Helena Smrcek's Blog, page 4

Pitchforks and Pedicures

This is a ask for help.Good morning, and thank you for reading my blog. This is an ask for help, as the support of my readers is absolutely crucial to the success of this book.Pitchfork and Pedicurese-book will be available as a FREE DOWNLOAD for 24 hours onlyFri., Jan. 17 - Sat., Jan. 18 I have arranged for this purely for the benefit of my readers and their friends, should you choose to share this information. And here is the ask, if you would like to help.Kindly download the book. This will give you the 'verified purchaser' status. Then post your review on Amazon. Then paste and copy the same review to BookBuband Goodreads.Five-star reviews are always appreciated (but only if you truly think so the book deserves it.)Thank you so very much!Helen

Taking Inventory

The sparkle of Christmas tucked away; it is time to take stock of life. This may sound a little profound, but isn’t that what every New Year’s resolution is about? We look at our current situation and decide something has got to give. The only problem I experience on annual basis is the lack of execution. I do start all fired up. This will be the year I finally reach my desired weight, keep up with social media, finish that buried manuscript. Then come the barn and garden ambitions, travel plans, family events, volunteering, church, writers’ organizations, dog shows, conference participation—and once again, I’m totally overwhelmed. A nice piece of premium chocolate offers a temporary distraction, but no permanent solution.Taking inventory sounds much more pleasant. I look around and realize that my life is so full, I can start giving. January decluttering challenge helps me empty my overflowing drawers and pass the blessing onto a charity. Their efforts bless our community. Instant reward. No chocolate needed. I look at the calendar and decide to own the 52 weeks. How much time can my husband and I take off? What adventure should come off the bucket list? Last year I tried something new. I set a goal to entertain at least once a month. I do love to cook, and our farm offers abundance of choices, so making a meal is no chore. This also forces us to sit down, even open a bottle of wine and reconnect with friends, keep up with what’s going on in their lives, share a few laughs—a proven stress management strategy. Facebook messenger, hate it or love it, is a tried and tested weight loss tool in our household. Tedious food journals, points and calories never worked for me, but taking a picture of my plate and sharing in a FB group, with those having similar goals? Well, it makes me think twice of what I put on that plate. Honesty and integrity are at the top of my value list, so cheating or omitting a photo never feels good. To keep up with writing, I have been hosting a writers’ group for several years. A build-in failsafe. I simply can’t encourage others to keep up with their craft and not do the same. To ramp up my efforts, I have deepened my involvement with a national writers’ conference. Commitment is a great motivator for me. Sunday church is my weekly re-balancing exercise. By the end of each week, I’m looking forward to it. Somehow things just melt away as we collectively worship. And God suddenly becomes totally real, especially when the sermon speaks directly to a particular situation in our lives. And then there is the unexpected. Health issues, struggling children, friends in need, weeds in the garden (which manage to surprise me every year), a racoon in the chicken coop, a washing machine breakdown. How to handle those? I find that once my inventory list anchors itself firmly in my mind, and the foundation is laid, these so-called emergencies are much easier to manage. When we focus on what’s truly important in our lives, we build a safety net which is indispensable during life’s hurricanes. As people of faith, we do know that storms will come, but we also know who anchors our lives. When we take the time to build a community around us, may it be at church, on FB, or face to face, we create a safety net. I found out during this past year that no one says ‘no’ when I ask for prayer. But what surprised me even more were the unsolicited prayers that people offered as soon as our life-storms came to surface. So, here I sit again, in early January, my mind wondering through the closets in our house, the cold cellar, our freezers, and my calendar pages, and I am fully aware that it is impossible to outgive God. May it be items from our storage room, a home cooked meal or a time spent with family and friends, sharing from the abundance of His blessing, only brings more of the same. So, here is my call to action. CLICK HERE to join me during the month of January for the 20-minutes-a-day decluttering challenge. You will receive a short daily prompt focusing on one area of your house. Let the rivers of blessings flow.

