I've been planning to take this blog down. Now that my book is about to launch, it makes me nervous that someone would actually read this. But it seemed sad to end on such a low note as the last post. Almost a year later, Dad is hanging in there and is a lot more together than last year. Melody is married now, and I like my new son-in-law. Lancelot is in school, training for a new career. All good changes.
I had a vision last summer, and while I did write it down, it feels too personal to post. The gist of it is this: God loves my child even more than I do. And there is no gender in heaven. It has brought me to a place of--if not joy--acceptance. This one isn't mine to fix and Melody is more important to me than her gender. I will never be completely on board with the "transgender cause." But it doesn't matter. I love my child and we have what we have. I've gotten a son-in-law in the bargain, and that's a pretty good bonus. And I can't spend the rest of my life mourning Maverick when Melody is standing right in front of me.
Sometimes you just have to open your hands.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Everything Changes
Maverick/Melody has not spoken to us since March, angry that we cancelled her medical insurance. The insurance, beginning this year, would have covered 100% of gender reassignment surgery, so she had scheduled it immediately and was headed for California in July to get the body she's been longing for.
The insurance was a benefit of Lancelot's job--a job he disliked, but did to support our family. After much deliberation, we decided that we had to draw the line at our resources being used for a surgery we feel is destructive.
But Maverick doesn't see it that way.
So now we're down a kid, since Maverick no longer considers himself a member of our family and has boycotted all family celebrations, shut us off from his Facebook and sent Lancelot a "you suck" email too hateful for me to want to read.
Though I'm talking blithely, I'm not blithe.
The year has been a series of losses/changes/transitions/however you want to label them. A week or two after canceling Melody's insurance, Lancelot was laid off, rendering all of us insurance-less, which made the act of canceling it moot. Dad fell and broke his hip in February and we had to put him in a nursing home. It is, if one can believe the irony, directly underneath the Aurora Bridge. A few weeks ago, he and I sat on the patio there, looking up at the bridge and discussing jumpers.
Now he doesn't discuss much of anything. Three words into a sentence, he gets lost, his hands fluttering over the bedspread looking for his missing thought. I go see him every Tuesday and I sing to him. I have no idea whether he likes this or not, but I try to choose songs he is familiar with. I sing in competition with the blaring television in the next bed, with its musical ads for antidepressants ("may cause suicide") and Depends.
What these bald facts mean to me is evasive. I get lost on the way to meaning. But they must mean something.
"Good" changes have happened, too. I sold my book; it comes out next year. I'm applying for a residency in France. (I don't know if a mere application constitutes "change," but it's causing me to dream again.)
And maybe none of these changes are good or bad. They are all transitions. Sorrow is just as worthy an emotion as joy, though I don't want to lose sight of joy. I'm learning I can't skip over loss, though. I either feel it or I get sick or crabby or depressed. Better to live through the loss.
Coming out of the nursing home tonight, I felt all slowed down by sorrow. Dad may be dying. Or he may remain this lost for the next decade--there's no way to say. On a whim, I texted Melody, who has answered a couple of my texts in the last couple of weeks--generally only able to maintain civility for two or three exchanges. I texted, "Sad. Granddaddy going downhill. Can't finish a sentence. Gets lost. Everything changes."
Was this manipulative? I've been accused of messaging him as "bait," just so I can hear from him, when I need to let her stew in her own juices. But I don't care. I miss my child. I am angry enough at her to scream, and I miss him.
She texted back, "I'm sorry to hear that."
I imagine her texting this coolly and disinterestedly, "Granddaddy" being someone from that "previous" family--the one who didn't love her enough to give her what she wanted. Clearly, I am unable to maintain the kind of imperiousness one needs in order to remain unruffled by one's children. I was never much of an authoritarian parent. Maybe that's why Melody hates me for drawing the line.
But still. "I'm sorry to hear that" was better than more icy silence. And if being grateful for it makes me pathetic, I'll have to live with that.
"Thanks," I texted back, not daring to say more.
Once upon a time, I was wise. But everything changes.
The insurance was a benefit of Lancelot's job--a job he disliked, but did to support our family. After much deliberation, we decided that we had to draw the line at our resources being used for a surgery we feel is destructive.
But Maverick doesn't see it that way.
So now we're down a kid, since Maverick no longer considers himself a member of our family and has boycotted all family celebrations, shut us off from his Facebook and sent Lancelot a "you suck" email too hateful for me to want to read.
Though I'm talking blithely, I'm not blithe.
The year has been a series of losses/changes/transitions/however you want to label them. A week or two after canceling Melody's insurance, Lancelot was laid off, rendering all of us insurance-less, which made the act of canceling it moot. Dad fell and broke his hip in February and we had to put him in a nursing home. It is, if one can believe the irony, directly underneath the Aurora Bridge. A few weeks ago, he and I sat on the patio there, looking up at the bridge and discussing jumpers.
Now he doesn't discuss much of anything. Three words into a sentence, he gets lost, his hands fluttering over the bedspread looking for his missing thought. I go see him every Tuesday and I sing to him. I have no idea whether he likes this or not, but I try to choose songs he is familiar with. I sing in competition with the blaring television in the next bed, with its musical ads for antidepressants ("may cause suicide") and Depends.
What these bald facts mean to me is evasive. I get lost on the way to meaning. But they must mean something.
"Good" changes have happened, too. I sold my book; it comes out next year. I'm applying for a residency in France. (I don't know if a mere application constitutes "change," but it's causing me to dream again.)
And maybe none of these changes are good or bad. They are all transitions. Sorrow is just as worthy an emotion as joy, though I don't want to lose sight of joy. I'm learning I can't skip over loss, though. I either feel it or I get sick or crabby or depressed. Better to live through the loss.
Coming out of the nursing home tonight, I felt all slowed down by sorrow. Dad may be dying. Or he may remain this lost for the next decade--there's no way to say. On a whim, I texted Melody, who has answered a couple of my texts in the last couple of weeks--generally only able to maintain civility for two or three exchanges. I texted, "Sad. Granddaddy going downhill. Can't finish a sentence. Gets lost. Everything changes."
Was this manipulative? I've been accused of messaging him as "bait," just so I can hear from him, when I need to let her stew in her own juices. But I don't care. I miss my child. I am angry enough at her to scream, and I miss him.
She texted back, "I'm sorry to hear that."
I imagine her texting this coolly and disinterestedly, "Granddaddy" being someone from that "previous" family--the one who didn't love her enough to give her what she wanted. Clearly, I am unable to maintain the kind of imperiousness one needs in order to remain unruffled by one's children. I was never much of an authoritarian parent. Maybe that's why Melody hates me for drawing the line.
But still. "I'm sorry to hear that" was better than more icy silence. And if being grateful for it makes me pathetic, I'll have to live with that.
"Thanks," I texted back, not daring to say more.
Once upon a time, I was wise. But everything changes.
Sunday, September 05, 2010
In Which I Out Myself as the Parent of a Transgender Child
…but of course, I do so on my “secret” blog.
Maverick has now legally changed his name to "Melody Lani" and sometime next week will be legally declared female. His (her) friends, and many of our family and friends are cheering enthusiastically.
Normally I do not allow my emotions about this to rise to the surface, but today I am simply a grieving mother. And it's hard to know where to go with that. My child, who I love deeply, is, of course, still living. And he (she) is still the same compassionate, creative, intuitive person as before. I have friends whose children have died and it would be inappropriate to compare this to that.
But every time I tell myself that, I tamp the pain down neatly and move to the cleaner, more antiseptic philosophical plane where gender doesn't matter all that much and my beliefs about God, sexuality and human identity are only one approach among myriad others.
I am reading Love is an Orientation, by Andrew Marin and am very impressed by it. In fact, I have barely put it down these last couple of days, taking it with me everywhere, like I did with books I loved as a kid. Though Andrew is evangelical, he has thrown off some of the key characteristics that ultimately drove me from the evangelicals when I was one: the compulsion to preach, in biblical language at people who embrace neither preaching nor the Bible (and then declare those same people “lost” and “shake the dust from one’s feet.”); the us/them attitude; the shuddering and condemnation over “sexual sin”—particularly homosexuality; the smug self-righteousness.
Andrew Marin lives, with his wife, in Boystown—a largely gay-populated area of Chicago. His goal is to build bridges between the evangelical and LGBT communities through respectful dialogue. And this sort of dialogue is what I like to do—but at the moment I am derailed by a piercing sense of loss.
When Maverick came out as gay five and a half years ago (at the age of 14), I felt as if I got “outed,” too. My progressive, spiritually diverse friends (including Jonathan, a gay man I loved like a brother) had no idea I had such traditional beliefs about sexuality. While they didn’t accuse me of being cruel and hateful when I did not want Maverick to go this direction, they did have a hard time knowing how to support both me and Maverick. The exception, ironically, was my beloved Jonathan, who we lost less than two years later to cancer. He listened patiently and validated my feelings, though my beliefs seemed to challenge his own identity. I told him that I didn’t know how he walked that kind of a tightrope, but I know he did so out of love for me. (He had also been the first adult Maverick came out to.)
Now that “Melody” has moved from gay to transgender, I find myself in a conundrum. I love my child. We have always been close, even through our disagreements about his being gay. I feel sadder every week we don’t have contact and happier when we do talk. The last we talked, Melody was interested in hearing about my feelings and in honoring them. As “she” has continued on this journey and had the support of friends and some family, she has been more able to consider my opposition as a deeply-held belief, not an attack. I appreciate this very much.
