My book proposal is now in the hands of 3 acquisition editors and one agent.
I keep second guessing myself. Wanting to redo parts of it. Doubting that I should have sent it at all. Wondering at every turn toward my phone or computer if I should check for messages.
The waiting itself is drawing me inward. My heart feels like its soaking in a mire of desire and doubt, motivation and miscontent, duty and denial, faith and fear. I feel a physical ache when I consider that I've put my heart and my work out there for consideration.
It makes me want to forget the call I felt to write it in the first place. Makes me want to turn toward something else altogether.
Something that would that would help me forget. Anything would do, really.
I thought about organizing my pictures, repainting the hallway, putting a few new plants to bed in the front yard, eating every last snack in the house. All productive and worthy distractions.
Instead, I stood in the shower til the water grew cold;, let my fears bubble to the surface and prayed them down the drain. I listened to a favorite playlist. I read my bible.
And then I thanked Jesus for the freedom to honestly communicate my mixed feelings, and for the Spirit that soothes whether I'm in my Sunday best or my birthday suit.
For now I have peace. But, I'm sure I'll be back there again soon -- in that broken place -- before I hear an answer.
Til then I'll be breathing, trying not to lick the inside of the potato chip bag, and contemplating how it just may be that waiting will be the hardest work yet.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Something's about to break
It’s funny (not ha ha funny, but weird funny) how things come together sometimes.
I just spent the morning finishing the introduction to my book, and working on a couple chapters that had been bugging me.
Glenn and I had a lunch date, so I had to wrap it up at 11 and get showered & dressed to go.
All I knew about our lunch date was that Glenn had won another radio contest and we were headed to some new place downtown called American Cowgirl to hear a performer who was being promoted by a local station, 105.1 aka “The Buzz.”
We found a parking spot right up front and great table on the far side of the room where we could see the stage, but still enjoy the warm sunshine slanting through the industrial size windows.
“So, who are we here to see?”
“It looks like his name is Matt something.”
Matt turned out to be Mat.
The very Mat Kearney I’d recently discovered on Rhapsody while weaving my way through the sidebar which lists each artist's contemporaries/influences. (Had I started at The Fray, perhaps, or was it Daniel Lanios via Emmylou or maybe Switchfoot?) Who knows, but nevertheless he landed on the playlist I’ve been listening to while writing my book, In the Shadow of a Stranger.
So... I knew Mat seemed familiar, but didn’t know why until I heard him sing a couple poignant lines from his song Nothing Left to Lose; a song whose lyrics helped usher me through one of my tougher chapters…
I won’t try and explain how, but the tone of this song, and those lines in particular, resonated and helped inspire me to take the steps I needed when I was hesitating about my ability, and right, to write the book.
Mat’s voice and melodies have a hauntingness about them that can’t be easily articulated. For me, its as if he reaches in and stirs waters that are at risk of growing stagnant.
See what I mean that its funny how things comes together sometimes. Makes me wonder what's next, and what it is, specifically, that is about to break for me.
I think I know what it is, but I'll be keeping my ears open while I wait and see...
I just spent the morning finishing the introduction to my book, and working on a couple chapters that had been bugging me.
Glenn and I had a lunch date, so I had to wrap it up at 11 and get showered & dressed to go.
All I knew about our lunch date was that Glenn had won another radio contest and we were headed to some new place downtown called American Cowgirl to hear a performer who was being promoted by a local station, 105.1 aka “The Buzz.”
We found a parking spot right up front and great table on the far side of the room where we could see the stage, but still enjoy the warm sunshine slanting through the industrial size windows.
“So, who are we here to see?”
“It looks like his name is Matt something.”
Matt turned out to be Mat.
The very Mat Kearney I’d recently discovered on Rhapsody while weaving my way through the sidebar which lists each artist's contemporaries/influences. (Had I started at The Fray, perhaps, or was it Daniel Lanios via Emmylou or maybe Switchfoot?) Who knows, but nevertheless he landed on the playlist I’ve been listening to while writing my book, In the Shadow of a Stranger.
So... I knew Mat seemed familiar, but didn’t know why until I heard him sing a couple poignant lines from his song Nothing Left to Lose; a song whose lyrics helped usher me through one of my tougher chapters…
Mark my words, something’s about to break …
Here we go, there’s nothing left to choose,
Here we go, there’s nothing left to lose.
I can still hear the trains out my window …
I won’t try and explain how, but the tone of this song, and those lines in particular, resonated and helped inspire me to take the steps I needed when I was hesitating about my ability, and right, to write the book.
Mat’s voice and melodies have a hauntingness about them that can’t be easily articulated. For me, its as if he reaches in and stirs waters that are at risk of growing stagnant.
See what I mean that its funny how things comes together sometimes. Makes me wonder what's next, and what it is, specifically, that is about to break for me.
I think I know what it is, but I'll be keeping my ears open while I wait and see...
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Across the Fence
I'm writing from our backyard this morning, keeping an eye on Lucky the bunny, making sure he isn't nibbling my petunias or digging up the hens & chicks I just transplanted.
In spite of the glare on my laptop, I chase the sun around the patch of moss we call a lawn, soaking up warmth and wishing sunlight could reach through the small windows of our low-slung, fir shaded 1970's ranch house.
My flowerbed is dry and desperate looking, in all honesty -- nothing like the lush swaths of annuals that bloomed wherever my Great Aunt Minnie lived.
In my mind's eye I can still her signature cosmos towering over marigolds the size of salad plates; and daisys, dianthus, snapdragons & sweetpeas stepping their way down to the hens & chicks that clucked along, forming a natural border to her patch of heaven.
While I also remember Aunt Minnie for her girlish giggle, her missing index finger and the little silver flask she carried inside her purse, it's always her flower patch I see when memory brings her to mind.
I am grateful I didn't inherit her penchant for "taking a nip," and I'm okay with my more serious nature, but oh how I wish, wish, wish she'd passed her green thumb down to me.
A while ago bunny tucked his wiggly nose through a slat in the fence to chomp my neighbor's vagrant clematis vine. For a moment I considered letting him -- their sunny, lush backyard unearths envy in me I didn't know was possible -- but, I shooed him away.
He's been behaving for quite awhile now, probably reminded by my scolding that he's lucky, indeed, to be loose from his wire condo.
Still, somewhere inside me, I hear a little giggle, tempting me to get up and coax bunny back to the fence.
I know I shouldn't ...
In spite of the glare on my laptop, I chase the sun around the patch of moss we call a lawn, soaking up warmth and wishing sunlight could reach through the small windows of our low-slung, fir shaded 1970's ranch house.
My flowerbed is dry and desperate looking, in all honesty -- nothing like the lush swaths of annuals that bloomed wherever my Great Aunt Minnie lived.
In my mind's eye I can still her signature cosmos towering over marigolds the size of salad plates; and daisys, dianthus, snapdragons & sweetpeas stepping their way down to the hens & chicks that clucked along, forming a natural border to her patch of heaven.
While I also remember Aunt Minnie for her girlish giggle, her missing index finger and the little silver flask she carried inside her purse, it's always her flower patch I see when memory brings her to mind.
I am grateful I didn't inherit her penchant for "taking a nip," and I'm okay with my more serious nature, but oh how I wish, wish, wish she'd passed her green thumb down to me.
A while ago bunny tucked his wiggly nose through a slat in the fence to chomp my neighbor's vagrant clematis vine. For a moment I considered letting him -- their sunny, lush backyard unearths envy in me I didn't know was possible -- but, I shooed him away.
He's been behaving for quite awhile now, probably reminded by my scolding that he's lucky, indeed, to be loose from his wire condo.
Still, somewhere inside me, I hear a little giggle, tempting me to get up and coax bunny back to the fence.
I know I shouldn't ...
