Category: Thoughts to Words

Picking up Pennies

Pot or Not?™

With the big pot debate circulating through more and more states, I think it’s time we launched a movement. Pot… or not™ ??

Pot or not™ is website where you can look at pictures of people and vote whether or not you think they’ve done pot. Soooo, …let’s go with Michelle Obama, I seem to feature her a lot… you find a picture of her; she’s kinda half-blinking, hair still in pajama-land. You take said horrible photo and put it on the Pot or not™ site and the voting begins!!!
(For the record, I’m not serious, mom.)

but still. Pot or not™ sparks a memory of one nerdy-guy with a vengeance who took a half-smashed thought and built a blue and white empire.

Picking up Pennies

Ideas. Why is it that some of us never have them? Or never have good ones? Or if/when we do, we strike a match in the wind; they’re gone as quickly as they burst into flame.

I just don’t believe it.  Just like it’s impossible to live without a moral standard, it’s impossible to be without ideas. We are creative creatures, with creative impulses, and–if recognize them–creative outlets.

So who’s killing the ideas?!!

1. You are. 
I do it too. I have an idea, even just a fleeting thought. And I don’t write it down, don’t flesh it out, or simply disregard it as stupid or impossible. I strike a match… and just as quickly, blow it out. *

2. Your boss is.
Or your friend, or you dad, or you spouse or someone you know. Now sometimes the spirit-of-stupid takes over and we need someone to challenge us— but squeeze is different than squash. We need someone to critique or thoughts without sitting on them, suffocating them into oblivion.

3. Your inner critic is
Yes, this is still kinda you, but really the nasty shrew side of you, who comes out looking all hawt and put together and reminds you how much you rely on chocolate and how freaking strange you were in middle school. S/he doesn’t have to say much, and your idea is abandoned to fend for itself in your mental lion’s den.

*true or false, I never lit matches until about 2.4 years ago because I was so scared of burning my fingers. true. [walk of shame to charlie brown song]

Keeping Ideas alive.

Last night I went for a run. It was a bad run, fueled by 3 delicious (and un-regretted) Ghirardelli chocolates banging around in my stomach. So during one of huffing/ jogging moments I looked down and saw a penny. Not wanting to stop my attempted run, I never picked it up.

But if we do this to our ideas,  if we bypass every penny we see on street, how will our eyes be trained? How will we see the water-washed and wrinkled corner of $20 bill sticking out of a snowbank?

If we leave all the small ideas for the next guy, won’t we also bypass the big ones? If our eyes are never trained then maybe our world, or community, even our neighbor might be denied the benefit of one of our ideas.

my idea notebook, given to me by an inspirational lady
my idea notebook, given to me by an inspirational lady

My tips to fanning the idea flame:

1. Get/make an idea notebook. something that is small enough you can put it in a purse or even back-pocket. If something pops into your mind, write it down. Don’t let it slip away just yet. Maybe years down the road, with new wisdom and experiences, that little note will have gone from caterpillar to chrysalis.
2. Have an idea person. Or a few. These are people you can go to with with a couple of your shiniest pennies, see which hold the promise of becoming something bigger. These are people you can trust to be honest with you, but not to harsh. People who can squeeze but not squash you.
3. Follow-through. This one’s hard. But start small. An idea to plant a herb garden, or paint an elderly person’s fingernails, or write a zine…  can turn into starting a movement, a business, a community of like-minded people.

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I write as a way to process my ideas, but they’re never complete without input.
What keeps your ideas alive?
Which ones have fanned into flame and which have blown out? 

 

 

 

Silly rabbit! Tricks are for…

Oh,  those commercials were maddening.

I remember the childhood angst as I watched that cute little rabbit.  Time and time again he would miss out on his chance to taste a stryofoam-sugary bowl of Trix cereal. He was so close! But just like the coyote never catches the road runner, just like President Bush with all of his horses and all of his men, didn’t catch Osama bin Laden, the rabbit never got his cereal.

And then that line, “Trix are for kids!!”
empowering.

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It’s already been a few weeks since we returned from Haiti.
It was E’s eighth time, my first.

I learned ahead of time about the culture shock, was told to be flexible, not to question decisions, and say “see ya” to American favoritism of efficiency, independence, even dress.

I didn’t know what to expect and yet fully expected to be ‘broken.’ Shredded to pieces by the poverty, lack of justice, sub-par education, political corruption.

