I’m realizing lately that likely people are reading these posts that do not know what my book is about. Here is the long-winded explanation.

I’ve been talking about this project for some time now (understatement?)—over two years, to be precise. I began my blog Tales of a Wayward Yogini in February of 2018 and started working on this book about a year later. My initial thought was that I could convert the blog posts into a book. I’d heard of authors creating books from articles first released in newspapers. Armistead Maupin was one such writer. He published nine books entitled Tales of the City; the stories were first released in the San Francisco Chronicle and later the Examiner. Not that I was trying to compare myself to Armistead, but if he could do it, why couldn’t I?

I remember the first time I spoke to my editor Dennis on the phone presenting the idea for my book. My fingers and toes were crossed that he would give me the thumbs up on the project. He did. In hindsight, our conversation left out a great deal. But it succeeded in cementing our union to remain together until death do us part or the publication of my book, whichever came first. I’m sure there were many times Dennis would have chosen the death scenario, but happily we have arrived at the publication of my book. I am saving a blog post just for Dennis coming soon.

We signed the necessary papers and began reasonably quickly. The first significant concern Dennis presented was that my thinking was slightly skewed in turning my posts into a book. I argued that a whole universe out there had not read my blog, so the book would be for those souls. He educated me that the book needed to be for my current readers, first and foremost, as they would likely be many of the people buying my book. And why would they want to buy a book full of posts they had already read? (Hmm, good point.)

Luckily, he presented an idea that would change the course of the book and eliminate that problem. What if I started over, went back through the posts, and rewrote them from the perspective of the lessons I had learned during that time instead of just sharing tales? I saw value in his proposal, both for my readers but also from a personal perspective. I agreed immediately. We adopted the new title Lessons of a Wayward Yogini, and the rewrite began.

What had I learned in the few years since my mom had passed? It turns out, a great deal. It’s true what they say, the year after the passing of a loved one is a tumultuous one, full of regret, sorrow, anger, understanding, forgiving, healing and in the end, hopefully gratitude for the blessing of the time together. Throw in a few health concerns, aging, and the loss of employment, and you’ve got a better picture of the story. I chose to use yoga as my backdrop, which in hindsight, was a great choice. Yoga prompted a great deal of personal change and healing.

In Lessons of a Wayward Yogini, I do my best to share the treasures I took away from these few years. We all have similar lessons to learn in life. I think it’s nice when we can offer our experiences as an outstretched hand. I certainly have had my fair share of hands to grasp onto as I moved through the darkness at different stages of my life.

Lessons of a Wayward Yogini, in short, concentrates on the issues we baby boomers find ourselves facing, health, fitness, aging, elder care, job security, retirement and learning to navigate our senior years. I hope to meet many of you on pages of Lessons of a Wayward Yogini.

I learned long ago that revealing me had a way of inviting others to show themselves in return. It was never a guarantee. But it didn’t need to be. The freedom of being honest was reward enough. These many years later, even understanding this truth, being me still takes effort at times. Maybe in another ten years, I won’t have any filters left. (Some people refer to that as dementia.)

I devote a chapter in my book to vulnerability and the importance I attach to being vulnerable. I also write in another chapter about a time in my life that I attended group therapy for my own issues, followed by ten years in which I stayed on as a peer counselor. During those years, I learned to be honest and raw, both in terms of sharing and listening. I had the best of training.

Yet, without conscious effort and continued practice, it’s still easy for me to revert to just saying enough, not really saying much, flying under the radar, and of course playing nice.

I not sure what my dad was thinking, but he nicknamed me “Sweet Sue” before I was born. Yikes, that’s a lot to live up to. (I don’t always succeed. But really, I’d be so dull if I did, don’t you think?)

As always, it’s necessary to bring this post back around. Besides telling you about a few chapters, what does any of this rambling have to do with the book?!

Well, last week Rick and I spent the day exploring. We used to spend many days venturing out to learn about unfamiliar areas. We’d turn at unknown corners, visit local restaurants along the way, discover new treasures, always happy at the end of our adventure.