Monday, May 08, 2006
Waiter or Writer?
Today I'm waiting for these folks to call me back so I can interview them for one of the columns I write for the monthly HBA newspaper.
You would think that while I sit at my desk waiting for each of them to call me back, I could also work on my novel, or something a little more productive than a blog post.
Especially in light of something Shannon Woodward said at this weekend conference I just attended. (Okay, she said a lot of things, but this is easy to remember, and one of her comments that stuck with me ...)
"If you are waiting for inspiration, you are a waiter, not a writer."
I think these weren't her words, originally, but frankly, I've enough distractions pulling at me today that if I get up and find my notes from the conference where I heard her speak, who knows if I'll finish even this brief post.
I fear that if I start "my own thing," my outstanding calls will all return, leaving me to finish the day with that exasperated, interrupted feeling writers so loathe. So, I sit here, grazing blogs istead.
Yet, if I've learned anything about the discipline of writing it is, in addition to Shannon's lesson, that I not wait for those elusive luxurious stretches of protected time to engage in my craft, but that I also fit it into the pieces and snips and sometimes unplanned moments where I find myself, like now, waiting for something else.
I wonder, did Hemingway scrub toilets, pay bills, cook dinner, run errands? Surely not. But, he undoubtedly must have faced and persisted through interruptions of the day -- even those of his own making.
You would think that while I sit at my desk waiting for each of them to call me back, I could also work on my novel, or something a little more productive than a blog post.
Especially in light of something Shannon Woodward said at this weekend conference I just attended. (Okay, she said a lot of things, but this is easy to remember, and one of her comments that stuck with me ...)
"If you are waiting for inspiration, you are a waiter, not a writer."
I think these weren't her words, originally, but frankly, I've enough distractions pulling at me today that if I get up and find my notes from the conference where I heard her speak, who knows if I'll finish even this brief post.
I fear that if I start "my own thing," my outstanding calls will all return, leaving me to finish the day with that exasperated, interrupted feeling writers so loathe. So, I sit here, grazing blogs istead.
Yet, if I've learned anything about the discipline of writing it is, in addition to Shannon's lesson, that I not wait for those elusive luxurious stretches of protected time to engage in my craft, but that I also fit it into the pieces and snips and sometimes unplanned moments where I find myself, like now, waiting for something else.
I wonder, did Hemingway scrub toilets, pay bills, cook dinner, run errands? Surely not. But, he undoubtedly must have faced and persisted through interruptions of the day -- even those of his own making.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Not my fault, not my fault, not my fault...
Started Mermaid's Chair last night.
I enjoyed the style of Secret Life of Bees, but really had no intention of reading Kidd's second attempt at best-sellerdom (probably out of jealousy, if I'm honest with myself - and, well anyone who reads this). But, because it was within view of both the children's area where my son was occupied and the New Fiction stacks at the library, my choices were limited. A quick glance across the bindings for the slice of green tape (indicating essentially, "there are oodles of requests pending for this title and you're lucky to find this one-copy-we-keep-in-circulation-regardless) led me to pluck The Mermaid's Chair from the shelf in spite of my hesitations.
It is engaging so far. Character driven (I like that) and filled with symbolism (like that too).
But here's the main reason I feel compelled to write about it today...
I've been praying for the Lord to reveal the reason(s) for my self-sabotoging ways. To unleash some revelation about why I hold myself back from what I really want to do: finish my novel.
It appeared at the end of a couple paragraphs meant for setting-up the main character's interior justifications and current mind-set.
Anyone who knows me, and anything about my upbringing, will understand why this last line makes infinite sense to me. I believe it is THE ANSWER I was praying for. That my enlightenment comes from the least expected of places only confirms its validity for me.
Where most people labor under a fear of failure, I am coming to realize my issue has more to do with fear of success. Which I think is tied to forgiveness and guilt.
So, while I've done a lot of work in the past years forgiving everyone I can think of who may have contributed to my ragged past, I think I've left someone out.
Myself.
Perhaps I have only this little bit of work to do before I can really do the work I want.
I enjoyed the style of Secret Life of Bees, but really had no intention of reading Kidd's second attempt at best-sellerdom (probably out of jealousy, if I'm honest with myself - and, well anyone who reads this). But, because it was within view of both the children's area where my son was occupied and the New Fiction stacks at the library, my choices were limited. A quick glance across the bindings for the slice of green tape (indicating essentially, "there are oodles of requests pending for this title and you're lucky to find this one-copy-we-keep-in-circulation-regardless) led me to pluck The Mermaid's Chair from the shelf in spite of my hesitations.
It is engaging so far. Character driven (I like that) and filled with symbolism (like that too).
But here's the main reason I feel compelled to write about it today...
I've been praying for the Lord to reveal the reason(s) for my self-sabotoging ways. To unleash some revelation about why I hold myself back from what I really want to do: finish my novel.
It appeared at the end of a couple paragraphs meant for setting-up the main character's interior justifications and current mind-set.
Lately Hugh (main character's husband) had pushed me to see Dr. Ilg, one of the therapists in his practice. I'd refused on the grounds that she had a parrot in her office.
I knew that would drive him crazy. This wasn't the real reason, of course--I have nothing against people's having parrots, except that they keep them in little cages. But I used it as a way of letting him know I wasn't taking the suggestion seriously. It was one of the rare times I didn't acquiesce to him.
"So she's got a parrot, so what?" he'd said. "You'd like her." Probably I would, but I couldn't quite bring myself to go that far--all that paddling around in the alphabet soup of one's childhood, scooping up letters, hoping to arrange them into enlightening senctences that would explain why things had turned out the way they had. It evoked a certain mutiny in me.
I did occasionally, though, play out imaginary sessions with Dr. Ilg in my head. I would tell her about my father and grunting, she would write it down on a little pad--which is all she ever seemed to do. I pictured her bird as a dazzling whit cockatoo perched on the back of her chair, belting out all sorts of flagrant opinions, repeating itself like a Greek chorus: "You blame yourself, you blame yourself, you blame yourself."
Anyone who knows me, and anything about my upbringing, will understand why this last line makes infinite sense to me. I believe it is THE ANSWER I was praying for. That my enlightenment comes from the least expected of places only confirms its validity for me.
Where most people labor under a fear of failure, I am coming to realize my issue has more to do with fear of success. Which I think is tied to forgiveness and guilt.
So, while I've done a lot of work in the past years forgiving everyone I can think of who may have contributed to my ragged past, I think I've left someone out.
Myself.
Perhaps I have only this little bit of work to do before I can really do the work I want.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Out of the Shadows
“Learn your lessons well in the schoolroom of obscurity. God is preparing you as his chosen arrow. As of now your shaft is hidden in his quiver, in the shadows … but at the precise moment at which it will tell with the greatest effect, he will reach for you and launch you to that place of his appointment.”
- Chuck Swindoll
It is exactly this for which I am praying. Now that God has removed the scales from my husband’s eyes, I can see no hindrance, save my own excuses, for holding back from the purpose for which God has prepared me.
I dare say that I believe he desires to use my resolved pain and grateful witness to encourage others and help lift their heads – as he has with endless measure on my account throughout these past two decades of journeying toward Home.
Yet I hesitate. In seeking God’s will I doubt my own. I challenge myself to step out—then hold back, unsure of my motivation. The last thing I want is to seek glory, to build a castle for myself out of the rubble my healer dragged me from beneath. And so I stand with mired feet, gazing upon the heap. Wondering how anything of worth could come from so worthless a ruin.
Perhaps one piece at a time. Brick by brick. Stone by stone.
Lord, help me to drop those stones I would so quickly hurl in shame or regret. Lead me to unbury the rocks hewn from your grace and remind me that you ready me for the rebuilding.
Not for my sake, but for yours.
