Self-Taught or Professionally Instructed?

Like many of you who don't grow bored with the nuances of sports or music, I don't mind looking at writing as a craft to be studied from many angles.  When my kids fall asleep in the car or I am driving alone, I listen to a college professor giving a class on writing creative nonfiction.

I am learning there is a technical side to writing that I was barely conscious of.

Certainly, as readers, we can all spot "bad writing" the way you can instantly see the gap for a missing piece in an otherwise completed puzzle.  Even if we don't know what, exactly, is on that piece, it is obvious that it is missing.  As readers, we can't always articulate the exact thing that makes the writing seem "bad" to us, but the feeling is as obvious as that missing piece.

I don't have to be a professional singer to be able to hear when one is singing off-key and I don't have to be a professional writer to be able to sense that something is not working with the story I am reading.

But I DO have to know what is going wrong if I'm the one trying to produce something excellent.

So the instructor describes in painstaking detail what good writers are doing to make the whole thing work.  It's the difference between eating a satisfying, perfectly plated meal and standing in the kitchen and watching the chef juggle a dozen complex tasks in a sort of controlled chaos.

We readers get the very best of it all served up between two lovely covers of our book or Kindle.
The writer was a scrambling slave to the craft of writing shedding blood sweat and tears to get it right.

And this leads me to the thing I am really wondering (and craving conversation about) these days:

Can taking a class that teaches these technical aspects of writing backfire and do more harm than good?

We've probably all met the cook who seems to have a sense about what goes together and cooks with creative experimentation and flair.  Without recipes, she leans on intuition, experience and her own preferences.  She seems confident and unaffected in the kitchen, moving almost effortlessly in her element.  Not everything she ever cooks is a home run, but she consistently produces great food with a happy ease that causes the rest of us to miscalculate its true complexity.

What if that same cook attended a fancy cooking school and was given all kinds of new jargon for her procedures, recipes to follow precisely, and proper techniques and tools for everything she had previously only experimented with or mastered without being entirely conscious of it?  Would this grow her or hinder her?  I truly don't know.

And I compare that to writing.  What if "someone" who has been writing her whole life, and loving it the whole time, goes to a fancy writing class and learns all kinds of new jargon for writing, new rules to follow precisely, new techniques to try to consciously implement....would this grow or hinder her as a writer?

Really, what do you think?  Do writers need to hone their craft one freewheelin', experimental recipe at a time, or should they go to writing school and learn how to take the art and craft of it to the next level?  Do we make up the method, or learn writing techniques and try to use them?

I don't consider myself a professional writer, but like a sports fan or music aficionado, I'd love to hear what other people think or have learned about this question.

Footnotes of Our Story

I don't remember when the notes started.  But somewhere along the way, Bill started leaving me notes.  Post-its, random scraps, torn pieces from a daytimer...little notes.  I find them on the mirror, on the kitchen counter, taped to my alarm clock, his love in writing to be discovered before the day can let me forget.

We are word people.  This is our language.

They are small, and the themes are simple and repetitive, but these little squares quilt my heart and keep the cold and lonely away.

Tonight Landon brought out a lovely latched basket that I had not noticed was missing.  Inside was a package he had wrapped with two colors of construction paper and twice as much tape.

"I made this for you," he said to Bill.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's for you."

Bill peeled back the outer layer.  A white paper emerged.  In fact, there was nothing but paper.  Scraps Landon had cut and "written" on.  A heart with more tape and writing.  And his main attraction, a full sheet covered with letters from an alphabet stencil.

"What does it say?" Bill asked.

"It's love.  It's loving words.  It's a note I wrote for you and it says I love you and we can go to a theater together."

Bill and I share one of those glances that say more than it's worth trying to express aloud.
My eyes get glassy and my throat gets tight.

We are word people.
This is our oldest son learning our language.

My heart is so full, I find I must write it all down while I can still remember it.  Just.like.this.

Even as I type, a few aisles in every grocery store have exploded with red and pink, candy and cards.  There's a day on the calendar marked to express and share love, in all its preference for red and pink, candy and cards.   And the day may pass at the Brown house with nobody remembering to mention it at all.

