Writing Life

I am Jan Krause Greene. I explore the vast capacity of the human heart as a novelist, poet and storyteller. My first novel was released in August of 2013. I currently have three other works in progress.

Just a little poem

Hi Dear Readers, I have not posted a blog in awhile because this month I have been really busy going to book events. It has been a great month of meeting people, reading from my book, participating on panels, and increasing my sales. I have thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. But now I  need to rest a tiny bit and then turn my focus back to writing.. In the meantime, here is a poem I wrote a few years ago. Shortly after writing this, I signed a contract with a publisher.

In My Dreams

flying person

 

In my dreams I fly – in and out of windows, above mountains, between trees.

I don’t need wings to carry me.

I fly because I am light and free.

In my dreams.

In my dreams, I swim in deep, blue waters.

I jump off cliffs into the waiting ocean.

I rise to the surface and keep on going, up, up!

Right up to the sky.

I fly at night, the stars and moon lighting my way.

In my dreams, I am the leader of important causes.

I speak truth to power.

I bring healing to the hurt.

Food to the hungry.

Justice to the oppressed.

In my dreams, I make a difference.

What I do matters.

I am making the world a better place.

I will be remembered for what I have done.

In my dreams.

 

In my waking life, I do laundry.

I sweep, dust and vacuum.

I shop. I cook. I eat. I sleep.

I drink lots of coffee and not enough wine.

I take care of my mother.

I babysit for my grandchildren.

I go for walks with my husband.

I watch TV. I read.

Sometimes I even write.

In my waking life.

I tend my garden.

I watch the sunset.

I think great thoughts.

And I long to be the person in my dreams.

I long to do the things that matter;

To make a difference -

To know that in some way the world is better because I was here.

In my dreams, there is no question about this.

I am a person who can fly.

That is proof enough.

But in my waking life,

I measure my importance in small things -

A word of gratitude from my mother.

A smile when my grandson sees me at the door.

My husband’s warm embrace.

This is my real life - the life that says

“You are no different from anyone else.

You can not fly. You are earthbound;

tied to the earth by those you love.”

And sometimes, not very often, but oh so gloriously,

I feel myself rising to the sky on wings of joy

and, oh yes, I am awake!

This is my real life too.

JKG

10/12/12

 

A funny thing happened on the way to this morning

Manet painting woman writing

                                                                      Woman writing - Edouard Manet, sketch

This week I was a guest blogger on B.C. Brown's Books site. Her home page says "Because weird is good...."

Not sure what that says about me, but I am open to all interpretations!

Here are a few excerpts, but please go to B.C's page and read the whole thing.  Even better, please leave a comment there to show your appreciation to B.C. for sharing her blog.

Excerpts (don't look for continuity...these are just sentences picked out of the actual blog.

A funny thing happened to me last night. Funny as in strange or unexpected. Not "funny ha-ha" as my dad used to say.

So, there I was working hard at not thinking. The only problem is that when I work hard at something - no matter what it is, even relaxing - I end up wide awake. Last night was no different, except that I was wide awake and really angry.

I could literally feel the anger in my forehead....

I was filled with anger and I hated myself for it. Not because I am such a good and kind person and I knew the anger was mostly about feeling sorry for myself. Equally, not because some of the anger was justified and righteous and I was mad at myself for not expressing it to those who deserved to hear it.

And then something shifted. I decided to think about love. Not romantic love, but the other, bigger, broader kind of love - love of life, love of nature, love of the universe.

Yes, I do have a sort of love affair with the universe - all that space with stars and planets and energy and possibility that somehow brings people and ideas together and fuses their energy into something new.

Within minutes, I had a feeling that I have not had since my book was picked up by a publisher more than a year ago. I felt peace. Most particularly, I felt peace about the book and its potential readers...the people who would appreciate it would somehow find it. The message that I hope to spread would be heard by those who will respond to it.

It doesn't have to be a bestseller... It can simply exist. I can let it go out into the world without me. I can focus on the next thing I write, instead of trying so hard to promote this one book. I can let it do its own thing.

In a way that I can't really explain, a sleepless, angry night brought me insight and peace of mind. Sure, I hope people want to read my book. But I no longer need them to.

http://www.bcbrownbooks.blogspot.com/2014/01/guest-post-jan-krause-greene-i-call.html

Funny thing is I had no idea what I would write about when B.C. offered me a guest blog spot. I didn't think it would be about not worrying about how well my book does. I thought I would write some lofty words on what it means to be a writer. Yet, I ended up writing about not needing my book to sell.

Ironically, at the very same time that I was writing about not worrying about how the book does, I was also getting a lesson in how to promote it. B.C. provided me with a really simple, obvious, straightforward, no-gimmicks method. I can't believe I had overlooked it. She included a description of the book and she posted the buy links! And, guess what, sales picked up again!  Genius.