- Chuck Swindoll
It is exactly this for which I am praying. Now that God has removed the scales from my husband’s eyes, I can see no hindrance, save my own excuses, for holding back from the purpose for which God has prepared me.
I dare say that I believe he desires to use my resolved pain and grateful witness to encourage others and help lift their heads – as he has with endless measure on my account throughout these past two decades of journeying toward Home.
Yet I hesitate. In seeking God’s will I doubt my own. I challenge myself to step out—then hold back, unsure of my motivation. The last thing I want is to seek glory, to build a castle for myself out of the rubble my healer dragged me from beneath. And so I stand with mired feet, gazing upon the heap. Wondering how anything of worth could come from so worthless a ruin.
Perhaps one piece at a time. Brick by brick. Stone by stone.
Lord, help me to drop those stones I would so quickly hurl in shame or regret. Lead me to unbury the rocks hewn from your grace and remind me that you ready me for the rebuilding.
Not for my sake, but for yours.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
To laugh or cry?
I took Eli to our usual place get a haircut yesterday. The owner, Tracy, and her sister, Jennifer, sometimes converse in their native language, Vietnamese.
I had my nose in a book at one point while Eli was in Tracy's chair when I heard them all bust out laughing.
I walked over to see what was so funny. "Did you hear what Eli said?" Tracy asked me--once she could breathe again.
"No."
"Eli said ..." Tracy looked at Jennifer and they cut up again -- neither of them able to tell me through their laughter.
"What did you say, Eli?" I looked right at him, a twinge of dread creeping up my spine.
Jennifer, who was holding her side by now tried to answer "We ... we were talking in Vietnamese ..." but, she couldn't continue.
"Yeah," Eli broke in, "and I told them I didn't know what they were saying because I don't speak Monkey."
They busted up all over again. He was dead serious. I wanted to crawl in a hole.
As you can imagine, we had a long talk about respect and inappropriate comments on the way home. And after dinner. And before bed.
And I just kept thanking God that they thought it was funny. I'm still mortified.
God help me with this kid.
I had my nose in a book at one point while Eli was in Tracy's chair when I heard them all bust out laughing.
I walked over to see what was so funny. "Did you hear what Eli said?" Tracy asked me--once she could breathe again.
"No."
"Eli said ..." Tracy looked at Jennifer and they cut up again -- neither of them able to tell me through their laughter.
"What did you say, Eli?" I looked right at him, a twinge of dread creeping up my spine.
Jennifer, who was holding her side by now tried to answer "We ... we were talking in Vietnamese ..." but, she couldn't continue.
"Yeah," Eli broke in, "and I told them I didn't know what they were saying because I don't speak Monkey."
They busted up all over again. He was dead serious. I wanted to crawl in a hole.
As you can imagine, we had a long talk about respect and inappropriate comments on the way home. And after dinner. And before bed.
And I just kept thanking God that they thought it was funny. I'm still mortified.
God help me with this kid.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Happy Birthday! Love, God.
Yesterday was my birthday. I had no plans. No expectations.
I just opened my eyes, and there they were. My husband and son heading for me with a breakfast tray. "Happy Birthday Mama. I made it myself," my six year old told me. "Well, except for the sausage. And the potatoes. Dad did those."
"Wow, you guys. Thanks. How sweet."
It was especially thoughtful of my husband. I'd just used the last of the yukon gold's the night before. He must have made a special trip to get more just for my breakfast.
The sweetness continued when, after putting my son on the bus, I sat down to open my email and found a touching and very personal birthday greeting from my mom.
It made my day. I was Happy Indeed. It was enough.
I settled into my morning routine, including writing for awhile, then decided to go to my new favorite store (The Container Store) in Bridgeport Village to buy a shelf system to add to my converted closet/writing space.
I arrived about 10:30 and picked out my system quickly, choosing one that was on display, rather than trying to piece something together myself in the name of saving a few bucks. Happy Birthday to Me. (Maybe I've finally learned something in my 43 years?)
Anyway, the clerk gave me one of those buzzer things that looked like an overgrown plastic coaster and told me to feel free to wander the store; that it would light up when my order was ready.
"Thanks," I told him and asked where I might find a waterproof case for our camera. Before I could turn toward the travel aisle, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
There stood one of my dearest friends, Susannah. "Well, hello ... " we said in unison.
She explained that she'd come with her friend Tara who'd just taken her out for breakfast to celebrate her birthday, and they'd ended up here.
"Whaddy'a know." I said. "Right where I am. Celebrating my own birthday."
Tara had to leave, so Susannah and I walked across the courtyard to Peet's Coffee and settled in for a long overdue chat. Susannah and I are from different worlds in some ways, and yet, in some ways we are the same. We share many common experiences which have bound our friendship eternally. I treasure Susannah's tender spirit and her quick laugh, and I know, because she has told me, that she considers our friendship a deep blessing as well.
We had a wonderful hour, (thanks to her mom who was at home with the kids)and were about at the bottom of our cups when Susannah looked out the window and said "Isn't that your friend Sara?"
Yes it was. Crossing the street, heading directly for Peets, both children in tow. I'd been missing Sara all week and had thought that morning about calling her to see if she could join me for my shopping excursion, then figured she'd probably have to pick up her son, Max from school so I decided I'd spare her the invitation, figuring she'd want to come, but couldn't.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, and inquired if the kids were sick. "No school. We came to pick out a birthday gift for you."
It was enough. Just to have run into two of my favorite people (well, four, if you count the kids, which you should) without planning it. A gift really wasn't necessary.
"You don't have to do that, Sara."
"I know. I want to."
"Come join us for coffee?" I asked, wishing I'd called her anyway this morning. (Then wishing I hadn't worn the shirt she'd loaned me months before that I was reluctant to return.)
"No. You two finish up. We'll be back. Then, let's go to lunch."
"Okay, then."
Susannah left me with a birthday hug and before long, Sara, Peyton, Max and I were seated for lunch.
"Where's your party?" Max asked me.
"It's right here, Max. Right now is my party. I'm having a great birthday."
"Well, where's the take?" he meant cake.
Sara invited me to open my gift even though she'd planned to give it to me the next evening when we'd planned to meet for dinner. Peyton helped pull off the pink ribbon she'd picked out, and I liberated a hot new pair of jammies and some cool bath salts from the unwrapped box.
"This is too cool," I told Sara. "Thank you," I told her, feeling thankful that she and I share the same God who delights in suprising us. "This whole day feels like it's been orchestrated just for me."
I stepped out to return a phone call to my friend Heidi, but first called Glenn, who told me she (Heidi) had been trying to reach me because she would be heading my way to drop her kids off at a movie, and was hoping we could hang out while she waited for them.
"Wow. It's like this whole day was arranged. And I didn't even know it."
"Well, thank you," he said, jokingly trying to take credit for my day's suprises. We decided to meet for a movie after he picked up Eli from school.
I went back inside and finished lunch with Sara, who asked if I wanted to keep the left over pizza.
"No." I told her. Then I thought of Heidi, who'd been schlepping her out-of-school children all day. "Wait. Yes. Maybe Heidi will want it when she gets here."
We barely emerged from the restaurant doors and there she was.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"I'm starving."
Sara handed me off to Heidi and we went back to Peet's for coffee where we had the best talk we've had in months. We talked alot about her Marine son, Josh, who I've known since he was five. We got into a couple painful memories together and shed a few cleansing tears. We remembered why we've been friends all these years.
The fact that this day came together the way it did is amazing to me. I couldn't have arranged any of it if I'd tried, I'm sure.
But, that it happened on my birthday, and that my it was followed by a sweet movie with my son and husband, a hand wrapped present from Eli and dinner with my son, then was topped off with a beautiful jewelry box and two dozen roses from my husband... well, it's enough. It's too much.
