BECOMING MARJORIE launched!

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Sharing the stage with (left to right) Rainy Day Books founder and owner, Vivien Jennings, Marjorie’s daughters Barbara and Debbie, the author (me!), and Marjorie’s friend and colleague, Janice Kreamer, Chair of the Kauffman Foundation.

More than two years ago, I began a book commission to capture the story of one of our nation’s unsung feminists–the sort of woman who wouldn’t have even called herself a feminist. It all culminated with an incredible launch week for me full of media interviews and promo stuff from September 19 to 24, 2017.  All those spoon-bending, how-in-the-heck-am-I-gonna-do-this hours spent (and will experience again–I’m already into the next commission) do somehow grow from an idea into the words and they find their pages and get beautifully bound and into the hands of readers.

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The NPR gig: now to remember everything I wrote!

I’m going to give enormous credit to the most amazing artists who comprise 94 Design–Paul and Laura Adams. Their exquisitely art-directed style turned boxes of artifacts into thoughtful visual assets. This is our second book together and I really don’t want to ever try this without them. They make my concept real, and then they make even better than I hoped it could look.

Paul and Laura Adams of 94 Design are the consummate professionals behind the art-directed look.

If you’d like to learn more about the woman who prompted a book to be written about her amazing life and legacy 25 years after she died, she’s here:

BECOMING MARJORIE

http://www.rainydaybooks.com/search/site/Becoming%20Marjorie

 

oh what a world

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My daughter celebrated her 20th birthday by marching on Washington DC with tens of thousands of other women. It was an intense kind of joining, and a peaceful event . . . the sort of thing that happens when women are in charge.

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I have no hope for this country under the new administration, but I am full of hope for what women can do to influence our future. Just looking at my girl makes me feel that way.

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the salt in the water

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I am swaying back and forth over the steam . . . praying to the God of salt in boiling water who keeps the eggshell from cracking.

Today I woke in a country of unconscionable choice. My friends and I text a roll call to see who is standing and how. My dog Nessie wants walking but I’m not sure anything’s got legs anymore, certainly not the popular vote.

Mail just dropped through the slot in the box just like any old day. Maybe somehow it won’t be as bad as we fear. There are still so many good things.

I make of list of happinesses:

Elise got engaged. Brianna’s little Oliver is a week old now. Andrew called from Ireland to remind me of my daughter’s heart. Cybelle got that job at Western. The feeling of my son’s earlobes and the center of his forehead. Gregorian Chants. Bagpipes. To be on the last part of the last chapter and know I’ll make my deadline. The expensive lotion from Taylor. The mermaid stone from Jane. The bird candle from Suzanne . . . the birds in Jill’s office . . . the birds in the airport. Yesterday’s lunch to celebrate my daughter’s first vote in a presidential election that included a woman’s name on the ticket.

Here’s to those huevos, and here’s to celebrating before they were broken. And if I bake bread or write thank you notes or make soup, then oxygen will start to flow through this bag of bones again.

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Outside my kitchen window, there is a geesyness of sky and November’s leaf music. The sun still rose over a world that has seen far worse, I tell myself.

I place the three eggs in the pan. I add more salt to the water, less to the wound.

© L. Seaver 11/9/16

more than words

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Finally, we reach the part of the lake where sandy shallows wrap around a small peninsula. We tie the canoes to branches hanging low over the water. The big boys launch noisily in the direction a Frisbee is thrown. The other mothers call for life preservers. But the boys are already gone . . . drenched in a watersong. And I am drowning in it.

My son is not yet a very big boy. He’s a little blonde glint of a different world. He flips out of the boat like a sunfish off a line. He doesn’t hear his cousins calling him to join in because he can’t. He’s deaf . . . a Seer. Off he goes, enthralled in the company of many things only he is noticing.

I, too, am in a place apart. The lake is quicksilvering in syllables of light . . . the minnows tasting my toes. I write more than words across the water with a fingertip. Things I don’t say to the others.

All the girlfriends I had before are the other mothers. Even my sisters are the other mothers; my mother is one of the others, too. The world is now divided into the others and us . . . hearing and Deaf. And I don’t belong in either place but to the space between them. A bridger. It will be years before I can accept this as the Divine gift that it is.

The breeze writes back unintelligibly  in light ripples over the surface. Whatever it means gives me comfort.

Looking up, I see my little boy bending as far as possible until his ear touches the surface of the water . . . as though listening intently to it. His eyes closed in concentration. He reaches deeply for something. Half of his face submerges, the other half glows with feeling. He brings a clamshell like sunken treasure to the surface . . . checks it for a pearl.

~ Leeanne Seaver © 2014

 

the last thing She sees

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Of the field and fall

from grace we yield

the summer-sated grasses

and the golden-hour lasses . . .

Letting go the season

has come to pass

What wouldn’t I
do to spare you?

The Earth drops her gown

from green to gold to ground

but the last thing She’ll see

is blue . . . remembering

a world She once knew

. . . all the women do.

© LGS 9/14


(Bolstered by my writerly colleagues at http://www.lakeeffectwritersguild.com, I post this for my girl, and for all us girls)

of the Moon

Nightbird at Blood Moon

Last night, Kit and I went to the Full Moon Drumming, which was particularly wonderful during this, the Blood Moon. There was a big turnout. Instruments of all kinds were spread out on the ground for any newbies (like us) to borrow—fully engaged participation is the unspoken expectation. Interspersed were various art supplies that had presumably been used to put up promotional posters about the event, at least that’s what we figured the markers, scissors, etc., were beside the tambourines and maracas. Yet there was a tin can, fly swatter, knitting needles, and a knife sharpener, so who could be sure?

I’m not a musician but I can keep a beat, at least I thought I could. Then the tattooed guys with pony tails started beating rhythms out of the congas, snares, steel pans and African drums that were powerful and primal. Everything I tried to sync to that skewed highchair-baby-with-spoon. As soon as the first session winded down, I switched to cow bell and spent the next session trying to keep Will Farrell/SNL images out of my mind.

Maybe the fourth or fifth “drum conversation” in, I was finally getting the hang of it. I had settled at last on the triangle because…well, I just didn’t think you could mess up on the triangle. It always sounds nice. After a while, Kit gave me a look that inferred otherwise.

“Play something different,” she hissed.
“This is the only song I know on the triangle,” I replied.
“No, I mean a different instrument…anything…like a skein of yarn.”

She looked around desperately then handed me a glitter-glue stick, but I just tuned her out.

4/2014

oh, the places you will go

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Now recovered from the jetlag, and the miserable sick that I was while abroad last month, I shall post some pix and remember how beautiful the Alps were (and still are).

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Hallstatt is a a wee postcardian town that for most of its phenomenally long existence (its salt mine has been continuously worked since hundreds of years BCE) remained accessible only by boat over the Hallstattersee.

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It’s hard for me to imagine ordinary life in such an extraordinary place. How could anyone struggle with the mundane when every view or scene is magnificent?IMG_6678IMG_6663
Of course, I know better but that’s what’s so amazing about traveling. The sensory responses on every level change the way my heart beats . . . from tha-thump to a full percussion of feeling.