There’s an expression: “You can’t paint the air.”

It means nobody can do the impossible. I think my grandfather might have made it up. I’ve never come across it anywhere else, so I’ll give him credit for it. He was a painter by trade, and was known to say this often to his son, my father. As a first generation immigrant of Irish and English heritage, shaped by the Depression, he’d trot out the line whenever he thought my dad was getting uppity ideas about life. Nope, life was hard, you worked hard, you drank hard, and then you died. At least in my grandfather’s version.

My father would prove his father wrong on more than one occasion. In fact, his life would become a study in air painting.

One of the first times I recall learning how to paint the air with my father, it was actually quite literal. I was eleven. My parents had just bought a 300-year-old house. There wasn’t a lot of money in those days so we all pitched in on the renovation project.

With my two brothers sanding the wide-board floors downstairs, a thick dust wafted through the whole house, floating suspended in the window light. My father and I were painting the upstairs hallway, and the spray from the rollers hung in the air until it was absorbed by the dust, turning it into a fine white mist that coated our skin. So, we did indeed “paint the air” that day. It was a day that would be a turning point in my life in more ways than one.

My father was my mentor, my friend, my wise spiritual guide. I’ve always known I was incredibly lucky to be able to say that, because I know how rare this is. But my father earned this admiration—day after day. I had the most extraordinary experience of watching him continue to learn and grow, and strive for goodness and excellence, right up until he died. I grew up with a man who routinely did the impossible, with a real down-to-earth approach.

I came to believe that I, too, could do the impossible. My father was a patient teacher and cheerleader who encouraged me to find my own way. I’ve done many things that fly in the face of social convention, and I’ve accomplished much with the odds stacked against me. Each time, it was with the blessings of my father; he seemed to always know what was right for me.

For instance, I dropped out of college at 20 and started my own business. Friends chided my father for not forcing me to stay in school. He replied that I was too smart to stay in school. I was quickly making enough money to more than comfortably support myself, working three days a week.

When I happily remained single until well into my 30’s, friends commented that I was probably going to be a spinster. My father countered that he’d rather have a daughter who was a happy spinster than an unhappy wife. I married when I knew that I had found a love that would last me a lifetime.

In my father’s eyes, there was little I could do wrong. There was no way I could ever fail or disappoint him. He loved me unconditionally. He made it possible for me to believe I could do just about anything with my life.

I think I must have come out of the womb utterly smitten with my dad. He had this secret weapon—his laugh. He had the greatest laugh. He’d throw his head back, his eyes would crinkle up and disappear, and he’d let loose this throaty chuckling sound, which somehow had the effect of pulling his shoulders up to his ears. It was completely contagious.

My dad did all the great things a dad is supposed to do with his kids. We played games together, went on hikes, built forts, and, evenings, he snuggled with us on the couch while we watched TV. His way of greeting us when he came home from work was to pull coins out of our ears and give them to us for our piggy banks.

That’s not what made him special. What made him special was how thoughtful he was about everything he did. When he was with you, he was really with you, and not mentally off somewhere else. He knew how to listen, get to the heart of the matter, and make things right.

When I was ten, we moved twice in one year. It unseated me. We went from a development with lots of great families and friends, to the country with few neighbors and even fewer kids. The change made me feel generally lost. I spent the year locked away in my room with my nose in a book.

I remember coming home one day from school and being surprised to find my father sitting in the living room. Before I had a chance to ask him why he was home so early, he asked me to go upstairs to get him his slippers. I thought it an odd request, because my father didn’t wear slippers. I hadn’t had a great day at school, and just wanted to go hide in my room, but I did as he asked and went up the stairs.

My parents’ bedroom door was closed, which should have been the second clue. When I opened the door, tears of joy and unimaginable gratitude instantly flooded down my cheeks. The sheer motion of her whirligig tail seemed to magically propel her toward me. I knelt down to catch her as she vaulted up into my arms and washed my face with kisses. I wrapped my arms around my very own dog.

I yelled to my father downstairs, “THANK YOU! Thank you. I love her and I can tell she loves me.”

But I needn’t have yelled, because he’d stolen up the stairs behind me. He was standing in the doorway now, wiping a tear from his eye.

