I have very little time before my kids wake up, but a thought lit a writing fuse this morning. I'll have to see how fast I can type.
Language is one of my very favorite things and something that drives me crazy very often. It still amazes me that making certain sounds in your presence tells you that I'm thinking of something -- and perhaps something that doesn't exist anywhere outside my brain -- but you can understand what I mean. It's using an ephemeral brush to paint a lasting picture in someone else's thoughts, and I love finding new paint colors, techniques, insights and other things that might make more beauty possible!
Years ago, I mused in a notebook that so many words in English are both noun and adjective: lemon, lavender, cinnamon, apple, orange, wood, plastic, water... those are the only words coming to mind just now, but I know there are so many, many more.
I 'get through' more days than I live, I'm sorry to say. Keeping five steps ahead of small children isn't as easy as it looks; I'm usually coaching myself through prep work to handle the next hoop we jump. This morning, it meant talking myself out of bed to get a "make-do" load of laundry started. I have 7+ loads ahead of me today, but doing a small one first will make choosing the kids' clothes more of a no-brainer decision for me (assuming, of course, that neither child takes exception to the outfits I put in this first load). My point is that right now I have to spend a lot of energy just getting through. I've finally started to realize how miniscule an amount I can control and how quickly my entire day gets reorganized in a matter of moments. Child throwing up? It doesn't matter how carefully I've planned my day full of errands, the original plans are pretty much out the window. (Can I get an 'amen', fellow parents?)
I'm trying to find ways to escape the "do the next thing" mindset, if only because "look up and notice the sunrise" will never be the next thing on a to-do list. Being in this mindset gives me an adjective-view, not a noun-view.
Suppose you ask someone about something, and they reply that it's lemon. Interpretation options mean it's yellow, it's sour or astringent, or it's a dud (if the person says, 'a lemon'). 'Lemon' as a noun as a lot more characteristics to consider than it does as an adjective. Smell, taste, touch, and many other aspects come into play where the noun is concerned...
I'm trying to listen this morning, trying to wrap my head around the idea that defaulting to an adjective life is simplified, more straightforward; lots of gut response and almost no nuance or depth or anything worth savoring. I want to recognize more nouns today. I want to remember that things have dimension, personality, unpredictability, qualities that require me to do more than glance at them to truly know them.
Maybe this is what doesn't work for me where reading through the Bible in a year is concerned. Seeing a list of 3-4 chapters to read in a morning (which I haven't done yet; I was starting laundry instead and may regret that later) puts God on my to-do list. I read through Genesis 29 or 30, check off the box (yes, there is an actual box to check) and try to feel that I've spent time relating to God. It usually doesn't work for me. I never thought about it in this way before.
-At any rate, I'm now 10 minutes late and the kids still aren't up (which means a risk of being late for school)! I'm off and running, but I will try to see depth in my day instead of quick, easily-categorized and crossed off adjectives. I promise.
November 15, 2012
November 13, 2012
Parenting
I just finished a conversation with my eldest, home sick from school, that illustrates a problem of parenting. I wanted to change his behavior toward his sister. He was so lost in what he thought and how he felt about what I might do to him that I feel sure he won't remember anything I said.
This -- trying to teach another human being how to be mature, balanced, educated, effective, etc. -- is hard. Especially so when I'm still learning it for myself. Doubly-especially when the student isn't a willing participant in the learning process!
Being a parent is being perpetual -- perpetual meals, perpetual laundry, perpetual cleaning, perpetual training, perpetual vigilance, perpetual persistence, perpetual reinforcement. It's exhausting. I don't know whether the tenth time I tell my child not to interrupt or the one thousandth time will actually impact future behavior. I don't know, but I still have to bring the same level of commitment and consistency to the table time after time after time after time.
Jokes, venting, breaks from battle scenes, and tag team parenting with a partner can all help.
Just now, though, all I can think about is my thread of resentment that my 4-yr-old threw a book my direction, wanting me to read it to her, but she just gently patted our dog and crooned to him that he was such a good dog and had such good hearing. The dog literally gets better treatment than I do some days.
I won't be a total Eeyore. There are wonderful moments that I savor long after. Right now... right now I think I owe my mom another phone call to thank her for letting me live.
This -- trying to teach another human being how to be mature, balanced, educated, effective, etc. -- is hard. Especially so when I'm still learning it for myself. Doubly-especially when the student isn't a willing participant in the learning process!
Being a parent is being perpetual -- perpetual meals, perpetual laundry, perpetual cleaning, perpetual training, perpetual vigilance, perpetual persistence, perpetual reinforcement. It's exhausting. I don't know whether the tenth time I tell my child not to interrupt or the one thousandth time will actually impact future behavior. I don't know, but I still have to bring the same level of commitment and consistency to the table time after time after time after time.
Jokes, venting, breaks from battle scenes, and tag team parenting with a partner can all help.
Just now, though, all I can think about is my thread of resentment that my 4-yr-old threw a book my direction, wanting me to read it to her, but she just gently patted our dog and crooned to him that he was such a good dog and had such good hearing. The dog literally gets better treatment than I do some days.
I won't be a total Eeyore. There are wonderful moments that I savor long after. Right now... right now I think I owe my mom another phone call to thank her for letting me live.
November 12, 2012
Immanuel - Even Today
To those who believe Jesus is the son of God, the alternate name of 'Immanuel' barely registers. At Christmas, we sing "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and never linger on the staggering implications.
In ancient times, a name was everything. This crossed cultures, continents, and centuries. Native American tribes often gave naming privileges only to elders of the tribe who had lived long and dreamed specific dreams. Nebuchadnezzar took the younger members of Israelite nobility, then changed their names to reflect Babylonian religious beliefs. Daniel ("GOD is my judge") became Belteshazzar ("prince of Bel" or "Bel, protect the king!"). Hadassah was crowned as Esther in ancient Persia. Song of Solomon speaks of a lover's name being as a sachet of perfume against his beloved's chest. Murders were carried out (then and still today) to maintain the honor of a family's name. Do not confuse 'name' with 'nickname'. It is more appropriate to read 'name' as 'character,' 'heritage,' and 'legacy.'
Immanuel means "God with us." It first occurs in the book of Isaiah, when God foretold through the prophet a young girl then a virgin would give birth to a son, and she would name him, Immanuel.
In the history of the world, empires have risen, thrived, died, and been buried. I know of no culture with gods that lived among the people. Greek and Roman pantheons interacted with humans, but mostly out of sudden whim or desire for mischief, revenge, or other ulterior motive. I believe we are more comfortable with gods that live away from us; we cannot conceive of a deity who can live with us day after day, yet still be noticeably different from us. When Nebuchadnezzar asked his soothsayers to tell him his dream before telling him the interpretation (nice little check and balance, there, wasn't it?), the astrologers told him, "No one can reveal it to the king except the gods, and they do not live among men." [emphasis mine]
Keep all this in mind as we think of Immanuel. I believe Jesus died on a Roman cross, rose from the dead on the third day, and ascended into heaven more than a month after that. I don't think he has set physical foot on earth since then, but the name hasn't changed: God with us. Not "God was with us, but not anymore" or "God will only be with us if we're good enough" or "God can't possibly be with 7 billion people at one time." No. "God with us."
He lived among us, breathed oxygen (and carbon dioxide and airborne impurities and germs, just as we do), got blisters, knew long-term exhaustion, was hungry, thirsty, devastated, and probably even had digestive problems a time or two. Yet somehow, in the muddiness and messiness of life, looking no different at a casual glance from any other Nazarene (remember they didn't have that convenient glowing circlet over his head to identify him to strangers), he was still completely 'other.' He wasn't a pious, uncomfortable-to-be-around person who always has the Sunday-school answer, who only has prayer requests about needing to pray more on behalf of those who "don't yet know the love of Jesus." He was real. He irritated others, questioned, frustrated people, baffled them, got angry, begged to do something other than what God was asking him to do, broke rules, got dusty, was told by the spiritual heavies in his day that he was a heretic, and was eventually tried on an invented charge so that Rome would execute him. (Those who really wanted him gone didn't have the legal right to do it.)
I'd love to believe that I would recognize Jesus in person, but my life choices more often reflect a heart that seeks to be away from tense times and situations. I like to think I know best, and I don't particularly like my viewpoint being challenged. How would I feel if Bible knowledge I had from my great-grandfather (passed down through my grandfather, uncles, and father) was suddenly dismissed as incorrect? Nichole Nordeman's song, "Wide-Eyed" has a powerful lyric in the bridge of the song: "Not so long ago/ A man from Galilee/ Fed thousands with his bread/ And his theology/ And the truth he spoke/ Quickly became a joke to educated, self-inflated Pharisees like me?"