The last six years have put a kibosh on our exploring adventures… moving, settling in, elder care, old job commuting, a new job with a tiny bit of commuting, passing of my mom, working on the house, creating a sustainable garden, writing a book, and last but certainly not least, Covid.

We set out to visit Rollins Lake. It’s located in Colfax just up the highway from Auburn. Neither of us had ever been there. As we ventured out, it became clear that not much had changed; we still like to turn right when we should turn left because, maybe, there’s something up there to see. We drive and drive until we are convinced it’s time to turn back. New ground to cover is always exciting.

Once we finally arrived, we loved the lake. The gate guard let us drive through to learn about the area, trusting us to come back. We will return his kindness soon and pay the $14 to spend the day. We loved it, a great place to kayak and swim, and a cute little restaurant that serves fish tacos. I say yes.

But we decided since we weren’t going to spend the day at the lake, we would eat elsewhere. We chose The Red Frog in Colfax. We had heard about it and wanted to try it before we took friends there.

Think rustic. Then think again, even more rustic, but with a spotless restroom, a friendly staff, good pizza, and great watermelon margaritas overlooking the canyon with the possibility of seeing the train coming through. We sat on the porch, which was actually the bar. The five or so people at the bar clearly were regulars, playing dice with the bartender. Oh, and misters, I can’t forget the misters which kept us cool.

It had been way too long since we sat reminiscing about this, that, and the other. In just over an hour, we laughed, chatted with the waitresses and the dice players, and most importantly, righted the world’s wrongs by talking about whatever came to mind.

On our way back home, instead of traveling down Highway 80, we drove the side roads. I learned about two cities/towns (not sure their stature) that I knew nothing about. Beautiful country, lovely feeling as we drove through. A small handmade sign on the side of the road caught my eye, “Be You.”

My mind shifted from the pleasant scenery to thoughts of releasing my book. Writing a book, especially a book about your life, is the ultimate “being you.” It’s scary as hell if I’m honest, even though I have faith in myself. It’s vulnerability at its finest.

I enjoyed the next town down, but had to ask Rick two times the name of the city. I was distracted as my heart raced just a bit. Thank goodness Rick set Pandora to our baby boomer generation. Tinman by America came on, an old song I still love. I turned up the volume and drifted back in time, letting my fears drift away.

“Oz never did give nothing to the Tinman that he didn’t, didn’t already have.”

Apparently, the song was built around this sentence (critics say the lyrics after didn’t mean much.) As I listened to the music, with its great rhythm, I couldn’t care less about the rest of the lyrics.

“Oz never did give nothing to the Tinman that he didn’t, didn’t already have.”

I brought my kids up watching The Wizard of Oz. It was Amy’s favorite movie. I made her a Dorothy outfit for Halloween one year. I still have the basket she carried to gather her candies. Believing in home and the heart was a valuable lesson.

Almost fifty years later (scary number), listening to these 1970’s lyrics, I took away the reminder that I’ve always had what I needed to speak my truth. It didn’t take the Tinman to teach me that. It only took me finding the courage, yet another lesson from Oz.

Be you… here’s me coming at you soon.

Here’s a fond reminiscence about my oldest friend, Joan, on a topic related to the book. I don’t mean she’s older than any of my friends, sorry Joan. But she was my first friend. We met in kindergarten when I was 4, almost 5. We lived a few blocks from one another. Our parents connected on the first day of school standing outside the entrance doors watching their girls walking into the future. (Photo above, Joan is on the left, Sue is on the right)

Joan and I must have recognized the kindred spirit in each other as we became fast friends. While we are vastly different people, we shared a silly sense of humor even as tiny girls. Back in the day in kindergarten, we would lay towels down on the floor for nap time. Yeah, right… not with Joan and I lying next to each other. I remember the teacher dragging me across the floor away from my newest buddy, Joannie. Or maybe it was her being pulled, but regardless, we needed to be separated. We were giddy girls laughing instead of resting.

I moved after kindergarten to a new school, and a few years later, Joan relocated a few cities away, but luckily our parents kept us connected. Thank goodness they would make the trek to let us visit each other.

