Chaco's Sunset

Chaco wasn't supposed to be my dog.

When we adopted him on New Year's Day 2003, it was because my then-husband needed to quit smoking and start exercising. As I stood in line at the store the following day with a box of Nicoderm and dog treats at the checkout stand, I had to laugh at the dichotomy of what I was buying. 

Quickly it became apparent that Joe wasn't going to walk Chaco and so after my three-mile morning run, I started to take Chaco to the park a few blocks from our house for a what started as walk (mostly because he was really depressed those first few weeks with us– we don't know what happened in his prior life but he had a chip and no one responded when they were contacted and he had been found eating out of a garbage can on the University of New Mexico campus) but eventually it turned into a run where he pulled me along. My life was transformed after that.

I couldn't have known in that January all that was ahead of me: the crash by a drunk driver that August that would alter everything when Joe would get a brain injury, my foray into doctoral work and Chaco's inspiration that people must be helped by their dogs after the death of a human loved one, the addition of several more dogs, the publication of my book Ginger's Gift: Hope and Healing Through Dog Companionship that was largely inspired by the road Chaco led me on when he became part of our family, the death of my dad, the trips around country and the world educating people about suicide and suicide grief, the addition of the swimming pool and then the remodel of most of the house, my holding everything together while Joe struggled to function and work, the eventual divorce, the move back to Illinois that split Chaco and Gidget from Nestle and Hattie, the move back to Albuquerque that brought the dogs together, the deaths of Daisy and then Gidget, the death of mom, the addition of Lilly after the death of Gidget earlier this year and, of course, in the midst of this, the addition of Greg into our lives.

Chaco changed me in ways I never could have predicted. I was not a dog person. I always tell the story that the Linn Family joke about Karen's dog Chaos was, "Will Michelle ever pet the dog?" But when Chaco came into my life, everything as different. We took him to Texas several times and then up to Minnesota, making him more traveled that many Americans with all the states he visited, and just about every morning for the past fourteen years– as long as I was home– he got either a run or a run-walk and later just a walk. The morning he died he went for his walk. He whined until he got outside and felt at home leading the way to the park each day.

For all those years when I was holding the household together with very little tape, every morning when Chaco and I would go out for a run-walk, I could see the hope as the sun started to come up over the mountains. I always felt like, no matter how challenging life was, it was as if the day before had been hosed off and there was a new day starting. I began to pray during my time with Chaco, mostly because it was usually some of the most uninterrupted time of my day (although because of Chaco I also became a bigger member of the park community– suddenly people who didn't talk to me before, started to talk to me, because of my handsome dog of course).

In Naperville, we ran along the river, including through the fresh snow in the winter. Chaco chased squirrels up trees and watched them for hours. He laid by the pool– right back in his old spot– when we moved back to Albuquerque. He was quiet, he asked for very little. He slept at the foot of the stairs and, as my former husband said, with one eye open to make sure no one could get to me. 

And last December we nearly lost him until the vet told me it wasn't time yet. With a pair of socks for his back legs to keep him from slipping and what I jokingly call a magic powder, I made sure that every night I told him I loved him and that I was glad he was my dog, before I went to bed in case he died during the night. I didn't want any regrets about the life that we shared.

But on Saturday the deterioration was coming quickly; he was standing sideways. The vet said it was the right time, that the muscle mass on his hips was wasting away. He could bounce back but it wasn't going to get better. 

Chaco's journey with me was finished. He traveled through so many events with me but now with Lilly and Greg along for the ride (and with Hattie, too- Nestle resides with her "real" dad), he knew he could move on, surely greeted by Mom, Dad, Gidget, and Daisy in heaven.

And he made sure about six weeks ago he had one last hurrah before the cold weather set in: while he always laid by the pool, he never ever ever ever ever ever wanted to get in it. I have photos of him clinging to my former husband, freaked out as Joe tried to carry him in the water. Chaco would swim in a lake or a river or even go for a ride in a boat but he could never grasp the concept of the pool.

One evening as twilight was settling in, Greg and I heard some whining. We both figured he had fallen and couldn't get up as that was happening more and more. But when we couldn't find him, we went outside to see him swimming laps in the pool.

We never knew if he fell in on accident or on purpose but he looked happy and didn't want to come to the edge where Greg was calling him (somewhat of a futile attempt because Chaco was deaf by then). The weight of his back hips that were failing him fell off in the water (although he was still wearing his socks).

And for one time, at nearly sixteen years old, Chaco got his swim. The road was complete, the time to move on looming.

He went quietly, his snout on my leg Saturday morning. No more pain, no more pacing, no more looking like he couldn't remember what he had done five minutes before. No more back legs failing him. Freedom with all those who have gone before him. And me left with the memories of a life that hasn't been the same since he came around that corner on New Year's Day and entered my life.