So from now on, I will post them at the end of my blog too. Only makes sense, right? If someone, clicks on a link and buys the book, fantastic. If no one, does, that is not quite fantastic, but it is no longer something to lose sleep over!

 

I Knew the Boston Marathon

The standard advice to writers is to write about what you know. I know the Boston Marathon.

Maybe I should say I knew it. Although, my memories from 46 years of the Marathon remain the same, the emotional impact of these memories is forever changed.

The marathon has been something amazing and special to me since the first time I saw it in 1967. I was a freshman at Boston College, up from my home state of Maryland. I had never even heard of it. But I loved watching it and I loved its history, going all the way back to 1897.

For so many New Englanders, the Boston Marathon was more than sport. It was a rite of spring; a cherished family day; a chance to stand with people you did not know and cheer on other people you did not know; to offer paper cups of water and sliced oranges as the runners passed by. It was a feel-good day.

Rain or shine, too cold or too hot, the runners came and so did the spectators. Every year I watched with tears as front runners sprinted by and those at the back of the pack struggled by. The crowds always cheered for both - awe in their voices for those in the lead and sincere words of encouragement for those in the back.

I always felt like the Boston Marathon was an example of people at their best. Their real best - not just their peak of physical performance - their best because it was, in many ways, about collaboration as much as competition; about striving as much as succeeding; about cheering on with appreciation as much as being cheered for; about celebrating the last as well as the first.

It was about the spectators as much as the runners.  Running Boston just wouldn't be the same without the crowds and traditions. It was truly the most interactive of sporting events and many families built traditions around this special iconic Boston event.

It was about people coming together from all over the world to participate, and in a funny way, it was about people from the suburbs coming together with Bostonians to celebrate our "Bostonness."

Bostonians, for the most part, love Boston - its history, its crazy traffic patterns, its accent, its sports teams and its marathon.  To us, "the Marathon."  When we heard someone talk about "running Boston" it held a special meaning for us.

So how has it changed? What does it mean now?

It means even more than it did before.  Until 2:51 on Monday afternoon, it represented a happy celebration of spring and sport, a chance for people to be at their best. Now it will always represent people at their worst, as well.

But here is what we can't forget. Whether there was one bomber or a dozen or even a hundred, there were more heroes than bombers. People rushed in to help. Others showed up at area hospitals to donate blood. Others opened their homes to those who couldn't get back into their hotels. People across the country are collecting money to help victims in whatever way possible.

None of this diminishes the horror of what happened. None of it makes up for the senseless loss of lives and limbs. None of it can restore the innocence so many children lost on this day.

No, the harm -and it is immense - can not be extinguished.

But the spirit of the Boston Marathon can not be extinguished either.

If the bombers thought that fear would prevail,  they were wrong.

If they thought that hatred will overtake us, they were wrong.

If they thought that we will be convinced that the evil in the world is stronger than the good, they were wrong.

We can show them that they are wrong, and we must.

So from now on, be a little more loving to everyone, a little less fearful about everything, and embrace all that is good in the world. Hold tight to the good.  Never let it go.

Finally, come to Boston for next year's Marathon.                                                                   Run it.                                                                                                                                                Walk it.                                                                                                                                               Watch it.                                                                                                                                         Just come.

We need you here.

 

 

Betty's Brain

Hi all, I recently wrote a short, short story and I decided to share it with my blog readers. Please let me know what you think of it, especially if you have a loved one with Alzheimer's or dementia.

Betty's Brain

In the last moment before she lost consciousness, Betty wondered who she would be when she awoke. She and her husband Mark had discussed this many times before agreeing to the experimental procedure that, if all went well, would save her from the ravages of Alzheimer’s Disease. They had carefully assessed their options, examining each projection of their future life together in minute detail, as if they could take their love, their desires, their children’s reactions and examine each under the lens of a microscope -    reducing the incredible complexity of human life to a collection of cells pulsing and vibrating against each other. They had convinced themselves because they felt, in the end, they had no other choice.  They believed they could bring order and predictability to the rest of their life together, if only they could save Betty’s brain from the rapid and inevitable deterioration of early-onset Alzheimer’s.

Betty agreed to be the first person to have neural stem cells of another human transplanted into her own brain only after her daughter and son-in-law agreed to donate stem cells from their newborn son. Knowing that she would be transplanted with cells that would bear some of her own genetic material was comforting to her. Knowing that the cells were from a newborn was encouraging to her. But not knowing if these cells would change her from who she had been to some new version of herself was frightening. Yet, in the final analysis, both Betty and Mark had concluded that it was not as frightening as the new version of herself that Alzheimer’s promised.