I've been wondering today if I'd been listening real hard, if I would have heard God singing Happy Birthday.
I think so.
I just opened my eyes, and there they were. My husband and son heading for me with a breakfast tray. "Happy Birthday Mama. I made it myself," my six year old told me. "Well, except for the sausage. And the potatoes. Dad did those."
"Wow, you guys. Thanks. How sweet."
It was especially thoughtful of my husband. I'd just used the last of the yukon gold's the night before. He must have made a special trip to get more just for my breakfast.
The sweetness continued when, after putting my son on the bus, I sat down to open my email and found a touching and very personal birthday greeting from my mom.
It made my day. I was Happy Indeed. It was enough.
I settled into my morning routine, including writing for awhile, then decided to go to my new favorite store (The Container Store) in Bridgeport Village to buy a shelf system to add to my converted closet/writing space.
I arrived about 10:30 and picked out my system quickly, choosing one that was on display, rather than trying to piece something together myself in the name of saving a few bucks. Happy Birthday to Me. (Maybe I've finally learned something in my 43 years?)
Anyway, the clerk gave me one of those buzzer things that looked like an overgrown plastic coaster and told me to feel free to wander the store; that it would light up when my order was ready.
"Thanks," I told him and asked where I might find a waterproof case for our camera. Before I could turn toward the travel aisle, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
There stood one of my dearest friends, Susannah. "Well, hello ... " we said in unison.
She explained that she'd come with her friend Tara who'd just taken her out for breakfast to celebrate her birthday, and they'd ended up here.
"Whaddy'a know." I said. "Right where I am. Celebrating my own birthday."
Tara had to leave, so Susannah and I walked across the courtyard to Peet's Coffee and settled in for a long overdue chat. Susannah and I are from different worlds in some ways, and yet, in some ways we are the same. We share many common experiences which have bound our friendship eternally. I treasure Susannah's tender spirit and her quick laugh, and I know, because she has told me, that she considers our friendship a deep blessing as well.
We had a wonderful hour, (thanks to her mom who was at home with the kids)and were about at the bottom of our cups when Susannah looked out the window and said "Isn't that your friend Sara?"
Yes it was. Crossing the street, heading directly for Peets, both children in tow. I'd been missing Sara all week and had thought that morning about calling her to see if she could join me for my shopping excursion, then figured she'd probably have to pick up her son, Max from school so I decided I'd spare her the invitation, figuring she'd want to come, but couldn't.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, and inquired if the kids were sick. "No school. We came to pick out a birthday gift for you."
It was enough. Just to have run into two of my favorite people (well, four, if you count the kids, which you should) without planning it. A gift really wasn't necessary.
"You don't have to do that, Sara."
"I know. I want to."
"Come join us for coffee?" I asked, wishing I'd called her anyway this morning. (Then wishing I hadn't worn the shirt she'd loaned me months before that I was reluctant to return.)
"No. You two finish up. We'll be back. Then, let's go to lunch."
"Okay, then."
Susannah left me with a birthday hug and before long, Sara, Peyton, Max and I were seated for lunch.
"Where's your party?" Max asked me.
"It's right here, Max. Right now is my party. I'm having a great birthday."
"Well, where's the take?" he meant cake.
Sara invited me to open my gift even though she'd planned to give it to me the next evening when we'd planned to meet for dinner. Peyton helped pull off the pink ribbon she'd picked out, and I liberated a hot new pair of jammies and some cool bath salts from the unwrapped box.
"This is too cool," I told Sara. "Thank you," I told her, feeling thankful that she and I share the same God who delights in suprising us. "This whole day feels like it's been orchestrated just for me."
I stepped out to return a phone call to my friend Heidi, but first called Glenn, who told me she (Heidi) had been trying to reach me because she would be heading my way to drop her kids off at a movie, and was hoping we could hang out while she waited for them.
"Wow. It's like this whole day was arranged. And I didn't even know it."
"Well, thank you," he said, jokingly trying to take credit for my day's suprises. We decided to meet for a movie after he picked up Eli from school.
I went back inside and finished lunch with Sara, who asked if I wanted to keep the left over pizza.
"No." I told her. Then I thought of Heidi, who'd been schlepping her out-of-school children all day. "Wait. Yes. Maybe Heidi will want it when she gets here."
We barely emerged from the restaurant doors and there she was.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
"I'm starving."
Sara handed me off to Heidi and we went back to Peet's for coffee where we had the best talk we've had in months. We talked alot about her Marine son, Josh, who I've known since he was five. We got into a couple painful memories together and shed a few cleansing tears. We remembered why we've been friends all these years.
The fact that this day came together the way it did is amazing to me. I couldn't have arranged any of it if I'd tried, I'm sure.
But, that it happened on my birthday, and that my it was followed by a sweet movie with my son and husband, a hand wrapped present from Eli and dinner with my son, then was topped off with a beautiful jewelry box and two dozen roses from my husband... well, it's enough. It's too much.
I've been wondering today if I'd been listening real hard, if I would have heard God singing Happy Birthday.
I think so.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Learning to BE
I remember my mother saying once that when the last of us got in school she wondered what she was "supposed to" do with herself.
That "supposed to" thing has been my undoing many times in my life. I've always been one to produce, to do, to perform whatever task is needed. Now I think I am at a place where I get to choose between "supposed to" and "want to." And, I'm feeling a little stuck. Or maybe scared. Learning to BE instead of constantly DO. This is good for me, even if a little disconcerting.
Because, now that my son is in first grade and I have hours to do what I want to do (work on my novel, read, work, finish painting the hallway) I find myself avoiding being home where all this deferred creativity should be pouring out and coming to light. Even when I am at home, I'm not really using it effectively. I'm constantly checking the clock, counting down how much time I have left, wandering around the house, thinking how much more efficient I could be if I could find a routine. Trying to figure out how to accomplish things without the pressure of fitting in tasks between interruptions.
I want to be careful that I'm not just filling my time, but filling my life with things that matter. Adjusting my productivity clock, I guess, is what I'm doing. Trying to create a routine that revolves around me for a change.
Thought it would be easier than this.
That "supposed to" thing has been my undoing many times in my life. I've always been one to produce, to do, to perform whatever task is needed. Now I think I am at a place where I get to choose between "supposed to" and "want to." And, I'm feeling a little stuck. Or maybe scared. Learning to BE instead of constantly DO. This is good for me, even if a little disconcerting.
Because, now that my son is in first grade and I have hours to do what I want to do (work on my novel, read, work, finish painting the hallway) I find myself avoiding being home where all this deferred creativity should be pouring out and coming to light. Even when I am at home, I'm not really using it effectively. I'm constantly checking the clock, counting down how much time I have left, wandering around the house, thinking how much more efficient I could be if I could find a routine. Trying to figure out how to accomplish things without the pressure of fitting in tasks between interruptions.
I want to be careful that I'm not just filling my time, but filling my life with things that matter. Adjusting my productivity clock, I guess, is what I'm doing. Trying to create a routine that revolves around me for a change.
Thought it would be easier than this.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Thank God for the Rainbow...
Eerie couple days ...
Recapped my storyline for my new writing mentor yesterday. I included a link to THE VANPORT FLOOD OF 1948 to familiarize her with background for my novel. I've been researching this catastrophe for over a year now; it fascinates me that it the only physical remnant of this city built for 50,000 is an obscurly placed mural along the entrance to Portland International Raceway. Just yesterday I located contact information for a flood survivor I want to interview about life in VanPort.
Then David Long's post this morning over at Faith in Fiction...
And to top it off, my friend Katie sent me this Oct. 2004 National Geographic article today -- a long, but fascinating read about Bayou life and scientific perspective before the flood...
Makes me feel like wearing a swim vest, getting to work on my book proposal, and putting our photos way up high.