I can’t even begin to count the number of hours Joan and I laughed together. As teenagers, we could read each other’s minds. Often, we would bust up laughing without a word having passed between us. We didn’t have much self-control, I’m happy to say. There’s nothing better than a good laugh, better than any medicine on the market. And we remain silly girls to this day, still laughing at the most absurd things. A year or two ago, we went to the movies and spent the better part of the day laughing. Nothing had changed. 

I believe friends likely are God’s way of making up for all the difficult trials and tribulations we will be required to go through in life.

I have been thinking about one particular giggle-fest when we were somewhere between 11-13. For years, Joan and I spent hours writing, practicing our penmanship, and listing as many words as we could think of that started with a particular letter. Who needed the internet? We were satisfied competing with each other, both in the number of words we could come up with and who had the more admirable writing style. Oh, and the pen colors, of course, played a big part. We were fond of lavender colored ink. I’m sorry to say, Joan won, hands down on probably both counts. But being a seriously competitive person, I never gave up trying to beat her. I’m sure my handwriting is much better than it ever would have been had I not spent so many hours practicing my writing with Joan.

Joan accompanied my mom and me on a trip to Nebraska to see my grandmother. It was a big deal. I’m not sure I had ever traveled to see her before, except when I was a baby. And we were flying, which was also perhaps a first for me. Joan and I were in all our glory sitting in our own row, and no one monitoring us. I’m not sure where my mom was. But we were happily left to our own devices.

Back in the late sixties, without the internet or movies, we had all we needed to keep us busy for a three-hour flight—paper, pens, our imagination, and humor. We began to pretend we were movie stars signing our sought-after autographs. I’m sure by the end of that flight, all of the passengers in rows close to us were tired of our giggles. Or maybe they were entertained. But I’m pretty sure there was no in-between.

We each developed our brand name; I was Sue… Malue and Joan was Joan… Malone. The ellipses represented the time when you were signing your name that you would hesitate, head down but eyes looking up at your fan, to give them that thrill of your gaze, and then you would lower your eyes and finish your autograph. Three solid hours of laughing as we each signed our name over and over for our imaginary fans.

I have been asked already about participating in a few book signings. I can’t tell you how exciting that sounds to me. But I can already say that thanks to Joan, I will never take myself seriously when signing my name to a book. Regardless of what I may write on the inside of a book cover, best of luck, keep the dream, never give up, etc., my signature will always be in my mind, “Best wishes, Sue… (dramatic look up at my reader) Malue.”

I learned early with my friend not to ever take myself too seriously, a lesson that has served me well for many years. Thank you, Joan… Malone for being my precious life-long friend.

While my writing hopefully has improved over the years, one thing that hasn’t is my social media skills and digital marketing. In a few words, I’m a train wreck. With media platforms ever-changing and my book on the horizon, I decided to ask for help.  

Years ago, starting my landscape business, I worked with a wonderful fellow, Mike Neuendorff, to help promote my endeavor. Mike was also busy creating his business Build & Balance. We met in a local business group.

As a young entrepreneur, Mike’s office at that time was any local Starbucks. Of course, in time, he graduated to a lovely office in Burlingame, California. But back then, we would grab any open table and tune out the surrounding noise. I used to love to kid him about his multiple offices.

Mike was instrumental in convincing me to sign up for Facebook. I wasn’t interested. It took a few meetings and several Starbucks lattes to convince me that Facebook was for me. He told me in no uncertain terms that I could sign up or be left behind. And not only that, I needed a website. Website??? One thing at a time here, buddy.

He wasn’t even trying to sell me a website, just educate me. I can be a slow burn. All these years later, promoting my book, I still resist social media and digital marketing. But I no longer debate the need for it. Before the pandemic hit, I reached out to Mike again for help as I began working on my book. I had run into Mike several times over the years when I worked at Virgin. His office building was next to the Virgin Headquarters in Burlingame. Every once in a while, I would be lucky enough to see him at the elevator while visiting the cafeteria in his building. We would quickly catch up, and I would always leave with a smile on my face, happy to have run into him.