My father had taken a day off from work, even though he needed to give his new business everything he had to get it off the ground. He felt it was more important to drive five hours to bring me home the perfect dog.

This was only one of many life-changing moments my father gave to me.

To say that my father was loving and thoughtful is to say a lot and not nearly enough. The few anecdotes I’ve shared can be multiplied by thousands. He loved me in a way that was extraordinary and special, but, really, this was just the kind of man he was.

I miss my father beyond description; that will never change. But his lessons and love live on in my heart. And as I teach my daughter the way my father taught me, they’re beginning to live on in her heart. So it is that Cait and I have picked up where my dad and I left off – together, we continue to paint the air.

Feeling more than a little frazzled and grumpy from a ridiculously hectic morning, I said, “Give me a minute.”

I  concentrated on unfurrowing my brow, loosening my grip on the steering wheel, and taking a couple of deep breaths.

“Okay,” I said, looking over at Cait. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“I want to know how you’re able to do that,” Cait said.

“Do what?” I said.

“Change your mood that fast? I mean, just a minute ago, you were a little scary. Now you’re all smiling and relaxed. How did you do that?” Cait said.

“Ah-so Grasshopper…,” I laughed. “You ready for a story?”

Cait rolled her eyes. “I guess I asked for it.” She settled back in her seat and got comfortable.

“Long, long ago, and far, far away,” I began, “there were two young women living in England, who were very different from each other. One was sure that everything in life would work out the way she expected, because that had been her experience. The other was sure everything in life would be a struggle, because that had been her experience.”

Cait asked, “Were they friends?”

“They learned to like each other over time, but they weren’t what you’d call natural friends. Their worlds were too different.”

“What made their worlds so different?”

“One came from a very wealthy family where her every need and want was met. She hadn’t known a day of hardship and had encountered very few disappointments. The other was not from a wealthy family, and she was expected to pitch in and work from an early age. When her father became ill, she left school to help run his business until he recovered. She was accustomed to life’s left turns and disappointments.”

Looking over to see if Cait was still with me, I continued, “The rich girl thought the serious girl was no fun. The serious girl thought the rich girl was spoiled and frivolous. Since neither of them realized they’d come together to teach the other an important life lesson, they simply accepted their uneasy coupling.”

“They do seem like an odd match…” Cait said. “So what were the lessons?”

“I’m getting to that,” I said. “The serious girl was trying to make up for the lost semester and was taking a heavy course load that kept her shuttling between two cities. This required a long train ride several times a week. She’d get up at 4:30 in the morning to walk to the station, and she wouldn’t get home until after 9:00 at night. She’d spend a few more hours on homework, and then get up and do it all over again the next day.”

I continued, “One day, the rich girl decided that it would be fun to meet the serious girl in London, have a night out on the town, and hop the last train home. The serious girl was in need of having some fun. So they met, and indeed they had a lot of fun. And…” I looked at Cait, “they lost track of time.”

“Uh oh,” Cait said ominously.

“Yep,” I said. “By the time the serious girl looked at her watch, she realized there was no way they’d make the last train. So she did what she was good at doing. She went into problem-solving mode, switched to Plan B, and decided they could sleep on a park bench for the night. Because, even if they’d pooled their money, there wouldn’t have been enough left to get a room.”

“That’s what I would have done,” Cait said.

“Yeah?” I said. “You thinking you’re more like the serious girl?”

“I don’t know yet,” Cait answered. “You haven’t told me what the rich girl is going to do yet.”

“Here’s what the rich girl does,” I said, and then I took a long swig from my water bottle.

“Mommmm,” Cait said, grabbing for the bottle. “The story!”

“Right.” I put the water bottle down. “So the rich girl listens to the serious girl’s assessment of the situation and says, ‘You can sleep on a park bench if you want, but I’m running for the train!’ and off she goes at a gallop!”

Cait’s eyebrows raised and her mouth dropped. “And she just left the serious girl behind?! All alone?!”

“She did. For about thirty seconds. And then she raced back, grabbed her hand and said, ‘Come on, we’re going to make that train!’ And she pulled the serious girl behind her.” I looked over at Cait, “The serious girl had no choice but to run, but she was thinking the whole time that the train had already left by then; she knew the train schedule by heart. There was just no way…”

“And…” Cait urged.

