Check out the video for three big announcements for the New Year!  Let me know what you think in the comments!  xoAmie

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The water rushes onto her head, washing her down, surrounding her with white noise and taking the last of the lather with it, down and away.  Fast down her shoulders and back, it cleanses her; when she shampoos her hair, when she soaps her skin.  Even the dark places where the soap can’t reach.  That place far back in her mind and deep in the pit of her gut where her past lives.  The place where, if she’s not very careful, her memories can make her dirty again.
 
The spigot makes a slight high-pitched squeal as she turns off the water.  She reaches for the towel that she placed, neatly folded, atop the shiny white toilet tank, right outside the combination shower and tub.
 
When she was first shown this small apartment three weeks ago, she was pleased to find the bathroom had all white porcelain fixtures and original tile.  She liked it.  No real reason at first, it just looked nice and crisp.  She quickly discovered that if you’re careful and keep it clean and wipe the water spots up before they dry, it always looks so shiny and new, though it probably dates back to sometime in the early ’60s.  Its outward appearance defied the years of abuse, the tears, broken glass, blood and scum it had, no doubt, endured.  And after all that, all it took was a good scrubbing and a buffing with a clean, dry towel and it looked sparkling and as good as new again.  It doesn’t escape her that a bathroom with white porcelain can keep a lot of secrets.
 
She takes the pale blue towel and lets it unfold.  As she buries her face in it, she inhales its freshness.  It was clean.  It didn’t smell of mildew or of someone else.  It was new and clean and it was all hers.  She patted herself dry and wrapped the towel tight around herself.  She gently pushed aside the white eyelet shower curtain her mother had given her and stepped over the side of the tub onto the matching pale blue bath mat.  The towels and bathmat, and nearly everything else in the apartment, were gifts from her mother for housewarming.  Her mother would have given her anything to keep her safe and warm. It’s how she was…  and she was just so grateful to have her girl back in one piece.  
 
She removed the towel from her tall, gangly frame, bent over at the waist and wrapped it around her head like a turban.  Sparingly she applied her lotion, walked into her bedroom and slipped on the clothes she had laid out for herself, making sure to keep a light on only in the room she was occupying.
 
Tonight, she would wear jeans, her new lavender V-neck sweater (that sort of looked like cashmere) and a pair of black boots with medium high heels.  She wanted to look nice but not like she was trying too hard.  She turned out the bedroom light, went back into the bathroom and quickly blow dried her hair and brushed her teeth.  As she put on her makeup, being careful not to make eye contact with herself, she began to wonder how she’d… “Stop it,” she said out loud, scolding herself.  Her chin dipped toward her chest and her hands dropped to the corners of the sink as a way of steadying herself.  She froze, barely breathing.  Thinking about anything other than the simple tasks at hand wasn’t doing her any favors (especially after what happened a couple of days ago).  She breathed, closed her eyes and, having gathered herself, softly said “OK.”  She finished by putting on a little apricot lipstick and a bit of gloss, ignoring the slight trembling in her hands.  She took her matching hand towel and dried out the sink and left it nice and shiny.  It was so easy to buff the surface and make it look pretty.  You certainly couldn’t tell that someone had just spit in it.  She neatly draped the towel over the rack so it would dry, and snapped off the light.  She grabbed the black dress coat that she had worn to her new job and headed out the door.  She hadn’t felt up to arranging a ride for tonight, so if she wanted to catch the 7:23 pm bus she’d better move.
 
After less than a minute’s walk down her street, she arrived and sized up the other people at the bus stop.  A woman, about twenty-five years old, held the hand of a little girl who looked about four.  They were both bundled up against the cold city night and the little girl’s dark eyes shone with a smile in the lamplight.  Upon her arrival at the bus stop the two women instinctively exchanged glances and a quick smile – safety in numbers.  A boy of about sixteen, who seemed deeply committed to communicating his taste in all things retro-punk via his posture and wardrobe, sat slouched over, hands jammed into pockets, feet propped on the seat of the bus stop bench and his butt on the backrest.  Lots of piercings, spiky black hair, unlaced combat boots and a leather motorcycle jacket that was way too thin to keep him warm in this weather.  I guess it’s not too cool to let on that you’re freezing your skinny ass off.  Anyway, he’s harmless.
 
