Then the signs arrived:

“Weeding.” Like that’s even a thing. Like anyone would ever need a sign to direct people to come on back for the big weeding gala they’d planned for the neighborhood to enjoy.

I considered keeping these signs just because they made me laugh so hard but, in the end, I shipped them back to Amazon-land from whence they’d come.

I can’t stop thinking about them, though. Is the company hoping that nobody will notice? Wait. What if some people DON’T notice. After all, the eye often “sees” what it expects to see, especially during busy, stressful situations. How many bridal couples have slammed these signs into the ground with barely a glance before rushing to take care of a more urgent detail?

Buyer beware: there’s probably a huge warehouse someplace filled with thousands of these mistakes just waiting for an unsuspecting home.

We all make mistakes. In the best of circumstances, we catch the glitch and fix it before anyone notices. In some cases, the “wrong” turns out to be better than the “right,” a choice we never would have stumbled upon if we hadn’t taken an unexpected turn. Sometimes we have no choice but to power through no matter what we’ve done, because the mistake has punted us onto an entirely different path with no way to go back. And, unfortunately, sometimes other people do end up paying for the mistakes we make (with no option to ship back returns).

I’m thinking that in this case, the sign company is leaning heavily on the second option and hoping that the world will catch up enough to make their goof look more visionary than inept. If that’s the case and you find yourself planning an international weeding festival or a more intimate afternoon weeding tea, these guys have you covered.

Just make sure to act fast before “welding” becomes the next big thing.

From my seat on the couch, I’m pretty sure I’d have this Force stuff down in no time flat. Just trust it, Luke. Dive in. Be part of the greater good.

Another iconic scene: in Beauty and the Beast, a violent mob armed with flaming torches and weapons converges on the beast’s castle, ready to kill. The mob knows nothing about the beast’s story; the frenzied hatred arises from fear of anyone different from what the townspeople have always known. This fear has become the basis for their actions, and they can no longer feel or hear anything beyond it.

Me from the couch? Yeah, I’ve got this one, too. I’d know that this poor, scared beast-creature is so much more than his appearance implies. He deserves compassion, not scorn. I’d be a good villager, willing to offer protection even in the face of something I don’t understand.

Truth? In real life, it turns out I’m not much better at this stuff than fictional characters are. While I do believe in a version of the Force — that powerful, intuitive energy that flows through each of us — it appears I can’t stop questioning its guidance. I mean, what if I misread my instincts, or simply don’t get the message? What if I plunge into something wholeheartedly and only make everything worse? And that compassion-for-the-unknown thing? Sure. The only problem is that certain people, opinions, and thought patterns make me want a flaming torch of my own with a pitchfork thrown in for good measure.

No matter how good my intentions are, I mess up. Frequently.

Which brings me to another fictional character …

Ebenezer Scrooge is awful. Disdain toward humankind? Check. Stinginess with both means and spirit? Check. Cold? Covetous? Hard? Yeah, he’s all that, too.

And yet, by the end of A Christmas Carol, Scrooge is a new man. Thanks to a night punctuated by ghostly visits, he not only sees the world through different eyes, he gets the chance to go back and make positive changes based on what that newfound vision has revealed to him.

I’m a big fan of second chances. And third chances. And the general idea that no matter how badly I miss the mark one day, there’s always the opportunity to try to do better the next.

So, I apologize to anyone who gets caught in the midst of one of my epic fails. I’ll keep working on it.

Like in Groundhog Day.

Although it was obvious to me that dolls were alive, the outside world did not agree. So, I set up a series of tests to prove it. There was the “location” test, where I noted each doll’s specific place and pose before leaving the room (they were so good at staying still!). When I returned–usually abruptly, aiming for the surprise factor–one or more of my dolls had always neglected to snap back to her original pose. There was the “hunger” test. Since dolls never got to eat, it made sense that when left alone, they’d be hard-pressed to resist a cookie strategically placed in the middle of the room. Sure enough, careful examination always revealed a discreet nibble or two, more than enough proof for me, but maybe not enough to convince the doubters.

Oh, how I wanted to convince the doubters…

I don’t think I was a weird kid (I’ll leave that to you). Most kids are like this, able to intertwine “real” and “not real” at will. Those boundaries solidify for each of us in different ways for different reasons. Fortunately for me, I’m a writer. This has allowed me to keep the boundaries flexible for a long time.

