Be honest. What runs through your mind when you first take your seat on an airplane? Do you hope the stranger sitting next to you will be a brilliant conversationalist and the two of you will enjoy a lively conversation for the duration of your upcoming flight? Or do you avert your eyes, pull out a book, and pop some earbuds in, sending the signal that you’re not interested in small talk? I default to option #2 most often, although I do like to at least say ‘hello’ before I bury my nose in my latest read. But magic can unfold when we open ourselves up to conversation. Three years ago, in September 2018, I found myself on a flight next to a woman I didn’t know. My daughters were elsewhere on the plane. It was a spur-of-the-moment trip and our seats weren’t together. I likely exchanged a quick greeting with the woman, but nothing more. I was mapping out the logistics of the launch of my second novel. She was busy on her phone. Eventually I noticed she was typing paragraph after paragraph on her tiny device. This intrigued me. I think I may have even asked if she was pulling together a blog post, although I don’t remember exactly how that initial conversation started. I do remember mentioning I was a new author, something I wouldn’t normally tell a stranger. There can be rare moments in life when we click with someone we only just met. We clicked. She said her name was Tara. Tara talked about her passion around the retreats she ran in California involving horses. It sounded fascinating. She mentioned her grown son, and how proud she was of his accomplishments. I could relate. We were traveling to my daughter’s interview at a graduate school, and I was a proud momma as well. I think Tara was traveling home after visiting her son. Again, I’ve lost the threads of our conversation, but our chat would be the start of a budding friendship that’s turned out to be a true blessing in my life. Our flight was running late. We both had tight connections with little chance of making our next flights. I gave her one of my shiny new business cards, and she gave me her contact information. Often this will be the end of this type of exchange, but for us, it was just the beginning. Luck was smiling down on us that day, and we made our connection. Tara did, too. We had a wonderful time on our girls’ trip. We dipped our toes in the ocean (always a treat since we live in land-locked North Dakota!), my daughter’s interview went well, and she’s now starting her third year in the program she interviewed for on the day after that fateful flight. After we got home, I checked out Tara’s website, curious. It surprised and saddened me to learn she was in the midst of a fight for her very life. She was battling cancer (something she never mentioned during our initial visit) and trying to save her Wind Horse Sanctuary. Tara is very active on social media, and I’ve slowly gotten to know more about this woman I randomly met on an airplane. She’s articulate, funny, supportive, and incredibly brave. We stay in touch. She’s generously taught me valuable tidbits about the various social media platforms. She watched a video of the very first podcast interview I ever gave. In the episode, I talked about my path to becoming a published author. She reached out to me after watching it, intrigued, and we continued to communicate back and forth. Her health struggles escalated, and I had grave concerns for Tara. To make matters worse, she shared that her mother was battling cancer as well. We live very different lives, Tara and I. She moved to beautiful Kauai, is a fiercely independent woman, and lives in a yurt surrounded by pets and horses. We marvel at the differences in our surroundings, particularly in the winter, when her weather is mild and ours is ridiculously frigid. When COVID struck the world, she put out an offer to say a special prayer for anyone in need. She was traveling to a sacred location along the ocean and wanted to offer hope and encouragement. It was April 2020, and my father was in the hospital, suffering from this scary new virus and fighting for his life. I reached out to Tara, told her what was happening, and she offered up a special prayer for Dad (Dad recovered!) I felt compelled to send Tara a copy of my first book, Whispering Pines. I hoped she’d find the story fun and uplifting, something to make her smile, to entertain her on hard days. Her cancer treatments are tough and ongoing. She’d mentioned a desire to write her own memoir, and I encouraged her. If ever a story needed to be told, it was Tara’s. She has a knack for finding the gifts hidden within her struggles. She shares those struggles with the world, not for sympathy, but as an example of how to overcome life’s challenges. Tara is like a candle, bringing light to a world that has far too many shadows. We both went on living our lives, and Tara began pulling her memoir together. Since I had a few novels out by that