“And they got to Victoria Station in time to see on the departure board that the train had been delayed. They jumped the turn styles and ran out to the platform just as the train started slowly pulling out of the station. The rich girl yelled to the porter and he held the door open for them. After they’d hopped onto the train, the serious girl couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Why,” Cait asked.

“Because she’d just experienced a life-changing moment and she knew it. In that instant, her brain got rewired and she was giddy with that awareness.”

“Just like that?” Cait said.

“Just like that,” I said. “From that moment on, she knew she would always run for the train — metaphorically speaking. And she has ever since.”

“That’s actually pretty cool, Mom.” Cait said, “so, what was the lesson the serious girl taught the rich girl?”

I patted Cait’s knee. “That’s another story for another day,” I said.

Cait thought for a moment. “So, Mom, were you the rich girl?”

“I’ve become the rich girl in spirit,” I smiled. “But back then, the rich girl was my college room-mate.  I have to give her credit for some of my more outrageous accomplishments. Because, whenever I think something isn’t possible or think that I can’t, I remember that night, and decide that I can.”

“And that’s how you changed your mood earlier? You just decided to be happy?”

“That’s a small first step, my love, but one of the most important,” I said. “Once you decide to be happy, once you decide that the world is here to support you rather than to fight against you, then anything is possible.”

I looked over at Cait, “So, you know where I’m going with this…”

She laughed. “Yes, mother, I promise from this day forward to always run for the train.”

“And I promise,” I said, “that if you do, there will always be a train waiting for you.”

I am almost daily reminded of this in one way or another now. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that this realization often comes with a twinge of sadness for the little girl I’m losing.

As all teenagers are, she’s become quite concerned with looks and what other people might think. In that regard, having me for a mother isn’t always easy. Witness this morning’s exchange:

“Mom, you’re going to change out of those clothes before we go to the store, right?” Cait said, assessing my attire.

“What, you don’t like my Farmer Brown duds?”

I’d just come in from weeding and composting a section of the garden that I was readying for garlic, and I was covered in mud.

“And the glasses… you’re only going to wear one pair?” Cait asked hopefully.

As I often do when I’m home, I had one pair on my nose (for close up) and one pair sitting on top of my head (for distance) so I can easily switch as needed. Quite the fashion statement.

“Not that I don’t think that’s not a cool trend or anything,” Cait said. “But I think it has a ways to catch on,” she added, ever the diplomat.

“I always was ahead of my time,” I said, marching myself upstairs to change.

.

And just when I’m certain the teenager is here to stay and I’ve lost that little girl for good, the little girl manages to tuck herself right back into my heart. Witness this evening’s exchange:

As we always do at bedtime, Cait and I had run through our “Best Part, Worst Part, and Don’t Tell.” It was her turn to share her “Don’t Tell.”

She began, “Mom, do you know why I always say “Goodnight, my Mommy?” when you’re getting ready to leave the room?”

For quite a while, the bedtime ritual has also included the sign-off, “Goodnight, my Mommy,” to which I always reply, “Goodnight, my love.”

“Why?” I said, gently brushing the hair from her face.

“Because sometimes I get afraid that what if I died in the night…” She reached for my hand to hold. “Or, you know, the monster under my bed finally got me.”

We both laughed at the memories of this childhood rite of passage.

“Seriously, though, Mom. I always say Goodnight my Mommy, because I want the last words I hear before I go to sleep to be, Goodnight, my love… So that if anything happened, I’d always know you loved me.”

My throat clutched tight. I hugged her in my arms and we talked a while longer.

When it was time for me to go, I turned out the light and reached to close the door behind me.

Right on cue, from the darkness, came, “Goodnight my Mommy.”

I answered loud and clear, “Goodnight my love.”

Glad for the darkness hiding my tears, I was feeling very thankful for getting to have the full experience of my little girl for one more night.

Cait came home complaining yet again about one of her teachers. Being familiar with this teacher, I knew that her complaint was more than legitimate. The rant started as soon as she walked in the door from the school bus.