Yet I do feel my child has been stolen from me. I don’t feel I have a right to dictate my adult child’s life, but in my gut is the sense that other people, who consider themselves more enlightened, progressive and healthy than I, swept in six years ago and snatched him away.
On her Facebook account, Melody is receiving a veritable standing ovation—some of it from relatives and friends of ours who must know we are grieving. It’s hard to know where to go. This is beyond politics, beyond issues of sin and condemnation, beyond opposing sides squaring off against each other. And while I believe strongly that gender matters and that we are created male and female, I also believe that it doesn’t matter—that in Christ there is no male and female. I know I am capable of fair-minded dialogue between progressive and traditional points of view. But I must keep my emotions at bay in order to accomplish this—especially now. And so I carry this sorrow in me as a hidden thing.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Why I Need to Keep Writing
I haven't blogged here in a long time, but I am up late and it feels exhilirating to venture in here again. Tomorrow I dive into several days of fulltime rewrite, as I am now -- glory be! -- an agented novelist. Hopefully, I'll finish this puppy up before the month is out.
I've been thinking a lot about shame, anxiety, despair -- the usual villains. But a couple of weeks ago I did a reading where there were a lot of young people who had a lot of pain. And at this reading they were able to stand up and share their pain and be acknowledged. I was moved by the importance of this -- far beyond teaching people to write. When it was my turn, I shared poems about Dad instead of the funny stuff I'd planned to read. Some of them still make me shake a little, even after all this time. But I wanted to share something that opened me up, that touched my pain, but ended on a note of redemption.
And I realized once again that I want to write and read redemptive work -- to write my sorrow and anger, yes, but also my hope and Who my hope comes from.
The other night my brother was painting a grim picture of Christianity -- it was a religion of darkness, vengeance, coercion and abuse -- and he had the Bible stories to prove it. And I didn't want to argue, because I found myself frozen. What he describes is not what I believe. But what I believe felt so private and tender at that moment -- I didn't want to open it to ridicule.
All I have against such an attack (and I don't think he meant it to hurt me) is my work. If God has given me the ability to sometiomes access that deep place through words on a page, and if I have hope in my life as well as pain, and if my honesty -- which is both blessing and curse to me -- goes into my writing, then I need to QUIT HIDING inside my shame and come out.
I want to let kids know that there is resurrection -- that it is part of the fabric of the universe; that it is woven into their cells. And I'm suddenly struck by the fact that they don't know that -- that regardless of their religion, a lot of kids are running around without hope; they don't know that life comes out of death -- they believe there is nothing but darkness.
I have an interview on Monday and I've been dreading it. It's about my work-in-progress, which has to do with parental suicide. And I've felt weird about it being a "therapy" book for me, and weird about embarrassing my parents and weird about still feeling weird. But there are kids who are locked in their despair and who need a key. Can't I tell them that it will get better? That their life is essential to someone--to themselves? That their parents will mellow, become sweet, that they will love them almost more than they can bear?
When I talk about this, my prose becomes purple, but that's what anonymity is for. I write for the girl who needed the book when I was sixteen. I write for the girl, or boy, who needs it now.
I've been thinking a lot about shame, anxiety, despair -- the usual villains. But a couple of weeks ago I did a reading where there were a lot of young people who had a lot of pain. And at this reading they were able to stand up and share their pain and be acknowledged. I was moved by the importance of this -- far beyond teaching people to write. When it was my turn, I shared poems about Dad instead of the funny stuff I'd planned to read. Some of them still make me shake a little, even after all this time. But I wanted to share something that opened me up, that touched my pain, but ended on a note of redemption.
And I realized once again that I want to write and read redemptive work -- to write my sorrow and anger, yes, but also my hope and Who my hope comes from.
The other night my brother was painting a grim picture of Christianity -- it was a religion of darkness, vengeance, coercion and abuse -- and he had the Bible stories to prove it. And I didn't want to argue, because I found myself frozen. What he describes is not what I believe. But what I believe felt so private and tender at that moment -- I didn't want to open it to ridicule.
All I have against such an attack (and I don't think he meant it to hurt me) is my work. If God has given me the ability to sometiomes access that deep place through words on a page, and if I have hope in my life as well as pain, and if my honesty -- which is both blessing and curse to me -- goes into my writing, then I need to QUIT HIDING inside my shame and come out.
I want to let kids know that there is resurrection -- that it is part of the fabric of the universe; that it is woven into their cells. And I'm suddenly struck by the fact that they don't know that -- that regardless of their religion, a lot of kids are running around without hope; they don't know that life comes out of death -- they believe there is nothing but darkness.
I have an interview on Monday and I've been dreading it. It's about my work-in-progress, which has to do with parental suicide. And I've felt weird about it being a "therapy" book for me, and weird about embarrassing my parents and weird about still feeling weird. But there are kids who are locked in their despair and who need a key. Can't I tell them that it will get better? That their life is essential to someone--to themselves? That their parents will mellow, become sweet, that they will love them almost more than they can bear?
When I talk about this, my prose becomes purple, but that's what anonymity is for. I write for the girl who needed the book when I was sixteen. I write for the girl, or boy, who needs it now.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
On the Threshhold of Happiness
Lately I’ve been feeling that peace is within my reach--that I’m right on the cusp of freedom. I’ve lived so long with fear as a companion, dogging my steps--that pit-of-the-stomach dread that always floated at the periphery of my thoughts. Now I want to grab ahold and give it a good shaking, see if it’s a real dog or a phantom.
I’ve been noticing my own happiness. Yesterday, I reveled in the wind, which all but blew me over on the top deck of the ferry. I am happy when I’m teaching, happy when I’m planning lessons, happy when I’m having a conversation with a student, happy when I’m reading or writing, happy when I’m riding my bike. I’m even happy when I’m budgeting or cleaning the house. I was surprised to realize that I am happy almost all the time now.
The fear comes when I believe I am about to fail, to be irresponsible, to disappoint others, to look unprofessional. The fear comes from the things that are yet undone—the things that interrupt my thoughts with the menace of my neglect.
I have stopped using the word “procrastinate.” It is a useless word. I really don’t procrastinate, which would assume that I have loads of leisure time and that the one important thing is the thing I am avoiding. There is more than one important thing and as I pay attention to each one, I am not able to work on the others. That’s reality.
What I have done, though, is hide from the things that scare me. I may make lesson plans instead of calling my dad, or counsel a friend instead of making lesson plans. I may clean the kitchen instead of paying the bills. What seems to scare me the most is being scared—of fear wrapping its tentacles around me and not letting go. (Yes, I see that the dog now has tentacles. It is a very scary dog.)
I have only recently realized that not everyone lives with anxiety at the back of their thoughts. Since I’m experiencing expanses of time without it, I’ve begun to wonder if it’s possible to be rid of it for good.
I’m trying to pay attention to the pit of my stomach—to notice when and why I am afraid. Right now I am edgy, nervous. My hands are clammy. It’s because I’m thinking of people reading this—of being shameless enough to post it instead of keeping it in my journal.
Shameless is not the word, though. The word is shame. And that’s an interesting thing. A few months ago I was late picking my son up from an after-school event. Twice. I’ve struggled with time all my life. And I’m ashamed of this. My lateness not only distressed my son, but it kept the teacher and parent volunteers waiting. One of the parents came out to my van to tell me that I simply couldn’t be late. I told her that I didn’t think my tardiness was okay and that I was mortified. She said, “Oh, all right. That’s good, then.”
And it struck me that we think it’s good for people to be ashamed. And maybe it is. Maybe I need to feel the pain of the trouble I cause to others. But I don’t know if I need to feel it all the time. I don’t know if I need to let it define me. And I don’t know if my shame is truly of benefit to anyone else.
I told one of my dear young writers how often I feel like a complete failure and she laughed. She was astonished. Her perception of me is different. She looks up to me. And I want her to. She, too, struggles with anxiety and I want to cut a path for her through that wilderness. I want for her to believe we don’t need to live in fear.
That’s why it’s so important to me that I find the honesty, clarity and courage that seem to be so close. I want to hold on to my happiness while I am facing down my fears. I am feeling fear now. God help me.
Tess
I’ve been noticing my own happiness. Yesterday, I reveled in the wind, which all but blew me over on the top deck of the ferry. I am happy when I’m teaching, happy when I’m planning lessons, happy when I’m having a conversation with a student, happy when I’m reading or writing, happy when I’m riding my bike. I’m even happy when I’m budgeting or cleaning the house. I was surprised to realize that I am happy almost all the time now.
The fear comes when I believe I am about to fail, to be irresponsible, to disappoint others, to look unprofessional. The fear comes from the things that are yet undone—the things that interrupt my thoughts with the menace of my neglect.
I have stopped using the word “procrastinate.” It is a useless word. I really don’t procrastinate, which would assume that I have loads of leisure time and that the one important thing is the thing I am avoiding. There is more than one important thing and as I pay attention to each one, I am not able to work on the others. That’s reality.
What I have done, though, is hide from the things that scare me. I may make lesson plans instead of calling my dad, or counsel a friend instead of making lesson plans. I may clean the kitchen instead of paying the bills. What seems to scare me the most is being scared—of fear wrapping its tentacles around me and not letting go. (Yes, I see that the dog now has tentacles. It is a very scary dog.)
I have only recently realized that not everyone lives with anxiety at the back of their thoughts. Since I’m experiencing expanses of time without it, I’ve begun to wonder if it’s possible to be rid of it for good.