One thing I genuinely love about life is our ability to amass a collection of amazing people. They come in all sizes and descriptions and fill different needs. And there is nothing nicer than reconnecting with an old friend in a new way. What a comfort it is to know without a doubt that I can trust this person with the task at hand, one of the many gifts of moving along in years.

I contacted Mike and told him I was again struggling with social media and more importantly promoting my book/blog, and as luck would have it, he had a great employee, Janine, who could help me. She tutored me for a few months helping me to learn how to effectively post my blog on FB and Instagram. 

Careful about the pictures, don’t cut them off, don’t share your Instagram post to FB without checking the pictures! Better just to repost on FB. Use emojis on this site, don’t on that, yes hashtags, no hashtags, oh my gosh, way too much social media etiquette for this country girl. I just want to post my blog and maybe include a simple picture.  Can we just simplify this?

Janine, just as Mike had so many years earlier, managed to teach me just enough to be dangerous. It worked for the short term. I also received a lovely call from Mike during that time, thanking me for supporting him in his early years. He was taking stock and giving thanks. I hung up in awe of how much power we humans have to elevate each other.

Covid took care of my social media problems for about a year. I gave up blogging since I couldn’t come up with much positive to blog about, and instead, I worked on the book. But it wasn’t pretty when I blogged for the first time a few weeks back and tried to post it. I remembered very little. I spent twice the amount of time posting the blog on social media as I did to write it. What is wrong with that picture?

I once again contacted Mike and my favorite media guru Janine and hired them on the spot to take over. That’s the other nice thing about aging, the wisdom that accompanies the years. I could hear my inner voice saying, “These issues you are having aren’t leaving any time soon. How ‘bout we recruit some help, Suzy-girl?”

I am confident going forward, while my voice may never change, my promotional style will! I’m so excited to move forward and be able to concentrate on what I love most, which is simply writing and sharing my thoughts.

Build & Balance will be promoting my brand going forward. Stay tuned for some amazing changes!

We grew sugar snap peas this year in our garden. It turns out they grow well in Cool, California. The vine began with colorful blossoms and tendrils that eventually grew into a wall of green. Each time we thought we had collected our last yield, we would find yet another crop to pick. I had never eaten fresh snap peas. I became instantly hooked! They are sweet as sugar, as their name implies. It’s hard to stop at one pea or two. Before you know it, your fingernails are bright green.

We finally came to the end of our gathering, and it turned out to be a good-sized bowl of peas. As I stood at my sink, shucking peas for the first time in my life, I worked at falling into the groove. Each pod contains at least five to six small peas. The husk doesn’t quickly release its tiny gems. Eight out of ten pods would require running my finger through the pods.

As much as I love the bounty my garden brings, about 20 peas in, staring at the large bowl full of so many more peas, already sporting bright green fingernails, I began to feel impatient. I invited my yoga wisdom to make an appearance and lull me into a rhythm. That wayward yogini, hands down, refused to help me out. I think she was a bit miffed that I had been devoting so much time to my book instead of her. I couldn’t blame her. (Bygones. Let’s get over that.)

My mind gravitated toward a topic to think about while shucking all these damn peas. No surprise, I found myself thinking about my upcoming book release. At first, that was an exciting thought. But pea after pea I, unfortunately, made my way to stressful and anxious thoughts.

Will people like my book? Am I dancing on the tails of all my crazy new moon wishes? Will I crash and burn with some of the best of them like the Wright brothers? My maiden name, after all, was Wright.

I’ve devoted significant periods to achieving goals throughout my life. I created my profession in my twenties, then again in my thirties and forties and fifties, and now again in my sixties. I don’t count becoming a mom as a goal. I consider that the reason I am here at all.

But this latest endeavor has a special place in my heart. The dream of becoming a successful author has let the dreamer out to play. I don’t strategize about making a living. Instead, I dream of blogging and writing books for years to come. I wish for an audience that hears me, enjoys my story, engages with me, and keeps coming back.

