It is no secret that I believe in Intelligent Design. Nor that I refer to the Designer as God. So in essence, yes, I am a creationist. There are numberless aspects of these definitions that I could debate and talk about to possibly no end. Those conversations are for another day.
Having been recently reminded of the political implications of Darwinism VS. Intelligent Design, my mind was prevailed upon by a new understanding that in fact, I have bought into some of the more sinister ideals of Darwinism.
If you know me, you know my body has rebelled against it's age and decided it prefers the health equivalent of an 82 year old. I am the epitome of false advertising from the outside looking in.
Recently a change in medications has allowed me more of a middle-aged vigor and I have enjoyed being surgically removed from my bed. It's a wonder that anyone would miss doing dishes and laundry and making dinner. But oh the joy, when I was once again able to function.
It felt good to contribute, to not be a drain or burden on my husband whom for so long has had to do everything. The kids have stopped talking about how they miss the mom I used to be. And exercise is a dream come true.
This last weekend I had a scare that made it seem like these two months of strength were all but over.
How difficult.
How hard.
How depressing.
Depressing, yes.
Depression.
My definition of depression,
"Are you going to come to my field trip or are you going to be sick that day?" Questions from my kids, wanting me to do things, be with them, play with them and barely having the strength to breathe.
Mom has a headache, mom doesn't feel well, mom's staying home this time. . . mom's always sick.
Dirty laundry guilt, dirty bathrooms guilt, no dinner guilt, not waking up to help kids guilt, not being a supportive wife guilt, being a nothing guilt.
A zombie, a vegetable, a problem.
Because here's why.
If I can't contribute, I have no value. If I can't contribute, other's have to pick up my slack. I am a burden. And under Darwin's law of evolution and natural selection, I deserve to die. The weak and the feeble fall behind the herd and are devoured. For a reason, for the betterment of the community.
I bought into this. The same mentality that brought about the holocaust. It still sweeps countries today with genocide. If you are deemed inferior, you are expendable at best. This Darwin Theory is a handy tool for dictators.
If Darwin is right and I'm just another form of sludge, then I should die. Let the other sludgies be happy and be less burdened. Not like I'll regret being dead because that's all she wrote. One less sludgie in the world.
But if I am a daughter of God, if I have a divine purpose, if all that I know and believe in my faith is true, then I am not what my body can and can't do. If I am to become, as He has asked, like my Savior, then there is something to learn from the crappiest of situations. Things like service and compassion and love.
My challenged situation wasn't all depression, in truth I have a husband who reminded me all the time that I am not my body. And the kids did help a lot. I did feel hope and love and many many times joy.
Yet there were those times that I would succumb to the dark fruits of Godlessness. Not on purpose and obviously not realizing what it meant when I did.
There is a depression I felt that I can directly correlate to the pervasiveness of darwinistic thought.
Hopefully the clarity I have now will not soon dissipate when things get hard again.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Writing and Gardening - Because They're Related
It’s taken me years to make my own little Garden of Eden. I grew up where fruits and berries grew spontaneously. Ever heard of Salmon Berries? Most people haven’t. They look just like Blackberries, except of course they’re salmon color. They have a mild sweetness, the upside being you never eat one that makes you pucker.
Over the years I’ve planted two Bing cherry trees. Two pears. A Russian plum. Apricot. A thornless blackberry bush. Raspberries. Last year a blueberry. And I have 4 garden boxes. This doesn’t count my ornamental trees or flowers. Like my goradceous lilac outside my front door.
As you know it takes years for trees to give you a good crop. I still have jars of plum jam from two years ago. Because I live in the Boise area, our weather is much nicer than what my lovely Utah peeps go through. My trees blossom earlier, I’m able to plant earlier. Ha ha except dangit and boo.
The other night my kids were wondering what sort of lunatic gets near to tears when the news of a frost hits her? That would be me. I’m that kind of lunatic. Everything is breaking into full bloom. So I had them wrap some of the trees in old Winnie the Pooh sheets. Others in tarps. Oh yes, redneck aint the half of it.
But my cherry trees are my oldest and dearest loves. And they’re huge. I just couldn’t get a dang tarp over the smallest of the two. So we wrapped a few branches. But not before my daughter nearly had her first hernia at watching her mother stand at the very near toppest of the tree holding a huge tarp during a wind storm.
The part about the writing starts right here. Nature/Life seems to have different ideas and priorities than I do sometimes. I call not fair, but what can you do? It wasn’t too long ago that I made a decision to write a novel. It actually came about because my life really stunk – physically. I was pretty bed-ridden and blah blah blah.
I started with a historical fiction about someone I find fascinating. But I set that aside as I found my stride with YA Contemporary. So I wrote, 180 pages in a few months, or was it longer? Probably longer. I loved the character, the situation, the supporting cast. But I got hit with a hard frost called, “You can’t have all that happen to someone so young.”
So I started over, with her older. But that changes only EVERYTHING. And I’ve gone back and forth about all kinds of things in this new situation. And just recently I changed the MC and another big character. I changed their voices.