I’m trying to pay attention to the pit of my stomach—to notice when and why I am afraid. Right now I am edgy, nervous. My hands are clammy. It’s because I’m thinking of people reading this—of being shameless enough to post it instead of keeping it in my journal.
Shameless is not the word, though. The word is shame. And that’s an interesting thing. A few months ago I was late picking my son up from an after-school event. Twice. I’ve struggled with time all my life. And I’m ashamed of this. My lateness not only distressed my son, but it kept the teacher and parent volunteers waiting. One of the parents came out to my van to tell me that I simply couldn’t be late. I told her that I didn’t think my tardiness was okay and that I was mortified. She said, “Oh, all right. That’s good, then.”
And it struck me that we think it’s good for people to be ashamed. And maybe it is. Maybe I need to feel the pain of the trouble I cause to others. But I don’t know if I need to feel it all the time. I don’t know if I need to let it define me. And I don’t know if my shame is truly of benefit to anyone else.
I told one of my dear young writers how often I feel like a complete failure and she laughed. She was astonished. Her perception of me is different. She looks up to me. And I want her to. She, too, struggles with anxiety and I want to cut a path for her through that wilderness. I want for her to believe we don’t need to live in fear.
That’s why it’s so important to me that I find the honesty, clarity and courage that seem to be so close. I want to hold on to my happiness while I am facing down my fears. I am feeling fear now. God help me.
Tess
Friday, February 20, 2009
World and Wilderness
Yesterday I walked and talked with a very insightful woman whose career is in marketing. She is a naturally intuitive person, picking up immediately on the nuances of things I said, and willing to challenge me on my assumptions. I want to get better acquainted with her. What she reflected back to me was that I love writing and I love teaching, but I hate marketing. She wondered aloud why I would want to run my own business, this being the case, but she understood that I like to have control over my endeavors.
This last sounds unsettling. I'm not eager to be perceived as a control freak. But I do understand that I'm happier and more effective if I have creative freedom both in my writing and in my teaching. When I have this, I am able to share more authentically my thoughts, feelings, visions and dreams. And these things, both in writing and in teaching, are at the heart of what I do.
Of course, it helps to be reassured that these things are helpful to my readers and my students -- that we have somehow made a human-to-human connection. When I receive emails from a classroom full child readers, as I did the other day, or words from a parent that my class is sparking her teen's creative imagination, I use these good words as fuel to continue my work.
My friend, J, calls the dual realms of creation and people-connection "wilderness and world." Sometimes I think that for me, the two realms overlap -- as they do now, while I blog very private thoughts, knowing that there may be a reader or two. Maybe it is my inclination to live as an open book that brings me to jarring moments where wilderness and world collide and I want to scurry for cover. (This is why I avoid PTA meetings.)
Do others have some extra layer of protection that I tend not to bring with me? I have the writer's "thick skin" recommended by all editors. But I do not seem to have it in the world of "marketing." If I get a vibe that I'm annoying someone with my notices of classes or church services or books available for sale, I use that as fuel to postpone mailings until it is nearly too late, to hesitate before sharing, even sometimes to procrastinate on sending information to interested parties.
So if marketing is about perceiving what people need and then seeing if I have something to meet that need, I seem, in my more vulnerable moments, to be favoring those who don't need what I have.
And this is silly.
What I need is a sense of "holy apatheia," similar to, but not exactly the same as the Buddhist's detachment from the self. I am clinging too tightly to myself, to my ego, so that I am not allowing the Spirit to work in me. I am equating my gifts with my survival.
Today I will focus on the work -- the writing and the teaching -- as its own self, an entity that can exist under its own power with or without me clinging to it like a worried mother.
And I will bless each emotion that comes and let it come and move through me, but I will not follow that emotion until it leads me away from my center.
In order to do the work, I need an emotional attachment to it. But I also need a strength to separate from the work and trust that neither it nor I will disappear.
This last sounds unsettling. I'm not eager to be perceived as a control freak. But I do understand that I'm happier and more effective if I have creative freedom both in my writing and in my teaching. When I have this, I am able to share more authentically my thoughts, feelings, visions and dreams. And these things, both in writing and in teaching, are at the heart of what I do.
Of course, it helps to be reassured that these things are helpful to my readers and my students -- that we have somehow made a human-to-human connection. When I receive emails from a classroom full child readers, as I did the other day, or words from a parent that my class is sparking her teen's creative imagination, I use these good words as fuel to continue my work.
My friend, J, calls the dual realms of creation and people-connection "wilderness and world." Sometimes I think that for me, the two realms overlap -- as they do now, while I blog very private thoughts, knowing that there may be a reader or two. Maybe it is my inclination to live as an open book that brings me to jarring moments where wilderness and world collide and I want to scurry for cover. (This is why I avoid PTA meetings.)
Do others have some extra layer of protection that I tend not to bring with me? I have the writer's "thick skin" recommended by all editors. But I do not seem to have it in the world of "marketing." If I get a vibe that I'm annoying someone with my notices of classes or church services or books available for sale, I use that as fuel to postpone mailings until it is nearly too late, to hesitate before sharing, even sometimes to procrastinate on sending information to interested parties.
So if marketing is about perceiving what people need and then seeing if I have something to meet that need, I seem, in my more vulnerable moments, to be favoring those who don't need what I have.
And this is silly.
What I need is a sense of "holy apatheia," similar to, but not exactly the same as the Buddhist's detachment from the self. I am clinging too tightly to myself, to my ego, so that I am not allowing the Spirit to work in me. I am equating my gifts with my survival.
Today I will focus on the work -- the writing and the teaching -- as its own self, an entity that can exist under its own power with or without me clinging to it like a worried mother.
And I will bless each emotion that comes and let it come and move through me, but I will not follow that emotion until it leads me away from my center.
In order to do the work, I need an emotional attachment to it. But I also need a strength to separate from the work and trust that neither it nor I will disappear.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
On the Disequlibrium of Success
I didn't pick the title of this blog to be ironic. Truly I didn't. But since it's my secret "unloading" blog, it's often not very mirthful.
Within the last hour I have finished a rewrite of my novel. This is a good thing, I think. Why am I filled with panic? I finished it earlier than expected after having left home and gone to a friend's house where I have been writing my patootie off. And my patootie is rather sore, thank you very much.
I did major overhaul on the early chapters and not so much on the later ones. As this is probably the 7th rewrite, I shouldn't be nervous, but I know it's not done. And I know I have absolutely no perspective on it and that an agent is waiting to see it. And that I've just spent the last 4 1/2 years of my life on this one book and the next one better not take that long.
As soon as I was done, I checked my email and herein is where the trouble lies: Taran is in a parent partnership program where we need to submit progress reports every month. And I do this, but twice I have done it late. So I did this month's report early -- only they never got it and now they're "disappointed" with me and unsure whether I can handle the writing class I'm going to teach there. And of course, I can, and will. But really, I just want to be independently wealthy and not have to teach writing in order to pay for groceries. I'd rather teach it as a grand favor to humanity.
I'm not very happy with being flawed tonight. The manuscript is flawed, but I don't know where (see: no perspective). My report-submitting is evidently flawed (thought I really DID do it early this month.) My inbox is so full and I've been away from home since Sunday. I miss my family. I miss Lancelot.
And it is very, very silly for me to be posting all this on a blog.
I must make something deep and philosophical of it.
Somebody sent me the following scripture:
But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.
- 1 Corinthians 4:7-10
Well, I can say that the surpassing power certainly doesn't belong to me. My afflictions I seem to bring on myself -- with a little help from modern technology. And I would qualify as perplexed. I don't feel particularly persecuted at the moment. This scripture seems to be about really good people who don't screw up as much as I do.
I KNOW that I'll have more perspective on this once I've had some sleep and can go through the emails one at a time.
One thing about being a writer is that you have to feel things -- you know, emotions and such. Fear, dread, joy, sorrow -- stuff like that. If you can't feel it you can't write it. So you open up the emotion doors and POW.
I would do well to watch some Monty Python.
the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.
And (I think) I finished my rewrite.
Within the last hour I have finished a rewrite of my novel. This is a good thing, I think. Why am I filled with panic? I finished it earlier than expected after having left home and gone to a friend's house where I have been writing my patootie off. And my patootie is rather sore, thank you very much.
I did major overhaul on the early chapters and not so much on the later ones. As this is probably the 7th rewrite, I shouldn't be nervous, but I know it's not done. And I know I have absolutely no perspective on it and that an agent is waiting to see it. And that I've just spent the last 4 1/2 years of my life on this one book and the next one better not take that long.
As soon as I was done, I checked my email and herein is where the trouble lies: Taran is in a parent partnership program where we need to submit progress reports every month. And I do this, but twice I have done it late. So I did this month's report early -- only they never got it and now they're "disappointed" with me and unsure whether I can handle the writing class I'm going to teach there. And of course, I can, and will. But really, I just want to be independently wealthy and not have to teach writing in order to pay for groceries. I'd rather teach it as a grand favor to humanity.
I'm not very happy with being flawed tonight. The manuscript is flawed, but I don't know where (see: no perspective). My report-submitting is evidently flawed (thought I really DID do it early this month.) My inbox is so full and I've been away from home since Sunday. I miss my family. I miss Lancelot.
And it is very, very silly for me to be posting all this on a blog.
I must make something deep and philosophical of it.
Somebody sent me the following scripture:
But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies.
