the change

Not THE change. Been there, done that.  I've been hinting at a change for months now, and I don't want to leave you without a few words.

An enormous sea change has been washing onto my writer's shore all year, ever since Thanksgiving, when I sat down after a lovely family dinner, and made some decisions, wrote them down in my notebook, and have been consistently working toward them all year.

Going to the Philippines in March pushed me further along the tide of change. Surfing through the busiest travel spring I have ever had brought me fully onto shore. 

I've been slowly disconnecting from the buzz of children's publishing and have found a haven in my own purple room, pink chair, house with the chartreuse trim, and all the stories that are waiting to be told. After ten years of constant travel and talk and dreaming, I'm directing my energies inward and becoming a full-time writer as much as I can, which means I've disconnected from most distractions, even the lovely ones.

Thank you, faithful readers. I've appreciated more than you know your presence in this space with me, and your notes of love and encouragement, and the sharing of struggles as well. I'm leaving this space for now, and the blog will go dark. I could spend lots of space and words telling you why, but the long-and-short is: I'm going to spend all my writing energy... writing.

The blog was a wonderful four-year experiment. I started it at Harcourt's urging when The Aurora County All-Stars was about to be published. I've watched it morph and change over the years. As the blog morphed, it became a personal scrapbook more than a book and writing blog, and I allowed that, to see where it was taking me... it became a way to tell stories, which is what I do.

So I am off to tell them, at the desk, or in the pink chair, on the page, in my heart, with that list of stories as long as my arm. That list! It's calling me. And I have been answering: yes. Yes. Yes.

I won't forget your many kindnesses to me. And... I'm here. I'm just one more step removed from the beautiful mayhem of the publishing world, and one step closer to discovering the heart of the stories I want to share. It's such a privilege to be able to do what I do for a living. I have appreciated every single step along the way. And I appreciate, likewise, this new day upon a new shore, as I take my first strong steps into a new life.

Peace to you, friends, and love. Always, love. xo Debbie

37

Thirty-seven years ago I lived in Millington, Tennessee. I was very young. I sat in a room in the Naval hospital on base, awaiting the results of an amniocentesis. The next morning I would give birth to my first son.
 I remember it was raining. It would storm all night, yet I was safe in this place. I busied myself by crocheting a blue baby blanket. "How do you know it will be a boy?" asked a nurse. "I don't," I replied.

What I did know was that I wanted this already-loved new baby to have a blue blanket, something soft, created for him by his mother.

I don't know where that blanket is today. It probably ended up in a dumpster, along with most of the belongings from my children's early childhood, and many of the belongings from my young life as well. Someone said he would bring the boxes north, from Cherry Point to D.C., but that someone never did.

Sometimes I want to remember every detail of the past 37 years, every moment my heart can wrap itself around, to hold those moments close to me, even the hard times and the impossible situations; the hunger and the fear as well as the absolute and utter delight I took -- and still take -- in this boy who is now a man with a brand-new child of his own to care for. A baby girl who has her own pink blanket, something soft, crocheted for her by her grandmother.
Today is this boy's day. To mark the occasion, I have gathered to me the traditions of the past 37 years as well as those of my childhood: a homemade cake, a favorite meal, something to read, something to save, something to remember, as well as clues for the simple presents that, for so many birthdays, we hid all over the house.

We used to joke that Jason's birthday was also D-Day. Now I also remember June 6 as the day my mother died, eight years ago/

Today I do as she taught me: I cut open a paper bag so it will lay flat. I place the cake pans on the bag, I trace around the outside of the pans with a pencil, and then I cut out two paper circles. I put those circles inside the cake pans, then pour the cake batter on top of them. My layers will slide out of their pans, and clean-up will be a breeze. Voila.
Today I understand (even when I rail against it) that I cannot have life without death, sweet without bitter, gain without loss, or great joy without great grief to measure it by. Today my yardstick is long and mottled and chewed and stained and cockeyed and funny and tearful and earnest and honest; it's black-and-blue, and as soft as a new baby blanket.

It's perfect. It has always been perfect.
Happy Birthday, son.