The Continued New Journey

I didn't plan to get a new car. Heck, we were dropping my car off for a sizable amount of service. 

However, through a series of events that had begun to domino the day before, that afternoon I left with a loaner while mine would be delivered from another dealership in the state several days later (because if I was going to get a new car, I wanted all the new techonology that came with it).

What surprised me though, as we emptied my old car and I took photos of the two surfing-related stickers that I would have to leave behind, was the sadness I felt.

It was a nice car, I hardly had any problems with it. But it was more about what it stood for.

In September 2011, trading in my Ford Edge for a Ford Escape was the first item on my list after my then husband and I agreed to divorce. I would be moving my hometown where I had a house but I would have no job per se and needed to bring the payments down. I left Albuquerque on November 1, 2011, with my sister Karen for help and Chaco and Gidget in the backseat in a new 2012 Ford Escape.

Now really, you see these white cars (like mine) everywhere because many government entities use them. That's a good thing: it's a stable model. But for me, every time I saw the car I was reminded of what I had to give up. It was good that I was moving forward but the further I get from that time in my life, I see how challenging it was. 

The story did change obviously and then the car took Greg and I several thousand miles across the country to meet both our families and to explore together the summer of 2014. Since then, the car traveled to California multiple times, carried our surfboards both inside and on the top, as well as a countless items from the Los Angeles garment district to start up Chelle Summer.

I didn't need a new car. We earlier had agreed we would wait but we had an opportunity for me to get a new Escape, one that makes my old one seem primitive. And we did it together.

I was sad to let go but I am more excited about the journey together: about the fun adventures Greg and I will have in this new car. Sometimes there are reasons we don't ever know why life takes us into something new when we don't really feel we need it. 

Life continues to weave our lives together for us.

The Road to Color

I probably have the least amount of black in my wardrobe than anyone I know. I believe black is a classic color and I've worn quite a bit of it in my time, but in recent years I've come to believe that people wear black mostly because they want to blend in, not be seen. It's like becoming part of the paneling on a wall– people might wear black because they don't want anyone to see them at the gym. It's better to blend into the crowd then stick out (not such a good idea if you're running in the dark though).

For me, however, while there are a few black dresses in my closet and I own black tennis skirts, black leggings, and some long-sleeved black tops, you won't see me reaching for black too often if I have something else to choose from. More than likely, I'm using black with a print, like a black tank top and printed skirt.

I didn't realize that I had made a color shift until I was in the midst of my suicide and grief speaking career and people began to ask me, "With all that you've been through, how can you wear such bright colors?"

I actually hadn't thought about it. When I started speaking I wore a lot of navy blue and black. In one national television appearance I wore...gray. When I saw the segment I wondered what I had been thinking: I blended right in with the set. Not much better than wearing black.

At first I told people it was because I didn't view myself as someone whose life was filled with loss and that I had always worn bright, funky clothes. But in thinking about it, I reached back further into my life and realized it went back to a black bathing suit.

I was going into eighth grade and I needed a new swimsuit. A good friend had a black one piece and that's what I wanted yet when I told my mom at the store, she squashed me on it. 

"You're too young to wear black," she said, me having no idea what she meant.

I ended up with a navy suit with vertical black stripes, but I believe being told I was too young to wear black all those years ago is still influencing me today. No no no- not that I am too young to wear black now!– but it forced me to look beyond black and at other colors available to me. By not letting me wear black, what my mom really did was say, "You have many other colors to pick from."

And that's more than evident in my life today. Thank you, Mom.

Learning to Run Again

I couldn't blame Lilly. I'm sure she didn't see me coming when she bounded down the stairs– probably because she heard the door or Hattie stir. But when she ran her head right into the inside of my right knee as I trekked up the stairs, well, as I said to Greg, "That didn't sound good." But was it Lilly's head or my knee that incurred the damage?

For a week I felt something a little weird but nothing that kept me from running, or running and walking the dogs.

Until the next week when I couldn't run at all.

I've gone through phases where I hurt, I ache. I'm getting old, I'm trying to accept that. But this, this was different. I went for acupuncture and besides the usual moxa and needles, she cupped my knee, trying to pull the pain out. Then there was the day where I stepped on uneven ground trying to pick up a zucchini and could barely walk at all.

"It looks like you're dancing," My Chinese doctor's husband said when I showed up hobbling for acupuncture an hour later.

I could barely walk, I tore into my stash of heavy duty ibuprofen so I could walk. I took two days off from walking the dogs but I couldn't stand being away from my community in the early morning hours at the park. 

I walked, I swam, I was cupped and needled to stop the pain and help the injury heal. Weeks went by and suddenly I realized I hadn't gone that long without running since I was in high school. I missed my route, seeing my friend Jennifer and giving her the morning temperature as I do every day when we pass each other.