- 1 Corinthians 4:7-10
Well, I can say that the surpassing power certainly doesn't belong to me. My afflictions I seem to bring on myself -- with a little help from modern technology. And I would qualify as perplexed. I don't feel particularly persecuted at the moment. This scripture seems to be about really good people who don't screw up as much as I do.
I KNOW that I'll have more perspective on this once I've had some sleep and can go through the emails one at a time.
One thing about being a writer is that you have to feel things -- you know, emotions and such. Fear, dread, joy, sorrow -- stuff like that. If you can't feel it you can't write it. So you open up the emotion doors and POW.
I would do well to watch some Monty Python.
the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.
And (I think) I finished my rewrite.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Salesmanship and Stillness
I've been posting on my author blog. Lots of pictures of the kids at the writing workshops. Taran very good-naturedly took some head shots of me as all my existing pictures were awful or really out of date. I stopped having pix taken when I got fat, but now I'm getting skinny again.
The author blog sounds kind of sales-y. When I'm trying to earn money I get like that. It's irritating, cloying. I want to tell people that's not really me. But then, I don't know if long, brooding posts are what parents are looking for when they are trying to find writing workshops for their kids.
I cried through the inauguration, from Aretha Franklin to the closing benediction. What a day! I feel some hope for this country for the first time -- ever? Was this how people felt about Kennedy?
I spent some time with the icons in the new chapel Lancelot put in. (Maybe I will post a pic. What the heck?) 
I'm loving the chapel more and more. In a sacred space the heart is more willing to open. Mine has been heavy this evening, despite the inauguration. Breaking over Maverick again. I have felt Christ telling me to get back into my heart, but it's full of pain. He says, "Don't worry; I'll be there." To be a mother is to have a broken heart. But maybe that's how we find our own way back home.
Will I write about this one day? Sometimes I think yes. Other times I think it would be career suicide.
And I need to just get really, really quiet in order to write authentically. No salesmanship. No mailing lists. Stillness.
Tess
Monday, August 18, 2008
Simmering
...at least, I hope so. I feel as if I am truly "between projects" instead of actively working on one. I've spent a good deal of time this summer researching Impressionist artists in prep for a novel-in-verse I'd planned to write. Now, I'm not sure if I'm getting cold feet or simply losing my enthusiasm.
A good chunk of the novel involves my own adolescence, stuff about Dad, homelessness, mental illness. I'm not sure how I feel about writing that.
I did do a chapbook on it two years ago and I wonder if I'm done talking about it.
I truly do not want to embarrass Dad. I'm not sure how he feels about the chapbook, which he has, and which he knows I read publicly. I even got to read the final poem directly to him at a reading which featured his best friend. Not sure how he felt about that, but he said, "I came off better than in that other poem you wrote."
When I talked to the editor in NY in February, she was very interested in the fact that my dad had been homeless, though he was an educated professional. She said, "You have to write that book! I know I kept saying, 'commercial, commercial,' but you have to write that book."
The thing is, I'm not sure she's even prepared to take me on as an author. It has been many months... I'm in a bit of a holding pattern.
So now my head is full of Impressionism and I've written nearly nothing on this project.
I am reading Crank by Ellen Hopkins, and it's opening me up again to this idea. She writes poetry that stands up as poetry (not doing this is one of my pet peeves about novels-in-verse), and which speaks sensitively to a topic dangerous not only to the reader, but to her as an author. I wonder what kind of communication she had with her daughter before she published it.
How can I make it not about "Me and My Ego?" My ego is killing me off as a creator. It has its sticky fingers in everything I do. If I can't write things that move a reader through despair and towards transcendence I may as well quit writing altogether.
I've just finished, and have been discussing Gifts of the Desert by Kyriacos C. Markides. It's this book that is causing me to revisit the idea of ego as a distraction.
Markides writes about spirituality in a way that takes me somewhere. I imagine he struggles with his own ego, too.
So maybe the answer is to simply do the work -- if I can figure out what it is -- and know that the ego struggle is a given and overcoming it again and again is the path that I must walk.
A good chunk of the novel involves my own adolescence, stuff about Dad, homelessness, mental illness. I'm not sure how I feel about writing that.
I did do a chapbook on it two years ago and I wonder if I'm done talking about it.
I truly do not want to embarrass Dad. I'm not sure how he feels about the chapbook, which he has, and which he knows I read publicly. I even got to read the final poem directly to him at a reading which featured his best friend. Not sure how he felt about that, but he said, "I came off better than in that other poem you wrote."
When I talked to the editor in NY in February, she was very interested in the fact that my dad had been homeless, though he was an educated professional. She said, "You have to write that book! I know I kept saying, 'commercial, commercial,' but you have to write that book."
The thing is, I'm not sure she's even prepared to take me on as an author. It has been many months... I'm in a bit of a holding pattern.
So now my head is full of Impressionism and I've written nearly nothing on this project.
I am reading Crank by Ellen Hopkins, and it's opening me up again to this idea. She writes poetry that stands up as poetry (not doing this is one of my pet peeves about novels-in-verse), and which speaks sensitively to a topic dangerous not only to the reader, but to her as an author. I wonder what kind of communication she had with her daughter before she published it.
How can I make it not about "Me and My Ego?" My ego is killing me off as a creator. It has its sticky fingers in everything I do. If I can't write things that move a reader through despair and towards transcendence I may as well quit writing altogether.
I've just finished, and have been discussing Gifts of the Desert by Kyriacos C. Markides. It's this book that is causing me to revisit the idea of ego as a distraction.
Markides writes about spirituality in a way that takes me somewhere. I imagine he struggles with his own ego, too.
So maybe the answer is to simply do the work -- if I can figure out what it is -- and know that the ego struggle is a given and overcoming it again and again is the path that I must walk.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
While Falling Asleep
I wrote odd poetry last night as I was falling asleep. I had been reading Mary Oliver, whose work I love, but I realized I don't love it as much as the work of Margaret D. Smith. Maybe I should have a look at these strange ramblings:
Poem While Falling Asleep
I stack six books in my lap
or two
or three
never one
lest I not be able
to devour them all.
By having my hands
on three or four
objects at once
I hope to gain
years lost in
a swift backward march.
The other day I followed stories
to their source --
the other day I followed me
and became a story.
Outside are growing things --
beetles in the dirt,
woodpecker,
soft-spotted fawn.
How I would like
to keep them company.
As hours turn to years
I must decide:
Will I let it all be snake-stolen?
How many herons will I need
to carry the books I want to write?
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Here's another one...
Dream Poem
Today as I was
falling asleep I felt
I needed a uniform
for dreams.
How else to go into
them without the dignity
of piping, pressed pockets
and a really good hat?
If you are prepared to go into a dream -- that
is to say, dressed properly --
the people will know
to offer the proper respect
reserved for dreamers
who arrive at their dreams
in some official capacity.
If you forget some of this --
especially the hat --
you may be subject to
the whims of dream people
who, while not altogether solid,
can pack a mean left hook
when you aren't expecting it.
If you remember at least the hat,
those in the dream will know
to solute,
to serenade you,
or at least to bring flowers.
These are the rules for going into a dream:
1) find a small rock that you can kick
in order to find your way out
2) talk to strangers
3) never interpret a dream while you are
in the dream -- that's cheating.
Try to find a quiet place
in the dream,
like a side lawn of a house
or an abandoned airplane hangar.
Especially, look for someplace
that is spelled correctly.
Failing that, look for a
dream-like spelling
and the muses will forgive you.
Know that dream travel
is dangerous
the way certain snakes
are dangerous --
always carry a flute and basket
and you will have
nothing to fear.
Poem While Falling Asleep
I stack six books in my lap
or two
or three
never one
lest I not be able
to devour them all.
By having my hands
on three or four
objects at once
I hope to gain
years lost in
a swift backward march.
The other day I followed stories
to their source --
the other day I followed me
and became a story.
Outside are growing things --
beetles in the dirt,
woodpecker,
soft-spotted fawn.
How I would like
to keep them company.
As hours turn to years
I must decide:
Will I let it all be snake-stolen?
How many herons will I need
to carry the books I want to write?
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Here's another one...
Dream Poem
Today as I was
falling asleep I felt
I needed a uniform
for dreams.
How else to go into
them without the dignity
of piping, pressed pockets
and a really good hat?
If you are prepared to go into a dream -- that
is to say, dressed properly --
the people will know
to offer the proper respect
reserved for dreamers
who arrive at their dreams
in some official capacity.
If you forget some of this --
especially the hat --
you may be subject to
the whims of dream people
who, while not altogether solid,
can pack a mean left hook
when you aren't expecting it.
If you remember at least the hat,
those in the dream will know
to solute,
to serenade you,
or at least to bring flowers.
These are the rules for going into a dream:
1) find a small rock that you can kick
in order to find your way out
2) talk to strangers
3) never interpret a dream while you are
in the dream -- that's cheating.
Try to find a quiet place
in the dream,
like a side lawn of a house
or an abandoned airplane hangar.
Especially, look for someplace
that is spelled correctly.
Failing that, look for a
dream-like spelling
and the muses will forgive you.
Know that dream travel
is dangerous
the way certain snakes
are dangerous --
always carry a flute and basket
and you will have
nothing to fear.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Gut feeling
Writing class has gone very well for the most part. I hope I'm giving them enough balance between time to work, time to move, time to socialize. I feel that the socializing is pretty important for teen writers -- heck, it's important for adult writers.