Not to mention changing my blog name...
p.s. Got in exactly 500 words today. Not on my novel, rather on a short story I'm writing for a Faith in Fiction contest. I counted yesterday's storyline description as my 500 words -- figured it counted toward the synopsis I've been avoiding.
Guess I'm fudging a little on my No Matter What rule. But, more than anything I'm just trying to establish the habit of writing every day. So, I'm letting myself off the hook.
Recapped my storyline for my new writing mentor yesterday. I included a link to THE VANPORT FLOOD OF 1948 to familiarize her with background for my novel. I've been researching this catastrophe for over a year now; it fascinates me that it the only physical remnant of this city built for 50,000 is an obscurly placed mural along the entrance to Portland International Raceway. Just yesterday I located contact information for a flood survivor I want to interview about life in VanPort.
Then David Long's post this morning over at Faith in Fiction...
And to top it off, my friend Katie sent me this Oct. 2004 National Geographic article today -- a long, but fascinating read about Bayou life and scientific perspective before the flood...
Makes me feel like wearing a swim vest, getting to work on my book proposal, and putting our photos way up high.
Not to mention changing my blog name...
p.s. Got in exactly 500 words today. Not on my novel, rather on a short story I'm writing for a Faith in Fiction contest. I counted yesterday's storyline description as my 500 words -- figured it counted toward the synopsis I've been avoiding.
Guess I'm fudging a little on my No Matter What rule. But, more than anything I'm just trying to establish the habit of writing every day. So, I'm letting myself off the hook.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
500 words no matter what
Can I do it? Can I convert my "sitting in front of the computer time" to productive word count?
I'm going to give it what I can for the month of September. 500 words a day on my novel. No matter what.
My son is due off the bus in an hour and I've piddled away most of my day.
(Well, part of it was in a PT appointment and a big chunk was spent looking for our runaway bunny who I am still hoping is just napping under the deck.)
But now, no more distractions, no excuses.
One hour and 500 words to go. Check back, if you care, and see how I did...
First, though, I do need to "piddle" for real. Which, under no circumstances will I allow to lead to toilet scrubbing or organizing the medicine cabinet...)
I'm going to give it what I can for the month of September. 500 words a day on my novel. No matter what.
My son is due off the bus in an hour and I've piddled away most of my day.
(Well, part of it was in a PT appointment and a big chunk was spent looking for our runaway bunny who I am still hoping is just napping under the deck.)
But now, no more distractions, no excuses.
One hour and 500 words to go. Check back, if you care, and see how I did...
First, though, I do need to "piddle" for real. Which, under no circumstances will I allow to lead to toilet scrubbing or organizing the medicine cabinet...)
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
First day of First Grade
Six Hours. To myself. Every schoolday 'til summer rolls over us again.
Today it looks like summer, but it smells like fall. There is a crisp coolness in the air, hanging like a thin veil of change over everything I do, everything I contemplate doing.
Yet, here I sit. Doing nothing really. Just soaking up the time. The quiet. The first moments I've been waiting to celebrate.
My life has spun around and around my son for years. I suppose I can't expect it to spin on my terms all at once. I suspect it will return to a pace I vaguely recall; one my introverted self naturally responds to.
Now the hours stretch before me like a prologue waiting to be written. What will I make of my life now that I have a chunk of it back?
Looking back yields a blurry flurry of activity and noise and endless to-dos.
It is my time. To rest. To do. To be. To work. To stretch out and out until I feel the outer reaches of myself again.
To give God time to fill the inner reaches again.
I am looking forward to being repaired, renewed, refilled, remade.
And, I am excited for my boy. Excited that we survived. That he thrived, in spite of me at times. And that with our nudging and encouragment, he is out there. On his own.
On his way to finding the inner and outer reaches of his own self, too.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Review of Forgiving Solomon Long
What happens when a hitman's conscience convinces him to find an alternate use for the razor he picked up with dasterdly intention?
Why would a cold hearted killer running from his own demons (abandonment, guilt, murder and other general brutalities of sin) consider rescuing his next hit instead of murdering her?
What happens when death wrangels him so deeply into a corner that the only way to escape it is to exorcise its power?
These are just a few of the well-crafted questions Chris paints for us with his unique characters.
I liked Forgiving Solomon Long for the change it showed in an unlikely-to-change character. I liked that it ended, hopefully (even if predictably) and that the main characters demonstrated courage.
I wasn't thrilled with the stilted action descriptions. Or the token romantic thread.
But the pop-culture dialogue was entertaining and helped bring levity and real-ness into a story I had a hard time engaging in, initially.
I am glad I read it, even though crime stories are not my thing. Chris Well has an interesting and intriquing way of developing and weaving unlikely characters.
If crime stories are your thing, then Forgiving Solomon Long would be a redeeming use of your free time. Go to Amazon to get a copy for yourself, or check out Chris Well's site to see more for yourself.
Why would a cold hearted killer running from his own demons (abandonment, guilt, murder and other general brutalities of sin) consider rescuing his next hit instead of murdering her?
What happens when death wrangels him so deeply into a corner that the only way to escape it is to exorcise its power?
These are just a few of the well-crafted questions Chris paints for us with his unique characters.
I liked Forgiving Solomon Long for the change it showed in an unlikely-to-change character. I liked that it ended, hopefully (even if predictably) and that the main characters demonstrated courage.
I wasn't thrilled with the stilted action descriptions. Or the token romantic thread.
But the pop-culture dialogue was entertaining and helped bring levity and real-ness into a story I had a hard time engaging in, initially.
I am glad I read it, even though crime stories are not my thing. Chris Well has an interesting and intriquing way of developing and weaving unlikely characters.
If crime stories are your thing, then Forgiving Solomon Long would be a redeeming use of your free time. Go to Amazon to get a copy for yourself, or check out Chris Well's site to see more for yourself.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Still Waters ...
I’ve shared countless fun times with my friends; my heart holds wall-to-wall memories of laughter, great experiences, exciting moments.
Like the lunch hours and Friday nights Shari and I spent together doing nothing special but laughing ‘til our stomachs hurt. Or the time Terry got called on stage during a fiesta in Mexico, de-shirted and plunked into a lineup from which his wife had to pick him out -- blindfolded. And the endless times Sara encouraged me to try wakeboarding. Then the moment, a year later, when she cheered as I finally got up on the blasted thing.
Rafting, camping, girl’s weekends, road trips, parties, celebrations. Fun, yes. Memorable, definitely.
Significant? I’m not so sure.
For when I try to recall the most meaningful moments of friendship in my life, it isn’t the fun times that first come to mind, even though images of them fill the pages of my photo albums. Instead, the moments that rise to the top of my memory are those which were baptized in sorrow, washed in tears and indelibly engraved on my heart.
Like the time Katie refused to avoid me like my other co-workers when I was downsized from a position of management to support staff … when Sue held me as I wept and lamented over the painful act of obedience God was calling me to … when Heather continually called and visited in spite of the pain, while Glenn and I waited for our unborn baby’s heart to stop beating … when Shari sat at my feet as I rocked my tiny stillborn daughter and then bravely asked if she could hold her for a moment … when Terry trusted me above all others to care for his children during the sudden and ugly breakup of his marriage … when Heather came over for my comfort and counsel knowing a difficult choice she’d made was only beginning to press on her life … when Salena asked me to forgive her anger when I revealed the truth about her husband’s infidelity … when Eva prayed with me in the moment I realized God was asking me to forgive my father … when Christine told me she felt rejected by her sister … when Sara let let me try and comfort her after she and her husband heard the news of their own unborn daughter’s demise … when Barbara told me she thought her husband was having an affair … when Tracy came to my house to cry after learning her mother would need yet another surgery … when Susannah listened and cried with me the day my mother told me she was moving out of state to be closer to her friends … when Lisa revealed in a shaky voice that she didn’t know how to deal with her son’s rage and wondered if adopting him had been a mistake ...