I kept busy with work, writing, making bags, dreaming about where I'm going to take Chelle Summer.

I won't deny it, it was a big challenge for me. I begged God to let me learn whatever lesson I needed so I could go forward and get back to my routine. 

It was a severe bone bruise, easily possible from the force of a strong German Shepherd on her way down the stairs. And slowly it would heal. I worried I might never run again, and when  did run I felt as if my body were all over the place. And then I rammed my knee into the metal bleachers at a soccer game, Lilly hit her head on my knee again. It felt never ending.

But two weeks ago, slowly it really began to get back. Finally I could run-walk my nearly three-mile route. 

Patience. Patience. All is well. Everything is passing.

Harry Caray and my sister D-D-Denise

While everyone is remembering their parents or grandparents after the Cubs made the World Series, for me, it's about how my baseball bound my younger sister and I. It was my dad who took me to my first Cubs game although Denise was very young and stayed home (we got her the pennant behind her head) and later he often secured tickets ninth row behind first base that a man he worked with had, mostly taking Denise with him and once for opening day on her birthday, April 4.

I believe I went once with him, another time he gave me the tickets and my friend Dave and I trekked to the north side. Other times though, I went with my friends and sat in the bleachers. 

But it's mom who took us to New York City where we saw the Cubs play the Mets in Shea Stadium. I don't think my sister ever forgave Harry Caray after that day.

Mom worked for the old Midway Airlines and she as always looking for fun day trips for us to take. So on an April Sunday in the late 1980s, we boarded a plan to LaGuardia and took a bus to Shea where we saw the Cubs and Mets play. Having watched many, many, many Cubs games in my young life at that time, I knew that Harry Caray would announce the names of Cubs fans who were attending away games (which would almost be the entire stadium in Atlanta at the time).

I wandered the stadium somehow finding my way to where they were broadcasting and handed my note to someone at the door, not knowing if our names were read on the air or not.

We were recording the game at home but other people later told us that had indeed heard that "Marianne Linn and her daughters, Michelle and D-D-Denise..." were at the game.

"How could do that to my name?" she asked, disappointed, as she shook her head.

How many drinks had he had by then? we all wondered.

Denise and I pretty much lived for Cubs baseball. I'm not sure we ever attended a game together but we watched many of them on television together. Some of my favorite memories of life with her are the nights we drove over to Cub Foods and picked up a half gallon of Kemp's strawberry frozen yogurt and a package of Archway oatmeal raisin cookies that we then turned into ice cream sandwiches as we watched the Cubs play the late games against the Los Angeles Dodgers on the little black and white television in the kitchen.

And we watched the playoffs even when they obviously didn't include the Cubs although by then we were calling them the "Scrubs" because they had fallen apart by the end of the season.

I never thought I would see the day when the Cubs made the World Series but I also am honest when I say that baseball doesn't mean what it once did to me. I didn't watch it for a long time after she died and since then– especially now that I can't just turn on the radio or WGN to put on a game on the background– my life has changed. 

I hope that in heaven she is doing a jig today, with Mom and Dad. Yesterday as I drove to watch Greg's soccer team play, "Harden my Heart" My Melissa Manchester came on the radio as I pulled into the school parking lot. 

"Hi Denise," I greeted her, knowing it's one of three songs I believe that play to remind me she is there with me.

I'm sure that was her way of telling me she remembers our Cubs times together, too. And that anything is possible, even a Cubs World Series.

A Contemplative Time

The Norbertine priest at the monastery here in Albuquerque, where I go for spiritual direction, says that I am in a contemplative time of my life.

I didn't blog last week and I almost didn't blog this week either. I'm finding that I don't necessarily have anything that I feel is worthy of being shared on social media recently. As I wrote two weeks ago, I'm busy because I am creating and keeping myself occupied but I'm finding I'm also in a quiet time of creation where I don't always share what I'm doing, or because I want to wait until some things are completed before I do. I also am at work trying to finish a fiction manuscript that I was struggling with (the "fix" came to me two weeks ago as I began to retreat somewhat into myself).

I believe the best way that I can inspire people is through living an authentic life, one where I take the time to do what makes me happy and share that with others. I have worked with people for many years, helping them through their grief and divorce journeys but after seeing how many people actually do not want to change, I realized that the best way I can help is to do what makes me happiest. 

Fr. Gene also believes that my creative side is tied heavily into my spiritual being and by spending this time creating, I'm being spiritual, too. 

In some ways, I'm not sure where I exactly fit in the world. In other ways, I know precisely where my puzzle piece goes. But for now I'm letting that prayer of finding that place lay out there as I work on moving forward through my list of items to create and a manuscript to finish so I can move onto others.

There might be weeks I won't write here. And other weeks I post old blogs from my old Inspire by Michelle site as we get ready to close it out. And I might choose some recipes from Chef Chelle to post as we get ready to shut that one down, too. But I am here working, creating, being who I am supposed to be. 