I keep saying this is an isolating profession, but I don't know if that's true. It hasn't really been isolating for me. I've made some of my best friendships in the writing community -- and I do feel I've found my tribe after feeling just a little "odd" and "outside" most of my younger life.
I'm worried about Maverick. In a way that sick, anxious feeling in my gut only goes away when I distract myself. Writing classes were good for that. Someday maybe I'll be able to write about this, but I'm still not interested in making myself a target. I love my boy. I'm heartbroken about some of the choices he's making. I wish the world was different. But if it was different, there would be other things to worry about.
I'm ready to learn to pray again.
Tess
I keep saying this is an isolating profession, but I don't know if that's true. It hasn't really been isolating for me. I've made some of my best friendships in the writing community -- and I do feel I've found my tribe after feeling just a little "odd" and "outside" most of my younger life.
I'm worried about Maverick. In a way that sick, anxious feeling in my gut only goes away when I distract myself. Writing classes were good for that. Someday maybe I'll be able to write about this, but I'm still not interested in making myself a target. I love my boy. I'm heartbroken about some of the choices he's making. I wish the world was different. But if it was different, there would be other things to worry about.
I'm ready to learn to pray again.
Tess
Monday, July 14, 2008
Loaded
It feels strange to be posting here again, having finished with my "anonymous phase." But the idea of writing whatever I feel like without a real audience is appealing.
I did the AFSP suicide prevention walk last month in Seattle. It was amazing. 17 miles. Took us 8 hours. My son, Maverick, walked with me and that was the best thing of all. To be around so many who had lost loved one and who could say the word "suicide" without laughing or flinching was mind-blowing. I thought at first that I'd feel out of place because Dad survived. That I'd have no right to tell my story. And I kind of didn't want to tell it all that much. It felt good to listen. My feelings about Dad are still loaded.
I called him from the walk and thanked him for having taken the gun out of his mouth. He had been sleeping and he had no idea what I was talking about. He said, "I don't have a gun in my mouth. I have sleep. In my mouth."
I worry that he's winding down -- that he's failing. He has memory lapses. He is 80, after all. I need to clean his apartment, or hire someone to clean it. I'm not as good a daughter as I wish I were.
So having finished my last novel, I'm playing with the idea for the new one. It keep getting further and further afield from parental suicide. At the moment it contains time travel. And I still don't know if I can write it. Didn't I already write about this?
I've had 23 extra years with Dad. I haven't used them particularly well, but I've had them to come to terms with things. He's incredibly homophobic. He pretends not to know Maverick is gay. I wish this were not so, but there it is. And yes, that was a deliberately ambiguous sentence.
I can almost deal better with dad in writing than in person. But does that mean I've simply created a character called "Dad" and that's who I'm interacting with?
This is a great deal more angsty than I intended. I think I'd better get my lesson plan on humourous essays done.
Tess
I did the AFSP suicide prevention walk last month in Seattle. It was amazing. 17 miles. Took us 8 hours. My son, Maverick, walked with me and that was the best thing of all. To be around so many who had lost loved one and who could say the word "suicide" without laughing or flinching was mind-blowing. I thought at first that I'd feel out of place because Dad survived. That I'd have no right to tell my story. And I kind of didn't want to tell it all that much. It felt good to listen. My feelings about Dad are still loaded.
I called him from the walk and thanked him for having taken the gun out of his mouth. He had been sleeping and he had no idea what I was talking about. He said, "I don't have a gun in my mouth. I have sleep. In my mouth."
I worry that he's winding down -- that he's failing. He has memory lapses. He is 80, after all. I need to clean his apartment, or hire someone to clean it. I'm not as good a daughter as I wish I were.
So having finished my last novel, I'm playing with the idea for the new one. It keep getting further and further afield from parental suicide. At the moment it contains time travel. And I still don't know if I can write it. Didn't I already write about this?
I've had 23 extra years with Dad. I haven't used them particularly well, but I've had them to come to terms with things. He's incredibly homophobic. He pretends not to know Maverick is gay. I wish this were not so, but there it is. And yes, that was a deliberately ambiguous sentence.
I can almost deal better with dad in writing than in person. But does that mean I've simply created a character called "Dad" and that's who I'm interacting with?
This is a great deal more angsty than I intended. I think I'd better get my lesson plan on humourous essays done.
Tess
Friday, June 30, 2006
Talking About Their Generation
I’m reading Marjorie Corbman’s A Tiny Step Away From Deepest Faith (Paraclete Press, 2005). Marjorie was 17 when she wrote the book (she’s now about 18). She speaks eloquently of her own spiritual journey and reflects on the longings of her generation. “We aren’t happy,” she says. “We take Zoloft and cut open our flesh and do anything to assure us that we’re here, that we feel, that our experience is valid and tangible. There’ something sick in a culture where prosperity is chased by suicide. We’re bored and lonely and we don’t care about anything anymore, while we still worship everything. Our emotions are not silly and they are not immature. On the contrary, they are surprisingly mature, and though not all of us have the eloquence to describe the depth of our feelings, nevertheless we feel strongly and in pure concentrations. The problem is not, as has been posited, that we are shallow, but that we cannot be shallow, that our inner experience is too strong to deny; too loud and too demanding.”
Many I’ve talked to who have read the book have a hard time believing it was actually written by a teen. I’m sure Marjorie has been hearing this a lot from readers. She is remarkably well-read. She is able to “hit the nail on the head,” approaching her questions without the superficiality I so often hear in media and in movements. Her depth comes, I think, from a willingness to stand alone, to disagree, to find what is really true for her, not just what is “supposed” to be true.
And like me, she ended up in the Orthodox Church. She wound up there through a route that is at once completely different from my own and achingly similar – a desire to dispense with the superficial and with posing and to immerse myself in the real and authentic.
But I wanted to talk about teenagers. I’ve got three now, my third child having just become 13. I’ve named my daughter Jane for this blog. She’s 18. My 16-year-old son could be Maverick. (Sometimes I’m filled with pain when I think of him – yet he’s so amazing, compassionate, kind and brilliant. He’s choosing a path that would not be my path for him. Really, he’s only trying to figure out who he is, and what his place is in the world.)
My youngest teen I’ll call Taran. He always strikes me as a visionary, mulling things over, drawing about them. He used to mumble all the time, but now he’s beginning to speak out, to talk back to me even. I call him on it, but I also like it.
My 9-year-old I’ll name later. He’s got his own personality and story, but today I’m talking about the teens.
Jane is with me today as we’re in Canada on a trip. She’s waiting patiently for me to finish so we can go shopping. (We went shopping yesterday and I concluded that I don’t need new clothes; I need a new body.)
The problem is that a teen is at a crossroads where he or she must separate from his parents. It makes me wish I was more shallow so that my teens could separate from that.
Now that I’ve written that, I see a bit of what’s wrong here: I think I’ve arrived. I think I’ve reached the pinnacle of spiritual understanding and that if my teens would simply follow what I’ve learned, they’d be all right for the rest of their lives. I’m afraid that if my teens do not simply listen to what I say and do it, they’ll wind up with a superficial understanding of the world. I’m afraid they’ll reject searching for meaning because it’s what I’m doing all the time. And they want to be less like me, not more.
Somehow I haven’t got it quite right here and I think it has something to do with trust. But sitting here with my daughter waiting for some actual time with me, I think I need to just go shopping and talk about the shampoo we just bought and the new skirt and the shoes. There’s something there that I am missing.
More later.
Many I’ve talked to who have read the book have a hard time believing it was actually written by a teen. I’m sure Marjorie has been hearing this a lot from readers. She is remarkably well-read. She is able to “hit the nail on the head,” approaching her questions without the superficiality I so often hear in media and in movements. Her depth comes, I think, from a willingness to stand alone, to disagree, to find what is really true for her, not just what is “supposed” to be true.
And like me, she ended up in the Orthodox Church. She wound up there through a route that is at once completely different from my own and achingly similar – a desire to dispense with the superficial and with posing and to immerse myself in the real and authentic.
But I wanted to talk about teenagers. I’ve got three now, my third child having just become 13. I’ve named my daughter Jane for this blog. She’s 18. My 16-year-old son could be Maverick. (Sometimes I’m filled with pain when I think of him – yet he’s so amazing, compassionate, kind and brilliant. He’s choosing a path that would not be my path for him. Really, he’s only trying to figure out who he is, and what his place is in the world.)
My youngest teen I’ll call Taran. He always strikes me as a visionary, mulling things over, drawing about them. He used to mumble all the time, but now he’s beginning to speak out, to talk back to me even. I call him on it, but I also like it.
My 9-year-old I’ll name later. He’s got his own personality and story, but today I’m talking about the teens.
Jane is with me today as we’re in Canada on a trip. She’s waiting patiently for me to finish so we can go shopping. (We went shopping yesterday and I concluded that I don’t need new clothes; I need a new body.)
The problem is that a teen is at a crossroads where he or she must separate from his parents. It makes me wish I was more shallow so that my teens could separate from that.
Now that I’ve written that, I see a bit of what’s wrong here: I think I’ve arrived. I think I’ve reached the pinnacle of spiritual understanding and that if my teens would simply follow what I’ve learned, they’d be all right for the rest of their lives. I’m afraid that if my teens do not simply listen to what I say and do it, they’ll wind up with a superficial understanding of the world. I’m afraid they’ll reject searching for meaning because it’s what I’m doing all the time. And they want to be less like me, not more.
