town Midwestern bookshop. Simply lovely.

COVID dreams

[image error] Image by Jackson David from Pixabay

I’ve been having COVID dreams lately.

This didn’t happen to me for the first six or seven months. I often laid awake feeling great anxiety, but I didn’t dream about it.

But I am now. The first time, I dreamed that the church choir I lead all got together on Wednesday night as usual, no masks, and decided to sing. It was wonderful. We just naturally pivoted to “rehearse for Sunday.” And then–still in the dream–I woke up Sunday morning and had a horrible moment where I realized the choir was going to show up at 9:30 and we weren’t actually allowed to sing together.

It sounds silly, but it was really real.

Last night, I dreamed of a gathering of friends hugging each other and sharing food and letting kids run everywhere. Just a totally ordinary get-together. My “color commentator” was shrieking about masks and distancing, but none of us seemed to be aware that we were doing something wrong.

I’m not sure what those dreams mean–most likely nothing more profound than “I miss normalcy.”
I’m also not sure what I’m hoping to accomplish by sharing them here. We’re all suffering. The question is how we deal with it.

We all wish we could rewind time, but we are where we are. We aren’t going back. Moving forward into a new normal is going to require sacrifices none of us like and none of us were prepared for. American culture is built around “more” and “bigger” and “better” and especially RIGHT NOW! We have no practice in self-control or moderation, let alone self-denial. As a Catholic who’s been doing Lent for forty-six years, I have yearly reason to reflect on this cultural deficit. Lest I sound self-righteous, let me be clear: we suck at it, too.

That cultural weakness makes what we’re facing now much more difficult. Few, if any, of us have the emotional tools to handle the current situation in a healthy way, and I think that drives a lot of the angst we see coming from both sides of the should we-shouldn’t we argument. Adjustments are necessary, but which ones? How do we determine when we’re piling unnecessary suffering upon necessary sacrifices? How do we help our kids who are suffering?

These questions require a lot of careful discernment. The easy answers are the extreme ones: on the one hand, indefinite, near-complete isolation; on the other, acting like it isn’t real at all. But neither one of those is correct. Human beings need interaction. But we also can’t act like nothing’s changed, because it has.

This year, we are recognizing something fundamental about being human: touch and interaction. I went to a listening session at church on racial issues a couple weeks ago, and a woman grasped my wrist on her way past. It was such a shock, being touched by someone other than my immediate family. A good shock. But jarring, to realize how something so necessary and foundational has become something we feel we have to avoid.

I have a feeling the trauma of this interlude is going to be with us for a long time to come.

Taking On The Emotional Baggage Of My Children

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When I stopped blogging frequently a few years ago, it was for two reasons. The first was that it took a lot of time, and I couldn’t justify it any longer. The kids were getting older, having more activities, and more directly professional commitments needed to take priority in what time I had for writing.

The other reason was: the kids were getting older, and it was starting to be hard to come up with things that were appropriate to tell. At some point, Mom loses the right to go around sharing everything that happens in their lives and all the ways they make me laugh or drive me crazy. It’s no longer my story. It’s theirs, and they should have control over it.

As our family gets deeper and deeper into the adolescent years, I am finding that parenthood can be a lonely job. There are things I don’t know how to handle, but crowdsourcing the answer is NOT OK AT ALL. Adolescence is hard enough without your parents plastering your problems all over the universe.

The other thing I’m discovering is about myself. I take on the stress and anxiety of my children.

This wasn’t so true when the kids were younger. I mean, it happened–when a kid had a friendship go bad, I ached for them. But let’s be real: most Kid Drama is so minor, parents can sympathize and comfort without getting too worked up about it themselves. Michael sometimes wakes up and tells me his “bad dreams,” like “A dog barked at me!” And I’m like, child, clearly, you have a happy life.

But the anxieties and problems of adolescence are angling more and more sharply toward adult problems–real, lasting conundrums without easy answers or quick fixes. Issues with potentially lasting impacts. Some of them have the power to reflect back on me. Others are theirs alone, yet I find myself clinging to them as if they were my problems: analyzing, pulling at the threads, trying to find solutions. Which, of course, does no good because they don’t want my solutions, anyway.

I know this character trait of mine is good for no one. Not me, and not them, either. I know I have to figure out how to take a step or thirty back, emotionally speaking. Because my kids are going to make choices that I won’t like. They’ll suffer consequences that I wouldn’t want to suffer, consequences I’d do an awful lot to spare them. That’s part of life. The scars are the story.

But there’s a big step from knowing something is a problem and knowing how to fix it.