Staying the Course

Sometimes I forget to follow my own advice.

Recently, a friend's daughter had gone out for her high school cross country team. She ran track in middle school but only the short sprints. After her first race, when she finished almost completely last last in the field, when we were back at our house after the meet to eat pizza, I pulled out the clippings from my high school days. The very ones where I finished dead last on my team and near the end of the line in the junior varsity race. By the end of that season though, I had moved up to last spot on varsity and I wanted Hannah to know that working hard would pay off. I also wanted her to know that everything I have accomplished today is because of those lessons I learned back then.

As I work at Chelle Summer, trying to get the word out there to sell the hand bags I have made as well as make more and get ready to sell customer swimwear in the spring, along with all my other responsibilities (including a full-time research job), sometimes I can be sitting at the sewing machine and I'll begin to wonder, is it worth it?

I wrote several weeks ago when we launched the store of the web site that to me this is the harder part of starting up something new: actually getting people to buy what you've created. Anyone of us can create something and throw it out there. The hard part is making people see that you're different than the millions of other products that we're bombarded with (and see all over social media). 

It's also a challenge to keep going when you're alone and have time to think. It's easy to wonder if it's worth the time and effort, if it's what I'm supposed to do, and if there is something else I'm supposed to be doing.

But then something comes along and reminds me, yes, this is the right direction on the map. I don't always get there as quickly as I would like. But, yes, I'll get there somehow. I've done it before and I know the rewards are great. I just need to stay the course. 

Self-Inflicted Busy-ness

There seems to be a trend this year: everyone is busy. 

Now there are people in the world who are actually busy, but I believe the majority of people who say they are busy could probably walk away from their phone or from the television and realize that they aren't that busy after all.

Whatever it is, people say to me, "Well, you're really busy." They usually add this with how much they see I have created which I share on social media. 

No no no, I am not that busy. The fact is, I choose to be as busy as I am for several reasons, mostly because I have more I want to accomplish in my life and it won't happen if I spend all my time lazing around my couch (although I managed to do that yesterday evening during the Bears-Cowboys game which then frustrated me and I had turn the channel, at which time I became tired and went to bed). That was the first time in a long time that I remember laying in front of the television and flipping through the channels.

I call my busy-ness self inflicted because I have so much that I want to do. Life is short and it's fleeting. In recent weeks I've been making phone calls to several people who don't live near me and making sure I catch up with them. I'm making lists for each day so that I am doing what's important to me (besides my daily responsibilities including a full-time job on a military grief research study). 

I know what it's like to see something pass me by. I often used to joke I wasn't going to miss the boat leaving the dock. I know that life can change on a moment's notice, that time can pass so quickly that I'm going to wake up one day and I want to be sure I can nod and say, "Yes, I did everything I wanted to do."

I stopped telling people I am busy when they ask me what I'm up to. Instead, I say, "I'm busy but it's my self-inflicted list of things I want to do."

However you choose to be busy, make sure it's because your time is spent how you want it to be used. I haven't always had that luxury and phases go where my time isn't always mine but somewhere in there I always make sure that there is something for me.

Be Bold

We were across the street the other night for dinner with some neighbors when we got on the discussion about what it means to be bold. And Tim– who lives across the street– asked me the last bold thing I have done. 

I looked to the middle of the dining room table and pointed at the dark chocolate-banana-peanut butter ice cream bombe that I had made and I said, "To some people, trying a new recipe is bold."

But before I could add anything, Tim kindly told me that he thought starting a new business as I have with Chelle Summer is a bold thing to do.

And that's when I added that I didn't think trying a new recipe was bold (I tried three last week- and mostly I do this because I get bored and like to see if I can find recipes I like more than ones I've used in the past). Bold is doing things on a much larger scale, but I realize that not everyone's life is like mine. I have chosen a life where I continue to put myself and what I create out there in the world.

As I write this on late Monday morning, earlier we announced the web site online store is open for business. 

I have been going back and forth in my head about whether or not I think this is a bold move. I will admit that I am a little, no, a lot, scared as I take this forward. I've "thrown" many things out there; some have done well, some haven't. And yet something has driven me to take on this new venture. I keep myself focused on creating the items, (as well as continuing with my writing). I try not to worry about what will sell and when it will sell.

Whether it be bold or not, I know I'm doing what I'm supposed to. The key for me is to remember it's all about continuing to create– whether I do that through writing or sewing or painting– and let the rest go. 

Looking back on the past fifteen years since the publication of my first book, the boldest move at all for me might be learning to let it go and fly on its own while I stay on the ground and keep creating.

Check out the new store here at www.chellesummer.com/shop.

