On the news this morning, I saw an interview with the last man who walked on the moon. I don't recall his name, which is embarrassing, but I wasn't really paying attention. The news depresses me. However, this man caught my attention when he objected to being called the last man to walk on the moon. He asserted that a young man or woman living today would walk on the moon again.

I don't hear people talk like that often. With assurance that something big will be accomplished. As a nation, what lofty goals do we have? What aspirations do we work toward?

We bicker. We focus on petty things.

Our people walked the moon. Unlike Icarus, their wings didn't melt. How much nearer the sun could we have gone? How much farther could we still go?

I'm no scientist. I don't understand the rules of space travel, but I've been on a swing. I love best that breathtaking moment, just before the swing falls, when you leave the seat and float in the air, hands holding tight to the chain.

It seems to me that we, as a nation, are at that point. An exhilarating moment. What if we spread our wings and let go the chain? We've been to the moon, so we know we are capable. Just let go the chain and free our hands for what needs doing.

But what's the point if we have no particular place to go? Might as well sit on the swing.

The Antioch Writers Workshop has come and gone. I attended this year for the second time. I learned a lot before, and this year, I expected reminders of things I knew. I hoped to discover something I never heard before. The thing about expecting something entirely new, is that, when it happens, it still surprises you.

I chose the afternoon session led by David B. Coe. I did not know him as an author before I chose his group. I picked him because his books seemed most interesting to me when I read through the bios. David led the sessions, but he managed be one of the group, a member with authority. My experience on these afternoons was extraordinary, but it was due to much more than his teaching.

 Twelve writers brought their manuscripts forward for assessment. Each of these twelve offered critique of one another's work, plus David's comments. They gave genuine and kind affirmations, clear and reasonable criticism. I tried to maintain this quality when my turn to speak came around.

My manuscript would be critiqued on the very last day. I tried to savor the anticipation and not to panic. I focused on doing my very best for the people who came before me. I gave them what I wanted myself, and what I saw they gave each other: heaps of deserved praise and honest criticism.

Some things unexpected began to happen right away. These writers saw one another as friends. Some knew each other already, but this group of thirteen developed solidarity. Despite my pathological reserve with unfamiliar people, they even drew me in.

On the final day, I felt emotional. Nerves played a part. My time for critique had come close. I still expected to hear something unexpected. I just knew someone would find some huge problem with my manuscript, an issue which would force me to dissect what I had written. I wanted to make my story better, but facing those twelve people scared me.

I felt emotional for one other reason. I didn't want to leave these people. I didn't want to lose the magic they had spun the last six days.

My critique began and I heard praise and honest criticism. I felt honored to be told by these people how they reacted to my work. I suppose it sounds hokey to you reading this, but I felt closer to them all when they critiqued my manuscript. I had expected to be pushed away.

The huge and unexpected that came to me had nothing to do with my manuscript. Yes, I learned new things. I see a clear path ahead, and for that I am thankful. But this is the epiphany. In only seven days, I became part of a we. For me, that is an unheard of thing.

When I was about ten, I choked at a potluck dinner in the basement of Waynesville United Methodist Church. The entrée was ham, and I was eating it because you have to eat what you're given, especially when you're the preacher's kid. I had already finished the delicious casseroles that the ladies of our church had brought to share. I wasn't sitting with my parents, maybe because this was a work event, so I was surrounded by nice church people. Nobody was emotionally close to me because we moved every two to four years and I never bothered to get attached.

The bite of salty ham I was chewing was mostly gristle. I gave up chewing it and tried to swallow. It seemed best to get it over with quickly. The wad of gristle went halfway down and lodged there. I tried to cough it up but it was stuck. I tried again to swallow. Then I tried to breathe. Nothing.

If I had been sitting by my mom, I would have grabbed her arm. I didn't feel comfortable grabbing the nice people sitting around me. I couldn't ask for help because I was unable to make the tiniest sound. I started to panic. What could I do? I must have put my hand on my throat. I don't remember.

The next thing I knew, someone struck my back hard and the gristle flew into my mouth. I sucked in air then, the most beautiful feeling. I heard exclamations around me. I started shaking. I pulled the gristle out of my mouth and set it delicately on the plate where it sat there, chewed and disgusting, but still intact.

"Do you want to go home?" One of the ladies asked.

I didn't look at her, but I nodded.