time, she’d reach out occasionally with questions about the more technical aspects of writing a book. I knew she’d enrolled in an online course, much as I had when I was first starting out, but I don’t believe we ever discussed the specifics. Then something crazy happened. When she reached the end of Whispering Pines, she read the Acknowledgement section. It’s a long section given it was my very first book, and I was bursting with excitement and gratitude when I finally reached that last step. We were both in for a big shock. Unbeknownst to either of us, we’d ended up taking the same online course for self-publishing. That was a fun coincidence. But the shocker came when she read the ‘thank you’ I’d included in the back of my book to Ramy Vance, my book coach. She was smack dab in the middle of her own coaching sessions with Ramy! What are the odds? We took that same program, a couple of years apart, and they have lots of coaches. I love when things like this happen. And I’m so proud of Tara. Despite many obstacles, she finished her amazing book and published it in August: Grace, Grit & Gratitude-A Cancer Thriver’s Journey from Hospice to Full Recovery with the Healing Power of Horses, author Tara Coyote. The book is selling like gangbusters, as it should. Tara has faced incredible odds, and she keeps coming out on top. A few weeks ago, we made another trip out to the western US, this time to visit our daughter at the school she interviewed with during the same trip when I met Tara. I thought it was fitting to get a picture of me showing off Tara’s wonderful new book while on the plane. I hope I played a small part in helping her bring her story to the world. Tara’s also been working her way through all of my books. She reached out to me recently to discuss my approach to a difficult death scene in my latest book “Celia’s Gifts.” My ongoing communications with Tara remind me that the fresh paths we choose to travel can lead to new friendships. We’re learning together as we navigate the complicated world of publishing. I’m so glad I didn’t stick my nose in a book three years ago and ignore the woman sitting next to me on that plane! I invite you to check out Tara’s story. I hope she’ll inspire you, too. You’ll find her all over social media, bringing attention to her many important causes. My favorite place to stay up to date with her is on Instagram at @taracoyote and @gracegritgratitudebook (be careful not to click on one of the unscrupulous people that are coming out of the woodwork pretending to be her now that she is seeing success with her book!) If you’d like to check out her book, here is a link you may find helpful: I encourage you to keep watching for opportunities to connect with positive, uplifting people like Tara in what is becoming an increasingly divisive world. There are countless wonderful people out there, and you never know where a simple hello might take you.
You just might find some magic of your own! Kim
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A wave of melancholy washed over me, despite the beautiful summer evening, as I relaxed on the dock with my nearly grown girls on the eve of my fifty-second birthday. I hated the idea of celebrating my birthday without Mom. Many “firsts” following the death of a loved one create peaks in the ebb and flow of our grief. This one felt especially poignant. There would be no “Happy Birthday” wishes from her the following day. What would my birthday feel like without her? Unwilling to allow the all-to-familiar blues to take hold, I meandered off the dock, leaving my girls to their fishing. I’d let writing distract me. As a new author, I was blogging weekly to improve my skills and attract new readers. Months earlier, I’d scheduled out my blog concepts, deciding the prompt for my birthday week would be “Gift of Night Waves,” the title to a pivotal chapter in my first novel. In the book, my protagonist stumbles upon a priceless gift as ocean waves lap at her feet. Standing on the shale shores of a murky reservoir in the middle of the country might not yield the same level of inspiration, but birds were twittering their night song, and a soft breeze caressed my face, smelling of fresh-cut grass with an undercurrent of fish. I needed to open my mind to ideas for a post to match my blog title. Stepping carefully on the shifting shale, I scanned the shoreline. Tiny bubbles popped to the surface mere inches from my toes, and the darting shadows of minnows hinted at a hidden world below. Something bobbed nearby. I paused, bending over to investigate. At first, I thought it was a flat piece of driftwood, but the shape wasn’t quite right. Curious, I picked it up. As I turned the item over, my mind flashed back to another July evening, three years earlier. We’d just returned from our maiden voyage in new kayaks. I wasn’t yet accustomed to getting in and out of the torpedo-shaped craft, and capsizing