It’s not hard to find someone with a miscarriage story to share. 1 in 4 women have had a miscarriage (some occurring so early that the woman may not even know she was pregnant); and 1 in 2 pregnancies ends in miscarriage. This, of course, is the first thing the doctor and many other people have pointed out to me:  “You are not alone.” Everyone assumes there is comfort in numbers, but I have found just the opposite. First, it’s hardly comforting to know that your loved ones have experienced such an emotional loss. Sure, generally speaking, misery loves company, but this is one of those things you never wish on even your worst enemy.

Also, you always hear people say, “every pregnancy is different.” Well, so is every miscarriage. Was the miscarriage a day or two after a positive pregnancy test or was it after months of being pregnant? Was it a panicky, painful trip to the ER or weeks of waiting impatiently? Was it a first pregnancy? Was it a first miscarriage? Have you had a child since? Each of these factors changes the experience significantly. All miscarriages are painful, emotional losses for a woman, but that’s not to say that I can relate to every woman who has had a miscarriage. In fact, I have found it very difficult to find someone with an experience that I can relate to. So, despite the fact that I am “not alone,” I have found miscarrying to be one of the most isolating experiences of my life.

For weeks I’ve been trying to connect. With someone. With some experience. I don’t really know why – what exactly I expected to gain from that connection but it just felt like a necessary step for me to move on. So, I had family time, vacation time, date nights, girls’ nights, rowdy nights, quiet nights, long phone calls, spa days, you name it. And when all this failed to fill the void I had nowhere else to look but inward.

So last night I went back to an old friend. One I used to spend a good deal of time with, but haven’t of late. As I’m writing this, it seems the obvious “friend” to whom I refer is me. And I suppose that’s true enough. But I was actually referring to my old friend meditation. In fact, they are one and the same.

For two hours last night I did “transformational breathwork.” In other words, I laid on the floor in a candlelit yoga studio filled with some seriously penetrating music surrounded by mostly strangers. But really the only person I was with was me. Me and my thoughts and my breath. For two hours.

If you’ve never meditated, you wouldn’t believe what that can do to a person. It breaks you down. Thought by thought. Emotion by emotion. And that’s only the mind part of it. It also causes your body to release tension and stress that you’ve been holding onto for so long you’ve simply gotten used to it. Your muscles can spasm, tense, become numb and ultimately relax. As all of these changes occur – mind and body – you realize you haven’t taken a truly deep breath in months, maybe years, maybe ever. Because until you let all that go — ALL of that go — you can’t breathe in a therapeutic way.

In short, it was an intense experience. And one that I needed. I can’t say I’m over the loss of my baby or that I ever will be. Meditation didn’t cure me. I still have grieving to do. But it gave me clarity, a path. You can even call it an epiphany. I am alone. But I am also the only one I need to find peace again.

I love arts and crafts. And I am not ashamed. I have been cross-stitching for as long as I can remember. I was a Girl Scout for much longer than is socially acceptable. And I love a good excuse to pull out paints, a glue gun and all the other messy stuff involved in crafts projects. My mom was (and is) always great at coming up with ways to make things at home rather than buying them. And she certainly nurtured my interest in crafts from day 1. Not surprisingly, then, I have been anxiously awaiting a time when Lilly and I could do some projects together. That time is upon us, my friends.

Just before Valentine’s Day, I was inspired by the dollar bins at Target, where I found Valentine’s Day themed scrapbook paper cutouts. Now, despite my crafty-ness (not craftiness), I am not a scrapbooker. I tried; it’s not my cup of tea. I like crafts because they provide instant gratification. Scrapbooking, in my experience, is a never-ending to-do list. I have enough of those. But I digress. When I saw the scrapbooking paper, I thought, “Well, those are cute and they would make good homemade Valentines.” And Lilly’s first craft project was born. I splurged the buck on the paper and another couple on a new glue stick and we were on our way.

