So this is how it is. I am in a place of limbo and unable to properly feed my blogling child. Today is Wednesday, not Monday or Friday, but I happen to be near a computer. I am in the middle of moving my household belongings from one state to another. My life is presently in boxes.
I plan to come back and post again before I head West but it may be on yet another non-bookend day; Friday might be a little quirky for me.
In the meantime, may I suggest to you that you clean one closet, or one drawer, or empty one box in your basement or garage today. And then do it again every other day for the rest of the summer. This is something you will not regret doing. I am waist-deep in stuff I forgot I had, don't need and could've passed along to someone else.
Moving is hard work, emotionally and physically. But it's refreshing — in a bracing kind of way — to reduce the volume of your possessions. The weight of having so much isn't keenly felt until you begin to rid yourself of some of it.
Until another near-a-computer day. . .
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Post-iceburg ponderings
Is it just me? Or do you sense a feeling of collective frustration and disappointment? I am aware, keenly aware, of the magnitude of burdens those closest to me carry. It seems like everywhere I look I see the absence of physical peace, unmet longings, unanswered requests. Perhaps this heightened sensitivity is purely because I, too, am at the growing place. And so I recognize it in everyone else.
I know we learn best and retain the most when stretched to the length of our being. But when does a powerful stretch not cause us to wince in pain? "Look what is happening to me!" I wail to the heavenly hands that pull me one way and push me the next.
Throughout last week I found myself awash in many cares and whispering the word "help" often throughout each day. No capital H, no exclamation point. Just "help." help. help. help. It was a request, a prayer, but I sensed my need to hold back and actually scream it. I daresay it was my desire to have control over one little thing in my life: the volume and intensity of my surrender.
And as I moved through the week, medicating my overworked thinker with Advil and good English tea, I was moved by the breadth of the cares of so many around me. It was like the Titanic — the ship of our dreams had sunk — and there we were in the icy Atlantic, bobbing in our life-jackets, wondering if any would come to save us. Each in our little private world of pain and doubt and loss. help. help. help.
Then I read this little scapel-like piece of advice from Oswald Chambers' "My Utmost for His Highest." No sin is worse than the sin of self-pity, because it obliterates God and puts self-interest on the throne. It opens our mouths to spit out murmurings and our lives become craving spiritual sponges; there is nothing lovely or generous about them.
Yikes. Why don't you just give me a paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?
Seriously, comrades. This wicked gem opened my eyes to see I am truly not treading water off the bow of a sinking ship. I am in the growing place, not the drowning place.
After I read this, I paged back to the May 8 entry of "My Utmost" which is highlighted and dog-eared in my version because I am routinely in need of reminding myself what God is like, especially when I come face to face with what I am like: Patience is more than endurance. A saint's life is in the hands of God like a bow and arrow in the hands of an archer. God is aiming at something the saint cannot see, and He stretches and strains, and every now and again the saint says, "I cannot stand anymore." God does not heed. He goes on stretching till His purpose is in sight, then He lets fly.
Look what is happening to me.
It is no picnic being in the bow of God. But I trust His aim. How can I not? And I want to fly true. I really do. I better stop wiggling then. Or He will just have to start over.
Okay, then. See you at the target, dear ones.
I know we learn best and retain the most when stretched to the length of our being. But when does a powerful stretch not cause us to wince in pain? "Look what is happening to me!" I wail to the heavenly hands that pull me one way and push me the next.
Throughout last week I found myself awash in many cares and whispering the word "help" often throughout each day. No capital H, no exclamation point. Just "help." help. help. help. It was a request, a prayer, but I sensed my need to hold back and actually scream it. I daresay it was my desire to have control over one little thing in my life: the volume and intensity of my surrender.
And as I moved through the week, medicating my overworked thinker with Advil and good English tea, I was moved by the breadth of the cares of so many around me. It was like the Titanic — the ship of our dreams had sunk — and there we were in the icy Atlantic, bobbing in our life-jackets, wondering if any would come to save us. Each in our little private world of pain and doubt and loss. help. help. help.
