Tag: writing

101 things

My kids are napping. At the same time.

This is the result of both tedious planning and dumb luck. I aim for this goal each day, but it is ultimately out of my hands and in the pudgy fingers of my littles.

One is snuggled in his crib, the other taking up residence in my bed. And, because I can’t be in my bed, I am now on the couch, draped in the sunshine coming through my window. thinking.

Of the 101 things. The tasky-things. The to-dos, must-dos and should-dos. And I don’t even have to really think because I look up and my to-dos surround me.

But I’m not doing them.

There is a conveyor belt of never-ending _______. Especially when you’re a parent of littles. They spew their toys and clothes (and fluids) everywhere and don’t give any poop emojis about it. They go through outfits like they’re working a runway. They ‘help’ and undo whatever you just did. It’s maddening. If you let it be.

But maybe we don’t have to do so much. Maybe choosing a thing or two each day that we enjoy might be more satisfying than another check mark. Maybe we could stop acting like martyrs (admit it, we do this!) and start enjoying life a little more.

My babe is awake already, and because he’s erupting snot like Old Faithful, I’m going to bring him out and cuddle his boogery-butt.

But I’m also going to finish this paragraph.

Because I don’t have to let to-do’s rule me. Because sometimes writing makes me happy. And because I believe that happy parents are better parents.

But even more than that, truly happy people are better people.

In joy,

Mama-megs

**Inspiration via my mommy friends at ECFE and a MOPS talk about throwing away your to-do list for one month

Real Love: love is kind

image1 (1)
Big thanks to my friend, Catie, who inspired me with this gem to keep writing & thinking about real love.

I looked at my wordpress stats from this past year, and I posted a meager four times! Sure, I posted on my website, for work and for a collaborative blog from time to time, but here, just. four. times.

The reason this is so not okay (with me) is because this site has been the home to my mental wanderings and spiritual searchings since college. This is the place where I spread paint on the paper, explore ideas, and share bits of my craft.

I began the real love series with an intent to finish it week by week… annnddd only got through week one. But 2016 is my year! I am committing to post (at least!) the 11 times it takes to cover this series with the hopes that I leave 2016 a better person and a more consistent writer.

How it began

It all started with a journey through Corinthians with some of the best people around and one of the most beloved, over-quoted and under-practiced passages of the bible–a passage even that even the ‘secular’ world can’t help but quote.

4 (A)Love is patient and (B)kind; love (C)does not envy or boast; it (D)is not arrogant 5 or rude. It(E)does not insist on its own way; it (F)is not irritable or resentful;[a] 6 it (G)does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but (H)rejoices with the truth. 7 (I)Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, (J)endures all things.- Corinthians 13:4-7.

I want to dig into this, get it under my fingernails and stop taking it for granted. Because, quite simply, love is worth it.

I hope this journey is one you’ll join because my perspective is just a pinprick of light on a topic that deserves illumination. Check out the first post, fishermen lovers (love is patient) if you like, and join in to share your stories, comments, and wisdom on real love.

Continue reading “Real Love: love is kind” →

Just deal with it

True: my zine is heading into editing tomorrow (!)
False: I think it’s awesome
True: I was this <> close to scrapping the whole thing yesterday
False: someone told me I was awesome, so I didn’t
True: There are a lot of good writers out there
False: Therefore, I shouldn’t even try

Today I gave my zine ‘manuscript’ one last lookie before I will send it in for shredding (editing). Needless to say, I’m a little bit nervous. I’d probably be biting my nails right now (if they weren’t already weak little stubs due to my my run-in with the persuasive nail technician.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwomPoefhAA

You see, just like the 5-year-old in this video dismantles the whole hip-hop world with
his 30 second spiel, so thousands and thousands of bloggers scream at me: it takes like hardly any skills to write!  Not to mention actual training…education…experience. Nada! You can just sit down and flutter your chubby little fingers over a keyboard and wah-lah! You have likes, hits, re-tweets!

But, like little Jordan recommends, I just have to deal–get over myself and get over everybody else– forget those pseudo-lives on instagram or facebook photos. It’s all just flamboyance, a highlight reel; we’ve all got our behind-the-scenes-boring stuff. It’s false to assume something about someone’s lives or skills or personality without ever knowing them. What I do know is true is that comparison only fuels fear, pride and jealousy.

Yes, there will always be those people who make parts of life, or certain skills, or jobs, or relationships look easy. At the same time, there will always be those who struggle with what we find simple.

Evergreens and oranges don’t grow in the same soil.
In the same way, we all have stuff that comes organically and stuff that doesn’t.

Maybe its time we just deal with it.

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.

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

 

 

trying to write

Sometimes I just need to listen.

To the Spirit, first,
who is always whispering
Come, Rest
and today is saying
I am always the river, running through
your dry riverbed

To the lake, hushing itself in the breeze.
And the four year old, who takes my hand before she sleeps, holds it to her cheek

To people…

“sometimes God seems so far away i feel i have to yell myself hoarse to get him to hear me. and other times, he seems as close as a bird on my shoulder, singing beautiful songs to me, and softly touching my face with his feathers.”
-emily wierenga- inked…

our very bodies bear the mark of our interdependence.

permanently pressed into our skin is the sign that we belong to one another,
by

–tara pohlkotte- intertwined: on why we have bellybuttons

Imagination

I can believe anything, provided, it is incredible~ Oscar Wilde  

Imagination. The whole concept of reconstructing the past, dreaming of the future, creating people, conversations, scenery, events– it  simply amazes me.  Imagination allows us to do anything, be anyone.

But what is it for?

Like most of the questions I ask and ponder about, I don’t think this one has a single, or simple answer. But the more I’ve been thinking about this, the more I realize that the imagination is a very powerful, God-given tool. It can be used for many evils, but I believe there is much deeper element to this gift than we often see.

what does this look like to you?

So, here’s my thoughts on what I want to start using my imagination for:

1. Imagining what person could do, be, or create if they were living at their full potential. 
— because I believe God has a unique plan for every individual, and a kingdom identity for them, this means I would look at that person with the eyes of Christ and see them with His passionate, irresistible love.  He wants more for them, He sees they’re potential and still loves them where they’re at.

2. Imagining who I could be, what I could do, create, etc. if living at my fullest potential.
–I have dreams, who doesn’t? Sadly, I think a lot of people don’t. Or they did once and traded them in. They settled. “Contentment doesn’t mean being passive.” I read that once somewhere. There is always passion, always courage, and always risk in pursuing something that seems, at the time, to be nothing more than a far-off dream.

3. Imagining what the Kingdom of God is like.
–True, no eye has seen, no ear has heard… but oh man, but minds have imagined! Think of C.S. Lewis (what a guy!) Why was he one of the greatest Christian writers/thinkers of all time? I believe a great deal of this is due to his lively and vivid imagination. He put it to work in books like The Great Divorce, which describes the kingdom of heaven like I’ve never heard, and of course his epic descriptions of Narnia, when it is whole again.

Now that I’ve rambled, I’m curious what you think. As always, this is meant to be a conversation. So what do you think? How do we live with redeemed imaginations?