She launched in, “Mom, she’s incoherent when she’s giving directions. Nobody understands her!”

I didn’t even have to ask who she was talking about. Knowing the litany, I joined in on the next refrain, “She won’t even answer questions when you ask for help!” We finished in unison.

Cait did not find me amusing.

“Don’t you care?!” she glared at me.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk and I’ll explain something to you.”Cait grabbed a snack, I grabbed Kiera, and we headed down the road. She still needed to vent. I continued to listen.

“Mom, this is what she said today when I asked her to explain [a complicated problem on the first day of a new unit]. She said, “Life is like a brick wall. You have to keep pounding and pounding until you break it down.” Cait looked at me, “Can you believe that?! So why is she a teacher if she’s not interested in teaching?!”

“That’s the thing, honey,” I answered. “She is teaching. Not the class material. Not even really about brick walls. But she is teaching.”

Cait looked at me like I had two heads.

“She’s teaching you a very valuable lesson about Petty Tyrants. And I’m going to teach you a valuable lesson about brick walls.”

“Huh,” Cait said. She was expecting me to go into my usual rant about how Tenure is a failed system that essentially protects bad teachers.

“Here’s the deal,” I said. “Are you willing to get your classmates together to make a formal complaint to the principal to try to get rid of her?”

My peace-keeping, don’t-rock-the-boat, daughter’s answer was no surprise. “No.”

“Are you willing to let me make a formal complaint to the principal?”

“No!” Cait looked at me with horror, “Mom, promise me you won’t do that!”

I continued, “Are you willing to write her a letter explaining how you feel about the situation?”

“Mo-om…”

“Are you willing to let me talk to her about the difficulties you’re having with her?”

Cait grabbed my arm on that one. “Mom, please don’t.”

“Are you willing to request being switched to another class?”

“That would be so embarrassing.”

“Are you willing to let me home-school you?”

“No.”

“Okay. That’s the definition of a brick wall.”

“What?”

By this time we’d reached the dip-down where we veered into a field so I could let Kiera off-leash.

“Your teacher has supplied the pile of bricks. You’re the one who’s built the wall. By you not being willing to try anything else to solve the problem except to ask for help a few times and then give up, you’ve closed off any hope or possibility for change.”

“Mom, she’s the brick. Nobody’s going to change her. She doesn’t like kids and she doesn’t like teaching. She should have quit years ago.” Cait shot back, angrily.

“And the reason why she hasn’t is because of fear and lack of imagination. So she uses what power she has to take out her frustration on you kids. Which is essentially the definition of a Petty Tyrant.” I looked at Cait, “And, believe it or not, a Petty Tyrant is a great spiritual gift.”

“Mom, only you…” Cait smiled at me. “Okay, I”ll bite. A great spiritual gift…”

“Okay, bear with me because this is going to take some explaining.” Kiera had finished her zooming and had returned to rest by my side. I clipped on her leash. “The thing is, honey, as much as you try to avoid conflict, it’s part of life. And often conflict comes in the form of another person, complete with deeply ingrained, predictable behaviors. A person who you’ve now allowed to throw you off-balance, making you feel trapped and irritable.”

“Yeah, that sure describes Ms. Jones.” [Not her real name.]

That’s what I mean by Petty Tyrants — people who run the gamut from being out and out bullies to people who are just unwittingly talented at creating frustration and irritation. Nobody really likes being around those people, and wouldn’t be if circumstances didn’t force them — like you with your teacher.” I looked at Cait, “There are two ways people typically use to cope with them. Can you guess what they are?”

“I just know that I’m not going to bother asking her another question. I’d rather teach myself by reading the book,” Cait said.

“Yeah, that’s one of the ways. It’s called avoidance. Some people avoid by trying to just shut them out or ‘yes’ them to death in the hopes of shortening any contact and getting away as quickly as possible. Other people have the opposite reaction. They get angry at the Petty Tyrant and try to push to change his or her behavior. How successful do you think either of those strategies really are in the long run — or even the short run?”

Cait shuffled her feet. “Mom, this is all giving me a headache. Can you just tell me the point?”