Christmas Cookie Therapy

In this world of changing pronouns, anticipated environmental crisis and feared unsustainability, there is still something to be said about traditions. Call me old-fashioned, but I clearly see the reasons for that. For we, the people of Eastern Europe, have been to the dark side. How did the oppressed nations survive decades of brutality? By clinging to centuries-old traditions. Many may frown upon such frivolities, but I have learned to cherish them. During the long-gone days of my childhood, Christmas was a time of wonder. Sounds and smells, decorated shop windows, lineups for bananas and oranges, planned family get-togethers, the feeling of anticipation everywhere, and the hope for snowflakes on Christmas Eve – I loved everything about it. What was more amazing was the fact that even during the harshest years of oppression, the rulers were powerless when it came to Christmas. As the brainwashing went on at the government ran schools, and the teachers declared that religion was obsolete, and our society evolved past such superstitions, every child was excited about the Baby Jesus delivering presents on Christmas Eve. We might have not understood the doctrines of salvation, but we all knew Jesus was coming. And there were the cookies. That part of our Christmas was almost as unbelievable, as Santa himself. The endeavour commenced weeks prior to the holidays, as all the cookies were required to rest, before they were presented to the appreciative audience. The women would stand in long lines to secure the ingredients and discuss how many kinds they were planning to bake. The competition was on.[image error] So, this year I have decided to take a couple of my friends up on their offer and bake. And bake we did. Forty pounds of flour, 60 eggs, 25 lbs of butter, and of course sugar. We have lost track of the poundage somewhere by day two. Nuts, cocoa powder, Bakers chocolate – well you get the idea. The three of us agreed on a November date and marked it in our calendars. Let me clarify. We blocked off four days, silently wondering if we were overdoing it – just a tad. But none of us had the heart to disappoint the others, so collectively we stayed silent about the ambitious quantity of baked goods and went on with the plan. Do you know what happens to women who voluntarily commit to spend several days together in a kitchen, mixing dough, cutting out shapes and watching the oven timer? They start to talk. I suggested we shared our favorite Christmas memories. One story entailed an exploding whipping cream canister and the fresh beard on father’s face. And then the tears appeared. Being five thousand miles away, smelling vanilla baked into the family favorite recipes, the memories shared – no wonder some of us got homesick. Several hugs later, the conversation turned to kids, slowly approaching adulthood, and all the drama that brings, then husbands, working hard, and far away. The troubles with employers, employees and co-workers, the price of gas and groceries, the traffic and the health issues. And then, faith. By day four, our arms and backs aching, we started to box our little creations, and realized there will be plenty to give away to friends and neighbors. I looked at our stash and wondered if there was a way to wrap up the shared experience as well. Community has become a trendy word in the past decade and that says something about our society. We crave togetherness. Visiting a Lutheran church this Christmas season I caught a glimpse of the ties that bound the aging, traditional congregations together. A headline that came through my Facebook feed declared that 75% of young people past age 15 leave their churches. I guess once the drivers license comes along, the parents lose their leverage. But what most of us fail to see is that the congregations of old were the communities we so crave now. The silent consensus says that Christianity had fallen out of fashion. But has it? We need people around us. People who share our values, our history. People who understand us and are willing to block days off their calendar to simply hang out. We need friends who open their hearts to us, and in turn make it safe for us to open ours. We need our peeps, our community, our brothers and sisters, to laugh with, to cry with, and to bake old-fashioned cookies with. Nostalgia goes hand in hand with Christmas. We think of those who are far awa