Then I read this little scapel-like piece of advice from Oswald Chambers' "My Utmost for His Highest." No sin is worse than the sin of self-pity, because it obliterates God and puts self-interest on the throne. It opens our mouths to spit out murmurings and our lives become craving spiritual sponges; there is nothing lovely or generous about them.
Yikes. Why don't you just give me a paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?
Seriously, comrades. This wicked gem opened my eyes to see I am truly not treading water off the bow of a sinking ship. I am in the growing place, not the drowning place.
After I read this, I paged back to the May 8 entry of "My Utmost" which is highlighted and dog-eared in my version because I am routinely in need of reminding myself what God is like, especially when I come face to face with what I am like: Patience is more than endurance. A saint's life is in the hands of God like a bow and arrow in the hands of an archer. God is aiming at something the saint cannot see, and He stretches and strains, and every now and again the saint says, "I cannot stand anymore." God does not heed. He goes on stretching till His purpose is in sight, then He lets fly.
Look what is happening to me.
It is no picnic being in the bow of God. But I trust His aim. How can I not? And I want to fly true. I really do. I better stop wiggling then. Or He will just have to start over.
Okay, then. See you at the target, dear ones.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Thinking of Jane
When you're the new kid on the block; the wide-eyed, gaped-mouth freshman— wet behind the ears and all that—it's always a wonderful thing to have merciful and calm veterans helping you find your way, make your way, enjoy your way.
I've been published as a novelist for just under three years (my first book, Why the Sky is Blue, was pubbed in June 2004) and I am still learning how to be what I am. Writing a book makes you an author but it doesn't make you smart. You have to learn the ropes of any industry you jump into.
So I've been thankful for the people God has placed in my path the last three years. A warm welcome, a gentle smile offered at big events, advice freely given, encouragement openly shared — it's all meant a great deal to me.
Today, I am specifically thinking of Jane Orcutt — a wise and gifted writer who befriended me when I felt like a kindergartener in a room full of professors. Kind, witty and gentle-hearted, Jane made me feel welcome without even trying. She was a sweet soul. And she's with Jesus.
Jane was ushered into glory on March 18, 2007, after a heroic struggle with acute myeloid leukemia. She left behind a husband, two sons, many friends and colleagues, and a completed book not yet published. Jane's All The Tea in China, (its lovely cover is posted above) will hit bookstore shelves in mid-June, and I think it would be a fabulous tribute to her if the book topped the charts. Perhaps you would consider picking up a copy of All the Tea in China, even if you're not typically a historical romance fan, for the joy of celebrating a life that ended too soon. Jane was a gem. And that's a pretty cool cover, no? A cool chick with a sword. It's bound to be a fun read.
Thanks, Jane, for every little thing. Have a blast in heaven.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Desserts in the Rear View Mirror
I'm not much of a women's mag reader. There's too many of them and too little time for reading, which is a sad fact for most adults. But I do notice headlines while waiting in grocery store lines. The former newspaper editor in me can't help but zero in on headlines. So I found it worth noting that three of them, Family Circle, Woman's Day and Ladies Home Journal, currently contain articles on beating stress, as if the month of May is as charged with stress as January is charged with regret. (January magazines always boast tips on losing holiday poundage).
I actually can't argue with the timing. Life is a bit stressful on the Edge at this time in my life. And stress, unlike a few too many inches in January, is a selfish little monster, a gobbler of hours and energy. It's far more complicated than calorie-indulging. Deeper. Thicker. And I'm of the mind that you can't whisk it away by reading a page of tips sandwiched between Recipes for The Finicky and Summer Haircuts You'll Want To Keep All Year Long!
But certainly there is a place to start. There's always a place where you start.
I read the articles.