I feel like my cherry tree. A little frosted and downtrodden with the whole process. Sometimes close to tears. Sometimes in a panic. The thing is, it would be ridiculous and stupid for me to take a chain saw to the trunk of my trees. It’s just part of the growing process. Even though I want to chainsaw my efforts to write.
So guess what? 60% of my cherry blossoms survived the night. I don’t know how. It hit 27. They were all supposed to turn brown and die.
Seems I still have a lot to learn about hope and faith.
Over the years I’ve planted two Bing cherry trees. Two pears. A Russian plum. Apricot. A thornless blackberry bush. Raspberries. Last year a blueberry. And I have 4 garden boxes. This doesn’t count my ornamental trees or flowers. Like my goradceous lilac outside my front door.
As you know it takes years for trees to give you a good crop. I still have jars of plum jam from two years ago. Because I live in the Boise area, our weather is much nicer than what my lovely Utah peeps go through. My trees blossom earlier, I’m able to plant earlier. Ha ha except dangit and boo.
The other night my kids were wondering what sort of lunatic gets near to tears when the news of a frost hits her? That would be me. I’m that kind of lunatic. Everything is breaking into full bloom. So I had them wrap some of the trees in old Winnie the Pooh sheets. Others in tarps. Oh yes, redneck aint the half of it.
But my cherry trees are my oldest and dearest loves. And they’re huge. I just couldn’t get a dang tarp over the smallest of the two. So we wrapped a few branches. But not before my daughter nearly had her first hernia at watching her mother stand at the very near toppest of the tree holding a huge tarp during a wind storm.
The part about the writing starts right here. Nature/Life seems to have different ideas and priorities than I do sometimes. I call not fair, but what can you do? It wasn’t too long ago that I made a decision to write a novel. It actually came about because my life really stunk – physically. I was pretty bed-ridden and blah blah blah.
I started with a historical fiction about someone I find fascinating. But I set that aside as I found my stride with YA Contemporary. So I wrote, 180 pages in a few months, or was it longer? Probably longer. I loved the character, the situation, the supporting cast. But I got hit with a hard frost called, “You can’t have all that happen to someone so young.”
So I started over, with her older. But that changes only EVERYTHING. And I’ve gone back and forth about all kinds of things in this new situation. And just recently I changed the MC and another big character. I changed their voices.
I feel like my cherry tree. A little frosted and downtrodden with the whole process. Sometimes close to tears. Sometimes in a panic. The thing is, it would be ridiculous and stupid for me to take a chain saw to the trunk of my trees. It’s just part of the growing process. Even though I want to chainsaw my efforts to write.
So guess what? 60% of my cherry blossoms survived the night. I don’t know how. It hit 27. They were all supposed to turn brown and die.
Seems I still have a lot to learn about hope and faith.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The Secrecy of My Politics, and What About Yours?
Are you political? Liberal? Conservative? An independent? Republican? Democrat?
I don't know what I am. I just know there's been a lot going on in the world. And the hypocrisy and irony is driving me crazy.
I try not to talk politics much. I have trust issues. And though I'm capable of loving and adoring people that I vehemently disagree with on certain topics, I don't trust others to do the same for me. But I might be changing that. Maybe.
Nuclear energy. Libya. Healthcare. Public Unions. Afghanistan. Iran. Iraq. Domestic Policies. Public education. I have strong feelings about all of this. I veil some of it in humor. That's how I've dealth with all the hard things in life. Except my husband hears a lot of it. Poor man.
But what do you dare say? And are there things you don't? And why not?
I don't know what I am. I just know there's been a lot going on in the world. And the hypocrisy and irony is driving me crazy.
I try not to talk politics much. I have trust issues. And though I'm capable of loving and adoring people that I vehemently disagree with on certain topics, I don't trust others to do the same for me. But I might be changing that. Maybe.
Nuclear energy. Libya. Healthcare. Public Unions. Afghanistan. Iran. Iraq. Domestic Policies. Public education. I have strong feelings about all of this. I veil some of it in humor. That's how I've dealth with all the hard things in life. Except my husband hears a lot of it. Poor man.
But what do you dare say? And are there things you don't? And why not?
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Journal Entry for my Posterity
Ann Dee Ellis posted about journals today on her blog. I commented that I did write in a journal, started when I was 9. But it was all a lie. Except for half the time where I apologized to my journal for neglecting it. Journals are sensitive things. And magical things. They sting you with guilt.
I have written from time to time. Tried to write a few things when my babies were little. I even wrote a few excerpts when Brendan and I were dating. I'm glad I did. Even though I was always worried about what my posterity would be thinking when and if they read them.
Maybe I should've written a journal of apologies. I imagine it would go something like this...
Dear Posterity,
Sorry about the freckled white skin, and no, you will not tan. Just accept that pink and white are your only shades.
I should probably apologize for your want to punch people in the face. I should apologize for that. I really should. Punching people is wrong. But for some reason, punching people is some of my favorite memories. Also, sorry about whatever mental issue that is.
