Five Things + Six Photos

I've been tagged by the dear-hearted Alita Jewel.  So.  Let's do this!

5 Things I have a passion for...

1. Reading.  Although I'm not sure it's a passion so much as it is an addiction.  You know all those pithy comments about folks being unable to cope without coffee?  That's me, but I mainline stories instead of caffeine.  I neeeeed to read.  I neeeeed it.  Reading is good for your soul. 

2. Natural Childbirth.  I think if I had more time, I'd study to become a doula, because I'm so in awe of women's bodies and all that they can accomplish with a bit of encouragement and education. We think we aren't strong enough to bear children without chemicals and micro-management and disastrous imaginations. But we are! You are! We've lost the community of women who used to surround us during childbirth when we gave control to the doctors and hospitals, thinking it was better this way. Sometimes, it is. But MOST of the time, we're better off not being fiddled with. Believe it.

3. Breastfeeding. If you know me at all, you know this. I will talk your ear off about the perfection of breasts and all they can do. I will accidentally invade your personal space if you come to me with questions or needing help. I will try really hard not to judge your decision not to breastfeed, but I might cry about it later. I will cheer you on. I will physically adjust your latch. Maybe I will be a lactation consultant when I grow up...

4. Peace. It's a hard-line of idealism running through me. It's a current under my skin when I'm about to lose my stuff with my kids. It's a hope. It's kind of a desperation within me. I crave peace.

5. Rose-colored glasses. I am one-hundred percent committed to the idea that if I try very hard to see the best at all times, the best will come through. Life is kind of ugly sometimes, you know? But with these handy, rosy tints clouding my judgment, I can pick out the beauty and focus on it until the rest fades into obscurity. 

5 Things I would like to do before I die...

1. Travel to every country in Europe. Really, most of this list could be filled with travel dreams, but Europe especially holds my fancy. And Asia. Oh, and South America. 

2. And I would like to do all of that while flying first class. Please. Even just once would be nice. 

3. Write a novel, and have it published. 

4. I would like to find a way to kick my self-centeredness to the curb.  I want to give of myself and my time and my money, without worry about my own comfort.

5.  This particular list is really hard for me to nail down.  I don't have exciting, adventurous aspirations.  I don't want to skydive or climb a gnarly mountain or go white water rafting.  I don't want to accomplish big, noteworthy things or become an expert or a success.  I mostly just want to be content where I am.  (Except for in business class.  You CAN'T be content there.  You just can't.)

5 Things I say a lot...

1. "This is not a disaster."  I say it to myself, and I say it to my girls.  This is not a disaster.

2. "Shhh...I'm crushing candy..."  I say it to my husband when he wants my attention after the kids are finally down for the night.  I'm ashamed that I enjoy this game so much. 

3. "Is that how YOU would want to be treated?"

4. "You are in control of your own actions."

5. "I love you."  This spills out at the oddest times.  Like when Justin sneaks a pouch of applesauce from the kids' snack stash.  Or when Lauren burps on me.  Or when Mia is scowling over an unsatisfactory meal.  Or when Landon pees on me.  I do love it.  All of it.  (And when I need a minute away from all of it, I go crush some candy.)

5 (good) Books I have read lately...

1. In the Shadow of the Banyan by Vaddey Ratner. Whew -- my rose-colored glasses could not stand up to the conditions in this world. What a terrifying place Cambodia was during the reign of the Khmer Rouge. Frightening. Such a captivating, gorgeous novel, though. 

2. Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. This was one of my impulse Kindle purchases because it cost only two dollars or something. I buy cheap. And this book was worth ten times it's price. It absolutely gave me chills and I wept and fell in love and was inflamed with the passion of regret and fear and hope and love. I have a soft spot for Greek and Roman mythology, and this book is packed with some really amazing characters from those myths. If you don't care to read about a loving relationship between two men, you might steer clear, but if it makes you feel better their relationship is not graphic. This is a beautiful story. 