In all this, Jesus is still -- through the offices of the Holy Spirit -- God with us. Paul writes that from him (meaning Christ) and by him and through him were all things created. There is nothing that exists that came into existence without him. Consider the created world to be the largest one-artist show we will ever see. Study his works; learn to identify his brushstrokes. I believe with all my heart that Immanuel always gives me what is needed to find him -- hear him, see him, recognize him -- in every moment of my life. There is always enough of what I need, no matter where I am or what circumstances I am in, to get home. I just need to be still long enough to find Immanuel.
In ancient times, a name was everything. This crossed cultures, continents, and centuries. Native American tribes often gave naming privileges only to elders of the tribe who had lived long and dreamed specific dreams. Nebuchadnezzar took the younger members of Israelite nobility, then changed their names to reflect Babylonian religious beliefs. Daniel ("GOD is my judge") became Belteshazzar ("prince of Bel" or "Bel, protect the king!"). Hadassah was crowned as Esther in ancient Persia. Song of Solomon speaks of a lover's name being as a sachet of perfume against his beloved's chest. Murders were carried out (then and still today) to maintain the honor of a family's name. Do not confuse 'name' with 'nickname'. It is more appropriate to read 'name' as 'character,' 'heritage,' and 'legacy.'
Immanuel means "God with us." It first occurs in the book of Isaiah, when God foretold through the prophet a young girl then a virgin would give birth to a son, and she would name him, Immanuel.
In the history of the world, empires have risen, thrived, died, and been buried. I know of no culture with gods that lived among the people. Greek and Roman pantheons interacted with humans, but mostly out of sudden whim or desire for mischief, revenge, or other ulterior motive. I believe we are more comfortable with gods that live away from us; we cannot conceive of a deity who can live with us day after day, yet still be noticeably different from us. When Nebuchadnezzar asked his soothsayers to tell him his dream before telling him the interpretation (nice little check and balance, there, wasn't it?), the astrologers told him, "No one can reveal it to the king except the gods, and they do not live among men." [emphasis mine]
Keep all this in mind as we think of Immanuel. I believe Jesus died on a Roman cross, rose from the dead on the third day, and ascended into heaven more than a month after that. I don't think he has set physical foot on earth since then, but the name hasn't changed: God with us. Not "God was with us, but not anymore" or "God will only be with us if we're good enough" or "God can't possibly be with 7 billion people at one time." No. "God with us."
He lived among us, breathed oxygen (and carbon dioxide and airborne impurities and germs, just as we do), got blisters, knew long-term exhaustion, was hungry, thirsty, devastated, and probably even had digestive problems a time or two. Yet somehow, in the muddiness and messiness of life, looking no different at a casual glance from any other Nazarene (remember they didn't have that convenient glowing circlet over his head to identify him to strangers), he was still completely 'other.' He wasn't a pious, uncomfortable-to-be-around person who always has the Sunday-school answer, who only has prayer requests about needing to pray more on behalf of those who "don't yet know the love of Jesus." He was real. He irritated others, questioned, frustrated people, baffled them, got angry, begged to do something other than what God was asking him to do, broke rules, got dusty, was told by the spiritual heavies in his day that he was a heretic, and was eventually tried on an invented charge so that Rome would execute him. (Those who really wanted him gone didn't have the legal right to do it.)
I'd love to believe that I would recognize Jesus in person, but my life choices more often reflect a heart that seeks to be away from tense times and situations. I like to think I know best, and I don't particularly like my viewpoint being challenged. How would I feel if Bible knowledge I had from my great-grandfather (passed down through my grandfather, uncles, and father) was suddenly dismissed as incorrect? Nichole Nordeman's song, "Wide-Eyed" has a powerful lyric in the bridge of the song: "Not so long ago/ A man from Galilee/ Fed thousands with his bread/ And his theology/ And the truth he spoke/ Quickly became a joke to educated, self-inflated Pharisees like me?"
In all this, Jesus is still -- through the offices of the Holy Spirit -- God with us. Paul writes that from him (meaning Christ) and by him and through him were all things created. There is nothing that exists that came into existence without him. Consider the created world to be the largest one-artist show we will ever see. Study his works; learn to identify his brushstrokes. I believe with all my heart that Immanuel always gives me what is needed to find him -- hear him, see him, recognize him -- in every moment of my life. There is always enough of what I need, no matter where I am or what circumstances I am in, to get home. I just need to be still long enough to find Immanuel.
October 24, 2012
A Medicated Life
I'm in the process of changing a medication I've taken for years. The side effects were starting to cause problems, so my doctor is having me try a different drug. I thought that meant the side effects would go away.
I was wrong.
As near as I can tell, I get the side effects not just from the presence of whatever drug path the first med was, but also from any change in those levels or pathway. Persistent headaches, slight nausea, and other things beside. It may be I'll have these until all of the first drug are out of my system.
This morning I'm thinking about changes and a quote from Anais Nin: "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
This quote doesn't apply well to my change in meds, but I am more aware this morning that everything entails cost. I often push change away because I don't want to sacrifice. This morning is the first time my heart (and not just my head) acknowledge that remaining unchanged involves cost, too.
A habit of turning to food for comfort? At some point the cost of continuing that can be higher than the cost of effort to exercise and change habits. Staying up later than common sense suggests to read a book (which isn't going anywhere) or play a computer game (which doesn't really accomplish anything but helping me 'level up')? Sooner or later (I hope sooner for my own sake) I will decide sleep means more than giving my competitive traits free rein at 2 a.m.
And here's hoping the cost of changing one of my habits doesn't extend days to weeks into my future while my physiology adjusts!
I was wrong.
As near as I can tell, I get the side effects not just from the presence of whatever drug path the first med was, but also from any change in those levels or pathway. Persistent headaches, slight nausea, and other things beside. It may be I'll have these until all of the first drug are out of my system.
This morning I'm thinking about changes and a quote from Anais Nin: "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
This quote doesn't apply well to my change in meds, but I am more aware this morning that everything entails cost. I often push change away because I don't want to sacrifice. This morning is the first time my heart (and not just my head) acknowledge that remaining unchanged involves cost, too.
A habit of turning to food for comfort? At some point the cost of continuing that can be higher than the cost of effort to exercise and change habits. Staying up later than common sense suggests to read a book (which isn't going anywhere) or play a computer game (which doesn't really accomplish anything but helping me 'level up')? Sooner or later (I hope sooner for my own sake) I will decide sleep means more than giving my competitive traits free rein at 2 a.m.
And here's hoping the cost of changing one of my habits doesn't extend days to weeks into my future while my physiology adjusts!
October 22, 2012
Snowflakes in Sight
Yesterday I spied a snowflake book on a bargain shelf of books; the book looked like something right up my alley, so I bought it. Book purchase decisions don't usually take me long -- and often end in my spending money!
CalTech physicist Kenneth Libbrecht writes with excited enthusiasm about many things concerning snowflakes in The Snowflake: Winter's Secret Beauty; his words are accompanied by Patricia Rasmussen's gorgeous photographs of crystal creation.
I picked the book up just now and read about about Japanese physicist Ukichiro Nakaya, who was the first to grow synthetic snowflakes in his refrigerated lab at the University of Hokkaido back in the 1930s. This is not as easy as it may sound. Snowflakes are not simply frozen water. They do not form unless temperature, pressure, and humidity fall within a narrow range. Snowflakes are an example of truly sublime work -- sublime in the scientific sense. A snowflake was never liquid water: it froze as ice directly from water vapor, skipping the liquid phase completely. Nakaya's major contribution to the field of ice crystal formation was discovering what the relationship was between weather conditions and what the snowflake looked like.
Between -5 and 0 degrees Celsius (~18-32 degrees Fahrenheit) the snow looks like small plates. From -10 to -5, it forms hexagonal columns. From -20 to -10, the snowflakes become large, fat, plate-like flakes; and colder than that (down to -35 degrees Celsius) it goes back to small forms.
No two snowflakes have been found that are exactly the same, and here is why: a snowflake forms when water vapor in a cloud meets the right conditions to be sublime. As the water molecules form their traditional crystal shape, that crystal gets moved by wind and pressure to different parts of the cloud, changing how the crystal grows as it is being formed. The conditions for one snowflake are the same, so each of the six branches of its developing crystal match -- in every minute detail and etching. Each arm of the snowflake went through the same process. No two snowflakes were in exactly the same place at the same time for the same duration on the same path, though, so each snowflake is a representation of its path. Higher levels of humidity (presence of more water vapor) result in more and more complicated snowflake shapes in larger and larger sizes.
It wasn't even 8 in the morning, and there was God and his character, emblazoned in front of me. Do you see him, too?