Sorry about being painfully competitive. Eventually you will temper and mature. But until then, kick some serious trash. Take no prisoners. NO ONE should ever beat you in a water fight. Ever.
Also, okay yes, this has to do with violence too. It's just that, well, just try not to land yourself in jail. I'm just saying.
I have written from time to time. Tried to write a few things when my babies were little. I even wrote a few excerpts when Brendan and I were dating. I'm glad I did. Even though I was always worried about what my posterity would be thinking when and if they read them.
Maybe I should've written a journal of apologies. I imagine it would go something like this...
Dear Posterity,
Sorry about the freckled white skin, and no, you will not tan. Just accept that pink and white are your only shades.
I should probably apologize for your want to punch people in the face. I should apologize for that. I really should. Punching people is wrong. But for some reason, punching people is some of my favorite memories. Also, sorry about whatever mental issue that is.
Sorry about being painfully competitive. Eventually you will temper and mature. But until then, kick some serious trash. Take no prisoners. NO ONE should ever beat you in a water fight. Ever.
Also, okay yes, this has to do with violence too. It's just that, well, just try not to land yourself in jail. I'm just saying.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers
So here's the straight truth. A year and a half ago I had a small interest in writing. I mean, I've always enjoyed writing. But for publication? Never. I decided I should take a writing class from BYU. My professor was very encouraging and put me into a class at a BYU Writer's Conference.
I had never heard of such a thing. A conference for writers? Was I a writer? Did I want to be a writer? I spent a week in a class with Ann Cannon (A.E.Cannon) and 12 other writers in an advanced novel class. They were so patient with me. They talked about critique groups and the other conferences they had been to.
The conference was loaded with great authors and I even had a chance to meet with an editor from New York. She looked at a few pages I had written and the interview wasn't terrible. Despite my having no idea what I was doing.
I returned again this last June and had another great week in Utah. It's such an odd, but great feeling to be encouraged by people who've published numbers of books.
So here I am, preparing for my return trip to this conference, not just as an attendee but as a participant in it's formation. And I've had the privilege to see some of the hard work that goes on behind the scenes to make it feel like a trip to Disneyland for those who attend.
I hope to see you there.
http://wifyr.com
I had never heard of such a thing. A conference for writers? Was I a writer? Did I want to be a writer? I spent a week in a class with Ann Cannon (A.E.Cannon) and 12 other writers in an advanced novel class. They were so patient with me. They talked about critique groups and the other conferences they had been to.
The conference was loaded with great authors and I even had a chance to meet with an editor from New York. She looked at a few pages I had written and the interview wasn't terrible. Despite my having no idea what I was doing.
I returned again this last June and had another great week in Utah. It's such an odd, but great feeling to be encouraged by people who've published numbers of books.
So here I am, preparing for my return trip to this conference, not just as an attendee but as a participant in it's formation. And I've had the privilege to see some of the hard work that goes on behind the scenes to make it feel like a trip to Disneyland for those who attend.
I hope to see you there.
http://wifyr.com
Monday, January 31, 2011
Writing and Pregnancy
Um, did you know I'm working on a novel? Two actually, but mostly one at the moment. Sometimes it's fun to tell people you're writing a novel and sometimes not. It's like being pregnant with no due date.
"How much longer?"
"Are you almost done?"
"When can I buy it?"
"Are you published yet?"
Part of me says yes, yes, I'm expecting. Isn't it exciting? But then after awhile it feels more like that last month of pregnancy where you're all, "Get this thing out of me." And people start saying, man you look like you could have that thing any day now. Except they say, are you still working on that? Or, aren't you done already?
That's when telling regret starts. Because growing a baby is dang hard work. And that poor baby/book, it gets the worst treatment. Cuz I don't know how to be a pregnant lady or writer yet. (Note to readers, I'm actually quite familiar with being pregnant, but I'm talking about the first time.)
So in the book I'm writing I think, I need more of this. Kind of like how I told my husband, more hot dogs and cheese are needed. At midnight. And then i see another pregnant lady in her cute pregnant aerobic outfit (you people make me sick) jogging down the road and I think, I'm doing this all wrong, because I just read this book and it's excellent and it's nothing like what I'm writing.
Here's the real deal with my first pregnancy. Vomit. A lot of vomit. The feeling hitting me, running to the bathroom and vomiting on the kitchen floor and slipping in my own vomit and sliding in my own vomit and ramming into a door all covered in my own vomit which made me, vomit. And this relates to writing. Yes it does.
I'll be minding my own business, just typing away when a scene will hit me. And I'm suddenly a crazed lunatic. I'm weepy and teary and I don't want to sit there anymore. Or sometimes I crack myself up because let's face it, I'm funny. And there's just too much sarcastic punk in me to not let it slip into my characters.
And it's all a bit of a mess. But you have to write that way. Or alteast I do. The clean up comes later. Sometimes one scene will bring another one out, like slipping in vomit. Other times not. That's called dry heaving writing. I hate that kind.