Meet My Dragons

Okay, they are not real dragons, but one look at my flowerbeds, and anyone would understand why I would call them so. This all began with me telling my husband, some four years ago, that we needed a farm dog. The kind that lives in a doghouse, keeps watch over the chickens, and barks loud enough to scare off the unwanted wildlife. He would be complete opposite to Daisy. She sleeps on the sofa, surrounded by pillows, moves only when food is at stake, and demands that the patio door opens the moment she decides that it’s nice enough weather to go outside. I truly didn’t care if he picked a German Shephard over a Border Collie, as long as our new addition kept the skunks away from the coop. Several days later, with much enthusiasm, my dear husband announced that he found the dog he wants. I should have clued in. He flashed his cellphone in front of my face, and what do I see? A skinny, short-haired, floppy-ear canine. “This dog can’t live outside in the winter,” was my first reasonable response. “It’d freeze.” Never mind the fact that a good-size racoon would have him for lunch in no time. “And don’t you think it’d be totally unfair for Daisy to sleep on the throw pillows, and our other dog freezing?” My husband turned into a child counting down to Christmas. It took us several weeks, but our search ended successfully with a three-hour drive to meet a breeder—and our puppy. It was love at first sight—not on my part.Thankfully the turbulent puppy days didn’t last forever. About a year later, Hunter started to calm down. A little. But as time progressed, he completely won me over. His gentle nature, unconditional love and unprecedented effort to be a good dog made me fall in love with him too. Daisy? Not so much. When a call came a year-and-half later, followed by a text message that included a picture, I said no. “But she has no home,” was the argument. “Just look at her eyes. She is so beautiful. As soon as we got into the breeder’s house, and Penny came to greet us, I knew it. We would not be leaving without her. Even Hunter liked her. Daisy was angry. She pouted for six months. In her little doggy mind, we must have gone completely crazy. After we sent the pesky cat to live in the barn, we suddenly brought home a rambunctious puppy. He finally calmed down, and we dragged in another dog – a female – who seemed to think that she was the queen now. Penny was a different sort of work. It took much love and patience, but she slowly started to trust us. The experience was so rewarding that two years after her arrival, and a discussion with our breeder, we decided to try for puppies. Well puppies we got. The vet said six, at first, then eight by the last week of Penny’s pregnancy. We ended up with nine little doggies. The moment a new life comes into the world is always amazing. Multiply that by nine. The delivery took a better part of the day. Penny did great. Our summer was spent blending dog food and goat milk, washing sheets, cleaning the floor and running after adventurous pups that think tall grass is the best place to play. Did I mention my flowerpots and perennials? Puppies whine, cry, bite, scratch, demand attention, smell funny, chew everything in their reach, and destroy every plant that stands in their way. Let me just state for the record that I still think that puppies are cute, but also strongly believe that by week nine they all need to move out of my house and start living on their own – in their new homes. But when our first New-Vizsla-Daddy came to visit his little boy and told us about his PTSD, and how he was planning to train his pup as an emotional support dog, all the mischief was instantly forgotten. Watching an army veteran bond with a little puppy, bringing him toys and worrying about leaving his shirt behind so his new buddy could find comfort, brought tears to my eyes. And then I thought of God. How many times do we come kicking and screaming, fighting and arguing, not fully understanding the reasons He is asking us to do something? Talk to someone we don’t like very much? Volunteer for a task that completely brings us out of our comfort zone? Yet, once we submit, and let Him be the God He is, we often look back and see the greater reason for His request, and perhaps even realize that sometimes it’s not just all about us.

A Sense of Place

A book idea has been brewing in my mind for several years. This spring I finally decided to visit Berlin, the place where the story begins, decades in the past. Somewhat knowledgeable in European history, I arrived with the basic understanding of WWII, and deep reverence for the victims of unspeakable evil. Yet, the visit profoundly changed me. First, I noticed the scars permanently etched into the buildings that survived the war. But what impacted me the most were the wounds that remained in the spirit of the city, the people, and the nations. Following our tour guide to The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, I felt an overwhelming rush of tears. Designed by architect Peter Eisenman and engineer Buro Happlod, it consists of 2,711 concrete slabs. No explanation to its meaning—the monument must be experienced. Never had I felt a sculpture talk to me. Letting go of the logical analysis of my surroundings and purposely tapping into the parts responsible for feelings and creativity, I let my senses absorb the changes of light, the sinking ground, the towering blocks, the fading sounds, the spirit of the creators, and the reverence of this hallowed ground. My second new kind of experience overwhelmed me at the Jewish Museum Berlin. The entire building, designed by Daniel Libeskind is a sculpture, communicating the past, the present and the future, in such a powerful way that words do fail me. The use of empty space amplified the void left by the murdered millions, conveyed the message directly to my soul. As I walked through the halls, I was drawn to a harsh metallic sound reminding me of shackles. When I finally arrived at its source, I found a floor covered by layers of oval disks, a simple rendering of human face on every single one of them. The visitors were encouraged to walk over the sculpture. As the hall filled with the haunting sound, my courage failed me. I couldn’t step on it. I recalled a friend telling me about her visit to Israel, and the tour of holy places. She felt The Presence, and it touched her soul. Keeping a safe distance from esoteric beliefs, and a New-Age world view, I wonder if physical places and perhaps even art can absorb a fraction of our spirit. Think of a painting, a sculpture, a book, a piece of music, even a special place where you love to spend time. Do we, as human beings, have the power to influence our surroundings, and perhaps even offer something of ourselves, into the space and time? I’m not a theologian, but I do sense the difference when I enter a peaceful home, a museum filled with great art, or a holy place. How to describe the sense of holiness that fills the sanctuary during Sunday morning? We call it the presence of God and accept the reality of His Spirit among us. Perhaps it is the same with places that are to remind us of great suffering. Is it possible that God breathes in a shadow of His own sorrow, to help us remember, and to stir our spirit into awareness? We are created in His image. Our Father gave us creative power. The question is do we take that seriously enough to ensure that the space we occupy reflects His mercy. Are the words we speak to one another filled with His grace, and the things we create—be it art, a garden, or atmosphere around us— for His glory?