These are the moments in my life that come to the surface when I read the first chapter of Job, consider Naomi's grief and her daughter-in-law's sacrifice in the pages of Ruth, or ponder Jesus’ hesitation to heal his dying friend Lazarus in the 11th chapter of John.
Why is it that these grief-filled moments come to the front of my memory more easily than the fun times; why is it that I don’t have to think too hard to recall them? Is it because in these moments of frightening depth and paralyzing darkness, when we are most afraid to move, that we best sense the presence of God? Is it because in these times, when we are still enough to receive the compassion of others, or bold enough to reach out to someone else, that we are truly alive, truly experiencing the healing touch of Jesus?
Where would friendship be without these cold waters to draw us together? Without the bone-chilling, lonely moments that force us to reach out would our needy hearts ever be sincere? Our connections ever truly and tightly bound?
Is it just me, or do my friends remember and treasure these moments also? If pressed, would they define our friendship by the light moments we’ve shared, or those we’ve experienced in the deep, dark waters of sorrow?
I wonder. Then, I realize I’ve never told my friends how precious their tears have been to me; how sacred their trust. And I am moved to tell them, to write them, to call them and let them know.
Then I hesitate.
Perhaps these fleeting moments that chained us together are mutual and yet personal. Do my friends really want to be reminded of such dark moments?
I resolve to just be thankful for the opportunities I've had to divide sorrow with my friends, and in the process, experience Divine Love.
Still waters run deep for a reason, I decide.
Perhaps it’s best that way.
Like the lunch hours and Friday nights Shari and I spent together doing nothing special but laughing ‘til our stomachs hurt. Or the time Terry got called on stage during a fiesta in Mexico, de-shirted and plunked into a lineup from which his wife had to pick him out -- blindfolded. And the endless times Sara encouraged me to try wakeboarding. Then the moment, a year later, when she cheered as I finally got up on the blasted thing.
Rafting, camping, girl’s weekends, road trips, parties, celebrations. Fun, yes. Memorable, definitely.
Significant? I’m not so sure.
For when I try to recall the most meaningful moments of friendship in my life, it isn’t the fun times that first come to mind, even though images of them fill the pages of my photo albums. Instead, the moments that rise to the top of my memory are those which were baptized in sorrow, washed in tears and indelibly engraved on my heart.
Like the time Katie refused to avoid me like my other co-workers when I was downsized from a position of management to support staff … when Sue held me as I wept and lamented over the painful act of obedience God was calling me to … when Heather continually called and visited in spite of the pain, while Glenn and I waited for our unborn baby’s heart to stop beating … when Shari sat at my feet as I rocked my tiny stillborn daughter and then bravely asked if she could hold her for a moment … when Terry trusted me above all others to care for his children during the sudden and ugly breakup of his marriage … when Heather came over for my comfort and counsel knowing a difficult choice she’d made was only beginning to press on her life … when Salena asked me to forgive her anger when I revealed the truth about her husband’s infidelity … when Eva prayed with me in the moment I realized God was asking me to forgive my father … when Christine told me she felt rejected by her sister … when Sara let let me try and comfort her after she and her husband heard the news of their own unborn daughter’s demise … when Barbara told me she thought her husband was having an affair … when Tracy came to my house to cry after learning her mother would need yet another surgery … when Susannah listened and cried with me the day my mother told me she was moving out of state to be closer to her friends … when Lisa revealed in a shaky voice that she didn’t know how to deal with her son’s rage and wondered if adopting him had been a mistake ...
These are the moments in my life that come to the surface when I read the first chapter of Job, consider Naomi's grief and her daughter-in-law's sacrifice in the pages of Ruth, or ponder Jesus’ hesitation to heal his dying friend Lazarus in the 11th chapter of John.
Why is it that these grief-filled moments come to the front of my memory more easily than the fun times; why is it that I don’t have to think too hard to recall them? Is it because in these moments of frightening depth and paralyzing darkness, when we are most afraid to move, that we best sense the presence of God? Is it because in these times, when we are still enough to receive the compassion of others, or bold enough to reach out to someone else, that we are truly alive, truly experiencing the healing touch of Jesus?
Where would friendship be without these cold waters to draw us together? Without the bone-chilling, lonely moments that force us to reach out would our needy hearts ever be sincere? Our connections ever truly and tightly bound?
Is it just me, or do my friends remember and treasure these moments also? If pressed, would they define our friendship by the light moments we’ve shared, or those we’ve experienced in the deep, dark waters of sorrow?
I wonder. Then, I realize I’ve never told my friends how precious their tears have been to me; how sacred their trust. And I am moved to tell them, to write them, to call them and let them know.
Then I hesitate.
Perhaps these fleeting moments that chained us together are mutual and yet personal. Do my friends really want to be reminded of such dark moments?
I resolve to just be thankful for the opportunities I've had to divide sorrow with my friends, and in the process, experience Divine Love.
Still waters run deep for a reason, I decide.
Perhaps it’s best that way.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Every day should be Memorial Day ...
I was just over at a fellow Faith in Fiction Blogger's site http://kathleenpopa.typepad.com/my_weblog/ and was moved by her Memorial Day tribute post.
It made me think of my friend Heidi's boy, Joshua.
When I first met Josh he was five years old, running circles around his single, struggling, grad-student mama, in his dinosaur-decked pajamas.
Now, he's running a helicopter crew in Iraq, undoubtedly suited in a flak jacket and M-something or other.
My last encounter with Josh was this past winter when he was home before being shipped over. He wrapped me in a muscle tight Marine hug and I promised him I'd pray for him.
I rarely do. Not enough, anyway. Truth is, I forget. Like most of us who don't have a loved one "over there" I go about my daily life. Until I see a newscast or read a report of another bombing or escalation. Then, it's not soldier Josh I think of. It's jammie Josh. And my own little boy, who at this very moment is tucked safely in bed in his own dinosaur pj's.
I see Heidi nearly every other day. And, of course I ask about Josh. I know they stay in touch via email and a unit log.
But, being close to a deployed soldier is not the same as being the mother of one. The mere fact that I am often "reminded" of Josh relays that I often forget. That's not something Heidi, or any soldier's mother has the privilege to do.
This Memorial Day, and everyday we, I, need to remember that though all soldiers were once some mother's little girl or boy, they are now men and women -- giving up their freedom; sacrificing their lifestyle and possibly their life so that we can go on with ours.
Everyday should be Memorial Day, where would we be without those who have gone before, and for us?
It made me think of my friend Heidi's boy, Joshua.
When I first met Josh he was five years old, running circles around his single, struggling, grad-student mama, in his dinosaur-decked pajamas.
Now, he's running a helicopter crew in Iraq, undoubtedly suited in a flak jacket and M-something or other.
My last encounter with Josh was this past winter when he was home before being shipped over. He wrapped me in a muscle tight Marine hug and I promised him I'd pray for him.
I rarely do. Not enough, anyway. Truth is, I forget. Like most of us who don't have a loved one "over there" I go about my daily life. Until I see a newscast or read a report of another bombing or escalation. Then, it's not soldier Josh I think of. It's jammie Josh. And my own little boy, who at this very moment is tucked safely in bed in his own dinosaur pj's.
I see Heidi nearly every other day. And, of course I ask about Josh. I know they stay in touch via email and a unit log.
But, being close to a deployed soldier is not the same as being the mother of one. The mere fact that I am often "reminded" of Josh relays that I often forget. That's not something Heidi, or any soldier's mother has the privilege to do.
This Memorial Day, and everyday we, I, need to remember that though all soldiers were once some mother's little girl or boy, they are now men and women -- giving up their freedom; sacrificing their lifestyle and possibly their life so that we can go on with ours.