Somehow I haven’t got it quite right here and I think it has something to do with trust. But sitting here with my daughter waiting for some actual time with me, I think I need to just go shopping and talk about the shampoo we just bought and the new skirt and the shoes. There’s something there that I am missing.
More later.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Selling
Yesterday I finally put together a gi-normous 2006-7 “Preview Mailing” for author visits. I’d put it off as long as I could. I must say I’m rather pleased with it: it’s got a bookmark with “teacher” poems on either side, a cover letter, a list of workshops, a flyer about my summer classes for teens, a flyer about free book talks and a return postcard. It’s spiffy. At the moment I am having printer problems, so I’m going to reflect on a conversation with Mom this AM.
Mom: Not to give you advice, dear, but couldn’t you get into trouble trying to sell your books in the schools?
Me (with great patience): No, actually, that’s the way it’s done. Authors take their books into schools and sell them. It’s not much different from the Scholastic book order.
Mom (persisting, kindergarten-teacher style): But what if the children can’t afford the book? Won’t they feel bad?
Me (still patient): Yes, probably.
Mom (moving in for the kill): I’ve always thought this book should be donated to some cause.
Me (what can I say? How could I argue with that?): Yes, I think that’s true.
I fought valiantly my tendency to pat her on the head. The fact is she hits on my core dilemma and that of most female artists: selling art feels like selling out. And, as Mom pointed out, what if the little children feel bad?
And the answer is, yes. They will feel bad. I will feel bad. I should never, ever sell something that was intended to bring peace and love to the world.
But the fact is my book went out of print a few months back. I have 1600 of them sitting in a storage unit, which represents a chunk of Lancelot’s retirement money (yes, authors pay for their own books). If I don’t sell them, I will have to do something else to contribute financially to this family.
But instead of being defensive, I feel like Mom provided me with an opportunity. I’ve donated books before, but I’ve always wanted to donate some of the proceeds to some organization. And when I find it, that could be the very thing that gets me up off the couch and into the schools again with this book. It is unmotivating just to do this for myself. It’s fun to do once I’m out there, and I feel like things are happening in the hearts of the kids – and in mine. But gearing up to do it is always an act of steely resolve because, bottom line, it feels selfish. It feels like “Look at me! I write books!”
I once admitted this to Frederica Mathewes-Green and this was her response:
The problem I think is that there is a huge sticky ego squatting in the
middle of all this. It makes you excited and ineffective and confused. The thrill of possibility, of ego-stoking, elates you so that you lose touch with the simple ditch-digging work that needs to be done. This is of the evil one. It's an important distinction. The gift is from God, and meant to draw praise and glory to Him. The evil one throws sand in your eyes to elate and confuse you, and ultimately cause your work to be impaired, less effective than it could be in drawing others to Christ.
That's the part to overcome. Not just a matter of "growing up" but of true struggle, to wrestle with and defeat a temptation, a dazzling lifelong temptation that you have caressed since childhood, the vision of yourself as a star.
But we are meant to be the "fragrance of Christ" in every place.
When you are near, people will start thinking of the goodness of God and desiring him, and they might not notice you at all. But because you were there, their hearts will turn toward the light like a sunflower. "Did you smell that fragrance? Where did that come from?" "I don't know, but it was wonderful." That will be Him, and He will be there because you carried Him into the room.
There's an old story that goes: in London in the 19th century there were two great preachers. On Sunday mornings, as you went by the church of one of them, you would see people on the steps saying "What a wonderful preacher." If you went by the other, they would be saying, "What a wonderful God."
God bless you, dear sister. This is the "die to self" part and it is hard. On the other side, you will accomplish great things, because he has planted great talent in you.
I was secretly irritated at the time. That part about “caressing the vision of myself as a star.” Ouch! It was true, true, true. I’d wanted her to say… I don’t know what, but not that. But now, a few years later, looking back at her words I find tremendous comfort. I love the idea of being the “fragrance of Christ.” In fact, if I could just keep my nose on that, I’d quit getting distracted by all this other stuff and just do the work I need to do day after day.
And I’m going to begin looking for that cause. It will need to be a group doing work in the area of peace and especially racial reconciliation. Let’s see what happens.
Mom: Not to give you advice, dear, but couldn’t you get into trouble trying to sell your books in the schools?
Me (with great patience): No, actually, that’s the way it’s done. Authors take their books into schools and sell them. It’s not much different from the Scholastic book order.
Mom (persisting, kindergarten-teacher style): But what if the children can’t afford the book? Won’t they feel bad?
Me (still patient): Yes, probably.
Mom (moving in for the kill): I’ve always thought this book should be donated to some cause.
Me (what can I say? How could I argue with that?): Yes, I think that’s true.
I fought valiantly my tendency to pat her on the head. The fact is she hits on my core dilemma and that of most female artists: selling art feels like selling out. And, as Mom pointed out, what if the little children feel bad?
And the answer is, yes. They will feel bad. I will feel bad. I should never, ever sell something that was intended to bring peace and love to the world.
But the fact is my book went out of print a few months back. I have 1600 of them sitting in a storage unit, which represents a chunk of Lancelot’s retirement money (yes, authors pay for their own books). If I don’t sell them, I will have to do something else to contribute financially to this family.
But instead of being defensive, I feel like Mom provided me with an opportunity. I’ve donated books before, but I’ve always wanted to donate some of the proceeds to some organization. And when I find it, that could be the very thing that gets me up off the couch and into the schools again with this book. It is unmotivating just to do this for myself. It’s fun to do once I’m out there, and I feel like things are happening in the hearts of the kids – and in mine. But gearing up to do it is always an act of steely resolve because, bottom line, it feels selfish. It feels like “Look at me! I write books!”
I once admitted this to Frederica Mathewes-Green and this was her response:
The problem I think is that there is a huge sticky ego squatting in the
middle of all this. It makes you excited and ineffective and confused. The thrill of possibility, of ego-stoking, elates you so that you lose touch with the simple ditch-digging work that needs to be done. This is of the evil one. It's an important distinction. The gift is from God, and meant to draw praise and glory to Him. The evil one throws sand in your eyes to elate and confuse you, and ultimately cause your work to be impaired, less effective than it could be in drawing others to Christ.
That's the part to overcome. Not just a matter of "growing up" but of true struggle, to wrestle with and defeat a temptation, a dazzling lifelong temptation that you have caressed since childhood, the vision of yourself as a star.
But we are meant to be the "fragrance of Christ" in every place.
When you are near, people will start thinking of the goodness of God and desiring him, and they might not notice you at all. But because you were there, their hearts will turn toward the light like a sunflower. "Did you smell that fragrance? Where did that come from?" "I don't know, but it was wonderful." That will be Him, and He will be there because you carried Him into the room.
There's an old story that goes: in London in the 19th century there were two great preachers. On Sunday mornings, as you went by the church of one of them, you would see people on the steps saying "What a wonderful preacher." If you went by the other, they would be saying, "What a wonderful God."
God bless you, dear sister. This is the "die to self" part and it is hard. On the other side, you will accomplish great things, because he has planted great talent in you.
I was secretly irritated at the time. That part about “caressing the vision of myself as a star.” Ouch! It was true, true, true. I’d wanted her to say… I don’t know what, but not that. But now, a few years later, looking back at her words I find tremendous comfort. I love the idea of being the “fragrance of Christ.” In fact, if I could just keep my nose on that, I’d quit getting distracted by all this other stuff and just do the work I need to do day after day.
And I’m going to begin looking for that cause. It will need to be a group doing work in the area of peace and especially racial reconciliation. Let’s see what happens.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Spinning
I’ve been spinning for the last couple of weeks. Spinning round the region, spinning my wheels, spinning tales. Spinning. And it makes my head spin as well. So many little bits of things to do – French class, editing, novel-writing class, kids – and I’m distracted, every time, by the written word. Or by words in general.
Now I need to edit, but I’ve been chatting in an online forum about Troubling Things. Troubling Things are convincing me that I am in a crisis and can’t work.
I tried to finish my chapter at Starbucks yesterday. I really did. But Starbucks is loaded with people: a friend walked in and we began a conversation. After she left, a teenage girl who knew me as her brother’s writing teacher asked for a ride home. She seemed sad. I asked if she wrote, too, and she said yes, that she writes poems and stories and things about “life.” It helps her figure things out. Me, too, I told her. It’s why I write, too. To figure things out. Even Troubling Things, though I can’t write about them. I write fiction instead and probably come at it slant.
I invited her to the poetry reading. Don’t know if she’ll come. And all I could think of was, how can I reach more teenagers? The only thing I have to offer them is their own, beautiful souls – and hope. I want to give them hope. But there’s only so much of me and I’ve got four children of my own who need me and who I mother spottily, either lavishing them with attention or, more often, being off in my word cloud. So maybe I need to reach fewer teenagers and just mother better.
We went to the library and I tried to write there, really I did. But (as my daughter once pointed out to me when she was small and I wanted her to sit at the library window and watch for her father), “the library is full of books!” So I didn’t write there, either, but pulled the volumes off the shelves, thumbed them, checked a few out.
The teenage girl got another ride home and I went into a room and tried to write, but all I could think was that I wanted to write in a glass-enclosed gazebo in the woods. And where would I find a glass-enclosed gazebo? (Glass to protect from wind, and to keep bugs away.)