This Is Me

In the more than twenty years that I have been flying back and forth between my now-home of Albuquerque and my hometown in the Chicago suburbs, from the air I have gotten pretty good at locating the house I grew up in as well as the house that I had bought not too far from it, now sold since my last move back to Albuquerque. I can spot the high school I attended, the quarry-now swimming pool I spent my teens years at with my friends. Then as we travel toward the lake and then around the downtown Loop, I can spot my maternal grandparents' house on the north side of the city. This time I also saw the hospital where I was born at– the same hospital where my grandfather was a doctor on staff– and the high school my mom and her sisters attended.

It had been almost a year until I flew through for a short night's stay this past weekend, on my way to Green Bay, Wisconsin, for a talk. I couldn't get there from Albuquerque in one day to arrive before my talk so I split the trip overnight.

I missed my hometown, on the way in, my nose buried in a stack of magazines that had been collecting on my coffee table. We were heading over Lake Michigan when I looked out the window and instantly I thought of my family. I thought of everyone who isn't here anymore: all my grandparents, my parents, and my younger sister.

All the people who make up much of who I am today.

I am proud to be from Chicago, my parents both city dwellers until they married and moved to the suburbs to raise us, all of us born in the city at the same hospital. I'm proud to be a Midwesterner. I live in New Mexico now, that's my home, that's who I am today, but as the plane traveled forward over the Lake, then turning north to come back to land at O'Hare, a series of memories traveled through my mind, various events in my life– many of them routine– that helped me to dream and become the person I am.

They might be silly– thinking about listening to Chicago radio each morning before school– but each one of those events or parts of the daily routine helped me to dream, to think about what I wanted out of life, to experience life.

I ate pizza with my sister and a very good friend that night, in a restaurant chain we had grown up eating at. And when I checked into my hotel there at the airport and poured myself a glass of water I realized something.

Lake Michigan water.

I was taken back to my grandparents' house on the north side and the little jelly jars Grandma left by the sink so one could grab a quick glass of water (Who thought about transmitting germs in those days? Especially within families). The water had a smell to it, and a taste you could only get when it was just out of the tap.

We had well water in Naperville until later when the pipes were finally laid and then (this was after I had moved away), they, too, had Lake Michigan water. To say I couldn't stop drinking it was an understatement. The next morning I made sure to get my fill and enjoy it.

It might seem silly to some but I believe that going back to where you are from, to be reminded of what brought you to where you are today, takes you forward in life. I don't take steps backward in my life but I look backward sometimes at the steps that have been laid. And in them I remember the family and the people who helped me become who I am today. Then I continue my path forward.

Taking My Steps

Some years ago, I was leading a workshop on suicide prevention at a resort outside Phoenix. We were working with a group of people– all Navajo– from the Navajo Nation. It was a multi-day workshop and on the second morning when I went for my run among the saguaro cactus, I saw one of the participants also out for run. We waved and greeted each other.

Later, when we had gathered for the second day of the workshop, he said that as Navajos they believe it's important to start the day by "taking our steps"– if possible, when the sun is rising.

I didn't realize it at the time but it's something I do every day. As the years have gone on and I've gathered more dogs into my home, my run got earlier and earlier so to allow time for them to have their walks as well.

Each morning I am out before the sun comes up and finishing with Chaco's short walk to the park by the time daylight is covering the city. 

And during that time, I see how much I appreciate not just darkness turning to light but the space of reflection that gives me. For years I have been praying on my run-walk with Chaco, giving thanks for the day before and asking for what I need in my life. 

But about a month ago I hurt my leg after an accident with Lilly, my youngest dog– as she was flying down the stairs, I was walking up then and she ran her head into my knee. I had several days where I wasn't allowed to go on a walk at all. Not taking my steps as darkness turned to light, my routine upside down, took a toll on the importance of the morning to me and the way that I start my day. 

We shouldn't just reflect on the day when it is over, but as it's beginning, giving us perspective to make the most of what's ahead of us.

Thankfulness

Saturday evening we were walking out of a restaurant with a takeout order for our dinner when a woman stopped me and said how much she liked my bag. Of course I was carrying a Chelle Summer bag, but this was the first time in the nearly year since I made the first one that anyone had commented on it when I was carrying one (except my gynecologist when I was leaving my appointment with him, yes, him– obviously he works with a lot of women so I'm sure has learned a thing or two about style over the years).

We had just come from church where one of my prayers on this particular Saturday night was asking to make sure I am doing what I'm supposed to be doing. 

Sewing, like writing, is something that often is done alone. And alone can be good– to a point. I work from home and balance that with walking and running the dogs early in the morning (where I have my "park" community to interact with) and doing errands. I also make sure to break up my day with a swim– weather permitting. And I have my job interviewing people for a military grief research study that keeps me engaged with the participants and the people I work with.