Everyday should be Memorial Day, where would we be without those who have gone before, and for us?
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Mothering isn't for Wimps
Yesterday I yelled at my son. The kind of yell where my throat still hurts. I am still sad. Yes, he was being difficult. Yes, he was being a pest. Yes, I was at the end of my patience, obviously. But, No, he didn't deserve it.
He was just being himself.
And -- this is where the trouble began -- I was just being myself. My self-ish self.
My son is a talker. A noise maker. A very verbal being who NEEDS interaction like I need silence. Yesterday, apparantly, I didn't want to be needed. But, that's not really my choice anymore, is it? We are such opposites, he and I. And most days, home alone together. The afternoons are sometimes very long.
At the root of my impatience with him is guilt. Guilt that eats away at me for not being a more creative, loving, selfless mother. And regret. Regret that I ever allowed him to watch TV, that I don't pray more, read to him more, seek activities that will stimulate his amazing brain more.
Pursuing my own interests & needs above his sometimes is what keeps me sane. But, doing so also makes me wonder what it is costing him. And us. What he will remember from these fleeting days. What I will remember.
Truth is, kidstuff bores me. His endless stories seem like nonsense to me. His running noise an assault on my senses. Someday, and soon, he'll prefer his friends to us. I know this. And, I don't blame him.
I know he'll not always be around. Knowing this doesn't change my need for solitude, time, quiet. But, it should change my attitude. It hasn't, really. Sometimes, though, he does.
When he climbs in bed with me in the morning to snuggle and hold my hand, I am reassured that he knows he is loved. That he believes me when I tell him I am proud of him. That he is affirmed, deep inside, that we love him for who he is.
He's a funny kid. An entertainer, a leader, a smart and witty boy who is learning to negotiate life and build friendships. He knows how to laugh and make others laugh. He's resiliant. I'm starting to see that he is a peacemaker at heart.
I still have so much to learn about myself, especially about being a mother. Guess I couldn't do it without him.
He was just being himself.
And -- this is where the trouble began -- I was just being myself. My self-ish self.
My son is a talker. A noise maker. A very verbal being who NEEDS interaction like I need silence. Yesterday, apparantly, I didn't want to be needed. But, that's not really my choice anymore, is it? We are such opposites, he and I. And most days, home alone together. The afternoons are sometimes very long.
At the root of my impatience with him is guilt. Guilt that eats away at me for not being a more creative, loving, selfless mother. And regret. Regret that I ever allowed him to watch TV, that I don't pray more, read to him more, seek activities that will stimulate his amazing brain more.
Pursuing my own interests & needs above his sometimes is what keeps me sane. But, doing so also makes me wonder what it is costing him. And us. What he will remember from these fleeting days. What I will remember.
Truth is, kidstuff bores me. His endless stories seem like nonsense to me. His running noise an assault on my senses. Someday, and soon, he'll prefer his friends to us. I know this. And, I don't blame him.
I know he'll not always be around. Knowing this doesn't change my need for solitude, time, quiet. But, it should change my attitude. It hasn't, really. Sometimes, though, he does.
When he climbs in bed with me in the morning to snuggle and hold my hand, I am reassured that he knows he is loved. That he believes me when I tell him I am proud of him. That he is affirmed, deep inside, that we love him for who he is.
He's a funny kid. An entertainer, a leader, a smart and witty boy who is learning to negotiate life and build friendships. He knows how to laugh and make others laugh. He's resiliant. I'm starting to see that he is a peacemaker at heart.
I still have so much to learn about myself, especially about being a mother. Guess I couldn't do it without him.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Strange Dreams ...
A couple strange dreams last night. One was about a meeting. Another about a horserace.
The meeting dream: I approached my seat in a room filled with familiar people (church, maybe?) and sat next to a friend I knew but didn’t recognize. The meeting moderator began going over the agenda, warning us not to use the word "camel" explaining that it had become a sacred word, and no longer politically correct to speak in public. The substitute word, she explained further, was "kaedra" and announced that I would be the one to listen for offenders. She then explained that I was the most qualified in the group for this task based on my track record as a writer. (okay, whatever. It's a dream, remember...)
Next thing I knew, I was delivering a speech about why I write. I began by relaying how, when I was fifteen, someone told me I had a way with words. I continued on about following my heart, praying and looking for opportunities to do what it is I was meant to do.
The weird part is that everyone was at rapt attention, even while the whole time I was trying unsuccessfully to screw a lid onto a travel mug that had been placed at each of our spots.
Then, out of nowhere a young woman asked “Can you begin a sentence with the word ‘T’was’?”
I said: “T’was quite unfortunate that these mugs, which I’m sure we paid for, were improperly made.”
The horserace dream ended with me quizzing my son about why, when he approached the pack racing toward the finish, he dropped the reins and let the horse fall back. I knew he would have won if he’d just kept going. He wouldn’t answer me. When I woke up, I recognized it was actually me on the horse - afraid of getting hurt by pushing through to the finish line.
Then I woke up.
This morning, the first thing I read in my email was today’s post from Infuze (an online publication at http://www.infuzemagazine.com/) Couldn’t have been more relevant.
I Dare You to Move, indeed.
The meeting dream: I approached my seat in a room filled with familiar people (church, maybe?) and sat next to a friend I knew but didn’t recognize. The meeting moderator began going over the agenda, warning us not to use the word "camel" explaining that it had become a sacred word, and no longer politically correct to speak in public. The substitute word, she explained further, was "kaedra" and announced that I would be the one to listen for offenders. She then explained that I was the most qualified in the group for this task based on my track record as a writer. (okay, whatever. It's a dream, remember...)
Next thing I knew, I was delivering a speech about why I write. I began by relaying how, when I was fifteen, someone told me I had a way with words. I continued on about following my heart, praying and looking for opportunities to do what it is I was meant to do.
The weird part is that everyone was at rapt attention, even while the whole time I was trying unsuccessfully to screw a lid onto a travel mug that had been placed at each of our spots.
Then, out of nowhere a young woman asked “Can you begin a sentence with the word ‘T’was’?”
I said: “T’was quite unfortunate that these mugs, which I’m sure we paid for, were improperly made.”
The horserace dream ended with me quizzing my son about why, when he approached the pack racing toward the finish, he dropped the reins and let the horse fall back. I knew he would have won if he’d just kept going. He wouldn’t answer me. When I woke up, I recognized it was actually me on the horse - afraid of getting hurt by pushing through to the finish line.
Then I woke up.
This morning, the first thing I read in my email was today’s post from Infuze (an online publication at http://www.infuzemagazine.com/) Couldn’t have been more relevant.
I Dare You to Move, indeed.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Doubt creeps in ...
It must happen slowly and while I'm not paying attention, because suddenly one day, I'll wonder what in the world am I doing? Writing a book? Yeah, right. I'd better get a real job, or go back to my previous one, because this just isn't going to pan out.
Then, I visit a bookstore, flip through a few pages of a random title, or even one that's been recommended and right there in front of me is junk. Something I could easily do better -- and I realize its not ability or desire that's keeping me back. It's fear. Plain old fear. The same fear that has held me from achieving my goals in other vocations.
This time, though, I'm determined to conquer it. With God's help, personal perserverance and time, I will succeed.
Just keep writing. Just keep writing. Just keep writing...
Then, I visit a bookstore, flip through a few pages of a random title, or even one that's been recommended and right there in front of me is junk. Something I could easily do better -- and I realize its not ability or desire that's keeping me back. It's fear. Plain old fear. The same fear that has held me from achieving my goals in other vocations.
This time, though, I'm determined to conquer it. With God's help, personal perserverance and time, I will succeed.