3. The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough. I've been recommended this old 'classic' several times, and I wasn't disappointed. Maybe a little depressed by some (okay, a TON of) sadness in the story, but the writing was so compelling and lovely that I couldn't put it down. 

4. Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. Wow. This book is...wow. In my old age, I'm starting to realize how much I actually enjoy fantasy and even a little bit of science fiction. I read this one several weeks ago and I still think about it often. 

5. Strange Fits of Passion by Anita Shreve. I've adored Shreve's writing for over a decade now, but I have to take her books slowly and with large breaks in between novels. Her words and characters burrow so deeply that I become overwhelmed with emotion. So I go read some nonsense for a month or a season or three years. And then I can come back to her fresh and ready to be flayed open again. 

5 Favorite Movies...

1. Persuasion. It is the BBC version, with Rupert Penry-Jones, and it is exquisite.

2. Dirty Dancing. For-evah.

3. Clueless. It makes me feel nostalgic and content.

4. Shawshank Redemption. Because I feel a little bit idiotic with so few really good movies on this list, and I love Morgan Freeman even if it's a cliché to say so.

5. Gone With the Wind. Although the book is much better. 

5 Places I would like to travel to...
Whoops.  I already talked about this.  Whatever :)

1. Ireland. Because I feel drawn there.  Pulled by the weight of my freckles, perhaps.

2. Brazil. 

3. China.  Chinese culture feels so ancient and mysterious to me.  Shrouded in mist and nestled in mountains.  Spread across deserts and plains and swamps.  There's just so much and I want to see some of it.

4. Northwestern and Northeastern North America.  I've never seen northern beaches, and I'm drawn to the idea of Maine, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia.

5. The great cities of Europe: Rome, Paris, London, Prague, Munich...where else?  Where have you been that you would recommend to a would-be traveler?

Blue Blesses

It's an apple-shaped pillow, faux-velvet red.  Lauren pulls it from a box of still-packed linens, toppling a pile of blankets.  The garage is half filled with these packed boxes, and almost one year after moving in, I'm still looking at them skeptically; if I haven't needed them yet, I don't plan on needing them at all.

"Mama, what is this?"  She turns it over and hugs it close.  A dusty smell poofs from its center. 

"That's GG's graduation pillow," I say.  "Do you remember GG?"

"Mmmhmm."  She nods and walks into the house, swinging the apple pillow by its loop of yarn. 

Incongruously, it most resembles a Christmas ornament, but enormous.  It used to hang from a nail in my Grandma's study/library/sitting room, proudly displayed for all to see.  Not that we needed the reminder.  We cheered when she walked across the stage in a blue cap and gown, smiling for all the world to admire.  A great-grandmother accomplishing a forgotten goal sixty-five years later: a G.E.D.

"Why did she have a grad-a-dation pillow?  Why did she give it to you?  Because she was about to be dead?"

It always stings to hear death spoken of so matter-of-factly by little ones.  I cringe, but admit the truth: kids see it straight-forward.  Without understanding all the strings of emotion braided around the edges of the words.

"I think she just wanted me to remember.  And do you know -- she probably wanted you to remember too.  She loved you so much!"

"You should have given her a picture of me when I was all grown up.  Before she died, I mean, you should have given her a picture of me."

I smile.  "But you were just a baby!  Even I didn't know what you would look like when you got older.  You know what, though--" I'm treading softly now.  This is a conversation I'm always awkward with.  It's not heavy, exactly, just too broad to fit comfortably in my grasp. 

"I believe that GG is watching us from heaven.  Paying attention to us and loving us even when we can't see her."  There, I breathe.  No pressure, just thinking out loud.

Lauren squeezes the pillow in her lap.  She's sat down on the floor in my bathroom, where I'm laying towels in the cupboard.  She thinks for a minute, and clears her throat. 

"And whenever we get hurt or scared or something bad is happening to us, GG is in heaven -- she's kind of like...blessing us?"