was a legitimate concern. Two yards from shore, I plunged one flip-flop-clad foot into the water to avoid scraping my new boat along the sharp shale bottom. Slimy muck enveloped my foot and encircled my ankle. I clumsily swung my other foot over and out, placing it more carefully on the slick surface below, intent on keeping my shorts dry. I stepped toward shore; my left foot rendered bare as I pulled it from the sucking sludge, my shoe still buried. Unconcerned, I safely stowed my kayak, then turned back to retrieve my sandal, hopeful I’d be able to wash the clinging mud off my favorite shoes. Returning to the exact spot, or so I thought, I probed first with my toes, then with my fingers, refusing to consider what else might be trapped in the quagmire below. My actions did little more than cloud the water with sediment, rendering my eyes useless in the search. A flip-flop couldn’t just disappear. It had to be there. But where? As the sun dipped below the horizon, I admitted to temporary defeat. Waiting until morning would allow the disturbed lake bottom to settle. Hopefully the shoe would be revealed in the bright light of day. The following morning, clear water and sparkling sun revealed nothing. Had my buoyant little shoe floated away on the waves? I refused to believe it. Searching for my lost shoe became a family affair, but not even the twenty-dollar reward offered to the kids would be enough to discover my shoe’s hidey-hole. Mom would shake her head over the ridiculousness of my silly reward, finding my obsession over finding my cheap, missing shoe absurd. Too soon, autumn chased summer away. While winterizing the cabin, I considered tossing my single remaining flip-flop. But I refused to give up on my quest. Eventually, the lone sandal fell to the bottom of the shoe basket full of castoffs. Someone would occasionally joke about searching our bay for my missing shoe when they needed spending money, but there was likely nothing left to find. “Mom, what’s that?” My mind ripped back to the present. The aqua, pink and white striped straps and the cork-like bottom of the dripping shoe in my hand matched my now infamous missing flip-flop. There was only one logical explanation. “Did you two put this in here?” I accused, rounding on my daughters, cold water trickling down my arm as I held my discovery high in the air. I could read the confusion on their faces. If they were trying to trick me by planting my one remaining flip-flop down here, they were doing a masterful job of masking their scheme. Unable to accept that I might be holding the missing flip-flop, my mind jumped instead to my husband. Or our son. Who was trying to trick me? Spinning, I half-ran, half-slipped up the shale embankment toward our cabin with my find. The quickest way to prove my theory was to confirm the sandal I’d kept was no longer in the basket. Dropping my muck-covered discovery on the patio, I hurried inside. I tossed the collection of shoes onto the kitchen floor in my haste to disprove what I was starting to consider, …and there it was…waiting patiently for me at the wicker bottom of the basket. No one had tried to trick me by stashing a flip-flop along the shoreline. I headed back to the patio with the clean shoe, struggling to comprehend the likelihood of a ten-dollar sandal staying in one piece for three years, stuck deep in the mud of a bay that freezes hard every winter, where waves pound and water levels fluctuate. Yanking out a length of garden hose, I rinsed the clinging mud from my discovery. A metal grommet bore heavy corrosion, but beyond that, the shoe still looked nearly identical to its mate. When I skipped back down to the water’s edge with my reunited shoes, the girls' dubious expressions revealed little elation over my find. The possibility of the twenty-dollar reward had evaporated. Pondering what had just transpired, I reclaimed my spot on the dock and felt a sense of contentment flow through me. The night’s waves had delivered unapparelled inspiration for my blog post, although capturing the scope of the experience felt daunting. Logic defied the sequence of the evening’s events (the shoe surviving harsh elements for so long, my being in the exact right place, at the perfect time, before my miraculously freed flip-flop could float away.) My eyes traveled over the clouds dotting the horizon above the surface of our lake, and I accepted that logic didn’t belong in this story. I believe the flip-flop was symbolic, a sign sent from my mom, giving me the most precious of gifts for my birthday: a reminder to never give up, despite how daunting things may feel, and never to forget that she’s still watching over me, celebrating life. It's been three years since I found my missing flip-flop. I decided to keep the reunited pair in a shadow box in my home office as a constant reminder that mystery and inspiration always surround us. And Mom is still cheering me on!