That afternoon (and the following two afternoons) I pulled out my bargain buys from Target and enough construction paper for Lilly to make Valentines for her cousins, grandparents, and, of course, one for me and her dad. I laid a cheapy, plastic table cloth on the floor so Lilly could go crazy with her markers, stamps and paints. I punched out the perforated scrapbooking shapes and showed her how to use a glue stick. Sure, there were some hiccups. Like Lilly noticing that a glue stick is basically shaped like a giant chapstick, and using it accordingly. Repeatedly. And I learned the hard way that a stamp pad is the fastest way to get toddler handprints all over a room. But, ultimately, the results were beautiful. I had a blast doing crafts with my daughter for the first time. She had a blast doing something new. And the masterpieces! Well, see for yourself:

Besides opening a window to new and fun things to do with Lilly. This experience also added some excitement to my non-Lilly life. It’s been a while since I worked on some crafts on my own and god knows I’ve needed some distractions lately. So, I’m eager to get started on some projects I’ve been thinking about doing for a while, and I’ve found some new ones too. I’ll try to chronicle both my failures and successes here.

First, a quick aside, I promise that reviews on this blog will NOT contain spoilers. I love picking up a book I know very little about and I love a good plot twist even more. So rest-assured I will not give away any of the juicy details that are best discovered by the reader.

The Lost Symbol follows the same template that proved so successful for Brown with Angels & Demons and The Da Vinci Code. Unlikely fictional hero, Professor Robert Langdon, has been summoned to a familiar, yet enigmatic location — this time Washington, D.C. — to impart his vast knowledge in the area of symbology. Langdon becomes embroiled in a fast-paced adventure, complete with suspenseful chase scenes, a non-romantic female companion, and cliff-hanger chapter endings. Despite the familiar formula, The Lost Symbol is no less a page-turner than Brown’s other bestsellers in the Robert Langdon series.

Langdon is once again the key to deciphering and connecting the dots between clues found in obscure artwork and artifacts, historical sites and mythology. But this time the backdrop to Langdon’s quest and the subject of the book’s conspiratorial overtones is the mysterious and ritualistic world of Freemasonry. To work through decoded riddles, Langdon must indulge the Masonic affinity with the “Ancient Mysteries,” i.e. ancient wisdom that can purportedly endow man with the power of gods, against his better judgment. At stake are the lives of those close to Langdon, widely accepted beliefs about religion and power, and the CIA’s ubiquitous “national security” concerns.

The Lost Symbol jumps right into the storyline and develops its characters bit by bit as it goes, which keeps the book moving forward. The suspense builds to a crescendo and for the most part delivers in the end. I was disappointed at one of the first big reveals, which was plausible, but a bit weak. Then, all was forgiven when a few pages later Brown hit me with a plot twist that I never saw coming.

Brown is a master at weaving together fact and fiction so that one can no longer distinguish the two. I found myself wishing I had a research library — not merely Google — at my disposal after each chapter. But since each chapter left me wanting more, I rarely had time to dwell on my research topics before moving onto the next chapter and more eyebrow-raising science and history. Brown states before even beginning Chapter 1: “FACT:  . . . All rituals, science, artwork and monuments in this novel are real.” And let me tell you, some of the science is out there!

Simply put, The Lost Symbol is a suspenseful page-turner that will especially appeal to science, conspiracy and history buffs. (Full disclosure: I am all three.) I have one word of caution, however, as certain portions of this book contain a level of violence and gruesome detail that I do not recall in Brown’s earlier works and may be difficult for some readers. But if you can get through those squirmy pages, you’re in for a thrilling read.

In the last few weeks, I have gone through some pretty difficult stuff. Big stuff. Bad stuff. Life-altering stuff. And, turns out, I don’t want to scream it from the mountaintops. I had no interest in writing out the nitty gritty details for all to read, despite the fact that 1 in 4 women can relate and I was scouring the internet to read other people’s experiences, and thinking “you’d think someone would have written a blog about this…” (They probably have, I just didn’t find one I was interested in reading.)

But as a writer, even if it’s just a fake wannabe blogger, I feel obligated to offer my loyal readers some explanation for the dearth of blog posts and to let you know that I hope to get this site back on track. It just might take a little bit and I hope you’ll have some patience with me. (Although if the Supreme Court keeps up its current movement toward conservative judicial activism, anger will overtake me sooner rather than later.)

So, here is my explanation minus all the lugubrious details: Pregnant for a second time. Nausea. 10 weeks. Bleeding. Nausea. Ultrasound. No heartbeat. More bleeding. More Nausea. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Surgery scheduled for tomorrow. No big deal. Until it happens to you.

You gotta love our impotent regulatory agencies.