As the surgical nurse inserted Betty’s IV line, Mark gently kissed her forehead. He said, “I love you, Betty … I will always love you … no matter what,” and he meant what he said. But they both knew she would be easier to love if she was still Betty, the Betty he had lived with and loved for 26 years. This had been the deciding factor for them - betting on the fact that Alzheimer’s would take away more of the Betty he loved than having another person’s stem cells in her brain would. It was a risk and they both knew it. The night before, while making love, Mark had vowed to stick by her no matter what the outcome.

Three months earlier, sitting in the researcher’s office, Betty and Mark and their daughter, Karen, listened to two scientists and one surgeon explain the procedure. Betty sat in a straight-backed armless chair. She clutched the worn leather strap of her pocket book and unconsciously tapped her right foot against the leg of the chair while the surgeon gently touched her head, outlining the incision he would make. He pointed to an area behind her ear, calling it “the point of entry” as he detailed the process of inserting healthy newborn stem cells into her ravaged brain.

Karen sat on a small faded blue couch looking nervous and instinctively rubbing her large belly as if to protect the growing life inside her. She looked from her parents to the doctor to the door. When the surgeon asked if she had any concerns, all she could say was, “If you can promise me it won’t hurt my baby, I will do anything to save my mother.”

Mark, sitting beside Karen, also asked for reassurance that his unborn grandchild would not be hurt in any way. Both researchers and the surgeon assured him that there was no risk to the baby. Feeling only slightly relieved, he asked the question that had been plaguing him. He wanted to know if infant stem cells had personality traits. Was there a chance that implanting neural stem cells from another person would drastically change his wife’s personality? The question scared him so much that he had refrained from asking it until now.

Karen looked at Betty to see her reaction, but Betty’s face was passive. She was, as her family described it, “in a state.” Although she had been fully engaged in the conversation just a few moments before, Betty’s mind had now drifted to a place known only to herself. She stared blankly ahead, slack-jawed and unaware of her surroundings. Her hands, no longer tightly gripping her handbag, rested on her knees. She didn’t look worried, nor happy, nor sad. She appeared emotionless. Karen averted her gaze. It broke her heart to see her mother this way.

At the hospital on the day of her surgery, Betty didn’t remember this visit to the doctor. She didn’t really remember the many long conversations during which she and Mark agonized over whether or not to volunteer for this experimental cure. But she remembered Mark and Karen and her two sons. She still loved each of them fiercely even though sometimes when they were all together she felt bewildered by the talking and laughing, and the crying too.

Betty’s loss of memory had been getting worse each day. As her neurologist had predicted, early-onset Alzheimer’s progressed rapidly. Yet there were days when her mind seemed clear and sharp - days when her sense of humor was quick and her comments witty. These good days made the bad days harder for her family. They wanted to understand what was really happening inside her brain. Why could she think clearly one day and forget how to put her shoes on the next day?

Mark had once heard Alzheimer’s described as a “long goodbye.” It seemed so terribly accurate to him as he witnessed his wife losing pieces of herself, bit by bit, day by day. He was shocked to realize that with every bit of her that disappeared, she took a little piece of him too. The shared memories, the knowing looks that once conveyed meaning without the need of words, the simple understanding of who he was because of who they were together - he was losing all of this, just as Betty was losing herself. Because of this the choice was easier. They would take this chance because they had each already lost so much of themselves to the war in Betty’s brain.

Mark pictured Betty’s brain as a battlefield where healthy neurons were waging a valiant battle against the foot soldiers of Alzheimer’s - amyloid plaque and tangles of tau protein gone cruelly awry. He saw healthy neurons stretching and straining to connect with each other, fighting their way through the jungle of tangles and plaques that prevented their synapses from making contact.

He imagined the healthy neurons loaded down with heavy knapsacks carrying the precious information needed to survive. In his mind, the healthy neurons looked like starving children he saw on TV commercials - emaciated, hands outstretched in supplication, begging for information that would nourish them. He wanted these healthy neurons to win more than he had ever wanted anyone to win anything. He believed his survival depended on it.

Those neurons made it possible for the rest of Betty’s brain to love him. He hoped that their grandson’s stem cells could save those neurons; that they could supply ammunition needed to win the war that was being waged against Betty’s will inside her brain. A war that had started without provocation; without a declaration of war, with just the slightest hint that something was amiss when Betty couldn’t remember how to bid her hand in bridge. They had both laughed it off - calling it a senior moment, even though Betty was only 49.