So now you feel all educated about writing and vomit and you think, why would I ever want to write? Because duh, eventually the baby comes and you think, maybe that was all worth it.
"How much longer?"
"Are you almost done?"
"When can I buy it?"
"Are you published yet?"
Part of me says yes, yes, I'm expecting. Isn't it exciting? But then after awhile it feels more like that last month of pregnancy where you're all, "Get this thing out of me." And people start saying, man you look like you could have that thing any day now. Except they say, are you still working on that? Or, aren't you done already?
That's when telling regret starts. Because growing a baby is dang hard work. And that poor baby/book, it gets the worst treatment. Cuz I don't know how to be a pregnant lady or writer yet. (Note to readers, I'm actually quite familiar with being pregnant, but I'm talking about the first time.)
So in the book I'm writing I think, I need more of this. Kind of like how I told my husband, more hot dogs and cheese are needed. At midnight. And then i see another pregnant lady in her cute pregnant aerobic outfit (you people make me sick) jogging down the road and I think, I'm doing this all wrong, because I just read this book and it's excellent and it's nothing like what I'm writing.
Here's the real deal with my first pregnancy. Vomit. A lot of vomit. The feeling hitting me, running to the bathroom and vomiting on the kitchen floor and slipping in my own vomit and sliding in my own vomit and ramming into a door all covered in my own vomit which made me, vomit. And this relates to writing. Yes it does.
I'll be minding my own business, just typing away when a scene will hit me. And I'm suddenly a crazed lunatic. I'm weepy and teary and I don't want to sit there anymore. Or sometimes I crack myself up because let's face it, I'm funny. And there's just too much sarcastic punk in me to not let it slip into my characters.
And it's all a bit of a mess. But you have to write that way. Or alteast I do. The clean up comes later. Sometimes one scene will bring another one out, like slipping in vomit. Other times not. That's called dry heaving writing. I hate that kind.
So now you feel all educated about writing and vomit and you think, why would I ever want to write? Because duh, eventually the baby comes and you think, maybe that was all worth it.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Conflict of Interests
My youngest was home with me today. And I'm in a hurry to finish my manuscript.
Is it just me, or does this seem like a conflict? Of course. Because don't you know,
"There's nothing to do in this whole house."
So I thought, okay, I don't really write ALL DAY anyway. Just a few hours on a good writing day.
List of non-boring things we did:
1. Make a miniature of our dog Peanut with a conglomerate of crafty kid things we have. Which included the use of a glue gun. Which means yes, I touched the hot glue a few times trying to stick the little eyes on.
2. Read picture books by Judy Cox and Kristyn Crow. Voices included.
3. Shot each other and the windows and t.v. with nerf guns.
4. Ate food.
After all of this I felt like a good mom. Until there was a 3.4 minute pause in the action wherein I was reminded that, "There's nothing to do. Nothing is fun by myself."
At that point I did what any book writing mom would do, I turned on Scooby Doo and then started to write. But even Scooby Doo is boring if you have no one to tell all the parts to. He's a sports broadcaster in the making. Kid gives a great play by play.
Someday I'll finish.
In the meantime, I'm sharpening my mad nerf gun shooting skills.
Is it just me, or does this seem like a conflict? Of course. Because don't you know,
"There's nothing to do in this whole house."
So I thought, okay, I don't really write ALL DAY anyway. Just a few hours on a good writing day.
List of non-boring things we did:
1. Make a miniature of our dog Peanut with a conglomerate of crafty kid things we have. Which included the use of a glue gun. Which means yes, I touched the hot glue a few times trying to stick the little eyes on.
2. Read picture books by Judy Cox and Kristyn Crow. Voices included.
3. Shot each other and the windows and t.v. with nerf guns.
4. Ate food.
After all of this I felt like a good mom. Until there was a 3.4 minute pause in the action wherein I was reminded that, "There's nothing to do. Nothing is fun by myself."
At that point I did what any book writing mom would do, I turned on Scooby Doo and then started to write. But even Scooby Doo is boring if you have no one to tell all the parts to. He's a sports broadcaster in the making. Kid gives a great play by play.
Someday I'll finish.
In the meantime, I'm sharpening my mad nerf gun shooting skills.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Writing the Hard Stuff
So I'm not the best at blogging.
Anyway.
The book I'm currently writing is an emotional one. And one that picks scabs off of past scars. I write for a while and feel great, and then I feel it affecting me. It's pretty hard sometimes, actually. But I know I'm supposed to be writing it.
So what do you do when you feel all emotionally confused? You talk to Carol Lynch Williams, the author of some of the best, hardest books, ever. And you whine and cry and tell her too much personal information. And then she tells you the best advice. Because she's Carol.
First, you need to read her books. Did you? Okay. She said, you can't put it all in one book. Our lives require more than one. Pick one big thing, change it a bit, because you're writing fiction, and then pepper it with smaller events. So simple. And something I can see so very clearly in her writing now that she mentioned that.