I never saw the man who saved me. If you should ever ask my dad his name, he'll give it immediately and forcefully. After all, this was the man who saved his little girl's life. Still, I can't connect the name to a face so I never remember it.

What brought that man to the church basement that day? What events of his life brought him to that denomination, that town, that part of the world? Some people would call him a guardian angel. They might say God had brought him there. I don't know about that.

I will commit to this one thing. Whatever events happened in this man's life, good or bad, those events brought him to me. He wouldn't have saved me if he hadn't been there.

I have a theory. Nothing solid, certainly not scientific, more a thought, I guess, than a theory. God may or may not have had a cosmic plan for that man, but He made the best of that man that day. He makes the best of us all every day, just who we are.

Okay, so I heard two things yesterday. First, a professional writer scoffed at those who say they can't live without writing. He claimed only to write because he was paid to do it. Second, I heard that people actually make money performing as air bands (meaning they stand on stage and play air guitar while a recording is played).

I found myself indignant at both these things. First, while I wouldn't die if I didn't write, I am driven to do it, and I make no money. Second, while I have made my living playing music, I make very little now, and am disgusted that people are paid to do nothing when I have worked very hard to actually make music.

Now, this is, of course, a bald expression of my knee jerk reaction. I can step back and see these things from a different perspective. After all, you have to make a living some way, and a writer who isn't paid will starve if he or she has no source of income. And air bands are just silly fun, so why shouldn't they make money if people are willing to pay? I'm not going to step back, though. I know I can find a soapbox around here somewhere.

Yes, I found it. My soapbox is all about me, just like everybody else's soapbox is all about them.

To my first point: It is insulting to us writers with no publishing success to make fun of us for having a dream. Don't be a jerk. If you didn't have a job as a writer, maybe you wouldn't write, but I do, thoroughly without success. It may be sad or it may be heroic, but it's not a mockery.

To my second point: Yes. I am a classically trained musician. I play the oboe, but I'm really an English hornist. Yes. I get that my marketability is rather thin. And yes, I get that most people would rather watch an air band. And yet, I am good at what I do. Somehow it's sad that people would rather watch someone pretend to make music than listen to someone actually do it.

There is a legitimacy gained by education and profitability. If you have letters behind your name or a nice salary, you are legit. If you make a crowd happy, you are (if I can quote MC Hammer) too legit to quit. The rest of us are lucky if we can be Don Quixote instead of Sancho Panza. Hey look, my soapbox just turned into a windmill. That's more appropriate, since I'm just spinning my wheels.

But I digress. Behind my name, I can add B.M. and M.M., which most people would construe as poop and chocolate. Both are necessary to life, I don't care how high and mighty you are.

I digress again.

Thank you. I have found my point. I would rather be silly than indignant. Still, if I have managed to communicate anything, I stand by it. On my soapbox. My windmill is currently under repair.

I wonder about technology sometimes. With the exception of my dad, I have the least tech capability of anyone I know. If there's a way to mess up a computer, I'll find it- and I don't mean dropping it, spilling juice in it, or leaving it outside in the bushes. I haven't done any of those things. I mean a general sense of helplessness on my part and habitual freezing on the part of my computer. I can't even explain what's wrong, but I'll try to do something and it won't work. Specific, I know, but I can't even comprehend the lingo of computers, and I know the meaning of the word perspicuous.

That's a joke, by the way. The meaning of the word perspicuous is funny because nobody knows what perspicuous means.

So, back to my point. My computer is infested with ants, and I already said I didn't spill anything. That's not my point, but an ant just ran across my screen and I killed it.

This is my point, as I flick the dead ant off my fingers- every time we develop a new technology to make something better, something else gets worse. I learned recently that screws and levers are classified as simple machines. I wonder why it is that the newest technology is obsolete within days, but screws and levers are still used and identifiable?

My first novel is in fragments on several computer disks, but I don't have my old word processor, so I can't look at the pitiful work I did back then. I have a gazillion cassette tapes that I can't play. My senior recital is on reel to reel, but the screwdriver in the kitchen drawer still comes in handy.

When I was a kid, a new appliance could be counted on to work for the next twenty or thirty years, but now they last no more than ten, but they're more efficient. You can find anything in the world on the internet in three minutes and buy it from your most comfortable chair. If you're me, you'll wonder why it never came and realize weeks later that you must have left a field empty. Sigh and start over.