Finally, I went home. I skipped critique group and I took my computer and a deck chair out into the woods, using the chair as a kind of shield to push through thimbleberry vines and downed maple branches. I sat in the woods for an hour or two. The birds were noisy. Things smelled good. The mosquitoes bit me. I fingered the thimbleberry leaves and ate a thimbleberry. I finished my chapter!!
Now I want to live in the woods. I mean, I do live in the woods, but I want to live in the woods – like a redwing blackbird or a raccoon – only with opposable thumbs.
Now I need to edit, but I’ve been chatting in an online forum about Troubling Things. Troubling Things are convincing me that I am in a crisis and can’t work.
I tried to finish my chapter at Starbucks yesterday. I really did. But Starbucks is loaded with people: a friend walked in and we began a conversation. After she left, a teenage girl who knew me as her brother’s writing teacher asked for a ride home. She seemed sad. I asked if she wrote, too, and she said yes, that she writes poems and stories and things about “life.” It helps her figure things out. Me, too, I told her. It’s why I write, too. To figure things out. Even Troubling Things, though I can’t write about them. I write fiction instead and probably come at it slant.
I invited her to the poetry reading. Don’t know if she’ll come. And all I could think of was, how can I reach more teenagers? The only thing I have to offer them is their own, beautiful souls – and hope. I want to give them hope. But there’s only so much of me and I’ve got four children of my own who need me and who I mother spottily, either lavishing them with attention or, more often, being off in my word cloud. So maybe I need to reach fewer teenagers and just mother better.
We went to the library and I tried to write there, really I did. But (as my daughter once pointed out to me when she was small and I wanted her to sit at the library window and watch for her father), “the library is full of books!” So I didn’t write there, either, but pulled the volumes off the shelves, thumbed them, checked a few out.
The teenage girl got another ride home and I went into a room and tried to write, but all I could think was that I wanted to write in a glass-enclosed gazebo in the woods. And where would I find a glass-enclosed gazebo? (Glass to protect from wind, and to keep bugs away.)
Finally, I went home. I skipped critique group and I took my computer and a deck chair out into the woods, using the chair as a kind of shield to push through thimbleberry vines and downed maple branches. I sat in the woods for an hour or two. The birds were noisy. Things smelled good. The mosquitoes bit me. I fingered the thimbleberry leaves and ate a thimbleberry. I finished my chapter!!
Now I want to live in the woods. I mean, I do live in the woods, but I want to live in the woods – like a redwing blackbird or a raccoon – only with opposable thumbs.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Jesus Obsession
I taught French today and once again we degenerated into theology. I let the girls derail me because I'd actually rather talk about God than conjugate verbs and they know it. (I also rather enjoy conjugating verbs). Morgaine wants to know why her next door neighbor believed Morgaine would burn for all eternity if she didn't believe Jesus was divine. Sabrina says Jesus claimed to be God and rose from the dead. And that you have to accept Him to be saved. She says it cheerily and with great certainty. My daughter, Jane, (have I given her a name before now?) tries to change the subject by talking about vampires.
And I ask them, What is 'divine,' what is 'saved,' what is 'God?' What do we mean? I think that evangelical Christian culture is hoping to bring people to wholeness by asking them to accept Jesus into their brains: to assent intellectually to a set of propositions about him with no context and no particular reason to desire connection with him.
Morgaine says she thinks Jesus was a "really great guy, very wise, a good teacher." And I think of how many youth group talks I used to hear telling me how to debunk the 'wise teacher' argument. But for Morgaine, all this is irrelevent. She did not grow up being told Bible stories (except by me, whenever she came to my house), does not have any particular emotional connection with Jesus. To her he is an historical figure. Why on earth would she decide that 1)there is a hell 2) she's going there if she can't figure out the proper Christian understanding of Jesus? That's absurd.
We've got to back way up, I tell them. We have to think what we mean when we say "God" and "soul" and "heaven." We've got to back up even further than that, because this is about our lives now -- how we treat one another, how we go about being good.
And then I think, but it's possible to just fall in love with Jesus, the man, by reading stories about him -- to just hear the stories and think, "I want that." So maybe it doesn't start with questioning the meaning of the word divine. Maybe Jesus could just trump all of that if we told the story.
I want to just talk and talk and talk about this stuff. That's how obsessed I am. The girls know it; my kids know it. And I'm trying to figure out why I'm so restless tonight. I tried to talk about this at the dinner table, but the kids kept interrupting. And I need to let them talk. It can't just be Mom and her Jesus obsession again. Could they ever long for this as much as I do? I can't make it important to them. And I'm afraid I wear them out with it.
Am I saying this just because being obsessed with Jesus somehow makes me a good person? Will I read this back to myself and say, 'Ah, how holy you are, Tess!'
Yes. That's what I'll do. I'll think that anyone that obsessed with Jesus is a really good sort. She's got her priorities in order, I'll think. She's focused. Jesus is undoubtedly pleased, too.
But I'm thinking I want to go out on a limb someday. I want to get out of my comfort zone and make my life mean something -- not by becoming a famous author, but by dying to myself. I haven't the foggiest notion how to do that. I think that if I could figure it out, I might be able to accept a future as a "famous author." Maybe it wouldn't seem so frightening then.
This isn't quite what I mean. It has something to do with going out into the world in an inescapable way and risking being publicly flawed. No, it doesn't. It's not about flawed it's about failed. If I just tried to feed the hungry each day -- physically, spiritually, emotionally -- maybe I'd begin to know.
I think I need to approach every word I write, every verb I conjugate, every kid I listen to as an offering to Christ. No, really! I've got to do that not thinking it's something monumental and I'll be able to tell this fabulous story about it later so that I can be a saint in my own mind. I hoard my moments and my words. I do not love. Not really. Or if I do, I love only me -- the idea of me as a great, romantic heroine poet, penning her words to the dying masses.
But if they really are dying, just as I am dying, don't we all need those words?
I'm editing a manuscript this evening by a man who lost his wife to cancer. I'm allowing myself to love this woman I never met and I am grieving his loss and it is changing me. The author had never written a book before; he doesn't know how. But he did it anyway and I'm charged with the task of taking his words and bringing them to greater clarity. And we all get changed because someone decided to take a risk, to write down his pain for others to be healed and supported.
Does it matter if I tell my students about Jesus? Yes, it matters so much, but not because I think they'll be punished eternally if I don't. I'm not just wanting them all to believe properly. The idea of the creative force, the origin of the Universe, incarnating as a human being, teaching, healing and struggling with and defeating death is like a poem. It's also a hard story to incorporate with day to day life for most people. Why would Morgaine even care?
She's curious, and I don't say that in a gleeful, anticipatory way. Her mom is a dear friend of mine and has serious issues with Christianity. I think Morgaine would feel disloyal if she took too great an interest in the Bible. I don't want to undermine my friend's parenting, but maybe that's not the issue. The issue is that I still can't articulate my love for Jesus in a way that it makes sense to anybody else. Do they long for Him? I just don't know.
And I ask them, What is 'divine,' what is 'saved,' what is 'God?' What do we mean? I think that evangelical Christian culture is hoping to bring people to wholeness by asking them to accept Jesus into their brains: to assent intellectually to a set of propositions about him with no context and no particular reason to desire connection with him.
Morgaine says she thinks Jesus was a "really great guy, very wise, a good teacher." And I think of how many youth group talks I used to hear telling me how to debunk the 'wise teacher' argument. But for Morgaine, all this is irrelevent. She did not grow up being told Bible stories (except by me, whenever she came to my house), does not have any particular emotional connection with Jesus. To her he is an historical figure. Why on earth would she decide that 1)there is a hell 2) she's going there if she can't figure out the proper Christian understanding of Jesus? That's absurd.
We've got to back way up, I tell them. We have to think what we mean when we say "God" and "soul" and "heaven." We've got to back up even further than that, because this is about our lives now -- how we treat one another, how we go about being good.
And then I think, but it's possible to just fall in love with Jesus, the man, by reading stories about him -- to just hear the stories and think, "I want that." So maybe it doesn't start with questioning the meaning of the word divine. Maybe Jesus could just trump all of that if we told the story.
I want to just talk and talk and talk about this stuff. That's how obsessed I am. The girls know it; my kids know it. And I'm trying to figure out why I'm so restless tonight. I tried to talk about this at the dinner table, but the kids kept interrupting. And I need to let them talk. It can't just be Mom and her Jesus obsession again. Could they ever long for this as much as I do? I can't make it important to them. And I'm afraid I wear them out with it.
Am I saying this just because being obsessed with Jesus somehow makes me a good person? Will I read this back to myself and say, 'Ah, how holy you are, Tess!'
Yes. That's what I'll do. I'll think that anyone that obsessed with Jesus is a really good sort. She's got her priorities in order, I'll think. She's focused. Jesus is undoubtedly pleased, too.
But I'm thinking I want to go out on a limb someday. I want to get out of my comfort zone and make my life mean something -- not by becoming a famous author, but by dying to myself. I haven't the foggiest notion how to do that. I think that if I could figure it out, I might be able to accept a future as a "famous author." Maybe it wouldn't seem so frightening then.
This isn't quite what I mean. It has something to do with going out into the world in an inescapable way and risking being publicly flawed. No, it doesn't. It's not about flawed it's about failed. If I just tried to feed the hungry each day -- physically, spiritually, emotionally -- maybe I'd begin to know.