The city bus rolls up and the doors slap open.  She lets the mother and child go first then she makes her way up the steps, dropping exact change into the fare box, and finds a seat where she calculates someone is least likely to sit near her.  She’d be there in ten minutes, although she doesn’t want to go.  The thought of it terrifies her.  If she goes, she’ll have to talk to people and she’ll have to tell them the truth so maybe they can help her.  She wanted to call out to the driver to wait.  She wanted, with every fiber of her being, to bolt off the bus and run like hell, but the only thing that frightened her more than going forward was going back to where she’d been.  She knows that, like the memories that haunt her, some ghosts are real. Some ghosts are real and they can hurt you.  So, she doesn’t call out and she doesn’t run.  She forces herself to stay quiet and to stay put and, although she’s scared to death, she goes anyway.  She goes because, despite her cool, polished exterior, she is desperate.  The driver shuts the doors and off they drive into the night.

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They were just going to get tipsy.  That was the goal.  Two childhood best friends, born two years apart but attached at the hip, as their mothers would say.  
 
They were eight and ten years old when they met on the school bus in a quiet New England town.  The younger girl moved in down the road from the older girl and they became fast and constant friends.  Around the rest of the world they were shy, gawky and insecure, but when they were alone together, they became relaxed and silly and bold.  The comfort they felt in each other’s presence allowed them to be their true, best young selves. 
 
They lived less than a mile away from one another on either side of a state park that the locals called The Castle, and the several hundred acres of woods that lay between them was their playground.  They fancied themselves woodland creatures and this was their kingdom.  It was their enchanted forest, full of folklore, fairies, and frogs.  They were princesses and tomboys in equal measure.  You were just as likely to find them knee deep in the Castle pond, catching fish and bullfrogs with their bare hands and running through the woods like wild animals (moms’ words again), as you were to find them singing Scarborough Fair in a round and pretending their horses were unicorns.  Like twins with a secret language, they knew each other’s thoughts, and like sisters, they could fight like cats and dogs.
 
Each turn of the season brought new adventure.  They belly-crawled through spring meadow grass, seeing just how close they could get to wild cottontails, and peered over the pond’s edge where gelatinous masses of frogs’ eggs hatched into pollywogs.   They caught fireflies in jars on warm June nights and found refuge from the hot afternoon sun under the generous shade of the pines.  They washed away the sticky New England air in the inground pool behind the younger girl’s house and in the dammed-up creek in the woods behind the older girl’s home.  They spent cool, rainy weekends listening to music and working puzzles in the older girl’s playroom, her mother making them lunches of chicken noodle soup and buttered bread.  They rode their bikes through the swirling autumn leaves, the older girl always riding faster down the hills.  They gathered up the cast-off plumage of oak, maple and birch into enormous piles and dove in, delightfully smashing crunchy handfuls into each other’s hair.  Though the houses on their road were few and far between, they knew all their neighbors and all their neighbors knew them.   They went trick or treating on Halloween night and caroling on Christmas Eve, flashlights and the moon through the bare arms of the trees lighting their way.  They built snow forts, and sledded down their driveways or any clear hill they could find.  Their childhood smelled like rich, sweet earth and decaying leaves, like horses and saddles, like skunk cabbage, bullfrogs and wet rocks.  It smelled like honeysuckle and hot tar, like melting snow and raindrops, like wood smoke and pine.  Their childhood smelled like the deep New England woods. 
 