But I'm lost in my thoughts much of the time either writing, at the sewing machine, or cutting at my dining room table where I have plenty of space to spread out the rolls of fabric. While I don't ever feel like there is enough time to create everything I want to, one of my daily prayers is to "stay the course" so that I don't get off track. And because I'm alone, not knowing if what I'm doing is going to be a dud or something great, it's a challenge to keep positive when there is only me to talk to.

In particular over the past week, I've had multiple conversations with people who have told me how much they enjoy seeing all that I'm creating, mostly shared on social media. It's my goal to keep creating and share it, not worrying about the rest (like what happens next!). Hearing those comments helps me to keep going and they keep me reminded that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing: sharing through living the life that I want to have.

To all of you who are inspired by my work, who enjoy seeing it, who tell me how much you enjoy it: Thank you. Thank you for being part of this journey.

Building the Dream

I saw this on one of my recent Facebook memories:

"In elementary school when asked what I would do with $1 million, I always wrote buy a house with modern furniture and an in the ground pool."

I'm sure I found it written in something my mom had saved from elementary school. I have no memory if specifically writing that although I do remember that was how I pictured my life as adult.

What struck me, however, is that without a million dollars, I made this happen. As my hairdresser Amanda said, as she was cutting my hair last week, "You built it."

I'm sure in elementary school I thought it would take a million dollars to make my dream come true. But now what I understand is that it really takes a belief in a dream and the willingness to work toward that dream. I call my house, like I do my Chelle Summer brand, "modern design with a retro twist."

It hasn't always been easy. The hardest part has been the patience in learning to build something that might not happen in one day. It took me a long time collect the furniture, to figure out how some of it could be redone to be made new again, and also to select colors that worked in the rooms. There have been mistakes a long the way but I can see where the constant rearranging of my bedroom growing up, the Barbie houses my younger sister Denise and I built, and just the freedom to dream got me here.

There is always much more to do– and always something to fix and update– but when I look around, I'm proud of where I live and how far it came from essentially a blank slate with a lot of potential. 

It's just one of my dreams I've made come true. There are more to come.

The Big Move

After an extremely hot July here in New Mexico, the mornings have cooled into the lower sixties. It's one sign that fall is around the corner. But in August I also see the days getting shorter as darkness keeps with us later in the morning and just a general feel that it's time for school to start as the shadows change.

But I am always reminded of August in Albuquerque because twenty-two years ago this week I moved here as a twenty-two-year-old college graduate heading off to graduate school at the University of New Mexico.

New Mexico was not a place familiar to me much more than my uncle's brother lived here. I didn't intend to stay so much as I saw it a stop on my journey, hoping to continue to head west to Los Angeles, the place where I'd wanted to live since I was thirteen.

Yet twenty- two years later, with a year and a half hiatus where I moved back to Illinois, here I am.

And here I intend to stay. With time spent in Los Angeles, of course.

I know that it was hard for my parents to leave me here, and a Uhaul filled with my belongings as well as many useful items from my grandmother's house because she had died less than a year before (to this day I have more Pyrex glass dishes than Target). My move was only eighteen months after my younger sister's death and it would have been easier for everyone if I had stayed closer to home. But my parents knew I wasn't going to be the kid who stayed close to home. 

While I did try to move back for a time, I realized that I might be a Midwesterner by blood, but I'm much happier here in the Southwest. It seems to fit me better (the vast amounts of sunshine help). A priest I knew back at Ball State said, after I had come back to New Mexico for the second time, "I don't know why you left. You spent almost your entire adult life there."

I came in New Mexico as a twenty-two year old and it has influenced much of who I have become right down to my cooking. 

I won't leave but I also don't forget the journey here.

Signs and Messages

I was only going to go to one estate sale Thursday morning. I have a quadrant in Albuquerque that I focus on, partly because I have other things to do and also because I've had more luck in certain areas than others. I went to one, not planning to go to the second one I knew about, because I didn't think the area would have anything of interest for me. 

I ran my errands and then decided I would go anyway. 

I entered a room of the townhouse and instantly saw some vintage blue and orange fabric. I bleed blue and orange, not so much for the Chicago Bears but because my high school colors were blue and orange. As I went to pick it up, a lady standing next to the pile said, "Oh, that's mine."

Oops.

She showed me where there was more but there was nothing more cool than that blue and orange she had picked up. And I had no idea what was under it. I began going through piles of fabric, finding a few neat things but nothing as great as what she had. And as I did, another woman started looking with me. We talked a bit and she told me she was the president of the Albuquerque chapter of the American Sewing Guild. And that she taught classes on fitting.

She left the room before me and as I drove home with my new stash, kicking myself for not going straight from the first estate sale to the second (thinking it was more important to buy dog food and bananas for the next week), I was reminded of a conversation on my run-walk with Hattie earlier in the morning.

