Thank you for all the amazing birthday wishes!!!

Reflection of Minneapolis's stone arch bridge in the Mississippi River

A birthday is a new beginning of sorts. I'm 67 now, not 66. Let's start over.

Forty seemed so old when I was 19 and having surgery on my spine. Forty seemed like a tremendous goal.

We have the chance to begin again every day. Every moment, really. Every time we think a thought or open our mouths, we can go from here to there and have a fresh start. Life is stuffed with changes and transitions and bridges to somewhere new.

When I was in my 20s or even in my 30s I imagined my elder years would be staid and even. It's been anything but that. Here's my list of transitions of the last dozen years (in no particular order.) Things are always changing for all of us.

Maybe now the question is, what changes do I want to make in the coming year?

Children at home to empty nest

Married to divorced

Brunette to blond

Blond to silver

City dweller to suburb dweller

Suburb dweller to city dweller

Crazy and depressed everyday to crazy and depressed now and then.

On medication to off

Meat eater to vegetarian

Vegetarian to meat eater

Anxious person to somewhat less anxious person.

Dog and cat owner to houseplant fancier

Freeway driver to ardent pedestrian

Caregiver of the dying to bereaved

Homeowner to condo dweller

Ground-floor inhabitant to fifth floor inhabitant

Distracted to devourer of books.

Insomniac to dream journaler (some nights, anyway)

Mothered to motherless

Californian to Minnesotan

Beach walker to riverbank walker

Wheat eater to gluten intolerant

Hardwood floor fanatic to I love my bedroom carpeting

Grandmother of children to grandmother of high schoolers.

Owner of too many books to owner of fewer (but still too many) books

Big drinker to little drinker.

66-year old to 67-year-old

I just want to make things

My stress levels have been ratcheting upwards this week. Instead of sleep there's tossing, turning, and heart thumping. Maria Yovanovitch and Fiona Hill are living inside my TV and my brain. I try to write and there are 10 million ideas or no ideas. Either way the screen stays blank. I just want to make things. Why not make paper? Maybe I need more blank pages to sort out my thoughts.

At my internship, I made paper from old t-shirts.

I formed the sheets in the workshop and brought them home still damp.

They match my desk. I'm not sure what I'll do with them. Journal pages? Book covers? Collage?

Last night when I couldn't sleep I was googling portable paper beaters at midnight. 

And I googled Gordon Sondland's watch which let to some rich attorney flashbacks. Which lead to divorce flashbacks.

Both of these google forays were bad ideas. I don't need a portable paper beater (and I certainly don't need a $50,000 watch) because I have THIS PLACE blocks away and a paper making internship with a papermaker who is a genius. (Cave Paper will be part of an exhibition in 2022 at the MET in NYC called Paper Legacy.) 

I feel like an idiot on many days and yet life leads me to amazing people.

How I tried to enhance my life and failed

My latest suminagashi (Japanese paper marbling) practice--or how the word serpentine can also describe my day

Today was the day! I would get my Minnesota driver's license. Make this move official!--and why not get the enhanced driver's license while I as at it? I'm a day's drive from the Canadian border. I'm in love with Oaxaca, Mexico --wouldn't it be great to take off in either direction with just my enhanced driver's license and not worry about my passport?

I filled out the form online--guaranteed to shave 15 minutes off the venture. (This is particularly humorous if you've ever waited in line at an L.A. area DMV. Fifteen minutes is nothing.) I printed out my confirmation for the pre-filled form and gathered my documents. Or tried to.

This gathering of papers had its own drama. I got locked out of my Xcell Energy account trying to remember my password and had to call for assistance because one has to have a utility bill to prove that you reside at your address. And I had to have a 2nd proof of residence as well ( that seemed easy, but, in the end, was not.) I also needed my passport (cannot be expired) and my current driver's license from my previous state (also cannot be expired.) I needed my Social Security card (cannot be laminated or a mere photo copy.) Oh--and had I ever changed my name? Good god. I needed to show proof of that weary trail.