“Here’s the point: There’s only one way through. That’s to try to consciously work with this person without avoiding them or becoming aggressive or petty yourself. Here’s the key: The great thing about Petty Tyrants is that they’re incredibly consistent. Yet most people fail to take advantage of that fact by having a plan for how to deal with them. As a result they find themselves getting quickly frustrated by the same attitudes, words or behavior time and time again.” I put my hand on Cait’s shoulder. “Like you have. Interesting, huh?”

“Okay, Mom, great. Fascinating. I get what a Petty Tyrant is. And Ms. Jones sure qualifies,” Cait said with irritation in her voice. “So where’s that big spiritual gift you were talking about.”

“Yes, the gift. I’m getting to that,” I smiled. “Petty tyrants have a special ability to show us what we’re made of. Wittingly or not, they strip away our trained cultural responses, our false politeness, to expose who we really are when push comes to shove. That’s the hard part of the lesson. It’s also the end of their control over us and the beginning of the gift.”

It was getting late, so I headed Cait and Kiera out of the field so we could start home. Once on the road, I continued, “The gift is that now the stage has been set for growth. Your growth. But you have to accept the gift. You have to choose whether or not to develop the skills necessary to overcome being distracted and reactive, so you can act with integrity — with directness, rather than aggression or avoidance.”

Cait looked up at me. “Mom, do you have any Petty Tyrants trying to shower you with gifts?”

I laughed. “Absolutely, honey! I have more gifts than I know what to do with!”

That made Cait laugh.

“That’s the thing, Cait. There will never be a shortage of Petty Tyrants because so few people choose to accept the gift of learning to speak with compassionate directness. That’s why there’s little hope of Petty Tyrants waking to themselves.”

“That’s depressing.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Not if you accept the gift. Because, you see, once you accept that initial gift, you get to find the truly spectacular gift.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” Cait said.

“The gift of finding value in all people. Even Petty Tyrants have redeemable qualities once you can look past what irritates you. And once you can do that — practice compassion with a person who seems on the surface to be so undeserving — you’ve found the key to unlock their heart.”

“Sounds easier said than done, Mom.”

We’d arrived back at the house.

“Yep. And you’ve got a lifetime to practice.” As I opened the front door, I turned and looked Cait in the eye, “And since there’s no time like the present, why don’t you start with Ms. Jones?”

“What’s the problem?” I yell back from my study.

“I’m having bad thoughts… I’m worried I’m going to have a nightmare.”

Since birth, my daughter has been inordinately sensitive to her environment. She takes things in that others hardly notice. The upside is that she’s very compassionate and caring. The downside is that any images, especially from TV, that are at all uncomfortable, worrisome, or violent, have an outsized impact. To save her from herself, we’ve offered her a list of “safe” shows that she knows she can enjoy.

“Mom.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got a confession to make.”

“Let me guess,” I say as I walk into her darkened room and sit on the side of her bed. “You watched a TV show not on the list.”

She grabs my hand and holds it to her face. Moonlight streaming through the window outlines her worried expression in soft relief. “Yeah,” she whispers, “I did. I’m sorry. And now I can’t get those thoughts out of my head.” Her eyes well up in distress.

“You know what I do when I have thoughts I don’t like?” I say.

She sits up and leans on her elbow. “What?” she asks.

I move over to sit next to her and put my arm around her so she can nestle against me. “I go into my Happy Box and pull out a happy thought, and that makes the sad or bad thoughts go away.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve made a place in my mind where I store all my happy feelings and funny things that’ve happened that make me laugh, and all the things that make me feel good. I call that my Happy Box. And when I’m feeling down, I just open the top of that box in my mind and out springs a thought that makes me laugh.”

I start chuckling immediately. Cait asks what I’ve taken out of my Happy Box that gets me laughing so fast.

I tell her, “When I was about your age, my best friend, Betsy, and I spent a whole day building a raft out of scraps of wood and garbage cans we’d found in the barn. We were pretending to be Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. We nearly killed ourselves carrying that thing to the pond out back—it was so heavy. It was a hot day and we were dirty and sweaty, but we didn’t care because we’d just built ourselves this cool raft with a rudder and everything. And we were finally going to get to take it for a spin.”