We were walking with a man named Sam whom we often see. I happened to mention something about sewing and he looked at me, surprised, and asked, "You sew?"

He proceeded to tell me how he hadn't met anyone else so young who sewed and that his wife is a big sewer. 

"You should come shop at our house," he joked and I instantly knew what he meant (there is always the joke about who has the biggest stash of fabric- my friend Bonnie taught me that).

Twice in one day life had intersected with sewing. It was one of those moments where everything had fallen into place so I could receive a sign.

I'd been late getting out to run in the morning because Greg and I had stopped to talk to our newspaper carrier about an issue we'd had and then I opted for my shorter route rather than my longer route. If I had gone longer, Hattie and I would have missed Sam.

While I missed the elusive blue and orange fabric, had I not been in the room at that time, I wouldn't have gotten a chance to talk to that particular woman while we sorted through the boxes and bins of fabric.

I'm in the midst of recreating my own version of the blue and orange fabric on paper, hoping it might be the first of my own fabric designs. And knowing that the signs and messages are all around us all the time if we're open.

Keep sewing, I told myself. It's slowly coming together.

The Swimsuit

The plan had been to start making swimsuits. I just thought I had bit more time to learn my new serger before I tackled my first one. However, my friend Veronica was leaving on vacation at the end of July (to the beaches of California, no less) and she needed a suit. I wasn’t going to say no to the opportunity to create something for my friend, especially because it was a chance for me to start making them.

But I didn’t really consider what a daunting challenge I had in front of me. What didn’t scare me was that I knew my mom had created one for my older sister Karen in the 1970s– one that lasted Karen quite a long time– and Mom had done it on the same Bernina sewing machine that I am using.

We bought a serger for me in Late May but with two trips in June, I haven’t had much of a chance to use it. I would need to make Veronica’s swimsuit on the Bernina with lots of zig zag stitches.

Taking her measurements, the pattern, the notions, and the fabric she picked in hand, I realized what a daunting task I had in front of me. I couldn’t do it alone.

Often in the past I have written about my struggle to be the competitive runner I was supposed to be. I often joke that in high school God and I broke up- an unanswered prayer in eighth grade regarding my dad’s job situation left me not believing in God. I thought I had to do everything on my own.

But several weeks ago as I watched the Olympic trials, particularly track and field, many of the runners talked about how much God helped them.

If I was going to make a swimsuit, not only would I need to channel my mom but I’d need God’s help, too.

Sewing knits– which tend to slide all over the place– is tricky. Getting the needle and thread to behave on the knits can be perilous, too. I allowed myself hours at a time. Just in case. And prayed a lot, often shaking as I sat down, unsure how I could truly make Veronica’s measurements match a pattern that was confusing (my friend Bonnie often called pattern instructions “destructions” because of the chaos they cause). It also made me realize why women hate buying swimsuits. No one’s measurements are the same. How can we be standardized when our bodies are so unique? And I know this from trying on all the clothes that I do– how much doesn’t fit right because of my short frame.

With the seams sewn together but nothing else, Veronica came by and was happy with the fit. It looked great but I was mostly concerned that it felt good. I didn’t want to create something she would never wear.

And when the suit was finished, truly looking like a swimsuit, I felt like I’d survived a final exam and needed a nap. When she put it on, not only was it a perfect fit, but she was happy and comfortable. Excited is a better word.

It wasn’t beginners luck as I attribute some of my successful to the binkini bottom I made in January that taught me some elastic lessons, but rather it was taking the time and letting go, asking for help in a way it took me a long time to comprehend.

Welcome to Chelle Summer!

After years of of a variety of web sites, we have merged all my work into one place. 

Chelle Summer.

Here you'll find links to my books (and there are more of those to come!), the inspiring blogs I'm known for, recipes from Chef Chelle, and– soon– a store for the Chelle Summer bucket bags and tote bags.

The focus of Chelle Summer is also the idea of bringing together what inspires me and sharing that with you and the world. After spending many years helping people through grief and loss, my concentration has turned to living the creative and inspiring life I have dreamed of. And by living it, I'm showing that despite whatever happens to you, you can go forward and have a great life.

You'll find links to social media where I often share the items that inspire me or what I create. And of course the awesome photography of Pamela Joye (who also built this site). 

Take a look around. Pull up a chair and stay awhile. Connect with us on social media.

And get ready for what's next. First up? The Chelle Summer store, of course. 

Finding Inspiration in Style

For many years I wouldn’t say that I had any style.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have any sense of style because in junior high and high school I had been really into Benetton, Esprit, and, of course, Forenza, and Outback Red, the Limited brands we thought were so cool.

But after not wearing jeans for several years (I wore skirts and even shorts in the winter- something kids do all the time now but I don’t think many of us did then unless my memory bank is fading from my suburban high school Chicago days), I ventured back to them in college and while I wore nice clothes, they were quite boring.