A small order, right? Shucking peas leaves a lot of room to think, stress, and dread. (How did I go from enjoying my garden’s bounty to envisioning a crash and burn for my book?)

But shucking peas would, in the end, bring me around to a general understanding of life and my writing. Every harvest will be different. Some years will be a bumper crop. Other years the yield will fail.

One thing was clear, no matter the number of minutes spent shucking peas and worrying, I would find no answers. I could spend time worrying about failure, or I could envision success. I decided it would be a lot more fun visualizing victory.

Staring down at my fingers green with the success of this year’s pea crop, instead of washing my hands, I spent time scrubbing in nature’s gratuity long before I rinsed.

Arriving at the precipice of publishing my first book, I am flooded with conflicting feelings. Disbelief is a frontrunner. I have spent many moments fantasizing about being a published author. The closer I come, the definition of what that means to me changes. Years ago, the fantasy carried me. It was that goal awaiting me that gave me a special purpose.

Becoming a published author would somehow (in my way of envisioning it) elevate my spirit. I would have an actual book filled with my writing, my name on the front! Oh, and maybe that tiny headshot on the back cover. You know the one, with arms folded across my chest, leaning slightly backward, of course with a smile. I’m too transparent to act cool. Some authors can pull that off really well. Once you read the chapter about my mom’s lack of smiles, you will understand that a severe picture isn’t for me.

My headshot, thanks to JC Penney, turned out to be a perfect arm folded shot. For a nominal fee, it was much better than what I could come up with on my own. At 65, you need lighting and a mild background, and apparently, arms crossed—a very relaxed pose, quite contrary to the experience. If there’s a second book, maybe I can graduate to a private photographer, nothing against the nice gal at JC Penney’s. As a matter of fact, my new neighbor is a photographer. (I see potential in that new friendship.) Now I just need to write a second book to go with the new hipper photo.

I’m enjoying poking fun looking at the lighter side of my dreams. It’s essential to have a sense of humor about everything, but most importantly, myself.

So, here’s the real deal. Yes, the idea that a book will soon be in print, hopefully selling, with my name on it makes me cry as I write this. I inherited my crying genes from my dad who is somewhere in heaven crying right now with me. He’s proud of his girl. Whether people love my  book or hate it, I have accomplished something important on my bucket list. And the truth is, I’m busting my buttons over that fact.

But did it elevate me, as I thought it would? No. The hours I spend writing, whether for the blog or the book, are what elevate me. In the end, it isn’t so much the accomplishment, although that feels good. It’s the process that has been the true joy, bringing me to that human connection. Writing a blog offers an instant kinship, whereas the book hopefully will offer that at the tail end of the process. Regardless, sitting at my computer with my fingers racing along the keys allows me to make sense of life’s moments and share them, good, bad, pretty or ugly. We are all in this boat together.

I have learned many things from writing. But probably most important, I’ve learned how easy it actually is to be real… flawed, insecure, afraid, unhappy, imperfect. I share my warts, and my readers reach back, which in turn gives me wings.

My dad was a musician who was denied his passion in his late twenties (his story in my chapter entitled The Gift). My father is third from the right. He introduced the piano to me as a young girl. I practiced religiously. I wasn’t bad, but I wasn’t great either. I could memorize enough to play Beethoven’s Fur Elise. My fingers still remember the notes. I performed in a few recitals. I moved from teacher to teacher.

Funny side note, one teacher told me I couldn’t excuse myself during a piano lesson to go to the bathroom. When my mother heard that, she told me next time to just pee on the piano bench. Yikes, these parents of mine were an exciting match. I had enough of my dad in me to never consider that, but I’m grateful all these years later that I inherited some of my mom’s spunk.

But I digress (what else is new?) 

After about six years of lessons entering my teen years, likely much more interested in boys than piano, my dad acquiesced and allowed me to quit my lessons. These many years later, I know that was the right decision. While my dad definitely taught me a love of music, I wasn’t destined to be a musician. Nevertheless, I felt tremendous guilt. I inherited that piano and dragged it with me through the years before finally letting go of my dad’s dream along with the piano. (Piano movers were expensive!) I hadn’t lived up to his dreams. And more importantly, I hadn’t rectified the fact that he had lost his ability to play music. Never underestimate the depth of a child. 