But the first tears I cried were for myself. Hot, tired tears in the corner of a bare room.  This after a long day of working a chaotic medical clinic, riding on dusty country “roads,” eating little.  I missed America, hated the non-stop sweat on my face, crouching behind buildings, luke-warm water. Only 3 days in, and I coveted the promise of a soft mattress at the end of a day, missed showers with running water and fruit refreshingly chilled in a fridge. Truthfully, the tears came because I was both wanting and ashamed of my want; needing to be home and hating myself for the pathetic neediness.

E found me sniffling, told me to lie down, gently helped me see Who to rely on again.

a few lovely women I met at one of the medical clinics
a few lovely women I met at one of the medical clinics

Days later, there was a shift. My mind began to align with my body– which was actually doing well– well fed, pretty-well rested, surging with sun-infused vitamin D, fueled with the laughter and song of this fascinating people. It’s strange how quickly the body assimilates to waking early with roosters, eating rice for every meal, bathing from a bucket. It’s the mind and spirit that resist.

The days went by and I saw the shift change from acceptance to love. Their happiness astounded me. like the cool that came in so kindly with the evening rain, their humility was lovely, refreshing.

On several nights, we all sat together, Haitian and American, and offered encouragement to one another. And to hear the Haitians speak, full of gratitude and humility, was the unraveling I expected to find surrounded by the sick and fatherless.

They knew our need for bottled water, our fear of big beetles and lurking rodents, our dependence on shiny toilet seats and huge beds with soft sheets. They weren’t ignorant to our privilege, deaf to our pride. And it struck me. We could’ve been shamed by them, laughed at. We could’ve been rejected for how easily and constantly we were and are fooled–coerced into believing in our constant, many needs. These needs which are simply wants, met by the very people and industries who create them.

Create the ‘need’–sell it; fill the need.
It’s a system we slip into and pass on as quickly as last year’s styles.

Though, we “know” excess may not bring happiness, it is too comfortable to let go. To engrained to carve out of our lives and culture, the heritage we pass on to our children.

Looking into my Haitian friend’s face, I see her knowledge of my flaws, ours really.
And I see acceptance. We both know our cultures are very different; we both have things to learn from the other.

I only hope that as our partnership to bring healing and hope to Haiti continues, we, as Americans, never bring pride. For we have much to learn. I pray, we always, always put on humility– the same humility that enables the Haitian people to accept and love us, silly rabbits.

 

 

 

The Art of Criticism: What Would Hester Heckles Do??

Every year around December 15th, my parents would commission me to write a family Christmas letter.  As an oldest child, naturally I lapped up this responsibility and found Xtreme pleasure in being able to sardonically expose my family via one 8.5X11 sheet of paper.  Inevitably, the ‘rents would read my work and deem the first draft much too “sarcastic” or “mean”… and annoyed I would storm off and hiss– “fine, then write it yourselves!” But… of course, being the controlish-freakish o.c. I was, I couldn’t really let it go.  So draft after draft my precious letter would morph into yet another mundane (though slightly more sassy) Christmas letter.

Ironically, today I yearn for the open critique my parents offered–just a little feedback–even if negative. Though critique burns at the start,  like any great wine the finish is well worth it. And my writing or thinking or something else I do usually improves or is at least challenged.

But because the “like” button on facebook has all but destroyed our ability to form opinions into words, I’ve decided (in oldest-child-bossy-pants-fashion) to offer some instruction on HOW to criticize/critique well.  (Let’s be clear on this, even if you don’t care about critiquing writing, you may have other areas of interest that could use some genteel nudging toward betterment).

Take a look at the below critique written to Zach, author of Funwater Awesome 3. (Zach included this in his zine BTW, so I think that says something about how good it was)

Zach:
Most people are fine with the pointless feel-good of your zine, but I, for one, want more than what’s in the flabby folds of your head. There is nothing practical in your zine! Nothing of quantifiable SUBSTANCE! Where are the true Tumwater tales, the lessons, the stories of some use to people of today? Good minds want to know. 
– Hester Heckles

Things to note:
1. There is no beating around the bush. No Minnesota nice.
2. And yet.. there is humor. “Flabby folds.” C’mon. You laughed.
3. He asks for specifics. He wants tales, lessons, and something a little more useful.