When they had grown to adolescence, the woods offered cover as they gleefully spied on the boys at the private academy down their road.  Like secret agents, they moved from tree, to rock, to tree, silently inching closer to the edge of the grassy school grounds, straining to get a better look at their crush du jour.  On the rare occasions that they were discovered, they always had a well-planned escape route – like the time a big twig snapped loudly underfoot and gave them away.  It was an all male boarding school and when the boys clapped eyes on the two girls in the trees it was like ringing the dinner bell for hungry field hands.  One of them yelled “GIRLS!” and they all came running.  “Oh, nice move, Hiawatha!” one girl teased the other and they screamed and laughed with giddy horror as they stealthily disappeared into the trees.  The boys gave chase but the academy’s dorms housed young scholars from all over the state – meaning: this wasn’t their woods.  Once the girls had vanished into the forest, which they had come to know like the back of their hands, the boys had no prayer of finding them.  Plus, the boys weren’t allowed off campus.   
 
And so, it was.  There would be first dances, first kisses and puppy love, and like the safety and sanctuary of their beloved woods, their friendship remained.   Until one day the news came that the younger of the two would be moving away.  Far away.  A long plane ride away!  It was a leveling blow and there was melodrama and many tears, but the decision had been made.  In consolation their families promised that they could visit.  
 
The following summer, the promise of a visit was kept.  It was on this trip that the idea of their first foray into the forbidden world of adult beverages came up.  They were thirteen and fifteen years old, and they relished one other’s company as much as ever.  They had a sleepover at the older girl’s house, just like old times.  They sang every word of their favorite songs, giggled over crushes, debated the pros and cons of having short hair verses long hair, and stayed up to see if anyone good was on the late-night talk shows.  
 
“Have you ever had a drink?” the older girl asked.   
“Huh?”  the younger girl said.  
“A drink.  You know, booze!”  whispered the elder. 
“No!  Have you?” the younger replied.  
“No.”  And after a long pause, “Do you want to try it?   We can raid my parents’ liquor cabinet!”  Half intrigued but always afraid of getting in trouble, the younger girl said, “I don’t know.  I kind of want to but… what if we get caught?”  
“Oh, pfft!  We’re not gonna get caught.  It’s not like we’re going to get falling down drunk.  We’ll just get a little tipsy! C’mon, live a little!”  
“OK,” the younger girl agreed, “we’ll just get a little tipsy!”  She giggled when she said the word.  It was such a silly word and, by virtue, it felt pretty harmless.
 
They could not, however, just waltz over to the liquor cabinet and pour themselves a drink, so before they left the older girl’s bedroom, they had to have a plan. Having never “drank” before they weren’t quite sure how to go about it.  What should they drink and how much?  They didn’t know, so they decided they would just take a little bit from every bottle.  It was the best way to leave no obvious evidence of their theft, since no one bottle would look like it was missing anything when compared to the others. They also decided that, once poured, they should bring it back to their room to drink, to lessen the risk of getting caught in the act.  
 
It was late.  The older girl’s parents were asleep in their room down the hall and she needed to keep it that way.  She gently clasped the doorknob and turned it as far as it would go. Willing it into silence, she eased open her bedroom door. She could hear light snoring coming from her parents’ room.  They slipped out into the hallway, their bare feet on the carpet making no sound.  Barely breathing, they moved in slow motion as they crept onto the stairs, toes hovering for an instant just above each step before making contact. Freezing in place when they thought they heard something.  Regaining movement when the sound of light snoring confirmed the coast was clear.   Step... wait... step... wait... step... wait... They moved like ghosts.  
 
Finally, they made it into the kitchen.  The door to the liquor cabinet was one they’d never opened before.  They knew where it was and what was in it, and there was an unspoken rule that it was strictly off limits but, until now, they hadn’t cared; they’d been far more interested in where the chips and cookies were kept.  Tonight, that changed.  Tonight, they had a laser focus on the bottom corner cupboard.  Behind its door they imagined a portal into another world, a GROWNUP world.  They opened the door to the cupboard and stared at its contents for a minute.  In the windowless hallway, their eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness and, although they’d turned on no lights, the kitchen – with double windows over the sink - seemed bright by comparison.  They stared at the bottles; some tall, some round, some square, some with textured glass and some with smooth.  The low light of the moon through the windows glinted on the glass and danced on the surface of the various potions. It had already begun to intoxicate them. 
 