It takes specific environments and conditions to grow faith, to nurture a vibrant relationship with God. If I am too comfortable, it won't happen. I am thankful that when the conditions are too harsh, it won't happen, either! God does set limits on what we endure in order to see him. I've read that faith isn't belief without understanding, but trust without reservation. It sometimes skips over what seems like a logical next step: we somehow get from vapor to solid ice without ever seeing water. As circumstances get harder, the growth of our faith becomes more complicated, more amazing, more beautiful. No two lives are exactly alike, and neither are any two relationships with God. We never travel exactly the same path as someone else, so our development is never the same. This does not lessen beauty. If you're a 12-sided snowflake and I'm a 6-sided snowflake, that's fine: hexagonal shapes can still be breathtaking.
The truth that nearly left me gasping this morning was what it is that makes a snowflake reach its most complex form: increasing levels of humidity. The presence of more water vapor. Faith can develop almost anywhere, but it is only when lived in the community of others that the unique life surpasses beautiful and leaves people speechless. Snowflakes don't form and grow in solitude, and neither do we.
Take courage and comfort. Though our lives are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away (James 4:14), we matter. There is still time and care taken that the snowflake of my life will exhibit beauty and be a potential source of wonder to those around me.
CalTech physicist Kenneth Libbrecht writes with excited enthusiasm about many things concerning snowflakes in The Snowflake: Winter's Secret Beauty; his words are accompanied by Patricia Rasmussen's gorgeous photographs of crystal creation.I picked the book up just now and read about about Japanese physicist Ukichiro Nakaya, who was the first to grow synthetic snowflakes in his refrigerated lab at the University of Hokkaido back in the 1930s. This is not as easy as it may sound. Snowflakes are not simply frozen water. They do not form unless temperature, pressure, and humidity fall within a narrow range. Snowflakes are an example of truly sublime work -- sublime in the scientific sense. A snowflake was never liquid water: it froze as ice directly from water vapor, skipping the liquid phase completely. Nakaya's major contribution to the field of ice crystal formation was discovering what the relationship was between weather conditions and what the snowflake looked like.
Between -5 and 0 degrees Celsius (~18-32 degrees Fahrenheit) the snow looks like small plates. From -10 to -5, it forms hexagonal columns. From -20 to -10, the snowflakes become large, fat, plate-like flakes; and colder than that (down to -35 degrees Celsius) it goes back to small forms.
No two snowflakes have been found that are exactly the same, and here is why: a snowflake forms when water vapor in a cloud meets the right conditions to be sublime. As the water molecules form their traditional crystal shape, that crystal gets moved by wind and pressure to different parts of the cloud, changing how the crystal grows as it is being formed. The conditions for one snowflake are the same, so each of the six branches of its developing crystal match -- in every minute detail and etching. Each arm of the snowflake went through the same process. No two snowflakes were in exactly the same place at the same time for the same duration on the same path, though, so each snowflake is a representation of its path. Higher levels of humidity (presence of more water vapor) result in more and more complicated snowflake shapes in larger and larger sizes.
It wasn't even 8 in the morning, and there was God and his character, emblazoned in front of me. Do you see him, too?
It takes specific environments and conditions to grow faith, to nurture a vibrant relationship with God. If I am too comfortable, it won't happen. I am thankful that when the conditions are too harsh, it won't happen, either! God does set limits on what we endure in order to see him. I've read that faith isn't belief without understanding, but trust without reservation. It sometimes skips over what seems like a logical next step: we somehow get from vapor to solid ice without ever seeing water. As circumstances get harder, the growth of our faith becomes more complicated, more amazing, more beautiful. No two lives are exactly alike, and neither are any two relationships with God. We never travel exactly the same path as someone else, so our development is never the same. This does not lessen beauty. If you're a 12-sided snowflake and I'm a 6-sided snowflake, that's fine: hexagonal shapes can still be breathtaking.
The truth that nearly left me gasping this morning was what it is that makes a snowflake reach its most complex form: increasing levels of humidity. The presence of more water vapor. Faith can develop almost anywhere, but it is only when lived in the community of others that the unique life surpasses beautiful and leaves people speechless. Snowflakes don't form and grow in solitude, and neither do we.
Take courage and comfort. Though our lives are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away (James 4:14), we matter. There is still time and care taken that the snowflake of my life will exhibit beauty and be a potential source of wonder to those around me.
October 20, 2012
Hansen's of the Heart
Of the many books on my shelf (or truthfully, bookcases' worth of shelves), I prize highly the collaborations of physician Paul Brand and writer Phillip Yancey: Fearfully & Wonderfully Made, In His Image, and The Problem of Pain. Each delves deeply into the mine of human physiology for deep veins of spiritual wisdom. Brand began as a physician missionary in India, and worked for decades with leprosy patients. It was he who finally determined that leprosy (or Hansen's disease, as it's also called) attacks the nerves and simply destroys the ability to feel.
This is a stunning realization. It means every single deformity of leprosy is traceable to an injury or negative contact that was never felt. If I do not feel the surface of my eye drying out, I do not blink; the eye dries out, and blindness eventually results. If I walk too far in poor shoes and get a blister, but do not feel it, it can ulcerate and become infected. Infection eventually takes the whole toe or even whole foot, and I never felt a thing.
Running errands yesterday, I pondered leprosy and its effects. Thoughts about the heart, surrendered or self-protected, meshed strains in fugue with thoughts about leprosy and pain. While steering, I was suddenly stunned with what spiritual leprosy must look like to God...
We live in a manipulative world that excels at abuse of the emotional appeal. Our solution to this is to numb ourselves to appeal, grow calluses so we are not so easily taken advantage of. We cultivate loss of sensation and think it a good thing. I have not weighed all possible options, but it seems to me that every deformity of character, as with leprosy, is traceable to a lack of sense or perception. When life crosses my path in its muddy, messy hallmarks, I steel myself to look away or rise above it. I fail to feel. Over time, that lack of feeling leads to blindness.
Brennan Manning wrote of standing in Times Square years ago, talking with friends. He was approached by a prostitute who recognized him. The woman kept trying to get his attention, regularly interrupting his conversation. Pent up with frustration, he finally whirled on her and heatedly told her to stop bothering them. She withdrew, and her softly-spoken response left him stunned to sensibility: "Jesus wouldn't have said that to Mary Magdalene." He was so caught up in the image of who he was, assured of his celebrity, he forgot to see the life in front of him.
I wonder what it would look like to see the spiritual realm in physical terms. I wonder how many people around me (and the image in the mirror, too) would reveal grotesque contortions of soul. How many times in my life have I pushed through an inconvenient interruption by telling myself to walk right past? How many limbs have I lost, how many perceptive faculties have I forfeited, by choosing to believe that not feeling is somehow better, because pain is intolerable? I don't know anyone with Hansen's disease, but I can guarantee that not a single one would agree with that lie.
This is a stunning realization. It means every single deformity of leprosy is traceable to an injury or negative contact that was never felt. If I do not feel the surface of my eye drying out, I do not blink; the eye dries out, and blindness eventually results. If I walk too far in poor shoes and get a blister, but do not feel it, it can ulcerate and become infected. Infection eventually takes the whole toe or even whole foot, and I never felt a thing.
Running errands yesterday, I pondered leprosy and its effects. Thoughts about the heart, surrendered or self-protected, meshed strains in fugue with thoughts about leprosy and pain. While steering, I was suddenly stunned with what spiritual leprosy must look like to God...
We live in a manipulative world that excels at abuse of the emotional appeal. Our solution to this is to numb ourselves to appeal, grow calluses so we are not so easily taken advantage of. We cultivate loss of sensation and think it a good thing. I have not weighed all possible options, but it seems to me that every deformity of character, as with leprosy, is traceable to a lack of sense or perception. When life crosses my path in its muddy, messy hallmarks, I steel myself to look away or rise above it. I fail to feel. Over time, that lack of feeling leads to blindness.
Brennan Manning wrote of standing in Times Square years ago, talking with friends. He was approached by a prostitute who recognized him. The woman kept trying to get his attention, regularly interrupting his conversation. Pent up with frustration, he finally whirled on her and heatedly told her to stop bothering them. She withdrew, and her softly-spoken response left him stunned to sensibility: "Jesus wouldn't have said that to Mary Magdalene." He was so caught up in the image of who he was, assured of his celebrity, he forgot to see the life in front of him.
I wonder what it would look like to see the spiritual realm in physical terms. I wonder how many people around me (and the image in the mirror, too) would reveal grotesque contortions of soul. How many times in my life have I pushed through an inconvenient interruption by telling myself to walk right past? How many limbs have I lost, how many perceptive faculties have I forfeited, by choosing to believe that not feeling is somehow better, because pain is intolerable? I don't know anyone with Hansen's disease, but I can guarantee that not a single one would agree with that lie.