My baby girl's eyes are huge and blue, young reproductions of the bright eyes my grandma, herself, had.  They stare at me with questions, but when I try to answer, I find myself looking deeper into her, looking for answers there.  Swimming in impossibilities and dreams and things I won't know until I'm old and soft.  Until I'm in the arms of my Lord.  There's a bit of an angel there, in those indigo eyes. 

"Yes, that's it exactly," I whisper.  "She's still blessing us, even now."

Snapshot: Complimentary

Mia is an invalid, sinking into the sofa with the weight of a smoldering log.  Her neck is mottled red, hot and dry.  She clutches a bottle of cold water in one hand, blankie in another.  With glassy eyes, half-shuttered, she watches across the room at her sister, dancing. 

The wall of western windows is a bridge, spilling sunlight as it gallops into the room.  Lauren's toes grace the puddles of light for quick-step seconds before she's twirled into another quadrant -- a shadow.  Her arms make perfect arcs and swoops.  A rainbow in motion, a fluid parabola.  Now that her hair falls to the middle of her shoulder blades, it makes curtains that open and close as she swings, allowing glimpses of the backstage action.  A forgotten smile.  A raised brow.  A deep breath.

Into the light and out again, Lauren dances. 

Mia clears her throat.  "Lauren," she says.  Her voice is thin and transparent, with no fullness behind it.  It sounds like it could be heard even in a vacuum, it is so without shape or force.  It falls from her lips rather than flies, slow and melting.

We all stop -- Lauren pauses, hands akimbo; I turn, ears cocked; Justin sits very still.

"Lauren," she says, "you're a beautiful dancer."

The dancer looks at her toes, hiding a radiant smile behind her curtains.  Then she throws her head back, beaming, and takes flight once more. 

The sun has fallen just low enough to fill the entire floor with light.  There is not a spot of darkness for miles. 

Creating a Family Narrative

 

It had been a fabulous Mother’s Day, but not one I would have initially planned as my perfect day.  My kitchen was a disaster: dishes and pans and wine glasses littered our counter tops.  Toys were spread over the coffee table like art-imitating-life-gone-messy.  Outside, we lounged, exhausted, in porch chairs around the patio table.  The smaller cousins raced around the back yard, screaming and tossing bright balls in the air. 

Snuggled in her daddy’s lap, though, was my oldest girl.  As the adults talked and laughed, she watched our faces, and I knew what would happen next.  It’s the same almost every time we have visitors.

“Can we tell stories?”

And so it began.  Uncle Eric launched into an embarrassing tale complete with sound effects and voice-overs.  Aunt Emily made us roar with laughter and shake our heads in sympathy.  Nana recounted a childhood fiasco that had us giggling and tearing up.  We told family stories – and what we remembered of extended family stories – until sunset, with my seven-year-old listening and laughing and staring into the middle-distance, contemplating all she’d heard. 

Though our stories that night were lighthearted and silly, they were also universal.  As families, as cultural beings, we tell our stories, often passing them down through generations, teaching and guiding our little ones with shared history.  Sometimes, the stories are about a hardship that someone we know and love has overcome; sometimes they’re about failure, loss, or trial.  We remember details of hilarity and heartbreak, sweetness and success.  It all comes out in the retelling, and through it, our histories have meaning.

I read an article a few months back in The New York Times, titled, TheStories That Bind Us.  The author, Bruce Feiler (who has also written a book about the subject: The Secrets of Happy Families) had been researching the secrets behind what makes families and other organizations function better. From board rooms to dinner tables to military bases, Feiler searched for the common bridges that made groups work well together.  He found resilience, camaraderie, strong bonds, and a shared sense of teamwork among groups that practiced, of all things, lots and lots of storytelling. 

It turns out that kids (as well as employees, soldiers, and companies) tend to gain a whole passel of benefits from something as simple as having what Feiler calls a Family Narrative.  When children have heard (and heard, and heard again) the stories of oscillating hardship and success, disaster and recovery, they inherit a sense that their own lives aren’t about to be ruined by one misstep or embarrassment or failure.  They learn that we’re all a part of the whole, and that we’ll have troubles for sure.  But we’ll also have stories to tell about the wonderful moments mixed in among the difficulties.  Life is a mosaic of dark and light, and when we share the story of our great-grandparents’ wars or immigrations or recessions, we share the truth: we’ll survive.