Just as you can't create an entire beautiful quilt in a day, our love is grown in small bits-
one post-it, one calendar scrap, one construction-paper-wrapped collection of words at a time.

Wishing I Were on the Other Side

"Raise your hand if you already have something written you want to publish."

A few hands go up.

"Raise your hand if you have already published something."

A few other hands go up, noticably more easily.

"Raise your hand if you are thinking about writing something you would like to publish."

It looks like the rest of the attendees raise their hands.

"So raise your hand if you don't even know what program you are sitting in."

Gets a few chuckles.

But I neither laugh nor raise my hand. I know where I am (a workshop on epublishing) but I'm not sure I can answer why I carved out the time to drive here and listen to some movers and shakers on this topic.

I don't have a well-loved manuscript hidden away somewhere that just needs a platform to find an audience.  I didn't just finish the National Novel Writing Month with something blazing hot, begging to be published. And yet, publication beckons to me like an Everest.  Why?

I used to think that everyone wanted to be a writer.  Turns out, that's because I happened to know a lot of voracious readers, and most of them do.  If someone hands you a ticket for transport or transcendence, you often wonder if you could be a magic-maker and hand out such remarkable tickets, too.

For every encouraging person who has ever told me anything along the lines of, "You should write a book," are a hundred other voices (most of them in my head) pointing out the ridiculous improbability of it all.  After all, you have to be an author to write a book.  You have to be someone brilliant and remarkable and photogenic and disciplined.  You need hundreds of ideal, uninterrupted work hours where you are productive and focused and inspired.  You need a Mac computer, awesome penmannship, perfect grammar, and oh yeah, a never-ending spring of unique ideas that leaves you breathless with their originality and beauty.

None of those things are true of me.

What about you?  Doesn't the idea of publication beckon to many of you, too?  We read, we write, we stumble around in the dark with our words, looking to shine a little light. Find a path.  Embark on an epic journey....

only to still be wasting time fiddling around with the batteries of our flashlight.

All the while another author runs past us in the darkness, takes a flying leap off the cliff into the unknown, and all we hear is, "Wheee!"

Whee?! That's it?  Did they get published or not?

We don't get the answer to that.  Self-doubt settles back down around us in the darkness. It seems it would be much easier to stop trying to earn the "externally-validated-author" badge and get off this trail altogether. Other worthy pursuits await.

But then we catch a faint echo of that whee and can't walk away.

Because we definitely, absolutely want to believe that the journey would be worth it for its own sake, that the risk is worth taking. That whatever success or failure waits at the end of that flying leap of faith, the flight is the thing.

But wouldn't it be grand to know that we had wings that would carry us before we even leapt?

There is No Immediate Love/Hate

How long does it take you to appreciate a piece of  visual art?  Sure, you could spend any length of time imaginable admiring something, but generally speaking, doesn't most art compel a response rather quickly?  You see a painting and find it haunting.  A sculpture leaves you cold; you move on.  Someone has crafted a quilt that suggests "heirloom" before it is even one year old. Even music asks us to make up our minds fairly quickly.  Yes, you could develop a deep appreciation for unfamiliar music over time, but most of us can hear a song and assess rather quickly if we'd rather change the station.

And then there's word.

For artists who paint with words, we don't have much hope of appealing to the instantaneous resonance one can feel with music and visual arts.

Who pulls an unknown, unopened novel off the shelf and declares, "I must have this collection of words in my home!  It is amazing and wonderful and I get chills just looking at the cover."?

But you could easily walk into an art gallery and feel that connection.  Love at first sight with no investment or risk at all.  You just walked in and fell in love.

Artists show you a destination.
Writers ask you to take a journey.

Writers ask for a little more--a bigger risk of your time and interest.  I may not be able to win you over at first glance, but sit with me for a spell.  We may become friends yet.

The First Scoop is Nothing

"Begin writing about nothing," she said, "and see where it goes.  Don't wait until you have something very specific to write about."

Sage advice for the girl whose blog is called "Along this Beautiful Path," don't you think?  I mean, don't paths meander?  Aren't the rambly ones with unexpected twists and turns the most fun to explore?