I lived in jeans for many years even though I had some nice dresses. I wore denim or khaki shorts in the summer. Most of my foray into prints came from a vast collection of bikinis that started in 2004 when my then-husband and I added a pool to our Albuquerque backyard.

But in 2011 I began to find my way back to style, starting with skirts and then color.

However, it was finding Trina Turk’s brand in early 2013 that changed me.

I don’t know how I stumbled on her prints but I fell in love with the swim cover up in the photo. I bought it and used it as my reward for when my house in Illinois sold (which didn’t happen for two more years so I gave up on it as a reward– I knew if I didn’t buy the cover up it wouldn’t be available later although I really expected the house to sell long before it did).

After spending a year and a half back in Illinois, I realized I didn’t belong for many reasons but one was my sense of color was very different what many people wear and decorate with there. I have since heard the people who bought my house painted over the orange walls of my office and the turquoise of the guestroom. Back to brown I’m sure.

For me though, it’s about the prints that remind me of my Barbies and the clothes they wore in the late seventies. Maybe it’s because those are happy memories, with my younger sister who isn’t here anymore. But I’d like to believe it’s about me becoming who I am today.

What I didn’t realize all this time is that in those years I was creating that person. I didn’t know that this style would come full circle by discovering what someone else had created.

That then opened the door for me to explore everything that has inspired me in the past and make it part of my present and future.

Finding Inspiration

I have just a smidgen of Irish in me on my south side Chicagoan dad’s side. He was mostly Polish but in many ways he identified– or wanted to identify– with the Irish him although it was American Irish: corned beef sandwiches and the taunting every St. Patrick’s Day that we were all to trek to city hall downtown Chicago and have our rear ends painted green.

But I don’t identify with being Irish myself. Two weeks ago Greg and I set off to spend a week in Ireland, my third trip there, but it wasn’t about stepping foot where my ancestors did or seeking out family history like many Americans who go there do. I can still remember sitting in the departure lounge at the end of my first trip watching all the Americans drinking bottles of Guinness at 10:00 in the morning.

That’s not Ireland to me.

Two of my three trips to Ireland took me there for speaking gigs and this one was the offshoot of a speaking gig in England because there was something else I wanted to do: spend some time on one of the Blasket Islands.

But it’s also because I am always inspired by the places I go. My first fiction novel, The Australian Pen Pal, only could have been written because of my trips to Australia. By going to places, I experience the people, culture, and the physical place itself. For me, I can’t write about a place without having been there. And this trip had one new place (a blog to come somewhere down the line after it’s incorporated into the novel I’m working on) plus returning to Dingle, Ireland. I wanted to do the drive around the area again, just make sure what I remembered is what is there– at least through my eyes. And it also gave me more details to add to the future story where it will be included. The richness of detail is that transports my readers into places they might never have been.

So while many Americans are off exploring Ireland to step where their ancestors did, I’m thinking about my characters and how Ireland might have shaped their lives in some way.

 
Tags inspiration, ireland, dingle, blasket islands, writing, writing life, fiction, novel, writer, author, travel

New York City to Chicago Flight

I confess I’ve never been much of a New York girl, always favoring the west coast.

However, when I was in high school, my mom worked for the old Midway Airlines (based out of Chicago’s Midway Airport) and she took my younger sister and I on many day trips, particularly during the summers.

Now that I’ve been living in New Mexico for twenty years, I forget how easy it is to get to the East Coast from the Midwest which meant it was less than a two-hour flight to places like Washington, DC, Boston, and New York City.

One time we went to Macys, another to the Statue of Liberty, and yet another to see the Chicago Cubs play the New York Mets in Shea Stadium.

A few weeks ago, work took me to NYC for a training at Columbia University. And luck struck again that I had the opportunity to stay with a family friend of my husband’s­– one of those people in our lives that isn’t family but we call family– who lives on Central Park. Staying with her and also the opportunity to meet some of her friends and see a musical gave me a different perspective of NYC. And a greater appreciation.

But a memory I had long forgotten also stuck with me as I began to remember the trips with my mom and my sister.

Because we flew stand by (or space available), sometimes we were split apart. As the older one, if they could only get us two seats together, then I was the one who sat separately from my mom and my sister. I traveled with my journal and used that time to catch up on events (I wrote often in those days, right down to what mail I had received and who I talked to on the phone). The woman next to me on one flight to Chicago was an editor of a major magazine. I forget now but it was something like Ladies Home Journal. And her husband was the publisher of something like Country Living.

We spent that time on the plane discussing journalism (my planned major– of which I did receive my bachelors’ degree in) and she was very encouraging.

What I realize now is what an opportunity that was for me, to sit next to someone who was doing work I dreamed of doing. And while the world has changed and we aren’t bound to locations like we once were, still, it could only happen in a flight that involved New York City.