I'm not done writing the book, but I have the whole thing in my head. And today, my goal is to write out those events that belong in the book. Seperate from the book. My plot is already mapped, and I have much of the book written. It's in the revision that the possible changes will take place.
I just love formulas. I love patterns. I listen to what other writers have to say, to their advice, to their experiences. It's just that sometimes, one person will say what I need to hear in the only way that will get to me.
Thank you, Carol. And thank you to all my friends and peers who have helped me along this path.
Anyway.
The book I'm currently writing is an emotional one. And one that picks scabs off of past scars. I write for a while and feel great, and then I feel it affecting me. It's pretty hard sometimes, actually. But I know I'm supposed to be writing it.
So what do you do when you feel all emotionally confused? You talk to Carol Lynch Williams, the author of some of the best, hardest books, ever. And you whine and cry and tell her too much personal information. And then she tells you the best advice. Because she's Carol.
First, you need to read her books. Did you? Okay. She said, you can't put it all in one book. Our lives require more than one. Pick one big thing, change it a bit, because you're writing fiction, and then pepper it with smaller events. So simple. And something I can see so very clearly in her writing now that she mentioned that.
I'm not done writing the book, but I have the whole thing in my head. And today, my goal is to write out those events that belong in the book. Seperate from the book. My plot is already mapped, and I have much of the book written. It's in the revision that the possible changes will take place.
I just love formulas. I love patterns. I listen to what other writers have to say, to their advice, to their experiences. It's just that sometimes, one person will say what I need to hear in the only way that will get to me.
Thank you, Carol. And thank you to all my friends and peers who have helped me along this path.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Christmas and Eve Thereof
Brendan and I stayed up until 1:30 in the morning on Christmas Eve wrapping and assembling one of those arcade type dual basketball hoop thingies. Normally a late night such as that wouldn't bother me. But I literally fell asleep a few times holding some things steady for Bren. I guess when you take quadrillion pills for sizillion health issues, it gets to you.
Sleep. This thing was unheard of during college. Ask my roommates. Even ask friends who weren't my roommates with whom I talked to all night. And ask my husband with whom I dated very late into the night. (Children, disregard that sentence.) But come on, he was so cute.
Christmas wasn't that great once middle school rolled around. Cuz it was just clothes and bleh bleh. I know not everyone felt that way. I have friends, (Tonya) who thought the other 364 days of the year were meant to prepare for this Holiday. Buying gifts for others was always fun.
BUT. Christmas came alive for me again after Madelyn was born. Yes, she was only 3 months old on her first Christmas. But I couldn't wait. I was so excited. I woke Brendan and Madelyn up at 5:30 in the morning to open presents. And ever since then, Christmas has held it's magic.
I loved having them line up at the top of the stairs. Wait for me to go down and turn the Christmas Tree lights on. Then let them take a few stairs at a time and stop to pause for effect. They were all happy. Happy at what they got, happy for what their siblings got. Happy to rip the pretty paper and make messes. And happy to eat stocking junk food before breakfast.
It was a good day. Because I have them. Because I have Brendan who always feels whatever he's gotten me isn't enough because he wants to give me the world. And it was a good day, quadrillion pills or not, because I was there.
Sleep. This thing was unheard of during college. Ask my roommates. Even ask friends who weren't my roommates with whom I talked to all night. And ask my husband with whom I dated very late into the night. (Children, disregard that sentence.) But come on, he was so cute.
Christmas wasn't that great once middle school rolled around. Cuz it was just clothes and bleh bleh. I know not everyone felt that way. I have friends, (Tonya) who thought the other 364 days of the year were meant to prepare for this Holiday. Buying gifts for others was always fun.
BUT. Christmas came alive for me again after Madelyn was born. Yes, she was only 3 months old on her first Christmas. But I couldn't wait. I was so excited. I woke Brendan and Madelyn up at 5:30 in the morning to open presents. And ever since then, Christmas has held it's magic.
I loved having them line up at the top of the stairs. Wait for me to go down and turn the Christmas Tree lights on. Then let them take a few stairs at a time and stop to pause for effect. They were all happy. Happy at what they got, happy for what their siblings got. Happy to rip the pretty paper and make messes. And happy to eat stocking junk food before breakfast.
It was a good day. Because I have them. Because I have Brendan who always feels whatever he's gotten me isn't enough because he wants to give me the world. And it was a good day, quadrillion pills or not, because I was there.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Even when expected, death is difficult
One of my sweet friends called a bit ago to say that her husband had just passed away. The tears haven't quite slowed yet.
When I was young, I walked to Elementary School. On the way there and back I would stop and visit with an elderly lady. I wish I could remember her name. I don't know how or when we became friends. I think it started with me watching her fill her flowerbeds and tend to her garden. It was the first time I heard about peat moss.
The two of us spent a lot of time together. I remember sitting at her table, talking about who knows what while eating her fresh made fruit leather. One of her walls had all kinds of sailboats on it. I loved everything about her little house and her. This lady who didn't even know who my parents were but shared her life with me, a 7 year old.