Allow yourself to be amazed by the gift of the unexplainable, Kim As I sit down to write on this sunny Sunday morning, I’m again convinced that springtime is the ultimate reminder of the beauty in this world. I’d planned to get back to working on my latest novel, but the breathtaking scene outside my front window demands something different. Spring flowers are bursting forth with wild abandon, untouched and unaided by human hands. We’ve survived a long, dark winter; a stretch of time shadowed by more than dreary weather. I’m enjoying the glorious riot of pink on the tree outside. Yes, I’m a “pink girl.” I grew up wanting to live in a pink house. It doesn’t get much more dedicated to a color than that! We’ve lived in our house for twenty-eight years (give or take). We had no children when we moved in, but there were bedrooms to fill and a school nearby. Within the first year of living here, we had a new puppy and a baby on the way. That “baby” is now twenty-seven and living next door with his wife in their own house. But we didn’t stop at one. When our son turned three, our first daughter arrived, followed by another little girl to round out our family of five. The blooming of the pink crabapple tree always brings back special memories. Ever since the kids arrived, I’ve earned groans every spring when I insist we stand underneath the glorious branches laden with millions of pink blossoms for pictures. Depending on schedules and life stages, the various photos include poses with one, two, or all three of the kids. There are also special snapshots that include extended family. I’m so thankful they all humor me with these annual photo sessions. When I look back through boxes of old pictures plus all the ones on my phone and in the computer, I sometimes wonder what I’ll ever do with so many pictures taken around one blossoming tree. Should I delete some of the photographs? After all, most are hardly portrait quality masterpieces! There are shots with eyes closed against a glaring sun, heads turned at distractions, and a few inevitable squabbles as we crowded together. I bet that if I gathered one hundred of my pink tree pictures (it wouldn’t be hard, there are so many), most are perhaps “flawed” if I look at them with a critical eye. But I won’t delete any of them. After all, they are snippets of what actual life is like. The photos are a grouping of everyday moments. Moments that, while we were living them, seemed commonplace, and making time to take the pictures almost felt like a burden even. After all, the blossoms only last for a few days, and if a storm rolls through, they’ll be gone in a matter of hours. I never wanted to miss taking pictures in front of the tree when it was in its annual state of glory. The tree has a reliable cycle. Quiet and sleepy through the long winters, followed by a slow awakening. If you think to check, you’ll see tiny, tight buds forming, wine-colored and barely noticeable. You can never be sure exactly when they’ll burst open, taking on an almost fluffy appearance of beautiful color. The intense pink takes my breath away. Right now, as I sit here appreciating the tree’s beauty, a solitary blossom dances slowly to the ground, caught on a puff of air, before landing softly on the bright green grass below. It’s a poignant reminder to enjoy this glorious sight now, before it’s too late. It won’t be long before the petals fade. They’ll litter the grass and driveway below like huge snowflakes, but the warmed air finally makes snow improbable. The spring breeze will quickly carry them away, or the lawnmower will shred them as summer approaches. But my pink tree will keep producing even after its blooms fade. Dark green leaves will remain, along with a heavy crop of tiny little apples. Eventually, there will be a noticeable increase in the sporadic thumps against our bay window after twittering birds partake of the fermenting fruit. Poor little things! Eventually, the fruit will fall to the ground, messier than the petals of early spring. Daily sweeping of the driveway won’t be enough to prevent the staining of the concrete. Vehicle tires will pulverize the tree’s bounty. The toddlers that posed under that very tree with me through the years, their little hands thrown up over their eyes to block the shining son, now drive cars that will run over the tiny apples. Where have the years gone? Eventually, the heat of summer will fade to the crisp, cool nights of autumn. More apples will fall, frustrating my husband with the mess. But the only way that tree is leaving here is when it (or me) dies a natural death. The weight of its many branches threatened it last year, so I looked away while the hubby trimmed away some excess. The weight was causing the trunk to split, making the pruning necessary to prolong the life of my tree. With the low-hanging branches gone, our photo session last night required a slightly different angle. It isn’t lost on me that I’m never alone in the annual photography sessions under the pink tree. This alone is a testament to how blessed my life has been while we’ve lived in this house. It’s just the two of us living here now, but thankfully the kids still come and go. This is still their “home”, and I hope it always will be. If not this physical place, I hope that wherever we call home will be special to the three of them as well. I’m also learning to appreciate the beauty in other areas of the country where one of our kids is pursuing dreams of her own. There may come a time where schedules don’t align during the brief annual window when my tree boasts its riot of color. I’ve come to understand that a selfie taken under my tree will be sufficient, too. Like the pink tree, everything lives through different seasons. Important people fill some of our days. But other times, we enjoy things on our own, exploring our own needs, and discovering new things that give us joy. Many things in nature remind us of the cycles of life. There will be slow, sleepy days where not much seems to happen, times for rest and renewal. Then suddenly, big bursts of joy hit us. Even when unexpected storms rage, causing upheaval and turmoil, destruction even, we remember the winds will eventually blow themselves out, followed by a contemplative quiet. The storms pass, and it all begins