September 17, 2012
Under the Harrow
Writing is hard today.
No grand piano fell out of my sky; no elephant showed up in my living room. It would be easier to write if something specific was present. Today it's simply low-grade depression, a sudden migraine (with nausea, light sensitivity and dizziness accompanying it), and an increased volume of my internal critic.
When you write, you live for the moments when passion burns hot, words tumble down through your fingers, and perfect phrasing leaps to mind. I am told 'tis best to write what we know. I also believe that when I am most incapable that I have to rely on something outside myself, on God, to accomplish things. Right now, I am beyond myself and outside my strength.
Writing often comes from a higher perspective or speaks of past experiences. Presented problems have an answer or purpose with a neat bow. Words are aimed to teach or share wisdom, not confess lack of any of these things.
And yet...
I trust most what has cost the most to produce. I identify as another person says the refining fire went several notches hotter than they wanted; I understand the fog someone else describes in tired tones. I value those words, that experience, more than a person's host of words on a shelf full of books.
We all have hard days. We all have grim moments when we concede it's a day of meeting less than 10% of your expectations for what you say, say you'll do, and do. Storm or sudden calm catches us unaware, our sails set for a different wind.
We fight by giving of our best, even when it feels like less than a better day's best. I felt the need to write from today's furnace, to share that today is hard. It's hard to avoid dreading tomorrow's tempering heat or halt questions of how long it will last this time around. It's grim to have no clear-cut questions, let alone answers to them. Making myself write despite it all was the only thin path I thought I could walk today. I write without knowing whether my fall will be heard or make a sound in the forest at all, but...
I needed to write from under the harrow, despite it being hard to write today.
No grand piano fell out of my sky; no elephant showed up in my living room. It would be easier to write if something specific was present. Today it's simply low-grade depression, a sudden migraine (with nausea, light sensitivity and dizziness accompanying it), and an increased volume of my internal critic.
When you write, you live for the moments when passion burns hot, words tumble down through your fingers, and perfect phrasing leaps to mind. I am told 'tis best to write what we know. I also believe that when I am most incapable that I have to rely on something outside myself, on God, to accomplish things. Right now, I am beyond myself and outside my strength.
Writing often comes from a higher perspective or speaks of past experiences. Presented problems have an answer or purpose with a neat bow. Words are aimed to teach or share wisdom, not confess lack of any of these things.
And yet...
I trust most what has cost the most to produce. I identify as another person says the refining fire went several notches hotter than they wanted; I understand the fog someone else describes in tired tones. I value those words, that experience, more than a person's host of words on a shelf full of books.
We all have hard days. We all have grim moments when we concede it's a day of meeting less than 10% of your expectations for what you say, say you'll do, and do. Storm or sudden calm catches us unaware, our sails set for a different wind.
We fight by giving of our best, even when it feels like less than a better day's best. I felt the need to write from today's furnace, to share that today is hard. It's hard to avoid dreading tomorrow's tempering heat or halt questions of how long it will last this time around. It's grim to have no clear-cut questions, let alone answers to them. Making myself write despite it all was the only thin path I thought I could walk today. I write without knowing whether my fall will be heard or make a sound in the forest at all, but...
I needed to write from under the harrow, despite it being hard to write today.
September 11, 2012
Clutching Crochet
I learned to crochet chains at a young age, but it wasn't until college that I taught myself the rest of it. Those first few afghans were functional at best! I recently began making an afghan just for me, and as a treat I'm making it out of baby alpaca yarn. Working with it is wonderful. I mentioned to my mate that I may never go back to basic yarn, and he asked if I was planning on crocheting a lot less. Baby alpacas have expensive hair, particularly Peruvian baby alpacas!
Crocheting is a very devotional experience for me. I see spiritual analogies every time I work. The yarn is a single strand that ends up making an utterly unique product, as God's love does in and through my life. Rhythmic motions of a single hook that doesn't change in position remind me of God's consistent, unchanging character. Crochet pieces in progress are patient: if I set aside a project, it will remain at that state until I pick it up again; there is no urgency or need to prevent decay. God is patient with me and meets me wherever I am, however long it has been since I last turned to him.
Tasks like crochet teach me to listen constantly. I work steadily and stay inwardly alert. Yesterday I felt an internal nudge to stop what I was doing. I stopped, then asked myself what the yarn felt like. When working, I'm focused on stitches or counts, not sensory input. I gently squeezed the growing pile of looped yarn and held it in a clenched fist. I thought about its softness and how much I could compress it, then felt my hand start to cramp.
Insights for me are often a mental guillotine, slicing through my threads of thought and narrowing focus to a singularity. I realized I have been clutching parts of my life, holding it in clenched fists. There's a large difference between holding something and holding onto it. Holding something, I can appreciate it and experience it, but not be injured or tried by letting it go. Holding on to it means I'm actually less aware of it; I'm focused on keeping it, determined that my effort, my grasp, will not fail. I make myself and my efforts the focus, not seeing life or what life gives me.
By this time my fingers were close to screaming at me. I slowly straightened my cramping left hand, then thought how much softer the yarn felt when I wasn't holding it tightly.
May 26, 2012
Write Now
Though technically mature, I yet retain this immaturity: many internal plans are preceded by asking myself how I feel about doing this or that. If I don't like it -- and don't like it strongly enough -- I often don't do it. This internal 3-yr-old is extremely unruly, especially in the areas of accountability.
Writing, to this point, has been mine. My outlet, my topics, my schedule. Today this changed. Our writing group met for the first time (informally) this morning. I have mixed emotions, which is actually a good thing. If I were completely gung-ho, I'd feel more depressed later on; if I were completely against it, I'd feel bad down the road that I was so negative. -For those playing along at home, I'm fully aware that I over-analyze things. Since I'm the one who has chosen this change, I hope to yank the inner 3-yr-old in line as regards accountability in my writing.
Now to figure out what to write that's more than just stream of consciousness... compiling short devotional pieces along a chosen theme, perhaps. I've thought often of such a collection about natural/spiritual analogies, to be titled, "Without Excuse".
For now, I must handle the situation of my 3-yr-old asking how to be a turtle when she doesn't have a shell on her back. She didn't like my idea of using her backpack. Priorities, you know.
Writing, to this point, has been mine. My outlet, my topics, my schedule. Today this changed. Our writing group met for the first time (informally) this morning. I have mixed emotions, which is actually a good thing. If I were completely gung-ho, I'd feel more depressed later on; if I were completely against it, I'd feel bad down the road that I was so negative. -For those playing along at home, I'm fully aware that I over-analyze things. Since I'm the one who has chosen this change, I hope to yank the inner 3-yr-old in line as regards accountability in my writing.
Now to figure out what to write that's more than just stream of consciousness... compiling short devotional pieces along a chosen theme, perhaps. I've thought often of such a collection about natural/spiritual analogies, to be titled, "Without Excuse".
For now, I must handle the situation of my 3-yr-old asking how to be a turtle when she doesn't have a shell on her back. She didn't like my idea of using her backpack. Priorities, you know.
October 14, 2010
Emptying
I guess a cup is only useful/ For the hollow of its shape
The brokenness in me/ Is the need that holds your grace
--"Standing in His Place", c. 2000, Five Foot Six and a Half Music
This lyric from a Justin McRoberts song has often crossed my mind; the images it calls up are ones to ponder. Too often I'm impatient that God isn't using me or having me do what I want to do, only to find out that all of me must be emptied first.
For various reasons, this has been a season of emptying. God scrapes away parts of me I consider essential, I reach a raw state of surrender, then find that all he removed was actually dead weight and not part of his creation. I've added bits here and there over the years... time-tested ideas about myself and about life that are actually lies when I examine them directly.
I begin to see that complete emptying has to happen before a vessel can be filled to serve its true purpose. There is no room for any volume of good if it happens to get mixed with the mud of my pride here, controlling over there, etc.
Emptying the pot is only the first step. Once emptied, the pot must be examined for cracks that I've repaired with wax -- injuries and hurts I tried to mend myself so that my life would appear to be whole. When heat comes, those clumsy repairs will quickly dissolve and reveal the underlying brokenness. Only the potter can mend a shattered vessel, because only he builds with truth. His mending is visible; shattering turns into scars -- but the pot is at least useful again. Once the pot is sincere (from the Latin sin cera, or "without wax"), it can be filled to the brim and put through incredible heat without being damaged or even marred.
I dislike the emptying. I loathe the heat that reveals my waxy mends. It isn't fun to find that patches you put in years ago are actually worthless. I'm beginning to see, though, that it isn't a matter of me liking the painful process, but wanting -- truly wanting -- to be filled at some point and serve my purpose.