Gone to the Dogs

Daisy came to live with us some thirteen years ago. As white hair appeared on her face, I wondered if it may be a good time to start looking for another puppy, so her eventual departure wouldn’t be too devastating to our family. Most of our farm neighbours had dogs, faithful and brave canines who made it their life’s mission to guard the property. Scared of coyotes, I suggested that we start looking for a pup who would grow up into a good size dog, live in his or her dog house and protect my free-range poultry. A couple of days later I followed my husband into his office and watched a slide show of skinny brown dogs. When he excitedly recited the qualities of his chosen breed I shook my head. “This dog can’t live outside. It has short hair. It’d freeze. And it is a birding dog.” I thought of my chickens, then took over his keyboard and typed Top Farm Dog Breeds. The first page listed Anatolian Shephard and a Great Pyrenees. “Here,” I pointed to the screen, “this is what we need.” “You can’t have one dog living inside, and another outside,” he immediately protested. “That would be absolutely unfair.” I failed to see his logic. From that day on, my persistent husband didn’t let go of his perfect dog idea. If I thought the kids were annoying during their pet-acquiring quest, this was an entirely new level, for which I wasn’t prepared. Several days later, and one on-line dog-fraud attempt, we sat in my husband’s truck, ready for a three-hour car trip to see a registered Hungarian Vizsla breeder. As it turned out, these dogs were not that easy to get, and to my shock, they cost a bit more than the $300 the farmer asked for Daisy back in the day. We pulled up to the man’s place and were faced with a kennel full of blue-eyed puppies. My husband’s eyes instantly misted. Was he for real? As soon as we entered the house, the show began. These little dogs had no pause button. Yes, they were cute, but also an absolute terror. The furniture bore a definite witness to that. Was he serious? About two hours later we were back in the truck, a fresh agreement on the dashboard. Gone were my plans for a hefty guard dog. When Hunter finally arrived a couple of weeks later, he was the most adorable puppy I had ever seen. After 24 hours I was ready to drive him back to the breeder’s home. It had been a while since our kids were toddlers, but not even two children under five could cause such mayhem. The puppy was into everything. When he finally got tired, my husband held him like a baby, while the dog slept for five long minutes, then it was back to tornado-mode. Yet the look on my husband’s face was priceless. He genuinely fell in love with this dog. Of course, no one even considered that Hunter could live in a dog house. After all our bed was so comfortable, and the duvet was stuffed with millions of interesting feathers, ready to be freed. We had to buy a coat, since Hunter would get chilly in the rain. My husband researched all commercially sold dog food. Only the best would do. The vet visit was a fun outing accompanied with loads of dog treats. And no one was allowed to say anything remotely negative about the pup, the dog could do no wrong. About a year later Hunter calmed down—a little. He still playfully charged all our visitors in the attempt to lick their ears. My husband lost about 15lbs, thanks to the daily walks in the bush. Hunter became a darling of our family, even though our children kept mentioning that they felt somewhat replaced. When I finally adjusted to a dog jumping over our sofas and gently shoving himself between my husband and I, every time we watched TV, we received a phone call. “It was the breeder,” my husband said in a quiet voice. “He has a dog for us to look at.” His phone chimed with incoming message. “What?” He glanced at his screen. “Her name is Penny.” He shoved his phone in front of my face. “She is absolutely gorgeous. The owners returned her.” “Why?” “They have no time for her.” And I thought things were finally settling down around here. A few short days later, Hunter, my husband and I, sat in his truck, ready for another three-hour trip—each way. I made him promise that if for any reason the dogs don’t get along, we wouldn’t even consider taking her. We should have brought Daisy, now that I think of it. But as soon as we entered the familiar dog house, with raggedy furniture and hair on all surfaces, I knew there was no way we would leave this place without her. Seeing my husband melt once again, I realized that we won’t be getting new furniture in the next decade or so. Dog hair scratching at the back of my throat, a familiar verse popped into my mind: Love is patient, love is kind…it keeps no record of wrongs. After all, with two Vizslas in a house, plus an old Jack-Russell-Pug, what could possibly go wrong?