They grabbed two tall milk glasses and, silently working their way through the bottles, poured until each glass was about two-thirds full.  Then, armed with their contraband, they tiptoed back to the stairs.  
 
Once returned to the safety of the bedroom, they got right down to business.  They stood facing one another in the middle of the room, glasses in hand, eyes locked.  There was no turning back.  They were excited to cross a threshold and leave part of their childhood behind.  
“You ready?” the older girl asked. 
“Yeah,” the younger girl whispered, quickly nodding her head.  
They clinked glasses, whispered “cheers” and, bringing glass to lips, never losing eye contact, they each took their first tiny, timid sips. 
“BWAH!” the older girl said in a huge expulsion of air as her eyes flew open wide.  A shudder ripped through the younger girl’s body from head to toe, like a wet dog flinging off water, and she said, “Holy shit, it burns!”
  
They quickly gathered themselves and regrouped, looked at each other and nodded, indicating they were ready to go again.  They took a second tentative sip.  This time it went down just a bit easier. As the older girl pulled the glass away from her lips, she watched in horror and amazement as the younger girl kept going.  She tipped the glass back, gulping down the rotgut concoction like a third-year frat boy.  She chugged it all to the last drop without coming up for air, and with the bottom of the empty glass facing the ceiling and the rim still to her lips, she fell back on the bed behind her.  Arms splaying out wide, milk glass loosely in hand and staring at the ceiling, she just lay there, astonished, waiting to see if she was going to puke
.  
“Holy, shit!” said the older girl, laughing. “Are you ok?  How did you do that?”  
“I don’t know,” the breathless, younger girl said, and as a smile moved across her lips she added, “but it felt pretty fuckin’ good.”  
She started to laugh, softly at first then louder and louder and, as a feeling of complete and utter release came over her, she raised her voice and said, “Holy SHIT!” 
“Shut UP!”  said the older girl in a frantic hushed voice. And through her teeth she hissed, “You’re gonna wake up my parents!”  
 
Still lying back on the bed, the younger girl laughed and yelled out at the top of her lungs, “I DON’T GIVE A SHIT!  I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ANYTHING!”  The feelings of self-doubt had left her.  The low-grade anxiety that had been her constant companion for as far back as she could remember was gone.  The worry of displeasing her father had vanished.  The fear of not being good enough and that nobody liked her had disappeared.  She felt free.  For the first time in her young life, the invisible, inexplicable burden she’d carried on her narrow shoulders and the soft pressure, like a hand on her chest, had been lifted.  Fears, pressures and weights that she didn’t even know were there until now, were gone.  Having no other frame of reference, she had no sense or awareness of something that had always been there... until it wasn’t.  
 
That night she never did wake up her best friend’s parents – and the trip to the liquor cabinet was just another one of their thousands of secrets – but she’d gotten way more than tipsy.  The girl who was shy and sweet and far too sensitive for this world had tasted freedom. And a demon had entered her young body leaving behind a key and a map.   
 
The next day the fear and the pressure were back but now she was aware of their presence… and a way to make them go away.

Next week's post, the last of the complimentary previews, Chapter Three; White Porcelain  on Thursday, December 24th at 10 am Eastern, 1: pm Pacific time

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​Thank you so much, xoAmie

It was the darkest day of my life.  Not the day you might think.  Not the day my husband died.  It happened before that.
 
It was early April, the day my husband was scheduled for surgery.  That was the day the surgeon emerged from the operating room two hours late – two hours after the time the surgery was expected to end.  He ushered us out of the main waiting area and into a private, adjoining room and he closed the door.  That’s when he told us that he was terribly sorry but they had been wrong. What they were so sure was a blood clot against the portal vein in my husband’s liver was, in fact, a large tumor.  The cancer was back.
 
As the saying goes, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and in my pursuit of higher learning much time was spent on anatomy, physiology, and pathology.  I’d found the classes fascinating and I’d paid close attention.  I’d learned how the human body works, starting at the cellular level.  I’d studied the circulatory system; how a cell in the blood stream is transported through the body like a leaf swept along with the current of a river.  I understood what a tumor pressed against the permeable wall of a vein could do.  I knew that once the mutated cells were loose in the bloodstream there would be no stopping them.  I’d studied hard and I’d aced my tests.  And so, I knew.
 