Cait sat up more so she could see me better, as was her habit whenever I went into story-telling mode. “Did it float?” she asked presciently.

“As a matter of fact…” I giggled, and then giggled some more. Then Cait started giggling at me giggling.

Andrew hollered up, “What’s all the noise up there? It’s bedtime!”

We tried to stifle ourselves unsuccessfully.

“So, Mom, did it float?” She asked again, this time in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Well…” I giggled again, “sort of…”

“What happened?” Her eyes were bright and her smile wide.

Then I really cracked up laughing, which got Cait laughing again.

“Mom, get a hold of yourself.”

“Yeah…” I sighed, trying to compose myself. “Where were we? Oh, yes, the raft floating…” I looked at Cait and gave her a big squeeze. “It did float. Yes it did. Indeed it did.”

“And…” Cait said, trying to draw out the rest of the story.

“And then, after about three seconds, it sank like a lead brick.” I guffawed and slapped my knee, cackling like an old hen, as I vividly relived that moment.

Laughing, Cait said, “Mom, that’s not really very funny.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “it was very, very funny. And I can count on that little memory to crack me up every single time I need a good laugh. It instantly lifts my spirits and makes me feel better. And I forget about whatever was bothering me. Works like a charm every time.”

Cait smiled and hugged onto me. “Will you help me make a Happy Box?”

“Sure will. It’s a piece of cake,” I told her, as I helped her get settled back down under her covers. “First, in your mind’s eye, create the most spectacularly beautiful box you can imagine, and then make it glow like it’s catching the rays of the sun.” I gave her a minute. ” Got that done?” I said.

Cait had her eyes closed and her mouth set in a determined line. “Yep, done,” she said. “Next?”

I massaged her brow. “Relax honey, this is supposed to be fun.”

Her face relaxed into a gentle smile. “Right.”

“Okay, now think of something that makes you laugh.”

I could see her mind at work, searching through her stores of memories. And then she landed on one and started laughing.

“Now what was that one?” I asked.

“Ma slapped a bear.”

We both burst out laughing. Ma slapped a bear was a reference to a chapter in Little House on the Prairie where Ma goes out to feed the cow on a pitch black night. She slaps it to move it out of the way, as usual, so she can get through the fence gate. Only what she’s slapped is a big black bear. It’s a very funny scene.

“Oh yeah, that’s a good one. Put that in,” I say. “That’s all you have to do; collect images, memories, recollections like that, that make you happy. Your box will fill up in no time.”

We continued on until she had several treasures stored and she started yawning and rubbing her eyes. Within a minute, she was sound asleep. I tucked her in, kissed her forehead and started out of the room. I turned for a last look and thought, I’m storing this in my Happy Box.

Andrew finally gets annoyed and wants me to discipline her to get her to stop being pushy. So I remember Suzanne Clothier’s time-out lesson where you remove the dog from where you are for a few moments to essentially help the dog “reorient” itself toward better self-control. I decide that the next time Kiera talks, I’ll put her in a time-out.

I don’t have to wait very long. She talks, I say, “Oops, so sorry…” and close her in the bathroom (right off our kitchen) for a minute, telling her she can come out once she’s quiet.

She gets quiet immediately, so I tell her “Good Girl” and let her out.

She lies down and behaves — for 30 seconds. Then she starts talking again.

So I say, “Oops” again and put her back in the bathroom for another timeout.

She’s still talking, so I tell her through the bathroom door that she has to be quiet to be let back out.

So she gets quiet.

I tell her, “Good Girl” again and leave her there for another minute to make my point.

And she stays quiet…

Apparently, she thinks she’s been quiet long enough. Next we hear a click — and, voila, there’s Kiera. She’s opened the door by herself and let herself out of the bathroom.

She comes over, lies down and doesn’t make another peep for the rest of dinner.

It’s been several months since we’ve heard a word from her at the dinner table.

Do you see that?

I see that. Do you see that?

I see that!

Hey Finn, ya wanna look?

Nah, I’m busy. You guys take care of it.