Goats and Such

I love animals, always had. Since I was five-years-old, my pet hen followed me everywhere, and then, years later, while I was in summer camp, she got lost, as grandma wrote. The poor chicken must have been very old by that time. I had to wait till I got married to acquire a cat. This feline loved biting our toes in the middle of the night. After reading an article of cats suffocating sleeping babies, I rehomed her when our son was born. As soon as the kids started to talk, they wanted a pet. First there was an ant, later a caterpillar, and then we graduated to a fish. It took years to convince my husband that children develop into nicer people if they grow up with a real pet. Most likely traumatized by the stealthy midnight attacks, he stood his ground—till the kids got old enough to help me wear him down. A new cat came first. This one was a boy, picked by my four-year old daughter, and he was a sweetheart. Never bit anyone, didn’t claw the furniture, never sat atop the curtain rod, didn’t bring mice and birds into the house, simply, a perfect little fluff friend for a girl to love. We had to be fair. Our son’s criteria was simple. It could be a girl dog, but it had to be black, and absolutely couldn’t have curly hair. Daisy arrived a year later. And then we moved to a farm with an empty barn and vast grassy areas. I do value honesty, especially in marriage, but to be fair, when one spouse goes away of a golfing trip, doesn’t the other partner deserve a little something too? Home came my new hens, ducklings, chicks, Guiney fowl keets, then little turkeys. My husband took it reasonably well. During the next trip I added a bee hive to our yard, and when he got over that, I became a little braver. The following spring I enlisted help. My Mennonite friend directed me to a dairy goat farm. As driving in the country following a GPS doesn’t always work, I got lost several times, but by the late afternoon accomplished my quest. That evening two little kids sucked on warmed up milk bottles in our barn. Realizing that this might be a bit much to take in all at once, I took a picture of them and send it to my husband’s best friend, asking for help. Perhaps if he would break the news, buy the time they got back from Michigan, my dear husband would calm down a little. See I had no choice but to keep the goats no matter what, since the farm I ended up at wasn’t the one my friend sent me to, and I honestly had no idea how to find it again. My husband loves me, that I know, ‘cause the goats are still here, and so is he. I’m up to three now, and hopefully the girls are pregnant. I say hopefully because my goats are a little picky when it comes to males, but that is another story.

Fight the Winter Blahs

[image error]March is the worst winter month. My mind says it should be spring and I feel cheated, faced with yet another snow storm. I continually grow my arsenal of coping skills, even asked a fellow writer in Alaska how she muddles through the plummeting temperatures and short days. “I spend as much time outdoors as possible,” she said. During my recent trip to Iceland, where there are only two seasons: summer and winter, I asked several people how do they survive. “There is no bad weather,” was the universal answer. “Only bad clothing and bad attitude.” Looking out the window, I could work on my attitude, but the weather is definitely bad. As Danes score number one on the scale of happiness, I have explored even the hygge: the quest for cozy, happy, relationship-based comfort. I stocked up on Italian coffee, candles, and warm socks. The firewood in plentiful supply, I subscribed to Libby.com and made working dates with other writers. Fortified with a solid plan, I plunged into Christmas decorating. Baked cookies with friends. I wrapped my gifts and planned holiday meals. Then zoomed down to Mexico to load up on sunshine. The holidays were wonderful, and I checked off my first winter month — December: Fabulous. New resolutions, a notebook with a fresh to-do list for each day, a plan to declutter and donate, January seemed fairly positive. The weather co-operated. Walks with our dogs, barn upkeep, and a weight loss challenge with a couple of gals, I also edited my book, dropped off several boxes at the thrift shop and joined a Bible study — January: Check. Then came February. Arctic vortex, random thaws, and rapid freezes, ice storms, wind storms – you name it, we got it. At one point my car was encrusted in a two-inch layer of ice. The dogs cut their paws, my husband slipped, the barn flooded, then froze, the goats refused to go outside, my bathroom sink froze, our smoke detector went crazy due to cold weather, and the tax papers came out of the filing cabinet. To add to my predicament, several well-meaning friends from the southern states started to post their spring pictures on Facebook. No amount of candles and fresh ground espresso could remedy that. Then I gained back the few pounds I so eagerly lost in January, as in my weak moments I tend to resort to carbs, more so then fuzzy socks — February: Hmmm. Now faced with March, my brain insists on spring, but my eyes keep seeing white. I struggle to visualize the bulbs under the shell of ice. The stands with seeds strategically placed near the cash registers keep taunting me. But when I hear the birds chirping, despite the cold winds, I finally feel a spark of hope in my heart. This winter will end. To everything, there is a season. Yet often, caught in a difficult time in our life, we seem to forget that every season must end, and a new one begin. My tactics for March? Gratefulness. I’ll start with my notebook, and perhaps instead of a to-do list, start a gratitude one. It just might be a better strategy to cope with the winter blahs than candles, coffee, and fuzzy socks.#life #winter #blessed #love