The room started spinning and I couldn’t really hear much after that.  I remember I had to find a bathroom because I became physically ill.  When I returned to the little room, the doctor tried to explain what this all meant. However, my ability to hear and my level of comprehension were intermittent at best.  I became intensely aware of the sound of my own heartbeat echoing inside my skull, as though I’d run full speed up ten flights of stairs then cupped my hands over my ears.  Sandwiched between the deafening pulses of blood through my brain, I heard bits and pieces of the doctor’s attempt at optimism: “Start chemo… got it early… chances are good… still get a transplant…”  But I knew.
 
Only two other thoughts were running through my head. The first, oddly enough, was my deep concern for the people in the next room.  In an out-of-body moment of self-observation, I suddenly realized that I was no longer sitting in stunned silence, tears running down my face; I was now doubled over and I was screaming.  Reality was crashing in and because my body lacked the physical size to contain the enormity of it all, I had unknowingly morphed into a kind of human volcano, earsplitting wails erupting from my mouth.  I thought how that must be scaring the hell out of the people in the next room – who were waiting, as I had been, for their loved one to come out of surgery.  You see, what was coming out of my mouth was not a sound one would associate with humans.  It was the sound of mournful horror.  A primal manifestation of terror and disbelief.  It is the sound that would come out if the Earth cracked open and all of hell spilled forth.  Because, in that moment, I knew.
​
The other thought was this. We had been so hopeful, so sure, that this surgery was the opening of the door to recovery.  This surgery was the last hurdle to be cleared so my husband could get on the list for his liver transplant, and a long, happy, healthy life was ahead.  We were so close and we were so excited.  
 
But it wasn’t the case.  This, instead, was our worst nightmare.  Still, I knew one more thing had to be done that was even worse than what was happening now.  With this realization, I bellowed as I felt myself falling into the abyss.  
 
Somewhere within these hospital walls, the sweetest, kindest soul lay deeply sleeping, blissfully unaware.  In a few hours, he would be awake. How, in God’s name, would I tell this to my husband?
 
So, on the seventh of April, on a beguiling spring day, the lights went out, the walls closed in, the sky fell down and the rug got pulled out from under me, all at once.  It was the beginning of the end of the world.  And I knew.

Next week's post, Chapter Two; Tipsy on Thursday, December 17th at 10 am Eastern, 1: pm Pacific time
​
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​Thank you so much, xoAmie

​Different ages.  Different decades.  Different circumstances.  There are specific events in our lives that shift our paths, write our stories and break our hearts, adding layers, depth and complexity to the clean-slated girls we once were.  
 
Each chapter in Part I of Kintsukuroi Heart is a non-fiction stand-alone story.  A collection of vignettes offering glimpses of the exact moment in a woman’s life when something happens, either by choice or circumstance, that changes her course.
 
In Part II we see how these experiences, though deeply personal and unique, are the threads that intertwine and connect us all, fostering compassion and empathy for one another and, hopefully, for ourselves. 
 
In Part III we see how, as women, like all forces of nature and works of art, our beauty is formed through refraction, revealed in dimension and contrast, shadow and light, our benevolence becoming both the result and the salve, the subject and lens.  The road may be beastly but the result, if allowed, can be spectacular.

​“Kintsukuroi: kin-tsU-kU-roi (noun) (v. phr.)  ‘To repair with gold.’ The Japanese art of mending broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum.  As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object rather than something to disguise, understanding that the piece becomes more beautiful for having been broken.”

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”  ~Maya Angelou~ 

Next week's post, Chapter One; Waiting Room on Thursday, December 10th at 10 am Eastern, 1: pm Pacific time

Want to read more now?  I can't wait to share this book with you!
Order on Kindle or in paperback by clicking on the Amazon Affiliate Book Link below!

​Thank you so much, xoAmie