I have always had an affinity for gray hair and wrinkled eyes. As I, myself age, I've come to understand cognitively what I felt in my heart for so long, that our bodies succumb to a corruptive process, but our spirits stay youthful and vibrant.
This friend of mine who just lost her husband, though her wrinkles are plentiful, is the same as me on the inside. I consider all of this time that she has taken care of her ill husband and I love her even more. He suffered from the same disease that plagues my body. I see myself in him, limited by the shell we carry. And at the same time feel comfort in the knowledge that I have a husband who will care for me with all of the love that my friend has for her spouse.
I cry with her today. For her loss. For her service. For her empty home. My heart is with you, O.J. Richard has gone home to his Father in Heaven and is finally free of his pain.
When I was young, I walked to Elementary School. On the way there and back I would stop and visit with an elderly lady. I wish I could remember her name. I don't know how or when we became friends. I think it started with me watching her fill her flowerbeds and tend to her garden. It was the first time I heard about peat moss.
The two of us spent a lot of time together. I remember sitting at her table, talking about who knows what while eating her fresh made fruit leather. One of her walls had all kinds of sailboats on it. I loved everything about her little house and her. This lady who didn't even know who my parents were but shared her life with me, a 7 year old.
I have always had an affinity for gray hair and wrinkled eyes. As I, myself age, I've come to understand cognitively what I felt in my heart for so long, that our bodies succumb to a corruptive process, but our spirits stay youthful and vibrant.
This friend of mine who just lost her husband, though her wrinkles are plentiful, is the same as me on the inside. I consider all of this time that she has taken care of her ill husband and I love her even more. He suffered from the same disease that plagues my body. I see myself in him, limited by the shell we carry. And at the same time feel comfort in the knowledge that I have a husband who will care for me with all of the love that my friend has for her spouse.
I cry with her today. For her loss. For her service. For her empty home. My heart is with you, O.J. Richard has gone home to his Father in Heaven and is finally free of his pain.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Christmas Quotes from my Children
"Are we really getting nothing for Christmas?"
"I hope Christmas is like last year when I got a new tetherball and it was fun."
"I already knew that, the Tooth Fairy is dad, but Santa is real."
"Make sure you remember everything I want in my stocking."
"We already had Christmas last year."
"I hope Christmas is like last year when I got a new tetherball and it was fun."
"I already knew that, the Tooth Fairy is dad, but Santa is real."
"Make sure you remember everything I want in my stocking."
"We already had Christmas last year."
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Breaking Stuff, Building Stuff, Avoiding Stuff
One day I thought, I will take a hammer to my wall and make a little storage room under my stairs. Yes, this was a good thought. So I found the hammer, which is usually either in one of the drawers in my kitchen, or somewhere in the yellow bag o' tools. The hammer was next to the yellow bag o' tools. Of course.
And so I commenced said hammering while all my children stood in amazement. Saying encouraging things such as, "Dad is going to be mad.", "Does Dad know about this?", and "Wait 'til Dad sees this." Apparently my children think their mother just goes Willy Nilly Whatever She Wants Sometimes. Oh, please.
Nah, he didn't know. But one time we talked about accessing that space. So that's pretty much approval right there. And plus, he doesn't have to lift a finger, it's all my job. And that's the way I like my projects. Control issues? Ummm... maybe.
So now I have it pounded out and vacuumed up with the beautiful shop-vac I purchased on Black Friday Morning from Home Depot. I used much restraint to stick to my list in that place. I'm like a fat kid in a candy store in there. I Want Everything.
The thing is, I'm supposed to be writing. Working on my novels. And look at me right now, writing a blog entry. Avoid much? Okay, but I also have a kiddo home with me today. And I'm cutting up shelves so I can finish the project. And it's snowing, kind of. And I haven't seen the sun today. And me working on a project means my house isn't getting the attention it needs.
But. I did send out 10 pages for my critique group today. Of course, that doesn't add to my word count. Dangit.
Plus also, and including another excuse for my writing negligence, I got Ally Condie's book, Matched, in the mail today. And I want to read it!!! Wah. Wah. Wah.
Time to use the Skill Saw now.
And so I commenced said hammering while all my children stood in amazement. Saying encouraging things such as, "Dad is going to be mad.", "Does Dad know about this?", and "Wait 'til Dad sees this." Apparently my children think their mother just goes Willy Nilly Whatever She Wants Sometimes. Oh, please.
Nah, he didn't know. But one time we talked about accessing that space. So that's pretty much approval right there. And plus, he doesn't have to lift a finger, it's all my job. And that's the way I like my projects. Control issues? Ummm... maybe.
So now I have it pounded out and vacuumed up with the beautiful shop-vac I purchased on Black Friday Morning from Home Depot. I used much restraint to stick to my list in that place. I'm like a fat kid in a candy store in there. I Want Everything.