And just the freedom to not be profound is like opening the bulk bin at a whole foods store and being told to scoop away with no heed to the fact that the item is $18.97 a pound.  Go for it.  Who cares if you scoop up dry little mullety seeds that you'd only want to serve to the birds?  Just scoop away!

So write about nothing.  And if you get a bunch of random words that don't stick together into something cohesive....well, maybe they can be scattered along the path like seeds to help me find my way back to more meaningful trails.

And so I look in my raw materials bin tonight....and it's a crazy trail mix of things I could write about:

Do I dare scoop up the story of how my nipple was squeezed by a near stranger today to find out if I was nursing?

My latest Kindle read is begging to be given some good press.

And speaking of Kindles, am I convert?  A seeker?  A fence-straddling pragmatist?  Kindle has changed my life and I really didn't see that coming. I'd so love to hear from others on that topic!

Then my newest theory of housework has been percolating and I think if I tried to defend it, I'd be able to see if it is valid: it is actually harder to keep a home if you are a stay-at-home mom, not (as I originally imagined) easier.  And when I say "keep" I mean keep clean, keep organized, maintained, and even at times, happy.  My perceptions and reality have had a head-on collision since I came home fulltime with my second born, and we're all still filing our grievances before we settle up.

And what about the beauty of a friendship that can pick up effortlessly after being timezones apart for eight years?  (I do so love you, Shawna!)  How does one even stay properly grateful for treasure like that?

And what about the beauty of a friendship that will never fade no matter how far apart for how long we are? (I do so love you, Beth!)

And what about the beauty of one that gave me a never-to-be forgotten experience that only could happen because you said yes to something that asked you to be bigger, braver and more flexible than most of us want to be? (I do so love you, Ali!)

And who gave me permission to scoop into my empty head in the first place to sift around and find gratitude there?  (I do so love you, Laurel!)

It may be next to nothing to anyone else.  But to me, I'm pretty happy to be snacking on gratitude and good memories.

Larger than the National Debt

I spent hours doing dusty-basement, primary-source research.  Interviewing ladies well into their 80's.  (one even died shortly after I interviewed her, adding urgency to the task of capturing the memories)  I took notes. I made photocopies.  I compiled and cited sources.  It was a large project, and I chipped away, feeling responsible and mature.  But in the end, the project was larger than I could wrangle, and too much of the final writing got left to the final hour.  For reasons I can't remember, (maybe because this was high school before everyone carried a computer in their back pocket) the only computer on which I could type and print it up was at my dad's office in town.

So I typed.  On and on.  All afternoon.  Past the evening and well into the night.  The office took on the quiet hum of a burbling water cooler and a buzzy florescent. And still I typed.  All thoughts converging to support a thesis, to tell the story.  But I couldn't be in that business space alone, so my mom stayed with me.  All through the night.  Into the wee hours of the morning.  I can still picture her dozing on the hard office floor, a hostage to my lack of time management skills.

The sun rose.  I began editing.  Printing drafts to "see" the mistakes that eluded me on the screen.  (I still must do this.)  My mom awoke bleary and sore to the sound of me still tapping away, working feverishly to get the paper done.  No one collated and stapled a research project together with more tired satisfaction, to be sure.  The night labor was done.  The baby born.

She drove me to school.  (Which had already started a couple hours before) and I went straight to my English class.  I handed in the paper on time, and then handily walked out the door, back into her waiting car, and straight home and into bed.

We slept.  Sound and sweet.  It was done.  She had endured the travail without complaint or criticism (though I deserved both) and that was that.

Weeks later, in front of peers, parents and teachers, when I received money and award for the research paper, I shook my teacher's hand and felt nothing but gratitude to my mom.  In my tunneled-teen-vision, it never occurred to me to hand the entire check over to her--she being the more deserving of the two of us who earned it. I was aware enough to realize that she never held that occasion against me, ever.  She never brought it up as a sacrifice, or a reminder of what can happen to graduating students whose "senioritis" flares up too soon before the end.