There was cross-over to be sure. And some no-brainer, across-the-board tips like learn to say no, exercise, get enough sleep, meditate, eat healthy.
But in the end, past the tips I hadn't thought of before, like stop comparing myself to other people, lose the fascination with perfection, be thankful for what I don't have (there are hundreds of heartaches I do not own, hallelujah), we have to learn to live with it. One of my all time favorite movies is The Princess Bride. Among a boatload of great lines is this one uttered by Westley as the Man in Black when Inigo insists on knowing Westley's identity. "Get used to disappointment," the man in black says. Get used to it. Why? Because it's the nature of the planet we live on and the people we share it with. And how do we get used to something? By familiarity, dangnabit. The more exposure we have to that which addles us, the more we become its observer and less its slave. When I become an observer, when I can maintain perspective, everything shifts. It doesn't change. But it shifts.
Desserts become sweet again.
And there's always June to look forward to . . .
I actually can't argue with the timing. Life is a bit stressful on the Edge at this time in my life. And stress, unlike a few too many inches in January, is a selfish little monster, a gobbler of hours and energy. It's far more complicated than calorie-indulging. Deeper. Thicker. And I'm of the mind that you can't whisk it away by reading a page of tips sandwiched between Recipes for The Finicky and Summer Haircuts You'll Want To Keep All Year Long!
But certainly there is a place to start. There's always a place where you start.
I read the articles.
There was cross-over to be sure. And some no-brainer, across-the-board tips like learn to say no, exercise, get enough sleep, meditate, eat healthy.
But in the end, past the tips I hadn't thought of before, like stop comparing myself to other people, lose the fascination with perfection, be thankful for what I don't have (there are hundreds of heartaches I do not own, hallelujah), we have to learn to live with it. One of my all time favorite movies is The Princess Bride. Among a boatload of great lines is this one uttered by Westley as the Man in Black when Inigo insists on knowing Westley's identity. "Get used to disappointment," the man in black says. Get used to it. Why? Because it's the nature of the planet we live on and the people we share it with. And how do we get used to something? By familiarity, dangnabit. The more exposure we have to that which addles us, the more we become its observer and less its slave. When I become an observer, when I can maintain perspective, everything shifts. It doesn't change. But it shifts.
Desserts become sweet again.
And there's always June to look forward to . . .
Monday, May 7, 2007
Eight Random Thingaroos
My dear friend Mary tagged me this afternoon to play Eight Random Things. I was never very good at tag (worse at tether ball and dodgeball) but I shall give it my best. Here are eight random things about me. And if you read to the end you will see whom I have tagged!
First, these are the rules:
1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
4. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.
EIGHT RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME:
1. I have two crooked pinkies. They bend at the second knuckle at an artsy 24-degree angle towards the ring fingers. I used to pretend my pinkies were little girls, the ring fingers were the mommies, the middle fingers were the daddies, the pointers were the big sisters, and the thumbs were the pudgy brothers who insisted on standing two steps below the rest of the family. No joke.
2. I sang with my high school ensemble at Disneyland.
3. I don't like mayo.
4. My sister, Lauren, (two years older than me) told me once that white butterflies suck your blood. I believed her. I still cringe when I see one.
5. I detest escalators. They scare me witless. I take the elevator or stationary stairs if given the choice. If I have no choice, I have to hesitate, count, and pray before committing to one.
6. I grew up on calamari, artichokes and avocados. My mom is a great cook.
7. I once bought a ticket to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. When I got to that square thingy—the gift shop and observation deck that's slightly above ground level — I chickened out. It's my life dream to go back and take the top.
8. I've always wished I could play the violin.
Here's who I have tagged: Sharon Hinck, Deb Raney, Rachel Hauck, Nicole Petrino-Salter, Michelle Sutton, Camy Tang, Donna Fleisher, Christina Berry.
Enjoy!
First, these are the rules:
1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
4. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.