The thing is, I'm supposed to be writing. Working on my novels. And look at me right now, writing a blog entry. Avoid much? Okay, but I also have a kiddo home with me today. And I'm cutting up shelves so I can finish the project. And it's snowing, kind of. And I haven't seen the sun today. And me working on a project means my house isn't getting the attention it needs.
But. I did send out 10 pages for my critique group today. Of course, that doesn't add to my word count. Dangit.
Plus also, and including another excuse for my writing negligence, I got Ally Condie's book, Matched, in the mail today. And I want to read it!!! Wah. Wah. Wah.
Time to use the Skill Saw now.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Eat Pray Love and Take a Nap (spoiler alert)
In general, I like Julia Roberts. But I just have to say, her lips distract me. I find myself ignoring the story and staring at the oddity on her face. Have they always been that big? Did she pull a Meg Ryan?
Anyway - back to the movie. I completely sided with her husband. How about some communication, Julia? How about you mention throughout the years that you're not happy instead of all of a sudden leaving? And then you sack up with a boy? And seriously... that guy? The Spiderman mean guy? I'm sure the book held much more detail. But I'm talking just the movie here.
Then we have clap, clap, travel to Rome, India, Bahli, and meditate. Yes, meditation will help you - find yourself. Gag. Ick. And lame. How about we just all open our minds and forgive ourselves for bailing on our marriage, committing adultery, and running away from our responsibilities? Oh, I feel so much better.
Yes, there are tears, Julia. Because you're an idiot for looking for a sign from an old guy with no teeth who reads your palm. Let me tell you something lady, there are plenty of "signs" for infidelity. Plenty of selfish reasons to think you as an individual are more important than your commitments. Pull up your big girl panties and work on your marriage.
But no, you run away and hook up with Felipe who has so much in common with you - you're both divorced, ooh, that's a rare thing to find nowadays. And he owns an island? And a boat? And he's Brazilian? Yes, this non-commitment, commitment is SO much better. And don't worry, you won't ever have disagreements with Felipe, you won't ever have to WORK on your relationship. Living in la la land is great.
So - in conclusion, I did not like the characters, did not like the story line, and did not like that I wasted my time waiting for something to make sense.
Good news is, if you need help falling asleep, slide this one into the dvd player.
Anyway - back to the movie. I completely sided with her husband. How about some communication, Julia? How about you mention throughout the years that you're not happy instead of all of a sudden leaving? And then you sack up with a boy? And seriously... that guy? The Spiderman mean guy? I'm sure the book held much more detail. But I'm talking just the movie here.
Then we have clap, clap, travel to Rome, India, Bahli, and meditate. Yes, meditation will help you - find yourself. Gag. Ick. And lame. How about we just all open our minds and forgive ourselves for bailing on our marriage, committing adultery, and running away from our responsibilities? Oh, I feel so much better.
Yes, there are tears, Julia. Because you're an idiot for looking for a sign from an old guy with no teeth who reads your palm. Let me tell you something lady, there are plenty of "signs" for infidelity. Plenty of selfish reasons to think you as an individual are more important than your commitments. Pull up your big girl panties and work on your marriage.
But no, you run away and hook up with Felipe who has so much in common with you - you're both divorced, ooh, that's a rare thing to find nowadays. And he owns an island? And a boat? And he's Brazilian? Yes, this non-commitment, commitment is SO much better. And don't worry, you won't ever have disagreements with Felipe, you won't ever have to WORK on your relationship. Living in la la land is great.
So - in conclusion, I did not like the characters, did not like the story line, and did not like that I wasted my time waiting for something to make sense.
Good news is, if you need help falling asleep, slide this one into the dvd player.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Give it a rest! (For Intense Writers like Me.)
Give it a rest!
But when?
I like intense. I like not realizing I'm holding my breath while reading. And I like eventually taking that breath since not taking a breath would render me dead. It's easier for me to draw on the intense, on the powerful emotion as I write. I've lived it.
But. Undulation.
It's the law of our life. And just so you know, and for the purpose of this next personal story, I'd like to add that in my next life I'd love to be an X-treme Sports-chic. A few years ago I hit the white rapids with a group of friends. We ran into a raft-swallowing rapid. A friend of mine was on her way out, so i reached out and threw her back in. And what a boring story if I myself did not fall in. So, Yay for not boring because I did land in the water.
It moves so fast. The water. All I could think was, feet forward, ( so your back doesn't smash into the mammoth huge rocks.) breathe at the bottom of the wave, then close my mouth. Cuz here's the deal. You never crest a wave for a breath. You go THROUGH the wave. The most disconcerting thing is the speed doesn't allow you to take a full breath. You have a split second and then you are under water again.
Don't worry. I made it. Just in case you were wondering.
If books are a reflection of life, then we have to follow the laws of life. We have to have moments to breathe, even if for a split second. Like the split seconds we get in Suzanne Collins' books. I forget this sometimes. In very fact, I mentioned this to Carol Lynch Williams, at which point she said great, write about it. (So I did.) Which, by the way, is not the kind of answer I was looking for, that just goes against my philosophy of immediate gratification. You know those people who when you asked for a definition they said, Look it up. Ewww. Grrr. Except for Carol. She gets an ewww and grrr pass.