The sharing of stories isn’t just something we do after a family meal, it’s a way to connect and communicate without lecturing.  It’s a way to build our kids into strong, resilient, happy human beings who look around them and see possibility rather than defeat. 

So tell your stories.  Create your family narrative.  Recount your histories, both good and bad, so that your children will know.  And in the telling, they’ll gain much more than a bit of entertainment.  They’ll be instilled with a personal history that can bolster them into adulthood.

 

[Originally published in The Joplin Globe]

A Late-night Scolding: A Bigger Picture Moment

I've been trying to quiet my spaces, recently.  Both here, blog-wise, and in my head, I'm trying to be on-purpose calm.  It helps that I don't have as much free time as I used to: there just isn't a big chunk of the day that will hold me still in front of the computer.  So when I do get a moment of silence other than the one that comes right before I fall asleep, I'm trying not to fill it.

It's surprising to me (I don't know why; it makes perfect sense) how much creativity can flourish in that not-filled space.

I'm working on some stories that are more than short exercises.  I'm putting words in characters' mouths and filling their heads with ideas.  I'm trying so hard not to pressure myself, but I have to say: I want to write a novel.  I want to tell stories that other people will want to read, and I want to tell these stories to myself because they are sometimes as exciting as picking up a new book by a favorite author.  The fact that I want to write a book is bolstered and given wings because of the fact that I'm also having fun trying. 

So that's part of where I've been, lately, besides the usual: peeling dried grapes off the floor under the couch, combing bubblegum out of hair, filling humidifiers and dispensing allergy meds. 

But the more I write, the more it becomes clear to me that, though I enjoy it, I don't really know how to do it.  I don't have any degrees in writing.  I have never taken a creative writing course in my life.  I feel like those shouldn't preclude any true success (by which I mean the eventual finish of an entire manuscript, published or not), after all, amateurs are honest talents, too.  Writing doesn't have to be taught.   It can be felt.  I've proven this to myself time and again.  I feel it pulsing from my center.  Words and settings and conversations beg for release. 

Still, the lack of mechanical knowledge can stop me in my tracks.  Can frustrate me beyond redemption.

Last night I finished a cheap book on my Kindle that left me thinking: If SHE can write a book with this many problems -- plot, pacing, character development -- then what in the world is stopping me?  I made a quick study of all the ways I could improve upon this other author's work if she'd only passed me a copy of the book before it went to the publisher, and that made me wonder if my true calling isn't to be a writer, but an editor.  Not as glamorous, perhaps, as authoring, but editing is vital, right?  Because I do love to edit.  I love nitpicking and trying different words on for size.  I  enjoy the fixing and the smoothing. 

When I was a little girl, I rode the bus to school each day.  Forty-five minutes or more around rural routes and back roads.  The ditches were lined with weeds and grasses out of control.  I nestled into my seat, propped my knees on the back of the seat before me, and watched the ditches pass by.  And in my head, I pushed a lawn mower beside every road we traveled, clearing the rough, shoddy grass and leaving perfect strips of green neatness in my wake.  I cleaned it all up.  I made it beautiful where only tangles and brambles had been before.

So when I tried to fall asleep last night, it was with the thought that maybe I'll never be an author.  Maybe I'll just edit.

And somewhere in the back of my dulling brain after I'd closed my eyes, a few leftover thoughts flashed bright against the night, illuminating and stark:

Silly.  You can edit your OWN messy brambles.  Just keep writing.  You'll get to edit soon enough.

I slept well after that.  We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Linking up with the lovelies at Bigger Picture Blogs.

The Requirements

for childhood:

Mud.  A great lot of mud, squished between fingers and painted-on like gloves.

 

Sunshine.  For lighting your palms when filled with earth.  For seeing.

 

 

Puddles.  To step into with socks and toes and shins.  To splash through with screams.  To wash away the doldrums that accompany ceiling-topped rooms.