EIGHT RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME:
1. I have two crooked pinkies. They bend at the second knuckle at an artsy 24-degree angle towards the ring fingers. I used to pretend my pinkies were little girls, the ring fingers were the mommies, the middle fingers were the daddies, the pointers were the big sisters, and the thumbs were the pudgy brothers who insisted on standing two steps below the rest of the family. No joke.
2. I sang with my high school ensemble at Disneyland.
3. I don't like mayo.
4. My sister, Lauren, (two years older than me) told me once that white butterflies suck your blood. I believed her. I still cringe when I see one.
5. I detest escalators. They scare me witless. I take the elevator or stationary stairs if given the choice. If I have no choice, I have to hesitate, count, and pray before committing to one.
6. I grew up on calamari, artichokes and avocados. My mom is a great cook.
7. I once bought a ticket to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. When I got to that square thingy—the gift shop and observation deck that's slightly above ground level — I chickened out. It's my life dream to go back and take the top.
8. I've always wished I could play the violin.
Here's who I have tagged: Sharon Hinck, Deb Raney, Rachel Hauck, Nicole Petrino-Salter, Michelle Sutton, Camy Tang, Donna Fleisher, Christina Berry.
Enjoy!
Friday, May 4, 2007
Sweet and Cheesy Spiders
Every year on Mother's Day — for the last few years anyway — I've let my sons take me to an action flick. That's right. Not a chick flick. An action flick. I've seen Van Helsing, X-Men 2 & 3, both Spiderman movies and probably a couple others on Mother Days gone by. My sons love Mother's Day. They think I'm the best mother in the world.
I can live with that.
Well, this year, we had Mother's Day today, because my youngest will be on a school trip on the real deal and he didn't want to miss it. You can't blame the guy. We saw Spiderman 3, on opening day no less. And I have to say it wasn't a bad way to spend time with my beloved heirs. Yeah, the movie was a little cheesy in places — it has to be. You can't expect a script that calls the arachnid hero "Spidey"on occasion to be all business. And it's got to appeal to eight-year-olds — who are notably big fans of Kraft singles.
I laughed in places where I'm not sure I was supposed to laugh. Like when Peter Parker goes Goth. (I don't think that's a spoiler. If you've seen the previews you've seen Spiderman in black)And there were a couple lines and scenes that were Velveeta-ish. (But I loved the scene in the French restaurant. It was funny and poignant at the same time. Chick-flicky!)
But the thing is, the plot of this movie — when you strip away the special effects, the chase scenes, the thrills — is all about forgiveness. That was the movie's blessed sweet side. More than once the movie-watchers (that would be us) were told that revenge is a poison that kills from the inside out. And that you always have the choice to do the right thing. Always.
What mother doesn't want her sons to learn that?
I can live with that.
Well, this year, we had Mother's Day today, because my youngest will be on a school trip on the real deal and he didn't want to miss it. You can't blame the guy. We saw Spiderman 3, on opening day no less. And I have to say it wasn't a bad way to spend time with my beloved heirs. Yeah, the movie was a little cheesy in places — it has to be. You can't expect a script that calls the arachnid hero "Spidey"on occasion to be all business. And it's got to appeal to eight-year-olds — who are notably big fans of Kraft singles.
I laughed in places where I'm not sure I was supposed to laugh. Like when Peter Parker goes Goth. (I don't think that's a spoiler. If you've seen the previews you've seen Spiderman in black)And there were a couple lines and scenes that were Velveeta-ish. (But I loved the scene in the French restaurant. It was funny and poignant at the same time. Chick-flicky!)
But the thing is, the plot of this movie — when you strip away the special effects, the chase scenes, the thrills — is all about forgiveness. That was the movie's blessed sweet side. More than once the movie-watchers (that would be us) were told that revenge is a poison that kills from the inside out. And that you always have the choice to do the right thing. Always.
What mother doesn't want her sons to learn that?
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