An easy/snarky way to deter unwanted parenting advice, I suppose
An easy/snarky way to deter unwanted parenting advice, I suppose

Take-aways:
I think we all stink at criticism/critiquing a little because, for the most part, it’s been done wrong to us. So we either 1. repeat the mistake, criticizing poorly (which leads to defensiveness or shame on the part of the other) or 2. avoid it all together (which leads to annoyance or dissatisfaction or worse on our part). But look at Hester Heckels– he did it. And so can we. We can be straight-forward, yet good-natured in our requests. We can help people and things grow without coming across like a bad-mannered, discontent sass-hole. It’s possible.

Your thoughts, critiques??

p.s. now next time I include a snapshot of some of my zine writing, you are well equipped to (kindly) lambast me.

V-day for real

This morning I wake up twice. Once, briefly as my husband dresses in partial light. The second time to the sound of my phone seizing on by bedside table.
8:00.
Love Calling.

I answer and E tells me Happy Valentines Day, tells me he’s on his way to the second meeting of the day.

 Valentines Day? Oh, yes. Valentines Day.
I was going to make brownies! Do I have ingredients?
I was going to blog about Saint Valentine. Nobody knows who he really was though…
I was going to do something super thoughtful for… for lots of people.

I stumble to the kitchen, to the bathroom, back to the kitchen. Hot coffee, my laptop, some really nasty/healthy oatmeal and the worst work out of my life, then I’m in the kitchen again. Powdered sugar is everywhere and I’m butchering the brownies into a cheesy heart-shaped one for E, some smaller ones for the office.

Why?
I don’t know. I really really don’t know.

Because if he comes home, and takes off his works socks in kitchen, draping them over one of the stools for me to pick up later, and I say nothing…
if I ask him how work was and really, really listen…
if I let my mind draw near to his victories & hardships
he’d be loved.

And if we really loved then all the other stuff, the 1.whatever billion Americans spend on candy and crappy toys, it would fall away. Swallowed up by real.

A valentine’s blessing…
For the singles feeling slightly anxious and the doubles feeling less-than satisfied– for us– may we cling to the real. May we cherish the memories when we felt love drape us, a silk-lined perfect fit; may we hold to the moments we hewed out little pieces of our own hearts and minds to fully love another. May we cling to the real.

And when we see Love calling in many forms, may we always, always let Real Love in.

Those Winter Sundays

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too
my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blue black cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the
cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently
to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace

It’s been a blah day. Did I say day?–month. January is notorious as “divorce” month, and it is undoubtably the coldest month for northerners to endure. So yes… blah. Picture the adults from Charlie Brown kind of blah. Everything a blur of garbled words, of unconscious motion. And the sense that the -11 temp had somehow seeped into my heart. Trying to turn up it’s heat only fogged up my mind.

I needed truth and grace when all I seemed to have was tears and anger.
This lovely exposition popped up in my google search; since then, I’ve been reeling.
It’s a talk given by a speaker whom I love, only days after 9/11.

First the prayers. Individuals from different backgrounds and cultures praying for a hurting nation after the greatest tragedy since Pearl Harbor. A city and nation which prided itself with accomplishment and  power was left unhinged. And the grieving began.

And.. so did the lame-sauce “answers” for the tragedy:
1. We are being judged–for (Democrats) our lack of care for global justice (Republicans) our lack of moral values.
2. THEY are the evil ones (even subhuman.) WE are the good.

In the midst of this, the best leaders spoke not of answers.  They spoke of hope– a hope to see new life come blazing from the ashes.

And then this story

Jesus hears a good friend of His is dying. So he hits the road and on the way into Bethany, meets up with both of the sisters of his now dead friend, Lazaras. Though Jesus is intending to (and later does) raise Lazarus from the dead, he also responds very acutely to what he’s hearing from Lazarus’ sisters.

the first sister

Martha said to Him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that whatever You ask of God, God will give you.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to Him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.”

There’s the truth that no one was expecting. Jesus claims not only to hold the power to raise the dead, but claims to embody that power–to be new life for anyone who believes. But he doesn’t stop with speaking the truth…

the second sister

“Then when Mary came where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying to Him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” Therefore, when Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her weeping, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled. And He said, Where have you laid him?” They said to Him, “Lord come and see. Jesus wept. 