I think I need to approach every word I write, every verb I conjugate, every kid I listen to as an offering to Christ. No, really! I've got to do that not thinking it's something monumental and I'll be able to tell this fabulous story about it later so that I can be a saint in my own mind. I hoard my moments and my words. I do not love. Not really. Or if I do, I love only me -- the idea of me as a great, romantic heroine poet, penning her words to the dying masses.
But if they really are dying, just as I am dying, don't we all need those words?
I'm editing a manuscript this evening by a man who lost his wife to cancer. I'm allowing myself to love this woman I never met and I am grieving his loss and it is changing me. The author had never written a book before; he doesn't know how. But he did it anyway and I'm charged with the task of taking his words and bringing them to greater clarity. And we all get changed because someone decided to take a risk, to write down his pain for others to be healed and supported.
Does it matter if I tell my students about Jesus? Yes, it matters so much, but not because I think they'll be punished eternally if I don't. I'm not just wanting them all to believe properly. The idea of the creative force, the origin of the Universe, incarnating as a human being, teaching, healing and struggling with and defeating death is like a poem. It's also a hard story to incorporate with day to day life for most people. Why would Morgaine even care?
She's curious, and I don't say that in a gleeful, anticipatory way. Her mom is a dear friend of mine and has serious issues with Christianity. I think Morgaine would feel disloyal if she took too great an interest in the Bible. I don't want to undermine my friend's parenting, but maybe that's not the issue. The issue is that I still can't articulate my love for Jesus in a way that it makes sense to anybody else. Do they long for Him? I just don't know.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Sin and the Art of Cosmic Maintenance
My dad has mental illness – which is a sin.
I’m not at church this morning, so I think I’ll talk about sin. The Orthodox concept of sin is not juridical. It is not the breaking of a law. The Greek word for sin means “missing the mark,” an archery term. (I’ve probably talked about this before here.)
Dad was here this weekend. He looks terrible – so frail and bony, with a constant smoker’s cough. He seems even more unsteady on his feet than he was a month ago. He’s been sick with a cold he says he can’t shake. This, also, we could call sin.
My back aches this morning – a sin. My son wants my full attention while I am writing this and I’m not giving it to him – another sin. I have more things on my list to do than I can possibly do this week – more sin.
In Romans Paul says, “…for all sinned and are coming short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23) In context, he’s talking about all people: Jews and non-Jews in his way of viewing the world. Paul goes on to say that “the creation itself shall be freed from the bondage of corruption into the glorious freedom of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groaneth together and travaileth together until now.” (Romans 8: 21-22) The idea is that we have lost
So what am I trying to say? Perhaps it is that the entire model of sin that I’ve held for most of my life must be rebuilt. Perhaps sin is both inevitable and not inevitable.
Orthodoxy understands that we are capable of divinization – becoming like God.
At the same time, “falling short” of God is not just a matter of deliberate destructiveness – as I’ve always seen it before – but of things over which we seem to have no earthly control: illness, ageing, miscarriage, mental illness. These are challenges that are organic and which we have accepted as part of our creatureliness. We are called on to have patience with ourselves and others when we or they are subject to such things.
So what of deliberate destructiveness? Might it also be a form of mental illness? The man who killed all those teenagers at a rave in
If we were not burdened by the weakness of our bodies, by time, by the fluctuations in our emotions, the polluted state of the planet, the machinations of dynasties, the limits of physical space, the fear of others’ cruelty – would we not be able to fully see one another, embrace one another and the cosmos, to truly and completely love?
And yet what we have here in this life is what we have. We’re born into a world that is not whole. A beautiful and holy world.
If sin is the “falling short” with which we are surrounded, then divinity is also that which surrounds and infuses us. This is the paradox: that our very struggle with the effects of fallenness is holy. And perhaps we would not find the holiness without the fallenness.
What if we were to see no difference between our bodies’ uncontrollable “falling short” and the deliberate destructive actions of another (since that’s the sin we seem to recognize first)? Would we be so quick to mete out condemnation and punishment? Would we be so eager to see the perpetrator suffer? Would we continue to hate him?
We all live in this condition. All of us. And rather than condemn ourselves we would do well to have self-compassion which could then extend to compassion towards the entire beautiful, fallen cosmos.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Madonna of Gloom
Look here. Don’t you see?
I am depressed tonight. I slept for two hours after work
And now am out on the couch beside you checking
Email while our son asks what’s for dinner. I don’t want to make
Dinner. But I do want to eat dinner.
People need to know that I get a pass
When I feel this dull, smotheredness of tasks.
People need to understand that I get to sit on the couch,
Watch a movie,
Not smile.
This morning I went to a parent meeting and it was there
I began to feel this way:
I am a meager mother
Too little time to read
All the books the teacher held up
Our daughter a mirror of me
In both her brilliance and perplexity
I left the meeting without smiling
And nobody even chased me down in the parking lot
To sympathize.
Last night
Our dog bit another dog
Who I took to the vet and crooned to
While she whimpered.
I felt noble
And then I didn’t feel noble
Because it was my dog who attacked her
And she was hurt.
Here on the couch I wrap myself
In the soft muslin of discouragement.
You are doing a project I asked you to do
But it’s quiet here,
Unsaid.
I want the house fairy to walk
Into my living room and vacuum the floors,
Answer my email,
Make spaghetti.
When people act around me
The way I am acting now
I find it supremely annoying.
All they need to do is act
All they need to do is decide
All they need to do is not be a black hole
Sucking in every bit of light
To feed their passive, lump-like souls.
But tonight it’s me and all I want
Is for you to say,
“Oh, my tulip, my buttercup,
My sweet mint julep baby,
Whatever could be wrong?”
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Big Rocks
I won’t repeat the Big Rocks story, because it’s all over the internet. Today I’m trying to figure out my big rocks.
They are:
I think that getting outside and having some exercise would also be a good thing to put on there, though I’m not really doing it now. The sun has finally come out after about four months of gray and I’m eager to get out in it.
If I have the above things in my life, I can feel really alive.
They are:
- Lancelot
- Kids # 1, 2, 3 & 4
- Writing novels
- Writing poetry
- Writing essay
- Prayer
- Order in my physical environment
- Financial peace
- Friends
- Extended family
- Mentoring
- Conversation about meaning
- Reading/learning
- Internal/spiritual growth
I think that getting outside and having some exercise would also be a good thing to put on there, though I’m not really doing it now. The sun has finally come out after about four months of gray and I’m eager to get out in it.
If I have the above things in my life, I can feel really alive.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Order of Sir Lancelot
My husband needs a blog name, so I think I’ll call him Lancelot. I always thought he kind of rode in on a white horse and rescued me when I was a struggling teenage girl (and he was a hormonal almost-twenty boy).
I taught novel-writing last night and when I got home Lancelot had made this great spreadsheet budget. It has columns for us to subtract every time we spend in a particular category so we’ll know automatically how much is left. This does not = death.
I actually love order and could sit and look at it for hours. When I get busy, I think I’m unable to maintain order despite having www.flylady.com as my home page. (Check it out.)
Order – financial, time and physical environment – is a gift, not a shutdown on my creativity. I’m happier living in order. I’m happier living in just a little order. This spreadsheet puts me over the moon. Now I’m realizing what makes boring people happy. I could be boring myself if it meant being happy more often. Then I could layer all the wildness over the boring order.
This does not mean I’d no longer be spontaneous
spon·ta·ne·ous P Pronunciation Key adj.
I could do spontaneous planning. I could spontaneously plan what we will be having for dinner all month and then spontaneously eat it. I could spontaneously clean the house.
I don’t know if I want to spontaneously do everything, though. Chaos makes me tired.
This week we’re easing into the Lenten fast. I like fasting because it makes Pascha so much more fun. Last year I didn’t fast during Lent and during the Vigil I felt jealous of the people who had. They were soooo excited about that feast: meat and milk and cheese and eggs and wine and oil! Whooooie!
I thought, “It’s a feast. I like eating.”
So this year, I will fast. Maybe it makes me feel like I’ve got a little control over my life. And that’s a good thing.
I taught novel-writing last night and when I got home Lancelot had made this great spreadsheet budget. It has columns for us to subtract every time we spend in a particular category so we’ll know automatically how much is left. This does not = death.
I actually love order and could sit and look at it for hours. When I get busy, I think I’m unable to maintain order despite having www.flylady.com as my home page. (Check it out.)
Order – financial, time and physical environment – is a gift, not a shutdown on my creativity. I’m happier living in order. I’m happier living in just a little order. This spreadsheet puts me over the moon. Now I’m realizing what makes boring people happy. I could be boring myself if it meant being happy more often. Then I could layer all the wildness over the boring order.
This does not mean I’d no longer be spontaneous
spon·ta·ne·ous P Pronunciation Key adj.
- Happening or arising without apparent external cause; self-generated.
- Arising from a natural inclination or impulse and not from external incitement or constraint.
- Unconstrained and unstudied in manner or behavior.
- Growing without cultivation or human labor.
I could do spontaneous planning. I could spontaneously plan what we will be having for dinner all month and then spontaneously eat it. I could spontaneously clean the house.
I don’t know if I want to spontaneously do everything, though. Chaos makes me tired.
This week we’re easing into the Lenten fast. I like fasting because it makes Pascha so much more fun. Last year I didn’t fast during Lent and during the Vigil I felt jealous of the people who had. They were soooo excited about that feast: meat and milk and cheese and eggs and wine and oil! Whooooie!
I thought, “It’s a feast. I like eating.”
So this year, I will fast. Maybe it makes me feel like I’ve got a little control over my life. And that’s a good thing.
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