So as far as timing goes, I've tried to look at my writing as rapids. After a good soaking, let the reader come up for a breath. And make sure the climax feels like there is no way back to the surface.
Let us not drowns our books. And let us be glad for a few moments here and there that we dared to jump in.
Happy writing and rafting.
But when?
I like intense. I like not realizing I'm holding my breath while reading. And I like eventually taking that breath since not taking a breath would render me dead. It's easier for me to draw on the intense, on the powerful emotion as I write. I've lived it.
But. Undulation.
It's the law of our life. And just so you know, and for the purpose of this next personal story, I'd like to add that in my next life I'd love to be an X-treme Sports-chic. A few years ago I hit the white rapids with a group of friends. We ran into a raft-swallowing rapid. A friend of mine was on her way out, so i reached out and threw her back in. And what a boring story if I myself did not fall in. So, Yay for not boring because I did land in the water.
It moves so fast. The water. All I could think was, feet forward, ( so your back doesn't smash into the mammoth huge rocks.) breathe at the bottom of the wave, then close my mouth. Cuz here's the deal. You never crest a wave for a breath. You go THROUGH the wave. The most disconcerting thing is the speed doesn't allow you to take a full breath. You have a split second and then you are under water again.
Don't worry. I made it. Just in case you were wondering.
If books are a reflection of life, then we have to follow the laws of life. We have to have moments to breathe, even if for a split second. Like the split seconds we get in Suzanne Collins' books. I forget this sometimes. In very fact, I mentioned this to Carol Lynch Williams, at which point she said great, write about it. (So I did.) Which, by the way, is not the kind of answer I was looking for, that just goes against my philosophy of immediate gratification. You know those people who when you asked for a definition they said, Look it up. Ewww. Grrr. Except for Carol. She gets an ewww and grrr pass.
So as far as timing goes, I've tried to look at my writing as rapids. After a good soaking, let the reader come up for a breath. And make sure the climax feels like there is no way back to the surface.
Let us not drowns our books. And let us be glad for a few moments here and there that we dared to jump in.
Happy writing and rafting.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
My Kids Reading Infatuation for the Week
Charlie Bones and The Children of the Red King by Jenny Nimmo.
My 10 year old son has read 5 of the books in the last 4 days.
I'm going to have to read one to see what it's all about.
My 10 year old son has read 5 of the books in the last 4 days.
I'm going to have to read one to see what it's all about.
Poochie is Accosted by TSA
Dear Readers,
Who so far there are none since I just started this blog. Yes, another blog. Stop it. That's not the point. The point is Poochie.
Rumours have escalated around the emotional trauma that Poochie the dog has had to endure since being shoved through the naked scanner at the airport. Apparently Poochie had an accident with a stick one day in his backyard. A tragic event that left him half the man he used to be.
Poochie tried to cover up this crude half-castration with some creative engineering from articles he recovered from the neighbors garbage can. (Well, they shouldn't have left it out on the curb that long. A dog can't be expected to have self control indefinately.) It's really amazing what duct tape can do.
But alas, poor Poochie was REVEALED during the naked scanner at O'Hare International. After the preceeding pat-down (inappropriate touching) the ingenious article was removed. Because apparently you no longer need underwear to be an underwear bomber. So said the grinning and somewhat slimy TSA worker.
You can imagine the humiliation. Of which Poochie seeks to be compensated for in the amount of 84 million 763 thousand 482 dollars and 36 cents. He is also suing for loss of girlfriend who no longer finds Poochie... suitable.
If you have any information - cell phone video - audio recording - water cooler gossip - to use in this case of, "Don't Touch My Literal Junk" please contact his lawyers.
Who so far there are none since I just started this blog. Yes, another blog. Stop it. That's not the point. The point is Poochie.
Rumours have escalated around the emotional trauma that Poochie the dog has had to endure since being shoved through the naked scanner at the airport. Apparently Poochie had an accident with a stick one day in his backyard. A tragic event that left him half the man he used to be.
Poochie tried to cover up this crude half-castration with some creative engineering from articles he recovered from the neighbors garbage can. (Well, they shouldn't have left it out on the curb that long. A dog can't be expected to have self control indefinately.) It's really amazing what duct tape can do.
But alas, poor Poochie was REVEALED during the naked scanner at O'Hare International. After the preceeding pat-down (inappropriate touching) the ingenious article was removed. Because apparently you no longer need underwear to be an underwear bomber. So said the grinning and somewhat slimy TSA worker.
You can imagine the humiliation. Of which Poochie seeks to be compensated for in the amount of 84 million 763 thousand 482 dollars and 36 cents. He is also suing for loss of girlfriend who no longer finds Poochie... suitable.
If you have any information - cell phone video - audio recording - water cooler gossip - to use in this case of, "Don't Touch My Literal Junk" please contact his lawyers.
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