Truth, Tears, Anger, & Grace Why is it that out of those four all I really hear about from  Christians are the two bookends–truth & grace.
Though it’s translated “He groaned in the spirit and was troubled” the actual Greek words used refer much more to the emotion of anger. He was angry. Angry at death and the havoc it had already caused. And though he knew he would conquer it, death was still worth being mad at.
And then He was sorrowful, and in his tears he didn’t just weep out of sorrow for His own loss. I believe His own grief was for not just the temporary loss his friend’s life, but the lives of countless others before and after. The sting of death was felt by God even before the cross, and He wept.

grace, a gift undeserved

While still grieving, Jesus told the people to roll away the stone over the tomb where they’d  placed Lazarus. Four days his corpse had been rotting, so with some convincing, they consented.

Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead man was lying. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said. “Father I thank you that You have heard Me. And I know that you always hear Me, but because of the people who are standing by I said this. that they may believe that you sent Me.” Now when He had said these things, He cried with a loud voice. “Lazarus come forth!” And he who had died came out bound hand and foot with grave clothes. Then many of the Jews who had come to Mary and had seen the things Jesus did, believed in Him. But some of them went away to the religious leaders and told them the things Jesus did… Then from that day on they plotted to put him to death.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead knowing  this would eventually lead to his own death– all as a prequel of what he did for the rest of humanity on the cross. He knew pain, injustice, tragedy more deeply than any human to walk this planet. And he did not stop there;  to prove that suffering is never a waste, He made a way to God through His own. He died so that real death would never have to touch anyone again.

Whether or not you can believe this story to be historical truth, the process with which Jesus grieved–truth, tears, anger & grace will always be the only complete way to find hope amidst evil, tragedy, and death.  This kind of hope doesn’t seek cheap answers. This hope weeps, curses loss, and yet rubs the joy of new life in the face of death.

**this is my own mini-recap of a talk given by Tim Keller entitled “Truth, Tears, Anger, and Grace” props to him.

the bible passage can be found in the book of John, chapter 11.

Tonight, E tells me, “do something you enjoy,” and “come back before it’s too dark.” So I take the spare key, swing onto my bike, and hit the trails.
I could think about the smells of roasted sugar-summer air, or the colors of retreating sun. But it’s 8 o’clock. All I really think about is that my face is now a death sentence for the unsuspecting flea and mosquito parade just beginning. I fear for my nostrils, keep my head down.

Despite the distractions,  fresh air helps me think. And on a bike or a walk is when most ideas come to me. Some are terrible, I should admit,* but tonight I decide I am going to resurrect my childhood dream of becoming an “artiste” (I still can’t spell) which has morphed many times, but is not completely lost– so long as I do not let it be. I decide I am going to write a zine.

I live by the sweetest paths!-- here's some pics of a zine I love
the paths I love and the zine that helped inspire me

On Dreams

Children—classmates, and kid-neighbors, little cousins, and daycare buddies—all of them future firefighters, inventors, astronauts, presidents. Many of them now slipping so silently into turtle shells of adulthood apathy. It’s me too. I have a stinky, confining shell, it’s illusion of safety and responsibility too easy to believe. I want out. I want to dream

To let a dream shift and change with time, I think is almost necessity, but to lose it altogether? Nothing less than living in fear, or worse, apathy.

And this is why I’ve decided [finally and with no compulsion or sanity whatsoever] to write a zine. “What’s that? And “Why?” (you probably won’t, but possibly might ask).  I’m not entirely sure. I just know that a zine can be anything, though it usually comes in the form of a smallish, hand-made/self-published booklet. Maybe I should call this a chapbook? Doesn’t really change a thing either way. The best part about all of this… I’m going to do it here, sharing this process with whoever wants to see it– because writing is a conversation. So I fully expect that what I initially write and what I eventually print, fold, staple and probably never sell, will be a constantly change form. And boy does this excite me.

* I once had a mini-dream to tweet for big bird. Not mimicking a bird-call, but  creating 144 characters about the life of an over-sized, misunderstood golden condor.  I thought it would be fun, semi-ingenious, appealing to the masses of millennials who worshiped his (its?) synthetic feathers. Tweeting on the struggles of life without giant bird seed, the joys and perils of livin’ on the street? Somehow, I never got around to it.

Hello again.

 “To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.”
—Allen Ginsberg, WD

It’s been too long.

It’s been months of engagement, and more of marriage. It’s been transition and change and everything small in-between.

It’s time to write again.

I don’t really know what made me decide. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s cold again and I’m sitting outside wearing my husband’s red-checkered flannel.
Maybe it’s just time.