She clapped in kind support and never made mention of the long-prisoner-night when she surely must have wondered how so much prior work still required such sleeplessness at the end.  Her sleep.  And comfort. Sacrificed to let me own a success we really shared.

She let me own it.  And has never once mentioned that I owe her a thing.

Since I owe my mom my very life, perhaps she threw out the ledger entirely when she told me years ago, "Pay it forward."

How I Became a Pirate

This may not make sense,  but sometimes thinking about what something is like is more illuminating to me than thinking about it directly.

So I'm a huge fan of figurative language.  Metaphors and Similes, you run around with flashlights in my head and help me see things for what they are....by using pictures of what they are not.


I work for a start-up.  Sure, the library as a district has been around for years, but it launched on a remarkable trajectory of change just a few years ago to reinvent itself.  Seismic paradigm shifts...and so the reinvention process feels no different than if we had started from scratch.

Here is a metaphor that sheds light on what it is like to work for a start-up:

We are crew sailing a ship....

that is still being built.
So while some frantically row, others feverishly build, still others frenetically bail.

Sometimes below deck, we can get frustrated with the captain.  She seems so calm, so steady.  We may wonder if she is aware of just how hard we're working to make this all work.
But somebody has to keep an eye on the map, the stars, the horizon.  Somebody has to  have vision for where we're going and how we're going to get there.
Otherwise we're just spinning our wheels.
Or our oars, in this case.
But there's treasure to be had in this wild blue beyond: the love and loyalty of a community made better for having a library.  A hundred human connections that build, bridge, and nourish our souls.   The opportunity to contribute to the lives of countless people in meaningful and memorable ways. Not to mention the tangible parts of our library collection that bring the treasure of the world into the hands of  anyone who enters.  For free.  No buried booty at a library.  It lines every shelf.


So we sail.  Tweaking and repairing and scrambling all the way.  And when we get to the end of this map, we'll sail off the edge and come back and tell you what we found. 

Who knew I would be up for a journey that pushes and pulls and asks me to grow or grow weary, but so it is. 

I signed up to be a librarian.
And found out I might really be a seafaring maverick instead.

As it turns out, we all work for start-ups. Our very lives are an invention and reinvention of ourselves-sometimes from scratch. We all make paradigm shifts of epic proportions, live without all the answers, make repairs and improvements and sail ever on.

Let's go up on deck for a moment; let the evening crew take over the oars.  I want us to feel the winds of change in our faces and dream of what is just beyond.

Writing or Wandering

Here's what I've noticed about myself and writing.  The more I write, the more I want to write.

When I stop writing, the sand blows in, and it takes a great deal of strength to hope that it could rain in a desert.

When I stop writing, it doesn't take long before I start to believe I'll never have anything meaningful to say.  To anyone. Ever.

If I continue "not writing" it doesn't take much longer to believe that I have never had anything meaningful to say.

Not then, not now, not ever.  Writing well feels like finding an Oasis: a temporary, fragile place blessed by the water of inspiration, just as likely to be reclaimed by the desert of self-doubt and lack of ideas.

It's a noisy, howling desert, whipping words off the page before I even have time to finish forming them in my head.  It's blank, and boring, and seemingly endless.  Nobody wants to wander in that space.

I wish I could learn to saddle my camel with enough inspiration to last me til I get to that next place of creative profusion, where words flow like rivers.

Better yet, I wish I knew how to move to the writing rain forest.

Anybody know how to get a ticket?

His First L

Ka-pow!  A new milestone just drops itself into an ordinary Sunday night and I scramble for the camera, Landon starts a happy dance and daddy is properly proud and congratulatory.

I was printing something off the computer.  Bill was reading.  Landon was coloring.

And then he says,

"I made an L for me!"

When I look over, sure enough, he has written an L, clear as anything.

Whoa...wait a second!  Who taught him to write?!

Well, naturally, being parents who never want to give our child a performance complex, we made a big huge deal of this accomplishment and Landon got so wound up.  He started dancing around the room exclaiming "I'm so skited.  I'm so skited," until he kind of forgot what he was excited about and just started saying random stuff about princesses and pencils and who knows what.  Phone calls ensued.  Family was told.  "You are ill?"  No....I made an ELL!