Each of my three published books involves the supernatural. As with the thought of dolls parading about in my presence, I’m not comfortable writing horror. I lean more toward allowing a paranormal layer to co-exist with physical reality in a matter-of-fact way. For some of my characters, this reflects the world as they understand it to be. Other characters are not as accepting–nor should they be if there’s any hope of moving a plot along.

I’m used to my characters’ responses to the unseen in my books. I was less prepared for the reactions of some of my readers. For a very small number of them, the supernatural element in my stories isn’t simply unbelievable or even merely fictional…it’s downright offensive, a siege on their five senses and everything they know to be true. For these readers, that boundary between tangible and intangible has progressed beyond solid to something utterly impassable. They let me know that not only have I failed to pull the wool over their eyes, they’re insulted that I even tried.

Humans come in layers. We can rotate between belief and doubt over the same issue(s) throughout our lives. We’re also capable of believing and doubting simultaneously. This was true for me every time I left the room before each doll test. I’d announce loudly to the dolls that I knew very well they were alive, so if they wanted to hang out or eat a cookie or do whatever it was living dolls did, their secret was safe with me. I knew that if by some sad chance the dolls weren’t alive, they wouldn’t hear me anyway. But if they were alive…they might reveal secrets I’d never know if I didn’t take the chance and ask.

Even if the doll tests didn’t turn out exactly as I’d hoped, they did help put into perspective some of the unexplainable events that followed in my life. I’ve learned that not everything has to be explained. I’ve also learned that there’s no point in trying to convince those who doubt.

Best of all, I know that suspending disbelief is worth the risk.

Feel free to poke around. I’ll leave you to it, but before I go, I’d like to point out the gorgeous stained-glass window at the top of the page.

This is the Allegorical Window, and it overlooks the Grand Hall of Union Station in St. Louis, MO. Hand-made from Tiffany glass, the window is original to the building, in place when the first train left the station in 1894. It was there when over 100,000 people swarmed though St. Louis Union Station daily, making it one of the busiest train stations in the world. It presided over celebrity photo shoots featuring the likes of Joan Crawford and Joe DiMaggio. (That famous “Dewey Defeats Truman” photo? That happened at Union Station, too.) The window stayed put during World War II, when the Grand Hall sacrificed several of its signature architectural embellishments (including a two-ton wrought-iron chandelier with 350 light bulbs) to the war effort.

Allegories are tales within tales; peel back the top layer and another story will be found beneath the scene depicted. It’s no surprise, then, that something called the Allegorical Window has more to say than may appear at first glance. The neoclassical goddess on the left represents San Francisco. The one on the right is New York City. And there, in the middle, sits St. Louis, proud of the pivotal role she plays in connecting America from sea to shining sea. In 1894, this ability to link the country by rail was seen as a triumph of human purpose and ingenuity, and judging from the expressions on their faces, all three goddesses know it.

But just as these ladies graced St. Louis Union Station in its heyday, they also watched as the last train pulled out on October 31, 1978. The station’s size and elegance, once desirable attributes, were now liabilities. In a changing world where air had become the first choice for long-distance travel, Union Station was too expensive to maintain.

It’s easy to dismiss the symbolism of the Allegorical Window as something frozen in time, a quaint notion as obsolete as the train station itself. But even though the underlying narrative of the window’s story has changed, I still sense vitality when I look at the goddesses. I like their confidence. They’re strong, so aware that they have something to offer that change seems more like an opportunity than a roadblock.

Today, St. Louis Union Station is a National Historic Landmark, and the fact that trains no longer stop there doesn’t mean it’s lifeless. The Grand Hall with its breathtaking barrel-vaulted ceiling is now part of the Hilton Hotel’s Curio Collection. Union Station is home to various restaurants and attractions, a reinvention that still invites people to explore, even if the landscape has changed.

To me, the figures in the Allegorical Window aren’t goddesses. They’re more like muses with attitude. Their self-assurance reminds me that purpose and possibility always exist, even when situations change. These muses not only inspire, they encourage reinvention.

… which is why I want them on my team.