The brokenness in me/ Is the need that holds your grace
--"Standing in His Place", c. 2000, Five Foot Six and a Half Music
This lyric from a Justin McRoberts song has often crossed my mind; the images it calls up are ones to ponder. Too often I'm impatient that God isn't using me or having me do what I want to do, only to find out that all of me must be emptied first.
For various reasons, this has been a season of emptying. God scrapes away parts of me I consider essential, I reach a raw state of surrender, then find that all he removed was actually dead weight and not part of his creation. I've added bits here and there over the years... time-tested ideas about myself and about life that are actually lies when I examine them directly.
I begin to see that complete emptying has to happen before a vessel can be filled to serve its true purpose. There is no room for any volume of good if it happens to get mixed with the mud of my pride here, controlling over there, etc.
I dislike the emptying. I loathe the heat that reveals my waxy mends. It isn't fun to find that patches you put in years ago are actually worthless. I'm beginning to see, though, that it isn't a matter of me liking the painful process, but wanting -- truly wanting -- to be filled at some point and serve my purpose.
October 12, 2010
One Body, Many Moms
I have become that which I swore I would not (younger readers, take note: be very careful of saying you will never -- God takes pretty good notes!). I drive a minivan, I don't get a shower in as often as I would like to, I don't have a wardrobe that majors in purchases from Talbot's, and the people I see most often outside family are the clerks at the grocery store and Wal-Mart. Seriously. I'm on a first-name basis with the clerks.
Another "not me!" item was that I didn't see myself attending MOPS. MOPS made me think of, well, mops. Women managing to take an hour off drudgery, so desperate to get out of the house that they would pay people to take their kids, yet still be wearing knit drawstring pants and no make-up. Now that I'm a mom, I understand paying people to take your kids for a little while, and as I type I'm wearing knit drawstring pants and no make-up. Budgeting money is important, but not as important to a mom as budgeting her time and energy. If I know a day's schedule is hectic, then I want a few other things (like make-up and photo-ready outfits) off my to-do list.
SO... at the MOPS meeting I attended today our speaker compared lives to apples: if there is rot at the core, it impacts the seeds that are planted later. In order to plant healthy seeds, I need to identify areas of decay or rot in my defaults and behaviors. This idea, though new in form, was not a new concept for me. The side note that falls into what Mac would call a "beam-knocker" (like when you whack your head resoundingly against an overhead beam) was this: if there's a girl friend I admire (and even resent a bit) for doing something well, I could ask for her help or suggestions instead of comparing myself to her and feeling depressed about my assumed failures.
I've thought of this where the church (as in, body of believers, not just one building) is concerned, and I'm comfortable knowing that hospitality is not something that comes naturally to me. I'd never thought of if where being a mom or wife was concerned. Case in point? I have a girlfriend whose house always seems to be freshly decorated and neat as a pin. There are many things I do well, but housecleaning is not my forte. Our house is presentable, but it's very obvious someone lives here -- lives here with a large, black dog, as a matter of fact. Rather than mentally smacking myself because I haven't vacuumed in over a week or only just got around to changing bed sheets (sheets taken from the basket of laundry that's been sitting in the living room for a week) -- I am better off recognizing that there are probably things my girl friend wishes she did better, even (dare I say it?) that she did as well as I do.
This morning had a relieving measure of grace added to my shoulders. Because of it, it's OK with me that the laundry is still sitting in the living room. --All right, it's almost OK with me, but I'm working on it!
SO... at the MOPS meeting I attended today our speaker compared lives to apples: if there is rot at the core, it impacts the seeds that are planted later. In order to plant healthy seeds, I need to identify areas of decay or rot in my defaults and behaviors. This idea, though new in form, was not a new concept for me. The side note that falls into what Mac would call a "beam-knocker" (like when you whack your head resoundingly against an overhead beam) was this: if there's a girl friend I admire (and even resent a bit) for doing something well, I could ask for her help or suggestions instead of comparing myself to her and feeling depressed about my assumed failures.
I've thought of this where the church (as in, body of believers, not just one building) is concerned, and I'm comfortable knowing that hospitality is not something that comes naturally to me. I'd never thought of if where being a mom or wife was concerned. Case in point? I have a girlfriend whose house always seems to be freshly decorated and neat as a pin. There are many things I do well, but housecleaning is not my forte. Our house is presentable, but it's very obvious someone lives here -- lives here with a large, black dog, as a matter of fact. Rather than mentally smacking myself because I haven't vacuumed in over a week or only just got around to changing bed sheets (sheets taken from the basket of laundry that's been sitting in the living room for a week) -- I am better off recognizing that there are probably things my girl friend wishes she did better, even (dare I say it?) that she did as well as I do.
This morning had a relieving measure of grace added to my shoulders. Because of it, it's OK with me that the laundry is still sitting in the living room. --All right, it's almost OK with me, but I'm working on it!
May 13, 2010
Language as Portmanteau
In the midst of several gray, rainy days, I've been reading more than usual. My tastes have been more sober of late: back issues of American Heritage, a bit of Seamus Heaney poetry, listening to an interview with Columm McCann -- all material that places a high value on language.
Portmanteau words are those that combine more than one word to encompass a new meaning. 'Brunch', 'smog', and even 'Tanzania' are portmanteau words that exist because someone somewhere decided to combine words and capture both meanings in one (smoke + fog = smog, for instance). How is it that all language itself is not considered a cultural portmanteau? It truly is a marvel that a concept can move from one mind to another through nothing more than a selection of sounds. I admire those who are able to use language correctly, but my deepest respect is for those who see language as a creative medium of its own.
Madeleine L'Engle, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, Emma Lazarus, Francis Thompson, and scores of others know how to stow emotion and evoke memory with the words they choose. They do not write: they paint for the ear and the thought. In Wilder's play, "Our Town," the narrator tells Emily that sometimes the poets and great artists are aware of the greatness of life as they're living it. Columm McCann and even Brett Butler (which might surprise you) carry a flavor and rhythm in their words that strikes me internally and makes something within ring, like the resonance of a great bell that you feel as well as hear. I carry the notes of their phrases long after I've turned the page. Time, for that moment, slows and I am lost in savoring. "I fled him down the labyrinthine years... and shot precipitated adown titanic glooms of chasmed fears" -- don't just see these words, HEAR them in your head, the staccato and rubato of syllables that play their own sort of music.
If walking through a Barnes & Noble is any indication, almost anyone with any degree (or lack) of ability can be published. Far fewer of those published can paint with words. I am convinced that any writer worth their salt can list off a ream of writers they themselves read, savor and are inspired by. Writers are interesting for what they write, but more interesting for what they read. For those authors you admire, find out who THEY admire--see some of their story source for yourself. In seeing what inspired a favorite book, you can marvel anew at how uniquely someone was inspired by the vulnerable act of committing passion to the page.
In trying to find your own list of syllabic artists, here are some I treasure: Maya Angelou, Davis Bunn, Josephine Tey, Jasper Fforde, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Rudyard Kipling, Frances Mayes and Emmuska Orczy
Portmanteau words are those that combine more than one word to encompass a new meaning. 'Brunch', 'smog', and even 'Tanzania' are portmanteau words that exist because someone somewhere decided to combine words and capture both meanings in one (smoke + fog = smog, for instance). How is it that all language itself is not considered a cultural portmanteau? It truly is a marvel that a concept can move from one mind to another through nothing more than a selection of sounds. I admire those who are able to use language correctly, but my deepest respect is for those who see language as a creative medium of its own.
Madeleine L'Engle, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, Emma Lazarus, Francis Thompson, and scores of others know how to stow emotion and evoke memory with the words they choose. They do not write: they paint for the ear and the thought. In Wilder's play, "Our Town," the narrator tells Emily that sometimes the poets and great artists are aware of the greatness of life as they're living it. Columm McCann and even Brett Butler (which might surprise you) carry a flavor and rhythm in their words that strikes me internally and makes something within ring, like the resonance of a great bell that you feel as well as hear. I carry the notes of their phrases long after I've turned the page. Time, for that moment, slows and I am lost in savoring. "I fled him down the labyrinthine years... and shot precipitated adown titanic glooms of chasmed fears" -- don't just see these words, HEAR them in your head, the staccato and rubato of syllables that play their own sort of music.
If walking through a Barnes & Noble is any indication, almost anyone with any degree (or lack) of ability can be published. Far fewer of those published can paint with words. I am convinced that any writer worth their salt can list off a ream of writers they themselves read, savor and are inspired by. Writers are interesting for what they write, but more interesting for what they read. For those authors you admire, find out who THEY admire--see some of their story source for yourself. In seeing what inspired a favorite book, you can marvel anew at how uniquely someone was inspired by the vulnerable act of committing passion to the page.