We finally returned to the regularly scheduled evening.  Landon preceded to write the rest of the alphabet (just kidding!!)  He actually couldn't really replicate his first triumph, and instead settled for the practice of writing the straightest lines he could, kinda hoping for a party for each one.  He was like a little cave-baby who found fire by accident...and then couldn't get it relit.

Sensational while it lasted.

My favorite part was as he worked on his new attempts at straight lines he said so earnestly, "I writing, mom."

And so you are, son.

Welcome to this family.

No More Words

What do you say when the words run out?
When every little phrase rings hollow and trite?
What do you say when your soul aches, when the happy ending isn't in sight, when band aides on a severed limb are just absurd?
What do you say?

Sometimes there is simply nothing left to say.

The questions pile up like softly falling snow.
Chilling and heavy,
Silently amassing crushing weight.


You lie awake,
And I lie awake,
And we join the multitudes who share the knowledge
Of the dark night of the soul

Before the light comes
When there is simply nothing left to say.

So You Think You Can Write

She loves to sew, and is creative and whimsical and experimental and intentional and we never ask her, "So, are you a seamstress now?  Are you going to try out for Project Runway?"

Or if someone plays the piano, and he practices and gets better and maybe even writes a few songs himself, why do we never ask, "Are you trying to sell your own cd?"

She loves to cook.  She tries new recipes; she's getting better all the time, but no one thinks to ask her, "Oh, do you think you'll get selected for a cooking show one day?  Have you sold any cookbooks?  How about one recipe?  Have you at least sold one recipe?"

When someone tells me that they love to paint, I don't usually wonder if they have a degree that qualifies them to pursue that passion.  Do you?

All these creative pursuits are validated for their own sake.  All are allowed to tinker with them, and their value is easily seen whether or not the person pursuing them ever earns a cent as a result.

And then there's writing.

Writing as a creative pursuit comes with more strings attached:  Are you any good?  Do you have anything important to say?  Are you publishable?  Are you/have you/will you ever be published?

As if that is the only result that can justify your putting pen to paper, pixel to memory.

As if only people in the Nutcracker should dance.
As if only geisha should share tea.
As if only botanists should garden.
As if only angels should sing.
As if only two-year-olds should handle play-dough.

I think we all have creative passions to pursue.  Made in the image of God, the ultimate Creator, is it any surprise that the impulse to create something stirs in all of us?

No surprise, either, that we all want to be good at creating something.  We're not flinging mud around hoping it sticks to the wall of our cave in some kind of pattern.  No, we're bringing a piece of ourselves to the table and hoping that someone will be nourished...comforted, entertained, pleased, inspired, empowered, encouraged, expanded, outraged, activated, mobilized...something.  Creativity asks us to give something of ourselves, and we want the offering to count.
 
Titles and accomplishments aside, I believe when we tap into any creative part of ourselves, we are praising God.  The muse and maker of all.

I don't hear knitters expressing too much angst over whether they are any good, whether anyone will truly enjoy the blanket they made, will it be warm enough, pretty enough, will anyone ever want to buy it?  They like to knit.  So they do.  And they get better all the time, and every little baby wearing a hand-knit baby cap in the hospital nursery looks adorable.  And my feet are snuggly.  And that scarf is amazing.  And this--what is this little squarish knit thing? ...this potholder is, um, a charming conversation starter over dinner with friends.  Where did I even get it?!  I love it anyway.  I love that someone, somewhere, said yes.

Permission to write?  Yes.

What about you?  I hope you'll say yes, too.

Trail Guide on the Writer's Path

I fell in love the other night.  Quite unexpectedly, quite decidedly.

With a writer named Anne.  It so figures, considering how much I have loved every other Anne I have ever read.

So when Anne Lamott busted on the scene, I was quite smitten.

She has a way with words so authentic, I feel like I have known her and been her friend for a long time.  How does she DO that?!  How does she draw me in and make it seem like she wrote the whole book just for me? It was quite remarkable.