Moving creates this bizarre effect. When you go to find something, you can remember where it was in your previous abode, but you have no idea where it is now. Here. In this place. Where the fuck is this thing I'm hunting for? I had to find what I call the marriage box. I found it in the storage cage inside another box, and inside the marriage box I found my certificate of marriage (cannot be a photocopy) The marriage document, along with my certified decree of divorce (must be an official government agency document, not a photocopy) I thought would show my transition from the name I was born with to my married name to the made-up new name I decided to call myself post-marriage (it was a weird idea, but at least I chose my maternal grandmother's maiden name as my new surname and did not become Paris France or Bimbo Dumas, which were also in the running.)

Did I mention I spent the morning reading the 90-some page Minnesota driver's license manual? Recipe for anxiety attack. All the terrible things that can go wrong and how you can be fined and imprisoned for the worst of them-- if you somehow manage not to die.

So I stood in a very short line, went to another line where I was the only person in it, took the test, passed, got sent back to the first very short line where I thought my sheaf of documents would be stamped with approval. Turns out I needed my birth certificate which I have not seen since my pre-divorce life. And my 2nd proof of residence, a property tax payment stub with my full address, was not good enough. One must bring the whole page. (All of the information is the same--just larger.)

So I came home and ordered my birth certificate. Honest to god, who changes their middle name in addition to their last name? (which is itself a name just pulled out of the hat of family names?) The online form almost glitched. But it didn't. The new me ordered the birth certificate for the original me. It should be here in 5 days.

But I wonder how do people born in little villages in war torn countries who emigrate ever jump through these hoops? What if you change your name(s) and your gender? 

Not to mention that I do have a valid U.S. passport...why isn't that good enough? I also have my irises and my fingerprints on file with Clear.

The Papermaker's Apprentice

A few weeks ago, I began an apprenticeship with a renowned papermaker.

The first thing I made was seed paper. I just learned a tiny bit of the involved process of paper making.

I spent all day at it. This paper has the seeds of native plants in it. Here is how it will be used by a  Native American artist.

The sculptures this artist makes will be left in the landscape, reseeding it to native plants.

I became smitten with the book arts after moving to Minneapolis. I've been learning some basic book construction.

Today I practiced the art of Japanese paper marbling.

I'm still writing. It's National Adoption Awareness Month, and I have resolved to write several pieces on Medium. com this month. Here's the free link to the latest one: https://medium.com/@demanuelclemen/top-secret-my-sons-name-2189f230b6b6?source=friends_link&sk=88543939d1a03e10c52b9c751bcf2f77

And here's where I'm interning: Cave Paper  Check out Amanda's artwork using her handmade paper.

Why I fail at Halloween

Oaxaca, Mexico
Day of the Dead is not scary.

I eat the candy before the trick or treaters come.

I am afraid of being afraid.

I startle easily. If someone dressed as a ghoul or an ax murderer jumps out at me from somewhere I might actually die.

Gore freaks me out. Fake blood? Real blood? How do you know?

I did Halloween when my kids were small. Walked them around the neighborhood with my heart pounding. The very first Halloween when my older daughter was one or maybe two we went to the mall. Someone told us it was a great venue for a really little kid. The lights were on ,and I thought it might be fun for her to see the older kids dressed up. But there were trick or treaters in scary masks, wielding rubber axes and roaring like monsters. She cried. I wanted to. We left.

One Halloween this same daughter and I made luminarias and lined our long driveway with them. We sat on the porch, dressed as rather benign witches with harpsichord music on our laptops. It was great. We didn't terrify anyone. But children did approach with a certain cautious wonder.

My other favorite Halloween wasn't real life. It was  a dream. Dan and I went to a party dressed as John and Yoko. He, wearing a long black wig, was Yoko. I still smile when I think of it.

I get that people love Halloween and have a great time. Cool.

But I love Day of the Dead.  A days long celebration to remember and to connect with our lost loved ones. Magic. I'd love a giant room full of marigolds right now.