In trying to find your own list of syllabic artists, here are some I treasure: Maya Angelou, Davis Bunn, Josephine Tey, Jasper Fforde, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Rudyard Kipling, Frances Mayes and Emmuska Orczy
April 28, 2010
The Power of the Internet
When television came on the scene, there were many who decried the time it would take from family and other such negatives. Fred Rogers was one of those who saw its potential. He spoke passionately about the possibilities for using television to reach many and educate them.
Society has a love/hate relationship with the media. We resent its intrusive, gossip-mongering aspects but rely on the information we get from it. The internet in particular has begun to impact daily life. Never before could people on opposite sides of the globe receive information seconds after it happened. This possibility (like television) is a two-sided sword. We all have seen negative aspects: misleading information and rumor that (in Chesterton's memorable phrase) goes 'round the world before the truth puts on its boots. It's harder to see the phenomenal possibilities of the internet bear fruit.
Then I read an article with a beautiful example.
Two male fans started a web site last January in hopes of getting a hug from Taylor Swift. She learned about it in March, and she issued some challenges to the two guys. Rather than ask for displays of slavish affection, she asked them to do good deeds (helping a little old lady across the street as the first one). The two collegiates responded with a video montage of them (and many others from around the world) helping people across the street as a result of Taylor's request. She challenged them to do some creative deeds involving the number thirteen (her lucky number). They responded on April 13 with a video of deeds like giving 13 roses to the woman they helped across the street, submitting 13 items each to a food pantry, picking up trash on 13th street, paying for $13 of gas for a stranger, and helping a small boy meet his favorite Auburn baseball player (who wears jersey #13). Two days ago Taylor Swift showed up at a karaoke session the guys were having in an auditorium on Auburn's campus to give each of the guys a hug--and gave each a kiss on the cheek plus a front-row ticket to one of her concerts. She capped it off by giving a short impromptu concert with the help of her band, who had come along with her.
Although I appreciate the kindness, integrity and positive character shown, what riveted me was the seized positive impact the internet had. Two friends had a wish, and out of that wish a number of people (many of them strangers to each other, since the guys requested viewers to submit videos of their own) were inspired to impact the world in many positive ways, without any expectation of reward or reimbursement other than a hug.
I marvel at the difference in generations, and the mobilization potential of the millennial generation (those born in early 1980s to early 2000s). They are not fazed by odds against outstanding success, and they intuitively grasp the power inherent in large groups of people. If only there were a consistent method of motivating the masses to such heights on a regular basis!
Society has a love/hate relationship with the media. We resent its intrusive, gossip-mongering aspects but rely on the information we get from it. The internet in particular has begun to impact daily life. Never before could people on opposite sides of the globe receive information seconds after it happened. This possibility (like television) is a two-sided sword. We all have seen negative aspects: misleading information and rumor that (in Chesterton's memorable phrase) goes 'round the world before the truth puts on its boots. It's harder to see the phenomenal possibilities of the internet bear fruit.
Then I read an article with a beautiful example.
Two male fans started a web site last January in hopes of getting a hug from Taylor Swift. She learned about it in March, and she issued some challenges to the two guys. Rather than ask for displays of slavish affection, she asked them to do good deeds (helping a little old lady across the street as the first one). The two collegiates responded with a video montage of them (and many others from around the world) helping people across the street as a result of Taylor's request. She challenged them to do some creative deeds involving the number thirteen (her lucky number). They responded on April 13 with a video of deeds like giving 13 roses to the woman they helped across the street, submitting 13 items each to a food pantry, picking up trash on 13th street, paying for $13 of gas for a stranger, and helping a small boy meet his favorite Auburn baseball player (who wears jersey #13). Two days ago Taylor Swift showed up at a karaoke session the guys were having in an auditorium on Auburn's campus to give each of the guys a hug--and gave each a kiss on the cheek plus a front-row ticket to one of her concerts. She capped it off by giving a short impromptu concert with the help of her band, who had come along with her.
Although I appreciate the kindness, integrity and positive character shown, what riveted me was the seized positive impact the internet had. Two friends had a wish, and out of that wish a number of people (many of them strangers to each other, since the guys requested viewers to submit videos of their own) were inspired to impact the world in many positive ways, without any expectation of reward or reimbursement other than a hug.
I marvel at the difference in generations, and the mobilization potential of the millennial generation (those born in early 1980s to early 2000s). They are not fazed by odds against outstanding success, and they intuitively grasp the power inherent in large groups of people. If only there were a consistent method of motivating the masses to such heights on a regular basis!
April 20, 2010
Repetition
There are parts of being a mom that are delightful. I love hearing the random questions: "Mommy, do you like street hustling?" I love seeing the new lessons they learn about the world around them: books will not stick to the wall like magnets do to the fridge. I love experiencing the language development and translating their attempts: bah-bah means "bottle", a hand waggled side to side means "ball", etc. I love the hugs, the unself-conscious dancing to music, the unapologetic perspectives, and the full-bore enjoyment of living.
Children do not add difficulty and confusion to daily tasks; they multiply it, and multiply it on an exponential scale. Doing laundry with a toddler's "help" adds physical obstacles, interrupting questions, instruction for how they might help, un-doing of incorrectly-done "help", increased restraint in the midst of rising frustration and impatience, and a greater supply of determination to see the task through to the end. My creativity gives out after finding five different ways to say, "Please bring the toy to me." My ears are tired after hearing some rendition of, "Mommy, is that a ____?" for the twelfth time. My patience gives out after a boundary is drawn and reinforced four times in as many minutes.
Motherhood often means needing space away from your kids, but being worried about what havoc they might create in your absence. Sometimes the child can be isolated (stuck in a crib, closeted in their room with toys and a closed door) and sometimes the mom needs to be isolated (locking herself in the bathroom or out in the car, for instance). Days immediately after a vacation or a visit from grandparents or a sleepover w/ a friend will always be more draining.
The number of times you will be interrupted are proportional to the importance of the task and inversely proportional to the available timeline. --And speaking of timelines, I should peel my child away from the computer and get him some lunch (more decision-making!). It's already 2 o'clock.
It's all of the repetitive tasks that drain me. Getting breakfast once (or even twice) is fun. Making it every morning for three people is not. By the time supper rolls around, I loathe the prospect of making any more decisions: what will we eat? What nutrients have we been lacking lately? Who will eat or can eat what I have in the house? Do I have time to make X or should I go with Y? Will it make enough for leftovers? Do I start before nap time ends, or do I wait and hope they'll play and keep each other occupied? Do I need to make a run to the store before supper (please, please, please let this be "no")? Do I aim for the family to eat all together, or do I plan on the kids eating before their dad gets home so they have time to play before bedtime?
Children do not add difficulty and confusion to daily tasks; they multiply it, and multiply it on an exponential scale. Doing laundry with a toddler's "help" adds physical obstacles, interrupting questions, instruction for how they might help, un-doing of incorrectly-done "help", increased restraint in the midst of rising frustration and impatience, and a greater supply of determination to see the task through to the end. My creativity gives out after finding five different ways to say, "Please bring the toy to me." My ears are tired after hearing some rendition of, "Mommy, is that a ____?" for the twelfth time. My patience gives out after a boundary is drawn and reinforced four times in as many minutes.
Motherhood often means needing space away from your kids, but being worried about what havoc they might create in your absence. Sometimes the child can be isolated (stuck in a crib, closeted in their room with toys and a closed door) and sometimes the mom needs to be isolated (locking herself in the bathroom or out in the car, for instance). Days immediately after a vacation or a visit from grandparents or a sleepover w/ a friend will always be more draining.
The number of times you will be interrupted are proportional to the importance of the task and inversely proportional to the available timeline. --And speaking of timelines, I should peel my child away from the computer and get him some lunch (more decision-making!). It's already 2 o'clock.
April 05, 2010
On Writing
I've kept a journal since grade school. If ever I want to know who I was then, I can dip back into words that the 13-yr-old wrote and be her and my present self in the same moment. Words can be a time machine.
My memories are strongly rooted in physical sensations: sight, sound, smell, feel and taste. When I record the sensations, the memories spring up of their own accord. Just the words 'Jovan musk' conjure up a hug from my grandmother. Words can recreate experience and make the dead live again.
Find the right word can be a struggle. "The difference between the right word and its second cousin," said Mark Twain, "is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." It can physically hurt to find that right word. Sometimes a word is used to hold the place until you find the right word, but any writer can tell you which words fit their vision exactly and which ones still bother them. Words can be as finicky as finding the exact shade of oil for a portrait.
Words and language are a gift. No other method in our world allows one person to describe an idea, no matter how esoteric and ephemeral, to a person centuries later. The writer will never know the reader; the reader will never see the writer. Only the words exist -- and in all likelihood, the writer will never know that those particular words are what changed the reader's life for all time.