 

 

Shorelines.  For wandering, exploring, traveling, and dreaming.  For pirating and charting.  For setting sail and washing up.

 

 

Wind.  Because when it combs its fingers through your hair, you begin to fly.  And when you've begun to fly, the world cannot stop you.

 

 

Bravery.  For shoring you up and buffeting you forward and surrounding you when you're afraid.

 

 

Hugs. To keep your heart safe and your giggles replenished.  To hold you back and lift you up.

 

What Not to Read: The Wussy Edition

I have read some really interesting books in the past few months, friends.  There's a caveat, though: most of these books, while excellent, were also hideous bummers.

Here's what I mean.


Wintergirls by  Laurie Halse Anderson 
This author did exactly one thing: blow me away.  Her use of metaphor and emotion in language was stunning and often beautiful, even though the content was harsh.  The protagonist is also the antagonist: a teenage anorexic.  It's horrid, scary stuff, and I was drawn in so completely that it left me empty.  I couldn't take it.  Beautiful, frightening, and gut-checking.  This book is not good.  It is awful and exquisite, and I could recommend it for those qualities, but good?  No.






The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
I read this on the advice of a dear friend, and I did love the book.  Every word and gesture, every blunt truth and honest sadness.  I can completely understand why this book has developed a cult following, and if I were a teenager reading this, I would have been devoted to its perfection.  But I'm a mom.  And I was disturbed by mom things.  By teenagers who hate their parents or parents who don't notice their kids.  By children who explore (because that's what children do, right?  Only now, it scares me).





The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern
Oh, I'm only putting this out there because I feel like there was something lovely about The Night Circus, but I can't put my finger on it.  There's only so much redeeming you can do when the main characters are out to murder one another minus their own consent.  But it was magical, in a creepy way.  Still, I didn't want to be disturbed.  I wanted to be entertained.  Shallow?  Maybe.  As a book consumer, though, it's a valid desire.






The Fault in Our Stars by John Green
Love, love, loved this one, as have most others in the known literary world.  These characters were so complete, so real, that I felt like I knew them intimately.  Which, as it turns out, was a devastating effect, you know, because of the terminal cancer and all.  It's a true testament to good writing when you actually find yourself wanting to stay with the book even though you know it will hurt you in the end.  So, yeah: this one was perfect.  Still, I don't want to read any more like it for a good, long time.  Too many sad stories of families whose kids were invaded by bastardish cancer cells.  I don't want to think about it.   Let's move on.




The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb
Massive, scary behemoth that it was, I found much to love about this book.  I also found much to hate.  Much to question.  The main character in this book wasn't really lovable, but still, I couldn't not sympathize with him for all the absolutely shitty things he had to endure.  Some because of his own decision-making, but others?  Like the Columbine shooting?  His wife's incarceration?  His childhood?  Very ugly.  I wish I could sum it up more succinctly, but at almost 800 pages, the book defies narrowing.  It's just....big.  Depressingly large, both physically and mentally.  Now that I try, I can't remember what I liked about it.  Masterful writing, perhaps.  Compelling situations.  What else...?



So after all of those challenging and ugly things (which were mostly wrapped up in beautiful words), I've given up on literary endeavors for the time being.  I'm defecting to genre.  I can't help it, and judge me if you will, but I can't take the sadness of real life right now.  I find myself too wrapped up in what my children's futures hold to look bald-faced into the scarier parts of reality.  I know it could be rough.  I know it could get messy.  But I don't want to be disturbed right now. 

I want to relax and love my family in the present without imposing the possibilities of life on them. 

And that means that my reading choices will be geared toward the unlikely, the fantastical, the romantic, and the happily ever after. 

I just downloaded a romance about a cowboy and his big-city neighbor.  She moved to the wide-open spaces of Montana to escape the wilderness of her fallen-apart life.  I'm sure the cowboy will rescue her at some point.  Probably kiss her silly, too.

Bring it on, cowboy.

Bring it on.