again. It is the promise of yet another springtime that fuels our hopes. Another petal drifted to the ground just now, reminding me of the long list of springtime activities I hope to accomplish today. But as it does every single year, my tree has gifted me with a pause, a chance to reflect on the breathtaking beauty of life. And even though this year’s blooms won’t last much longer, I’m learning that if I keep my eyes open, nature will find another amazing way to remind me of what’s important tomorrow. Welcome to spring, my friends! Kim How long would it take you to walk across India? For me, it took about a year. Funny thing is, I never even left the United States. Actually, since it was 2020, I barely left my neighborhood. Make that two neighborhoods. I’ve written about my daily walking habit before, and I promise not to talk about it in every blog post, but my unexpected India badge gave me an idea. Like so many of us, I had to scrap travel plans last year because of the pandemic. A trip to see our daughter in March, a writers’ conference in Nashville in May, and another conference in Las Vegas in November: all canceled. Instead, I spent 95% of my time either at home or at our lake cabin. Lots of working, lots of writing, and too much Netflix made up the bulk of my year. I bet you can relate. To keep my sanity, and a promise to myself, I also walked. I don’t even want to do the math on how many times this means I circled our neighborhood because it would probably make me dizzy (we considered investing in a treadmill but I fear it would soon become an expensive clothes hanger). At least there was a change of scenery and some hills when I walked at the lake. But this still only meant two main paths. My obsession to hit a minimum of 10,000 steps every single day gave me lots of positive benefits, but it didn’t take me very far from my house. This gets me back to my idea (see, after walking the same route for months on end, I’m even kind of going in circles here 😊). If I had planned to walk instead of fly to Nashville or Las Vegas, would the culmination of my daily step count have gotten me there and back in a year? Thanks to easy-to-use map apps on my phone, it wasn’t a hard question to answer. It turns out my daily walks added up to enough miles to not only get me all the way to Vegas, I could have tossed a few coins in a slot machine, turned around, and walked back as far as Rapid City, South Dakota. I could be visiting Mount Rushmore right now! It’s been years since we last visited this national treasure, but the realization prompted me to dig for pictures from our one and only vacation there with the kids. True confessions: I couldn’t find those exact photographs, but it was still fun to thumb my way through a few boxes of fun memories. I really need to get all my pictures organized! While I missed out on a fun week of learning from amazing authors in Vegas, I enjoyed this trip down memory lane today. What about Nashville? Turns out I could have made it all the way there, visited the Grand Ole Opry (maybe they were closed down like so many other things, but since we are just pretending here…), turned around, and made it back as far as Minneapolis. Visiting Nashville is still on my bucket list, but I’ve made plenty of shopping excursions to Minneapolis with family and friends. I could be shopping at the Mall of America right now, or perusing one of the outlet malls. While I don’t like to shop as much as I used to, I am going through withdrawals these days and look forward to getting back there in the not-too-distant future. Some shopping is in order, as is some time away with friends. My yoga pants and sweatshirts are getting worn out from over use! Dress clothes I bought in Arizona in February 2020 still have tags on them since comfy clothes have been my “go to” while working from home for the past year. It’s fun to think back on so many weekend trips, and it makes me realize how much I miss those get-a-ways. I know there will be more fun in the future! Last year didn’t turn out like any of us hoped, but there were undoubtedly lessons learned and unexpected blessings. I’m so grateful I kept up my walking routine. When I started at the beginning of 2020, I had little hope of sticking with it. But habits can be engrained if we give them enough time—one day at a time. Walking in circles for nearly a year also makes me think how this can happen in other areas of our lives, too. If we keep doing the same thing and thinking the same thoughts, day after day, we don’t get very far! Heck, we might not even get out of our own neighborhoods. Just look how much of this big beautiful country my feet would have taken me to if I’d have broken out of the pattern and followed different paths. This is all metaphorical, I have no desire to walk across the U.S., but it really makes me think about how impactful our daily habits and our thought patterns are on the way we live our lives. I walked in circles in 2020 to stay healthy (and not gain thirty extra pounds eating popcorn and watching too much television) because the world shut down. Hopefully, we can see continued progress in the months ahead, and start traveling again. But regardless, my walking paths have served as a powerful reminder to do what we can to avoid getting stuck in a rut. I’ve heard it said that if a ship veers off course by as little as two degrees, it can end up somewhere else entirely at the end of the journey! I believe the same is true for us. Tweaking small things in our daily routine can take our lives in totally different directions. Remember, If you want to head in a different direction in some part of your own life, shift by two degrees and see where your feet can take you!
Walking this journey alongside you, Kim |
Kimberly Diede AuthorHello everyone and welcome to my blog! My name is Kimberly Diede and I'm a fiction author and family girl. When time permits, I am happiest with a great cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. I love to alternate between reading and writing. Winters here can be long, dark and cold. Summers are unpredictable, lovely and always too short. Every season of the year, as in every season of life, is a gift. Let's celebrate it together! Archives
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