So remarkable, in fact, I read her whole book in one sitting.  Knowing it would cost me.  And willing to pay the price. (A bleary-eyed following day to be endured with large doses of caffeine and lowered expectations of myself)

Her book,  bird by bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life is exactly as titled.  And while I have reservations about whether I would love her fiction or other prose as much as I loved this little guidebook, I have no doubt that it has left its mark.  Most notably, I want to reread it.  And maybe read it a third time.  And I'm simply not a re-reader.

"This is our goal as writers, I think; to help others have this sense of wonder, of seeing things anew, things that can catch us off guard, that break in on our small, bordered worlds.  When this happens, everything feels more spacious.  Try walking around with a child who's going, 'Wow, wow!  Look at that dirty dog!  Look at that burned-down house!  Look at that red sky!' And the child points and you look and you see, and you start going, 'Wow!  Look at that huge crazy hedge!  Look at that teeny little baby!  Look at that scary dark cloud!'  I think this is how we are supposed to be in the world--present and in awe."                                 ~ Anne Lamott

I Know How It Feels

I almost said no.  I started to say no.  I thought the correct answer was no.
And then, it wasn't.

"Do you have any more of the writing journals?  I really like them."

Well, no.  Those were our gift for the summer reading program, and now they are in deep storage somewhere.  We will see them again next June, though.  So that's something to look forward to.

"Oh, that's too bad.  I want to be a writer someday, and I filled mine, and I really loved it and I wish I could have another one."

He's not more than eleven.  And he wants to be a writer someday.

"I've written 53 books," he said.  "My friend has illustrated a few for me."

I'm genuinely impressed.

He's that perfect mix of shy and serious and earnest that gets me every time.
And a touch of moxie...asking for a summer gift well past summer.  Past when everyone else has packed them up and moved on to book reports and dioramas.

He's still writing.  And he really loved our writing journal.

"You know, I still have a small supply of the writing scrapbooks.  Would one of those work?"

So I'm off to the back to get my key to the closet, and then I remember we have extra pages in another closet, and on my way back from that I run into our staff writer on a lunch break, and with a bit of fast talking and a bit of begging, I convince him to come out and share a little about the writer's life as a professional-a pep talk, man to man, because don't you think this little boy would be inspired to know that men become great writers, too?
And yes, I rattle it all off to him as breathlessly as that run-on sentence would suggest.

So we go back out to the boy bearing gifts-- the scrapbook, with extra pages from two years ago, and the encouragement and tips from the real deal writer who talks to him as seriously as an agent would talk to his next client.

His mom takes notes on her smartphone.  The boy looks up at our tall and serious staff writer with a little shock and awe.  I look up in gratitude and perfect happiness that he is willing to come out and blow on a spark with me.

"Okay, so when you fill up these pages, I hope you'll come show me.  I really want to see what you've written.  And I have more pages where these came from.  This is exactly how Dav Pilkey started, you know.  He couldn't stop writing and drawing and annoyed his teachers and they told him to get serious.  So he did, about his writing.  And now, who hasn't heard of Captain Underpants?"

Of course this boy had heard of Captain Underpants.

And maybe someday, I'll hear about this boy.

I guess I know how it feels to want to be a writer someday.

3k for my Birthday

Isn't that a catchy title?  Kinda forces you to say "birthday" with a weird inflection doesn't it? : )

Anyway, the 3k is not money or kilometers or cheapo 3 karrot gold. (is there such a thing?)

It represents the 3,000 page views that I've gotten on this blog.  I just hit this number today, on my birthday.

And that, my friends is a true gift to me.  One you have been giving since January.

Yes, a good two thirds of those page views have to be from my family (they are generous that way), but that still leaves a fair chunk of page views left to people unrelated to me.

Your interest and remarks have both fueled and rewarded my efforts.

I have felt daunted on and off by the fact that there are so many examples of excellent and amazing blog writing one click away on the internet.

I have thought of this quote when I've considered stopping:

Use what talents you possess; the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang the best.    ~ Henry Van Dyke

 In my very first post I wrote,

CS Lewis said, "We read to know we are not alone." I have lately become convinced that we often write for the very same reason. 