Betty lay on the operating table, surrounded by nurses, neurosurgeons, and anesthesiologists. An audience watched from the viewing chamber above the operating room. Although they could see inside her brain, none of them could see her mind. What was it experiencing as thousands of healthy stem cells were implanted in her brain? Would Betty ever be able to recount it to them? When she came to, would it be obvious that the experiment had worked? Would lost memories be restored? Could she begin to accumulate new ones?

~~~

Betty felt as if she was emerging from a warm liquid. She longed to be held. She wanted to suckle at her mother’s breast. She wanted to be enveloped in loving arms. But first she had to keep going into this scary place. She crawled slowly through a thorny path, struggling to get through the tangle of briars and clumps of rust-colored mud. The further she went, the easier it got. She felt stronger as she made her way to a distant clearing. She felt alive in a way she could not describe. There was something waiting in the sunlight. As she got closer, she recognized it. It was her past. She embraced it lovingly and then continued on to the glowing, pulsing path waiting just beyond. When she reached the path, she stood up and took her first step. She knew just where she was going. The path led to the rest of her life and she couldn’t wait to get there.

Exploring the Capacity of the Human Heart

Welcome to the first edition of my blog. I will be exploring with all of you the incredible capacity of the human heart to hold within it love and hate, hope and fear, pain and joy, forgiveness and revenge....and much more. I hope that I will hear from all of you with your insights about what the heart can hold.

This blog will feature a variety of posts, including poetry, video, art and a readers' forum.

To get us started, here is a poem I wrote:

What I Would Have Said 

What would I have said to my children when they were born if I knew then what I know now?

When my first son was born, I sat awake in my hospital bed and wrote a long letter about all my hopes and dreams for him. 

 I wrote about how much we anticipated his arrival, about how much we loved him before he was even born.

And how we would always love him, no matter what. 

I wrote essentially the same letter to each of my new born sons. 

Many years have come and gone. 

My sons are men now and I have grandchildren.

My life is full. My heart is full. The words of love I wrote are still completely true. 

But if I knew then, what I know now, the letter would be different. 

Not knowing then, that my marriage would end in divorce, I neglected to tell them that all love is good...no matter what....having loved someone matters.

No matter how it ends, or changes, love is never wasted. 

Never fear a broken heart because the only way you can get one is by having loved deeply, and deep love enriches the soul.

Never think that once your heart is broken, you can’t ever love again.

Each time we love, we increase our capacity to love.  

The human heart is designed to love and it has the capacity to grow and expand until it is so big that it loves the whole world. 

Most of us run out of time before our hearts get big enough to hold love for the whole entire world, but many of us come pretty close.

Yes, there was a lot I did not know when I wrote those love letters to my children.

Not just about love, but about the incredible mystery of life. 

So many things I didn’t tell them, because I didn’t know then what I know now.

I would tell them that they are the stuff of stars....

That the very atoms that pulse and vibrate inside us come from the stars! 

We are in the universe and the universe is in us; in all of us, no matter when or where we lived.

I would tell them that they are connected to every being who has ever lived or ever will live.

That long after they have died, the atoms that were part of them will be somewhere in the universe, part of some other life...recycled in the air, the soil, a beautiful flower, a tree, or even another person. 

And because of this, we will never be separate from the rest of the world; from the earth that we live on, from the people we call enemies and those we call friends. 

I would tell them, because I do know it now... 

that everything they do really does make a difference.

 EVERYTHING.

 Really. 

Our actions have an impact far beyond our ability to know.

The choices we make about what we eat and how we live affect people everywhere....not just metaphorically or spiritually, but really. 

We share the earth with billions of people and there will be billions more after we die. 

What we use and what we conserve affect them all.

Wars we wage and wars we avert affect them all.

Discoveries we make and how we use them affect them all. 

They are us and we are them, only luckier.

I would tell them that we were chosen to be that accumulation of atoms that won the birth lottery; that we were born to a life of relative plenty.

That we have responsibility because of this.

And I would tell them this too.

None of us will ever make the whole difference; none of us can truly change the world,

Because each and every one of us is needed.

I would tell them “the power of one” really means the power of EACH one combined with the power of many other ones. 

And, although, they share the atoms from the same stars as the rest of us,

Each of us is a totally unique, unduplicatable individual person.

Within each unique individual lies the future of the world.

We are all chosen to use what is in us-

 that stuff that makes me, me and you, you -

 No one else has that to offer to the world.

 So, shine like the stars that are within you! 

Love so much that your heart expands until it can hold the whole world in its care. 

And know that as my heart grows, my love for you grows, every day.

Looking forward to our exploration of the varieties of human experience and how the heart grows to hold and honor all that we experience. I plan to write once a week, but in the beginning, I may write a little more often. So please check in now and then!

In the meantime, what do you think about the heart's ability to grow big enough to hold love for the whole world? Do you have any examples to share? Please leave a comment if you do!