The realization of these things could effectively stifle any perfectionist from ever putting text to page. Who can live up to that sort of burden and expectation? Writers can write for the market, to sell copy and make money. Writers can write for the public, to stroke pleasurable spots and affirm people where they are. Writers can also write for the most difficult audience of all: their own muse, their passions.
I write to fill an ache, a question inside me that seeks an answer. When I see a lack in my life or lives around me, I try to meet some of that need with words. To solve a problem, any good diagnostician knows that correct identification of the problem is necessary.
For now, life is busy. Chores must be done and meals must be made. Parenting requires a lot of hands-on discipline and damage control. Sometimes words simmer inside until they escape in a rush, inarticulate in their need to be said or written. Sometimes I procrastinate because I don't have anything to say that feels necessary. As my mom used to say, "If you can't say something in seven words, for heaven's sake don't say it in fifteen." Obfuscation and wordiness are not writing.
In words of one syllable: I have not been good at word craft as a job. I am not -- I must go. The word smith must give way to the mom. Once more.
My memories are strongly rooted in physical sensations: sight, sound, smell, feel and taste. When I record the sensations, the memories spring up of their own accord. Just the words 'Jovan musk' conjure up a hug from my grandmother. Words can recreate experience and make the dead live again.
Find the right word can be a struggle. "The difference between the right word and its second cousin," said Mark Twain, "is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." It can physically hurt to find that right word. Sometimes a word is used to hold the place until you find the right word, but any writer can tell you which words fit their vision exactly and which ones still bother them. Words can be as finicky as finding the exact shade of oil for a portrait.
Words and language are a gift. No other method in our world allows one person to describe an idea, no matter how esoteric and ephemeral, to a person centuries later. The writer will never know the reader; the reader will never see the writer. Only the words exist -- and in all likelihood, the writer will never know that those particular words are what changed the reader's life for all time.
The realization of these things could effectively stifle any perfectionist from ever putting text to page. Who can live up to that sort of burden and expectation? Writers can write for the market, to sell copy and make money. Writers can write for the public, to stroke pleasurable spots and affirm people where they are. Writers can also write for the most difficult audience of all: their own muse, their passions.
I write to fill an ache, a question inside me that seeks an answer. When I see a lack in my life or lives around me, I try to meet some of that need with words. To solve a problem, any good diagnostician knows that correct identification of the problem is necessary.
For now, life is busy. Chores must be done and meals must be made. Parenting requires a lot of hands-on discipline and damage control. Sometimes words simmer inside until they escape in a rush, inarticulate in their need to be said or written. Sometimes I procrastinate because I don't have anything to say that feels necessary. As my mom used to say, "If you can't say something in seven words, for heaven's sake don't say it in fifteen." Obfuscation and wordiness are not writing.
In words of one syllable: I have not been good at word craft as a job. I am not --
March 09, 2010
Tired
Moms often get through a day, look at the list of things they intended to do (perhaps were even looking forward to doing, though cleaning my floors just doesn't do it for me), and wonder how on earth they could be so tired. Today? Today I already know why I'm tired.
1-Woke up and left bed ~7:50 a.m., almost an hour later than usual
2-Changed diaper and got milk for the 16 mo. old, who is teething (and not happy about it)
3-Got kids (and self) dressed, which necessitated digging through some laundry baskets & the dryer
4-Got breakfast for kids and self, the fed 16 mo. old and self
5-Let dog outside
6-Assemble needed paraphanalia for MOPS meeting this morning
7-Load kids into the car
8-Let the dog back inside, then closed him in the laundry room (thanks to his muddy paws)
9-Load tub of items into the back of the van
10-Drive to the next town for the meeting
11-Drop kids off at their respective places for childcare during the meeting
12-Return to van and retrieve my books and materials (in the rain)
13-Race to meeting room
14-Return to the rain outside to get tub of cloth diapers from another mom, then place the tub in our van
15-Meeting time (eat, watch video, dismiss for discussion time)
16-Lead/facilitate discussion
17-Hear familiar crying across the hall, and go to investigate--yes, it's my child.
18-Realize it's close to time to leave, so change child's diaper, pack up 16 mo. old's things, and return to meeting room
19-Explain that I need to leave early and arrange for my materials to be gathered together so I can get them some other time
20-Pick up second child from care site
21-Load children into the van
22-Running late, race home in ~10 minutes to pick up the dog
23-Load the dog into the van
24-Take the dog to his grooming appointment, 10 minutes late (just a bath, but most necessary!)
25-Return home to pick up parents' tool that we borrowed
26-Go to parents' house to return tool
27-Drive to store to pick up groceries
28-Return home to unload groceries
[aside from coming into the store itself, yes, the kids have been in the van since #21]
[aside from coming into the store itself, yes, the kids have been in the van since #21]
29-Return to groomer's to retrieve dog
30-Return home to unload dog, children, and various things from the morning
31-Put away groceries, feed kids lunch, unload dishwasher, put away dishes and reload dishwasher
32-Sit down and (gasp!) eat lunch myself
I may not have gotten things done on my mental list (fold laundry, put away clean clothes, organize/file paperwork, clean the floors, clean up toys, shower, work on afghan, put tub of scrap-booking supplies away), but I'll extend grace.
Today, I know why I'm tired and my to-do list is undone.
March 03, 2010
Writer's Blockheadedness
Writing.
I love language, and somewhere around freshman year I had a teacher ask to submit a writing piece to a lit magazine. I took a lit course as an extracurricular in college and got reamed for my writing style; such is the result of getting reamed earlier in college for being 'too literary' on engineering lab reports, I suppose.
What I'm trying to say is that I don't ever remember dreaming of being an author. It's only as I've been writing and submitting a piece here and there that I look back over my shoulder and see earlier things scattered along the path that led me here: the book I wrote that took me to a Young Authors convention; the poems I wrote for sports seasons, family birthdays, and just because. The persistent (though sporadic) journal entries. I think I have writings/journal entries for every year going back 20+ years.
In spite of writing being a long-standing way in which I express myself, I often dread it. Sitting at a keyboard means facing down internal daemons.
"Just look at how long it's been since you wrote anything of importance."
"Why do you keep putting this off when others have told you this is a gift?"
"What kind of a writer are you, that you can't even sit down for 10 minutes a day to write about your kids and keep regular updates in a file for them?"
When I do sit down, I can type in stream-of-consciousness (like now), and it feels like a release of pressure. Whether I write a publishable piece or not, framing my thoughts/struggles on the page has always helped me. When it comes to making words say what I want them to, though, they become unwieldy and my lexicon is suddenly insufficient.
Communication has the possibility of telling someone what you're thinking, but also how you feel about what you're thinking and perhaps a shade of how others have felt about your thoughts. I'm all for denotation (the technical definition of a word), but it's connotation (the social perception and mood surrounding a particular word) that drives me. 'Dark' and 'inky' could be interchangeable, but the latter sounds and feels more image-oriented and poetic. A person can lecture or berate someone about a poor choice, but a berating implies more scorn and contempt. It is possible to paint with words; their colors just aren't visual.
I think most, if not all, writers have a vision of what a finished piece could say; most, if not all, will feel deflated after finishing something because it falls short of that vision. Sometimes by rewriting, sometimes by editing, that vision is reached, but rarely.
I promised God several years ago that if I got a solicitation for a written piece, I would submit at least one writing to it. I have not succeeded in keeping that promise, since I didn't write or submit a piece for this last request. Now I have another request from the same individual; the deadline is May, but the earlier I submit, the better. I think I know of something I could write, but words cannot express how I dread facing a blank page to start writing it out. Once written, I'll have to leave it alone for at least a week or two before I attempt editing. I rarely like anything I've written right after I write it. It seems to take somewhere around 2 years before I can read a writing and not feel like I dropped the ball somewhere.
So... I'm off to spend some time with my journal, then hopefully to shower. The writing piece will hang over my head for a while longer, I think.
I love language, and somewhere around freshman year I had a teacher ask to submit a writing piece to a lit magazine. I took a lit course as an extracurricular in college and got reamed for my writing style; such is the result of getting reamed earlier in college for being 'too literary' on engineering lab reports, I suppose.
What I'm trying to say is that I don't ever remember dreaming of being an author. It's only as I've been writing and submitting a piece here and there that I look back over my shoulder and see earlier things scattered along the path that led me here: the book I wrote that took me to a Young Authors convention; the poems I wrote for sports seasons, family birthdays, and just because. The persistent (though sporadic) journal entries. I think I have writings/journal entries for every year going back 20+ years.
In spite of writing being a long-standing way in which I express myself, I often dread it. Sitting at a keyboard means facing down internal daemons.