Thanks for joining me in this forest and listening to this song.

I hope you'll stick around for the next 3k.  : )

No Facade, Only Liner Notes

I read an online writer remark the other day that he hates bloggers who write "with the facade of having it all together."

And yet, we all know that nobody has it all together.

So if someone wants to gather up and post a few sparkly parts of their day among the otherwise chaotic, confusing, and disappointing jumble of messy parts, I say, bravo.  Way not to wallow; way to focus on the things that make you smile.  (Maybe Martha Stewart would have blogged about how to make small spaces feel cozy instead of claustrophobic.)

Conversely, if someone wants to push back the curtain on the parts we often leave unexamined and unsaid, if someone braves the criticism and misunderstanding and says, this is backstage and sometimes we're frantic back here, I say, bravo.  It takes humble courage to put your truth on the table and not mind that some people might deem it too raw for their taste.

It sounds so trite, you wouldn't think it was true, but it is: you can't please everyone.

So I'll write with glittering happiness so sharp it hurts one day, and equally painful frustration, misgiving and discouragement  the next, and hope I will simply be seen as real.

Don't we all swing between our best and worst selves on a regular basis?  Yes, I get that if we start swinging too fast, too extremely, if our pendulum goes wildly out of control, we have diagnosable problems with medical names.  Yes,  I get that.

A wild pendulum is one thing.

But tame it just a bit, and doesn't it become a metronome?

Could these contrasts be the things that help us keep pace?

Would my song fade out listlessly without the metronome of my contradictions pushing the music forward?

Keep playing.
Play through the hard parts; tick.
Play through the easy parts; tick.
Play when you're bored; tick.
Play when you're passionate;tick

Let the contrasts keep you on pace,
Let your own contradictions steady you

joy and grief

order and chaos

generosity and selfishness

confidence and cowardice

peace and perplexity

trust and fear

near and far

The song goes on.

We write these blogs; they are just a few notes in the margin of the sheet music. Liner notes for the cd case.

You catch me on one tick: life is grand

The metronome moves: life is horrible

Next stanza: I am a loving, vibrant woman

tick

Please leave me alone

If the contrasts serve as a metronome and somehow help me keep pace, I guess the more important question is:

Whose music am I playing?

How a Gas Station Bathroom Inspired me to Blog

Oh, so many scattered thoughts--none of them make a coherent "POST".

Bathroom breaks on a long road trip: aren't these a dreaded bane?  You know it will be a mix of grunge, irritated gas station attendant, and the scramble to figure out if one is required to go IN and ask for a key or go around back and use a poorly labeled door, or go in and use a poorly labeled door....or what.

But we were on the road, and our destination was too far off to wait, so we stopped at a franchise gas station.

The bathroom was just NOT what I expected.  It took me a moment to realize it, so different was it from any gas station bathroom I'd ever been in.

Someone had painted all the walls with a floral mural.  Nothing professional, just a lot of swirls and and flourishes and a penchant for purple.  A sweeping signature.  Flowers everywhere, and even more color--an unexpected smile to an ordinary moment.

I am grateful for that maverick bathroom artist, though.  In a strange way,  she inspired me to keep trying with this blog.  I had gotten discouraged, wondering if my life was consistently worth blogging about...

But blogging isn't professional publishing.  I don't have a contract to write something that sells or I ought not try.

Maybe some other day that is a mix of grunge, irritation and scrambling, this post will be a reminder to bloom where we're planted, and make our own beauty.  Even if, like bathroom girl, we are more eclectic and exuberant than talented.

Around the World With a 5x7

The happy anticipation of a little piece of the world finding its way back to my mailbox--

This is what I am feeling.

This is where I gained it: Postcrossing's Homepage

Postcrossing is an online service that allows you to put your name in the hat, and then it will randomly choose someone, from somewhere on the globe, who would like a postcard sent their way.  A real, live paper postcard.  After they get your card, you become eligible to receive a card.

I couldn't resist.  You might know how much I love randomness  and the unexpected, and what could be more random and unexpected than getting a postcard from a stranger in Belize on a Tuesday??  And maybe you know how I am always so delighted when I get international visitors to this blog. So of course I'd love to get mail from people around the world, too.