We have a male robin who’s spending a great deal of his energy dive-bombing our glass door upstairs. Why? Because he sees his reflection in it, and perceives the image he sees to be that of a male intruder in his territory. He has been bashing himself into the door to get at this “aggressive intruder” for a few days. No matter what deterrents we try, he persists.

“Did you get our owl (a fake plastic replica) back from Sarah?”

The owl, a natural predator of robins, did the trick last year when this happened.

“No, I forgot,” Cait said.

“Okay, I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve. Help me put the screens back in. We’ll keep the doors open and see if that does it.”

As Cait held the screwdriver while I fitted the screens, the robin swooped back onto the railing of the deck again with us right there.

She asked, “Mom, I don’t get it. Why can’t he see that it’s just a reflection of himself? Why does he think it’s a different bird?”

“There aren’t many animals that can actually grasp the concept of a reflection,” I answered. “This guy isn’t unusual; he believes he’s defending his nest by keeping his intruder away.”

This gave me the opening for a deeper subject I wanted to discuss; that of how we help create and shape our reality by our outlooks and attitudes — how, so often, what we put out is what we experience the world reflecting back to us. So I said to Cait, “Tell me what happens the more he attacks his intruder?”

Cait thought about it for a moment. “The more he hurts himself…?”

“Yes, that’s very true,” I said, “but put yourself in his wings. The more he attacks, what does he experience happening?”

Just then, helpfully, the robin banged himself into the glass again.

“Oh. I see what you mean,” Cait said. “You mean the more he attacks the intruder, the more the intruder attacks him back!”

“Very good, Grasshopper!” I smiled. “That makes me think of an old tale about The House of One Thousand Mirrors,” I said.

“Yeah, what’s that?” Cait has learned that work always goes faster when we talk, so she was happy I had a ready story.

“Long ago and far away, in a small village, there was a House of One Thousand Mirrors.” I held my hand out for two of the long screws, and then the screw driver, and then continued with the story as I worked. “A happy little dog heard of this place and decided to visit. When he arrived, he trotted happily up the stairs to the house. He looked through the doorway with his ears forward and his tail wagging fast. To his great surprise, he found himself staring at one thousand other happy little dogs with their tails wagging just as fast as his. He smiled a big smile, and was answered with a thousand big smiles just as warm and friendly. As he left the House, he thought to himself, “This is a wonderful place. I will come back and visit it often.”

Having popped that screen in, I started working on the next one. Again, I held my hand out for screws and screw driver. Cait waved me on to continue with my tale.

“In this same village, another little dog, who was not so happy, decided to visit the house. He slowly climbed the stairs and hung his head low as he looked in through the door. When he saw a thousand unfriendly looking dogs staring back at him, he growled at them and was horrified to see one thousand little dogs growling back at him. As he left, he thought to himself, “That is a horrible place, and I will never go back there again.”

Having popped the second screen in, I looked at her and asked, “So what do you think the story is about?”

“That we see in the world what it sees in us?”

“Sort of, but with a half twist. More like, the world feeds us back what we project onto it.”

Cait raised her eyebrows. “In English, please, Mom.”

I laughed. “Yeah. English… Okay. There’s an expression you hear Dad say all the time — Attitude is Everything! And it’s true; having a great attitude will change how you look at life, because it changes how people respond to you. But there’s a reason why it works that most people don’t think about.”

“What’s the reason?” Cait asked.

“Emotions are contagious. For instance, when you hear someone laughing — a really happy, funny laugh — what happens?”

Cait started laughing.

I raised my hands. “My point exactly.” And then I giggled at Cait laughing. “Just the mention of a person really laughing got you laughing. And I didn’t even need to tell you what this hypothetical person was laughing about.”

“Yeah, so…” Cait said.

“The “so” is that it works this way with all emotions. If you had an angry person yelling at you, while you may not yell back, you’d start feeling angry at that person in return.”

Cait looked at me like she sort of understood but didn’t really.

“Okay, this matters for two reasons. Reason #1: The attitude we take out into the world is going to shape how people respond back to us; what we put out directly impacts what we get back. But the really big reason this matters, Reason #2, is that this is even true for what we let ourselves think.”

“So if I think a happy thought, that leads to other happy thoughts. And if I think a sad or angry thought, that leads to more sad, angry thoughts.”