It’s definitely a less than ideal time. (E is currently letting out mini-grunts as he tries to fix our screen door, only inches away from my requested “alone” time.)

And I still haven’t figured out my blogging “niche” so who’s gunna ever really read this and follow it religiously and flood my inbox with adoring comments.

But I’ve got to keep going.  I’ve got to keep recording the funny, the simple, the wildly strange things that help me learn to really live.

If I don’t I’ll just keep walking around my quiet little condo, narrating in my head. Sometimes in British accents.

And, though listening is important, if I never speak at all, am I really part of the conversation? I suppose this is utterly confusing and the best way to ditch the 6 followers I probably still have.  So for those of you readers (if “you” even exist) who are lost, here you go: For me (and many others I think) to read is to listen; to write is to speak; to live  without the conversation is to never fully live.

I could start every post with “it’s been too long.”
But I don’t want to.

I want to write.

Am I ready?
Nope. I’m not ready. Never ready.
And it’s embarrassing to know that I’m not sure I’m doing this well, not sure I’ll ever reach beyond this little blog. But at least I will not grow numb to the conversation. I will will not forfeit the few words I have that must be heard. And most importantly, I will hear what hundreds of thousands have joined in on throughout all of history. And what a beautiful, strange sound it is.

Stories

Stories are my calling.  Not just the writing, but the seeking, the holding of stories, listening as humanity groans and rejoices…
Image

I wake up too early for a morning without an agenda.
A muted-white light comes in through my window, tells of no sun,  just water-laden sky. I try to rouse the dog for a walk, give up, and slip on my shoes and sweatshirt anyway. A brittle mist brushes my eyelids. I blink, let my legs fall into rhythm, hoping the forecast will wait.

I don’t know if I’m walking to write, or pray, or just be.
I don’t know a lot of things. And I wonder, more often now,
is it fair to write? Is it right when I’ve hardly read, or thought, or formulated anything worth anyone’s time? Is it good for me now? Should I wait a while longer? Stay silent until the business of life stills and allows?

A cardinal sings like the world is watching, somehow perched on the tip of a spruce.
Between streaks of water and ice, a sand-packed can of chew stands open on the street.
A dog announces his dislike of me, a few awkwardly flapping ducks fly overhead. And, as I’m nearing home, a letter.

Water and sun washed, it lies flat on a bank of snow.

A gift? A piece of trash. I read it anyway, hoping stationary in blue and pink pastels, dated 1985 was written long ago that I am not being invasive.  A few words in and I think I might see their faces, a little boy, a sister far away, and a woman leaning over her counter and scribbling between washing dishes and getting ready for advent season.

 There’s dramatic confession, no account of a travel adventures. It’s just a few words on a page, a lost or left snapshot, a piece of their story.

…I believe in the power of stories – that when we tell our own, we find communion and when we truly hear another’s, we make our first steps towards peace.  I believe in my calling to bear witness to life, to hold a corner of your grief, to laugh with you until tears roll down our cheeks.  So please, pull your chair up close to mine.  Extend your wounds, your scars, so I can trace them softly as you tell me the history behind each one. — emily wierenga

 

 

Walking Miss Daisy

The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet. – James Oppenheim

Walking with a dog is something I never thought I could love. My family’s dog is anxious and desperate, constantly pulling at his leash, choking himself as I grit my teeth.
And yet here I am–happy–walking an old, loving Golden, watching our feet blur in tandem, feeling my nose grow stiff in the cold. The neighborhood is laced in fall colors, a dusky blue sky pronounces the cool perfectly.

I lose track of street names, how many times I’ve turned right or left. We are in a maze of cul-de-sacs and developments and then, this sudden, almost misplaced hill on our right. Maybe it’s part of someone’s yard, maybe not. Either way, it is so strange and disconnected; it seems fair game for footing.

I find myself speaking aloud to the river of gold-auburn fur beside me.  “Do you want to go up Daisy? Yea, girl?” She lunges ahead.

I agree. Something feels right about climbing to higher ground.

It’s a steep climb, requires a lot of toe and calf work, even a bit of deeper breathing.
I find myself imaging a giant tribal chief buried beneath the soil, remembering the Indian
burial mounds on the land where my father grew up.

At the top, I turn and look.

It’s not looking down the tops of red and brown-tinted trees that gets me. Not even how wonderfully part of the elements I feel–the wind abrasive and untamed. It is nothing I can define or express. I am glad for no other reason than simply being.