I sat down and wrote four postcards.  You can have five going at any time, but I want to purchase some truly worthy ones tomorrow.  I mean, my little card could be the bright spot in someone's day...might as well try to make it worth their visit to the mailbox.

I think I hear the theme song for "It's a Small World" playing in my head right now....
Will the world feel smaller when I can share post cards with people thousands of miles away?
Or maybe this will be remarkably horizon-expanding.

Either way, I'm in.
With the climbing price of gas, I think I'll pay for my vacations with a postage stamp.

Bill's Poem

Well, I can't very well mention the poem and not share it, can I?  (Especially when it is about my favorite little boy) 

One Small Step for Landon

It was one small step for a boy—

one playful stride off the shoveled path,

a toddler’s shoe pressed in, pulled back,

a shoe’s imprint in light gray snow,

left to melt in the cold day’s sunshine.

He stared at it.

I stared at him staring at it.

He stepped again.

Because

unmarred surfaces call to his feet?

snow is fun to scrunch?

shoe bottoms leave intriguing patterns?

his legs have untried powers?

he loves to learn about  the world around him?

he could leave his mark?

It was one small step for a man—

one calculated hop off the ladder’s last rung,

a man’s footfall made far from home,

a boot’s gridiron in light gray lunar powder,

left to linger in the airless solar radiation.

We all stared at it.

We stared at him staring at the black and white vista.

Eleven others took that one small step.  

Because

we could finally grab the carrot from the stick?

moon dust might be as fun as snow to scrunch?

flying machines and dune buggies are a kick?

one country proved quicker than another?

we love to learn about the worlds around us?

we could leave our mark?

A little boy took a step today, close by.

A daring man took a step decades ago, far away.

I’ve stepped in snow countless times.

I’ve only dreamed of stepping in moon dust.

I wonder

Where else will Landon’s feet step?

Where will they leave their mark?

What, besides snow and moon dust, is fun to scrunch?

Creativity Sparks

Bill and I have recently wanted to allow room for creativity in our lives again.  For me, that translated to this blog.  For Bill, writing a poem.  I continue to write here; Bill is working on a short story.  Both of us notice that we really enjoy spending time on these endeavors.  Not that we have much to spare, but if we spend even a few minutes at the end of the day, we are happier. 

They say good writers must first be good readers.  I have always loved to read.  I like to read in bed, and before I was married, usually stayed up way too late reading.  Now, time to read feels like a luxury.  Or it feels a bit like homework because I am required to read so much for my job.  

If reading is like a fur coat and a glittering tiara, writing is like old-friend blue jeans and sneakers made for going somewhere.  Reading is rather passive.  I sit back and soak up a story someone else poured their heart and soul into.  Writing is more active.  It is a chance to pour a little of my own heart and soul into something.

Reading asks me to enjoy. 
Writing asks me to risk.
Reading is a guaranteed pleasure.
Writing is an uncertain venture.
Reading is a familiar escape.
Writing is a road untaken.
Reading is meeting new friends.
Writing is giving birth to them.

And so it is the comforts of reading and the challenges of writing that spark a desire for more creativity in my life. 

Thanks for being around to fan the flame with your interest and encouragement!

An Author Worth Reading

Less than a month ago our friend lost her husband abruptly, unexpectedly.  A mom with two sweet little boys.  A wife who adored her husband and had recently celebrated an unforgettable tenth anniversary.  But she is also a writer, and has taken everyone who knows her near the heart of her grief with her words.  With facebook and a blog and by speaking at his funeral, she has expressed herself so beautifully and powerfully.  We mourn with her.  With her and for her and beside her, with no answers, only love.  She continues to write.  The number of people following her blog and facebook page continues to grow.  It's a journey of epic proportions, and to get to follow any part of it at all is a sacred honor. 

I'm entirely new to blogging, and just trying to find my way.  Tricia is an old pro, doing what she does best, and doing it with a brave transparency that you can't miss.  She has already touched so many people; I invite you to let her story speak to you, as well.

Her post titled "Final Hours"