One day, will someone have to reinvent all those old rusty farm implements we ignore in small town museums? The cotton gin isn't a beverage, but does it matter any more? What machines will last? Will we become so tech savvy that we are helpless in the real world?

I've been thinking about self image. There have been a lot of posts about the difference between our inner and outer beauty, but that's not what I've been thinking about. I think most people gain a lot of self worth from the things they're good at.

It is a really good feeling to be good at something, and to know it. Really fortunate people love their jobs. I suppose those who have great hobbies are lucky, too. I have a lot of hobbies, and I admit, I feel good about myself when I do the things I love.

One thing that was once a job, but has become a hobby, is music. At that, I failed spectacularly in a rehearsal earlier this week. It was epic. I was mortified, not because I can't abide looking like a fool in public. That doesn't bother me at all. It was that I derive my self worth from being a good musician. Failing at that makes me feel worthless.

By now, I've worked through it. I've spent time doing other things I'm good at. Still, why did I put myself through such a miserable couple of days? I tell my kids that failures happen. I say they should still try. I tell them to remember how much they love their activities, even if they have a bad day.

Maybe they'll grow up better adjusted than I am. Then again, maybe they'll call themselves idiots every time they make a mistake.

I'll just keep on doing what I do. There will be days that I feel talented, and days I'll feel worthless. With luck and practice, instead of feeling worthless, I'll remember that I love my favorite activities. I'll continue to do them. Hopefully, I'll have more successes than failures.

I'll keep writing, focusing on writing well, but hoping to be published one day. I'll keep knitting and weaving, just because I like working with fibers. I'll play oboe, English horn, soprano, alto, and bass recorder, and classical guitar (guitar poorly, but I have low expectations there). All of these things I'll do, remembering that I love them. I want to do them well.

Here's my question. I haven't been able to resolve this at all. When I play music well, it is a spectacular feeling. There is very little I'd rather do, and I feel great about myself. When I play badly, the feeling is just the reverse. If you minimize the low, can you still appreciate the high?

Well, Christmas is almost here. I have avoided Christmas tunes by selective radio listening and refusing to do any Christmas shopping until frighteningly late. Life is good. You see, as a musician, I find Christmas music heinous- unless you play the ancient tunes on ancient instruments. I'd be perfectly happy to listen to a rendition of Greensleeves on recorder or lute, or even a sackbut (which I may have spelled wrong, but it's so much fun to say.)

Last night, my record was broken, because I actually played in a Christmas Concert at the Masonic Center. The concert went well and didn't annoy me because my tolerance for holiday music hadn't been tested yet this year. One song that didn't annoy me, but usually does was Walking in a Winter Wonderland. What bothers me about this song is simply its overuse. There's nothing wrong with it, I've just heard it a thousand times.

This morning, I went for a walk in the snow. The song, Walking in a Winter Wonderland just doesn't set the mood for me that Winter really is. So, without being overly poetic, I just thought I'd muse about what it's like for me when I walk in a winter wonderland.

On my way home from dropping my daughter off at school, I noticed the sound of my boots packing the snow each time I stepped. Even with my head bundled in a hat and a hood, the sound intruded. Everything else was silence, like the blanket of snow shushed the wind. Nothing moved but snowflakes, and even they fell in slow motion. A car went by from time to time. Loud, but a reminder of life.

I love best in winter a white sky. Blue is too bright. Today, the sky is gray. The gray sky mutes the colors. Trees are black lashes in the distance. Near, they are bark colored- a tone neutral to the point of being indescribable. Pine green seems near black. It is a study in contrast, but not tone. Simple. Calm.

No more cars now, just my feet. I begin to hear the impact of snowflakes against my jacket. Such tiny missiles they are, but slow as they fall, they don't alight. They chip against me, hard little shards that seem so delicate.

To me, this is wonder. This slow walk through stillness, so quiet that a solitary snowflake makes its impact. I talk to God in these moments, and he doesn't answer. It doesn't matter, though. I don't answer him, either.

I say to God, thank you for my feet, that can crunch through this snow, and for my ears that can hear it, and for my eyes that can see this beauty.

I am calm now, and inspired. I would love to write, or sit in a window and snuggle with my guys. They, too, have an appreciation for snow. I think, though, that I have things to do. Lots of shopping. Ugh...