"Just look at how long it's been since you wrote anything of importance."
"Why do you keep putting this off when others have told you this is a gift?"
"What kind of a writer are you, that you can't even sit down for 10 minutes a day to write about your kids and keep regular updates in a file for them?"
When I do sit down, I can type in stream-of-consciousness (like now), and it feels like a release of pressure. Whether I write a publishable piece or not, framing my thoughts/struggles on the page has always helped me. When it comes to making words say what I want them to, though, they become unwieldy and my lexicon is suddenly insufficient.
Communication has the possibility of telling someone what you're thinking, but also how you feel about what you're thinking and perhaps a shade of how others have felt about your thoughts. I'm all for denotation (the technical definition of a word), but it's connotation (the social perception and mood surrounding a particular word) that drives me. 'Dark' and 'inky' could be interchangeable, but the latter sounds and feels more image-oriented and poetic. A person can lecture or berate someone about a poor choice, but a berating implies more scorn and contempt. It is possible to paint with words; their colors just aren't visual.
I think most, if not all, writers have a vision of what a finished piece could say; most, if not all, will feel deflated after finishing something because it falls short of that vision. Sometimes by rewriting, sometimes by editing, that vision is reached, but rarely.
I promised God several years ago that if I got a solicitation for a written piece, I would submit at least one writing to it. I have not succeeded in keeping that promise, since I didn't write or submit a piece for this last request. Now I have another request from the same individual; the deadline is May, but the earlier I submit, the better. I think I know of something I could write, but words cannot express how I dread facing a blank page to start writing it out. Once written, I'll have to leave it alone for at least a week or two before I attempt editing. I rarely like anything I've written right after I write it. It seems to take somewhere around 2 years before I can read a writing and not feel like I dropped the ball somewhere.
So... I'm off to spend some time with my journal, then hopefully to shower. The writing piece will hang over my head for a while longer, I think.
February 10, 2010
Nothings
Any time I sit down to write anything (particularly if I know it will be seen by others), I rack my brain for thought-provoking, witty, or hilarious things to write or ways to write uninteresting topics. I'm a ham. Have been my whole life.
Tonight, all I can think of is how mundane my life suddenly seems. --Not bad, you understand, just mundane. The topics that come easily to mind concern my kids, complaints about something in society, or my latest addiction (whatever that is).
Tonight I don't feel like I'm capable of being entertaining or thought-provoking. Writing a blog, by its very nature, is self-centered. It assumes that 1-I'm worth writing about regularly, and 2-Others want to read that writing.
I'm usually an open book. I don't cringe away from telling much about myself; getting married has meant re-evaluating that for DH's sake. Some things should remain private, after all! I'm now hampered with the voice in my head that recites a continual litany of how ineffective I am in anything I do (I'm pretty sure other people have these voices, too, but if you don't just smile and nod along) and the lack of anything meaningful to write about. [Note: One of my great-grandfathers would have a problem with the preposition end to that sentence, but I'll leave it--it's in recognition of my inescapable imperfection and brokenness. The poor man would probably die of a stroke -- if he wasn't already dead -- if he saw the deteriorated forms of grammar used for texting.]
For now... I'll head downstairs and play some more video games. If it's Little Big Planet, I get to make a sack person jump over electrified rods (or onto them, if I'm suicidal); if it's Burnout, I get prizes for running other cars off the road. Right now either sounds kind of fun. : )
Tonight, all I can think of is how mundane my life suddenly seems. --Not bad, you understand, just mundane. The topics that come easily to mind concern my kids, complaints about something in society, or my latest addiction (whatever that is).
Tonight I don't feel like I'm capable of being entertaining or thought-provoking. Writing a blog, by its very nature, is self-centered. It assumes that 1-I'm worth writing about regularly, and 2-Others want to read that writing.
I'm usually an open book. I don't cringe away from telling much about myself; getting married has meant re-evaluating that for DH's sake. Some things should remain private, after all! I'm now hampered with the voice in my head that recites a continual litany of how ineffective I am in anything I do (I'm pretty sure other people have these voices, too, but if you don't just smile and nod along) and the lack of anything meaningful to write about. [Note: One of my great-grandfathers would have a problem with the preposition end to that sentence, but I'll leave it--it's in recognition of my inescapable imperfection and brokenness. The poor man would probably die of a stroke -- if he wasn't already dead -- if he saw the deteriorated forms of grammar used for texting.]
For now... I'll head downstairs and play some more video games. If it's Little Big Planet, I get to make a sack person jump over electrified rods (or onto them, if I'm suicidal); if it's Burnout, I get prizes for running other cars off the road. Right now either sounds kind of fun. : )
February 05, 2010
Attn: Snow Plow Driver
To the driver of the municipal snow plow that drove past our house this morning:
I understand you have a job to do. When my 4-yr-old and I went out to shovel snow off the driveway, I was already dreading the pile of snow and ice chunks that had accumulated at the end of the driveway from your prior visits. 20 minutes into the job (and after being hit by snow wildly thrown by the 4-yr-old and said 4-yr-old's shovel), you drove past--and deposited the first round of snow under my nose.
My shoulders slumped and I gazed in frustration after you, but I tried to cheer myself with the thought that it could have been so much worse, and after all, you had a job to do, too. You didn't know I have no snow blower, my husband's out of town, or that I have only 2-3 times in a day I even have the possibility of shoveling: morning nap, afternoon naps, or after offspring bedtime. I can't get to the grocery store until I shovel without risking getting stranded in our own driveway. I tried to apply grace.
When you passed the 2nd time--closer to our driveway, of course--and deposited another 6" of ice clods at my feet, the only thing that kept me from making obscene gestures or yelling profane things your direction was the presence of that 4-yr-old.
An hour after all this, and I'm still wondering if I could contact the city and reason with them.
"Dear City of _________:
"While I appreciate your efforts to keep our town streets clear of winter precipitation, I view my resulting increased workload with increasing displeasure. Please know that you are capable of rendering single parents housebound because of your actions.
"Sincerely, An Irked Citizen"
Hmph.
I understand you have a job to do. When my 4-yr-old and I went out to shovel snow off the driveway, I was already dreading the pile of snow and ice chunks that had accumulated at the end of the driveway from your prior visits. 20 minutes into the job (and after being hit by snow wildly thrown by the 4-yr-old and said 4-yr-old's shovel), you drove past--and deposited the first round of snow under my nose.
My shoulders slumped and I gazed in frustration after you, but I tried to cheer myself with the thought that it could have been so much worse, and after all, you had a job to do, too. You didn't know I have no snow blower, my husband's out of town, or that I have only 2-3 times in a day I even have the possibility of shoveling: morning nap, afternoon naps, or after offspring bedtime. I can't get to the grocery store until I shovel without risking getting stranded in our own driveway. I tried to apply grace.
When you passed the 2nd time--closer to our driveway, of course--and deposited another 6" of ice clods at my feet, the only thing that kept me from making obscene gestures or yelling profane things your direction was the presence of that 4-yr-old.
An hour after all this, and I'm still wondering if I could contact the city and reason with them.
"Dear City of _________:
"While I appreciate your efforts to keep our town streets clear of winter precipitation, I view my resulting increased workload with increasing displeasure. Please know that you are capable of rendering single parents housebound because of your actions.
"Sincerely, An Irked Citizen"
Hmph.
February 04, 2010
Big Numbers
Big numbers seem to be popping up a lot lately. One million, billion, trillion, even quadrillion. A lot of the words just sound like the childish term 'bajillion'. I don't have any more concept of a quadrillion than I do a jillion or a bajillion.
The one thing that has helped was a time comparison.
One million seconds ago? That's 12 days ago.
One billion seconds? More than 31 years ago.
One trillion seconds? More than 32,000 years ago. Uh-huh. That's 30,000 B.C. or earlier.
One quadrillion seconds? 32.8 million years ago.
I can't casually read articles about the national debt ceiling being raised by another 1.9 trillion. I keep seeing it as 32,000 years' worth of seconds.
Please excuse me while I go contemplate the fewer than 1.122 billion seconds I've been alive. At a penny a second, I'd already be a multi-millionaire. Oy.
The one thing that has helped was a time comparison.
One million seconds ago? That's 12 days ago.
One billion seconds? More than 31 years ago.
One trillion seconds? More than 32,000 years ago. Uh-huh. That's 30,000 B.C. or earlier.
One quadrillion seconds? 32.8 million years ago.
I can't casually read articles about the national debt ceiling being raised by another 1.9 trillion. I keep seeing it as 32,000 years' worth of seconds.
Please excuse me while I go contemplate the fewer than 1.122 billion seconds I've been alive. At a penny a second, I'd already be a multi-millionaire. Oy.
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