But my fingers learned a dexterity that I would use to work as a court reporter for just shy of 20 years, recording witnesses in the courtroom often speaking at over 225 words a minute. And while that was an excellent career, it still never entirely made up for the fact I wasn’t an accomplished piano player. Mind you, this wasn’t my dad saying any of this. This was my heart aching over letting my dad down.

As I write this blog on the outskirts of my upcoming book, I see that more importantly my dad passed on his artist’s heart. And he equipped me with fingers that can race over the keys as quickly as my mind can generate thoughts. I’m just playing a different instrument.

I am humbled by my blessings. I know my dad is smiling down, of course with tears in his eyes.  

More to come as I reminisce about the experience of writing this book.

I am adding a preface to this post. I wrote this blog post last week and did not have time to upload it. In the ensuing time, our county has begun to open. Yesterday when we drove out of the canyon, the hiking trails around the river had reopened. There were people everywhere. And for the first time, I began to trust that we would soon be on the other end of this virus. We might take a few steps backward in our attempt to move forward, but in the end, we will prevail. And that knowledge has lifted my spirits. I still wanted to share my post though for all those who are still waiting for changes.

This may not read like most of my posts. It’s a bit dark, but it’s an honest account of how I’m feeling. And it’s my way of making my way back. I am sharing it for anyone who might see themselves in my words.

When COVID-19 first began, while I was afraid and upset, at the same time, I welcomed the unexpected downtime. I would actually have time for all those to-dos on my list. After years of running at maximum speed, my list was long. I would be able to select a project and choose any day of the week to get it done. And as soon as that task was completed, I would start another one. I saw no end in sight. I would work in the yard. I would write my blog and work on the book. I would clean out closets. I would hike and do yoga. I would catch up with old friends. As a friend suggested, I could make a list of all my accomplishments during this time so that I would remember all the positive that had occurred.

At first, I felt such relief for the gift of time. And I started out very productive. But as the days became weeks and the weeks became months, the less I got done. My world reduced in size by the day, and so did my ambition. At this point, it can take me three days to text a friend. And I have nothing to do. I have no reason whatsoever that I can’t take a moment to send a text.

Or do I? Could it be that sorrow and fear have taken the place of my happiness, which fuels my energy? I miss my loved ones. The constant stats and death tolls, sad stories from friends, worries at work, the masks at every turn, the empty shelves, the loss of jobs, the what ifs that there are no answers for, have taken their toll on my spirit. Every day I think of yet another person that I wonder about… how are they doing? (Do I send a text? Not lately. I did in the beginning.)

It seems there’s no limit to the number of people one can worry about. Kind of like there’s no limit to the love in our hearts. We always have an endless supply of love.

But my worrying bucket is full. And when I hear yet another sad story, I physically feel as though I can’t fit one more tragic story into my heart. Then I take a deep breath and realize there is still room for more. Yoga has taught me that the breath is magical in terms of moving into a new position or pose that you doubt you can do.

It’s time to practice nothing more than my breathing going forward. I will work backward, and instead of thinking about tackling massive projects with my free time, I will dust my desk. I’ll get that text sent, reminding others that I am still here and love them. I will allow myself to cry each day if I need to. I have much to be sad about. I’m pretty sure once I allow my tears, I will be reminded of all the things I have to be grateful for. Right now, they are blurred with far too much on my plate.

I will count on Rick to throw me down a line so that I can climb out of this hole I have created. At the beginning of COVID, it felt sort of protective and safe. But at this point, it’s lonely and dark down there.

It’s time to embrace life again, COVID or no COVID, cure, or no cure. I can still be careful, but a life lived in fear is not living.

If someone told me today that I had one week left on earth, how different I would feel! I’d embrace every single thing I loved with a fire in my heart. COVID has robbed me of that passion. It’s time to reclaim my joy.