Just keep writing. Just keep writing. Just keep writing...
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
2004 Christmas Story
And the Stockings Were Hung …
I slammed my palm against the steering wheel.
“Phooey!”
Parking lots had sucked up too much of my day. This time, though I’d followed the yellow arrows dutifully, my compliance hadn’t yielded a spot.
Ten minutes of fruitless weaving and still nowhere to put the car.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“Never mind, Jack. Just can’t find a parking spot.”
“There’s one!”
I braked instinctively, sending shopping bags tumbling off the seats. Their contents rattled forward in unison, creating a symphony of small parts. I envisioned Legos, Tinkertoys, Monopoly pieces and Craftsman sockets forming colorful little landscapes all over the minivan floor.
Then I imagined pulling up to the store entrance and pouring every tiny piece into the donation barrel. If everything had spilled, that would be reason enough to cancel Christmas this year.
Instead, I pulled into Jack’s spot and uprighted the bags, stuffing their toppled contents quickly away. The marvel of modern shrink wrap had thwarted my fantasy. The Salvation Army would just have to wait.
“Okay, Jack, you can unbuckle.”
“My Bionicle fell. I want to take him in.”
“No. It’s getting dark, hurry up.”
Jack jumped down from his seat and got on all fours, insistent on locating the rogue toy.
“Jack, LET’S GO!”
“Wait, Mom. It’s right here…”
“We’ll do it the hard way, then,” I said and pulled him from the van.
In the time it took me to close the doors and zip my purse, Jack had forgotten our dispute. He had, in fact, already turned into an airplane.
“Look Mom, I’m flying!”
I timed my steps to meet his as he emerged from between two parked cars, and caught a hand on the end of his outstretched wing-arm.
“C’mon, Jack. Stop it.” I felt more like a traffic cop with this child than a parent, constantly urging him as I was, to hurry up, slow down, stop, go, wait. “He’s a five year old boy.” My husband reminded me whenever I complained. “That’s what five year old boys do.” I figured all males had been born into a surreptitious pact which required performing wild, unceasing movements designed to crack their mother's ability to hang on to their wits. I was close but, for the moment, still unbroken.
He was still at the end of my arm, wiggling for all his worth and no doubt conjuring up his next antic. Considering we were approaching the entrance of the store, I was certain it involved the automatic doors.
Finishing three last items, then going home to somehow turn the hamburger I’d forgotten to thaw into spaghetti sauce were the next items on the list I’d been composing in my head all day. Chasing my five year old through Target was not.
“You, my friend, are going in the cart.”
“But Mama …”
I hated the thought of putting him in the cart. But, more than that, I hated the thought of wasting any more time. And wondering if he was going to get lost. I hated that thought, too. So, though he had become too big for me to lift, he was going in. Somehow.
I’d seen other mothers do it -- hang on to the cart with all their might while their kids climbed over the sides. I’d always thought how ridiculous and unsafe that was and wondered why they couldn’t control their children.
Then, I had a child of my own. Even after I’d had him, and the naiveté had worn thin, I still believed that once he was too big for carts, I’d teach my child to walk nicely beside me, hand in hand. Whether we were in the grocery store or at the mall, I’d use these opportunities to teach him smart shopping. We’d survey our possible purchases, discuss the options, and I’d sneak in little math lessons along the way.
Damn my convictions. This was the final stop on our last-minute tour; the lines were getting longer and my patience growing shorter. I boosted Jack into the cart and felt a humble kinship with all the worn-down mothers I’d ever scorned.
Three stockings. That’s all I was after. I didn’t care what they looked like, however generic or fake. Tacky ones, in fact, would help me make the point that stockings were a pointless tradition anyway. One I was taking up only because of pressure I felt at home, and would not truly embrace.
I’d bucked this tradition since our first married Christmas. Mark’s mother had hung her handmade creations from their perfectly decked mantle, each one designed especially for its name-bearer. The lovingly embroidered pieces, finished with bells, tiny ornaments or heirloom lace reflected a stability and family intimacy I was afraid I’d never grasp.
That first married year she’d added one for me. JENNIFER was boldly embroidered along the top cuff, the lustrous green taffeta finished off with glittery glass beads. When we’d prepared to leave after dessert that evening, she’d taken mine down along with Mark’s and offered it to me along with Marks.
“They’re yours, now, Jen. Welcome to the family.”
I’d declined. Then, and every year following. They were truly beautiful things, though I worried that accepting them would obligate me to continue the custom which I saw as an attempt to keep Mark in the clutches of her mysterious holiday rituals. I simply wasn’t up to it.
So, here we were, after nine years of Donna’s stockings, navigating our way to the Seasonal/Holiday aisle. Me, attempting to avoid toy sightings along the way. And Jack, loudly streaming his commercial consciousness and, I think, expecting me to actually listen. What I heard was something like “Mom, Mom … Shrek something something … look, Mom … Lego gizmo something something …Stop, Mom… Hot Wheels something gadget…Mom, WAIT! GO BACK! I WANT THAT. MOM, STOP!”
I don’t know how close I was to my destination when it happened. I only knew that my last nerve had finally unraveled. The impatient, malevolent mother I swore I’d never become had instantly appeared.
I looked at Jack and gritted my teeth. “You-are-not-getting-one-more-thing.”
“In fact,” I continued, curling a nasty smile into place, “that’s it.” I turned the cart around. “We’re going home.”
I walked out of the store, trying to ignore his tears of disappointment and the guilt and exhaustion creeping into my soul.
~ ~ ~
At dinner, Mark offered his holiday countdown. “Two days ‘til Christmas!”
“Mama says we’re not getting stockings again.” Jack replied.
I forked a swirl of spaghetti into my mouth and avoided looking up. I felt Mark looking at me, though I knew by his pleasant tone that he was speaking to Jack.
“Mama and I will talk about this later, Jack. Eat your green beans.”
We’d always tried to keep our mealtime discussions pleasant, but Mark’s stare had reheated the unpleasantness of my day. I couldn’t wait ‘til later.
“He doesn’t need a stocking, Mark. He was unruly all day. He’s getting too much as it is. He doesn’t deserve one more thing.”
Jack dropped his fork to his plate, and looked into his lap. “I guess I shouldn’t get any gifts then,” he said.
Mark reached to lift our son’s sad face. “What do you mean, Jack?”
“My Sunday school teacher says we’ve already received a gift we didn’t deserve. And that if we tried to earn it, we couldn’t. No matter how good we are.”
I closed my eyes and tried to keep the lump in my throat from choking me.
“That’s right Jack,” Mark replied. “None of us deserve God’s gift. But, they can never be taken away.” Mark turned his gaze toward me again. “You remember that, okay, son?”
“Okay, Dad. I’ll try.”
He was right. And I had been wrong. For years.
I thought of Donna’s beautiful stockings. And all those Christmas nights I’d refused to bring them home.
“That’s the whole point of Christmas, isn’t it?” I asked.
“What?” Mark asked.
“Accepting what is offered.” Of course, it was about giving. But it was also about receiving. How could I have missed that for so long? “Dad’s right, Jack. And I’m sorry about today. You’ll get your stocking, honey.”
Even if I had to drive across two counties on Christmas Eve to get it.
~ ~ ~
“I’ll be up in a little while,” I told Mark as he headed to bed. “I’ve got a couple things to do.”
I wrapped Mark’s tool set and tucked it under the tree. Then I sat down at the computer and sent off an email.
Dear Donna,
If it’s not too late, I’d like to accept the stockings you’ve tried to give me over the years. They are beautiful and we will treasure them. I know Mark and Jack would be thrilled to have them here on Christmas morning. And so would I. Please let me know if I can stop by tomorrow. I don’t have much time left to fill them up!
Jennifer
P.S. Merry Christmas Donna. And...Thank You.
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