“By George, I think she’s got it!” I said in my best Cockney accent. “That’s one of the big secrets to life. If you can control what you let yourself think, you can rule the world.”

“Or at least myself…”

We laughed.

“Yes. That’s always the best place to start.” I put my arm around her. “Decide to be the happy dog in the thousand mirrors. But for now, help me pick up the tools, and lets see if we’ve helped that robin become a happy robin.”

.

P.S. The screens worked — we have a happy robin.

As I wrote to one of my blog friends, the thing about writing — especially writing with the intention to be published — is that you will fail. There’s no question about it. All published writers (self included) have failed — not finished a project, been rejected by publishers, etc. It comes with the territory.

But you have to think of it the way Edison did. When he was inventing the light bulb, he never looked at his failures as failures but as valuable information needed to get ever closer to the creation of his light bulb.

The ones who make it as a writer (published or not) are the ones who don’t get caught up in the “success” or “failure” of writing, but who write simply because they love the act of writing.

I don’t mean that in a preachy way but as an encouragement to just keep going.

On a more concrete level, here are some practical pointers for what it takes to be a successful writer:

At the most basic level, a successful writer needs to be able to sit down every day and write. Doesn’t sound like a big deal until you try it. It’s fun on the days when it flows, but how do you handle the days when it doesn’t? Spend a little time cruising through the blogosphere and count the number of blogs with the “I don’t have anything to say today” or “The well has gone dry” posts, and you get my point. Every writer hits the wall at some time. Successful writers realize that’s part of the process and have learned how to work through it.

Next, a successful writer needs to find worthy feedback. By that, I mean you need to find people who are willing to provide you with honest criticism. In order to improve as a writer, you need to know how a reader experiences what you write. If it’s not the reaction you were going for then you need to go back to the drawing board. Writer’s Groups, Writer’s Workshops, and Writer’s Conferences can all be helpful resources. I was lucky in that I married my best critic and editor.

A successful writer needs to be able to finish a complete work. This is where many writers get bogged down; they can’t get past the first paragraph because they’re obsessed with making it perfect before they move on. The trick to finishing a book is to know that all first drafts are supposed to stink. They’re just for getting down the bones of the story. It’s the rewrites that give it the flesh and blood. And it may be several rewrites before you have a living, breathing story. In other words, successful writers don’t let themselves get caught up in perfectionism at the beginning; they just write–and keep writing.

A successful writer needs to be able to accept rejection and roll with the punches. Because there will be lots of both. That’s a guarantee. The odds of getting an agent or a publisher with your first query are so small as to be non-existent. You have to look at it as a numbers game and not take it personally. For example, I’ve sold four books so far (only one using my real name), with a fifth currently in negotiation. Sounds great, doesn’t it?

Now for the reality. For each book I sold before I got an agent, I sent out an average of forty proposals. Each sale took an average of six months, with an additional year or two before it landed as a book on a shelf. One of the books I sold was never published because the publishing house was bought in between the sale of my book and it’s publishing date. The new publisher didn’t think it fit with the direction of their new list and never published it. (That incident was what pushed me to get an agent.) I’ve written three other books early on that did not sell. Two I’ll eventually rework and sell; one I’ve long lost interest in and have since used to heat my wood stove. In other words, if you’re ready for a roller-coaster ride, you’re ready to be a successful writer.

And, last but not least, a successful writer has to be a good marketing person. The dictates of publishing used to be that writers wrote, and publishers published and marketed. Not anymore. A large factor that determines whether a publisher will take you on is whether you are able to market your own book. So you can’t be shy, because your ability to publish again rests on how well your last book sold.

In summary: To be a successful writer you need the desire to write, good ideas, the ability to complete what you start, good feedback, persistence, patience, a thick skin, the ability to market yourself, a sense of humor — and an agent!

If you find most of the above intimidating, another great way to enjoy the writer’s life is to have your own blog. It offers the creative outlet for self-expression without being hampered by continual criticism and rejection. You’ll find new friends who’ll offer supportive feedback. You’ll get to see your work published — not every couple of years — but every couple of days (depending on how often you post). And the pay is about the same. :)