In Mood for a Thriller

Shari Lapena, a Canadian novelist, living in Toronto, is the internationally bestselling author of The Couple Next Door, A Stranger in the House and An Unwanted Guest.The Couple Next Door by Shari Lapena is a domestic thriller that will keep you wishing you hand nothing on your calendar for the next three days unless you speed-read for fun.The stakes are high –a missing baby. We meet a wife questioning her sanity, and a husband determined to save his family, as Shari takes us on an emotional journey filled with fear, anxiety and deep loss.I not only find Shari’s fiction gripping but also enjoy reading about her own story of becoming a bestselling author. It is inspiring, encouraging and perhaps an even a little challenging.In an interview with KateNewton, she shares with surprising honesty:“I think every writer has an avid interest in psychology. I didn’t study it formally, but I’ve done a lot of reading on my own. And I watch what’s going on around me, and I talk to people. I’m a sharer—I tend to be fairly honest about how I’m feeling, I don’t hide difficult things...I think I might have tapped into my own feelings there. I had many miscarriages before I had a live baby, so I remember feeling the way Anne felt when well-meaning friends brought their babies around and I had just lost mine.”She told Goodreads about her struggles to become an author:“I find with a lot of writers, we just kind of shuffle from thing to thing because we really want to be writers. Until we actually settle down to become writers, we're just kind of trying on other things. I worked full-time for many years, and then I had a baby; I wanted to stay home with him. He would nap in the afternoons. I always wanted to be a writer, and I thought, "I finally have the time—I'm just going to write a novel." I sat down and just started without any kind of plan, and I came up with Things Go Flying. I was doing it all in secret. My husband knew I was writing this book, but no one else. Once I got started, I never had trouble selling books or getting agents. But my literary books themselves didn't sell well. Literary fiction in Canada is kind of a tough go unless you're one of the really big names.”She continues:“My process seems almost different with every book. With Stranger, I had a much harder time because everybody was watching. [Couple] had done really well, I was on contract, I only had a year to get the book done, I wasn't used to working with lots of editors. I had that difficult-second-book thing they say you get when you've had a book that's a hit. It took me a while to get over it. But once I got into it, I was able to work without a plan and go where it needed to go. Then I had to go back and rework the beginning quite a lot.”I love the result, hours of entertainment for the readers. Can't wait for the next one.

I Love When Dreams Come True

Reading and interview with one of the new best-selling authors, Alice Feeney, recalling her memories of being a little girl, scribbling on pieces of paper, and folding them into books; well it made me smile. Feeney's journey toward her dream is inspiring. Working for the BBC, while secretly learning the craft of fiction, struggling with rejections, yet determined to make it; it almost sounds like a modern fairy tale. Sometimes I Lie is a captivating thriller that kept me guessing. I loved the many twists and turns, as I couldn't decide whom to trust and whom to dislike. Interesting setting, bold exploration of human psyche, scary moments that kept me going. This novel was a fun ride. The announcement of the production of limited series based on this book is just a cherry on the sundae. I am looking forward to the spring release of I Know Who You Are, now available for pre-order.