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Archive for the ‘Hope’ Category

In Praise of Good Community

Posted in Andilit, Beauty, Hope, Story Sessions, Thanks, Writing on June 27, 2014| 4 Comments »

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It is not easy to define what support looks like in practice.  It might seem easy.  Then you meet people and discover that they often find it difficult to take others’ needs into account when they are deciding how they are going to behave in life.  This might surprise you, but it probably shouldn’t, as you are people, too, and have probably not centered your own life around what the general “other” needs.

It’s even more complicated when you’ve been burned.  When you thought what you had was support but found out that what was really going on there was agenda.  Or when you had an agreement, and that agreement was not honored. Or when you really did have support – one that you thought would last forever – right up until the moment that it ended.

Today, I want to talk about two places I’ve found support and what that looks like.  I want to talk about two of my online writing communities.

I also want to invite you to join us, because, dear reader-writer-friend, I want you to have support, too.  If any of this interests you, follow the links to find out how you can get involved.

The first online writing community I joined was the writing community at Andilit.  It was created by Andi Cumbo-Floyd who wrote The Slaves Have Names (click and buy – you know you wanna) about the people who were enslaved on the land where she grew up. I am boggled, both by the enormous amount of research it took to tell as much of their story as possible and by the humble grace and beauty with which she tells it.

I joined because I had this scrap of a manuscript, and I needed fresh eyes. What I found exceeded (and continues to exceed) my expectations.

I get monthly editing for up to five pages of work from a professional editor.  Five pages is a drop in the bucket as far as a full manuscript goes, but for the turtle-esque pace with which I edit my own work to the point that I am willing to let another human being see it, this works out perfectly.  I am saving up for a grand editing once the manuscript is totally finished (and if you are looking for such an editor, I highly recommend Andi), but it’s great to have help along the way as well.

I also get monthly editing from a workshop of others in the group for up to five pages.  This was the part that scared me when I first joined, because I tend to helicopter-parent my characters.  They’ve been through so much already; I want to protect them from judgment. But as with most overzealous protection, this doesn’t help them grow, so I begrudgingly submitted pieces for workshop.  It has been a godsend.  It’s a critique, but from nice, friendly people who write very different things but are still enthusiastic in their desire to help you make your work better, and they expect the same from you. It doesn’t mean the critique doesn’t ever hurt, but it hurts in the good kind of way, like having sore legs the day after a challenging run.

In addition to all of this, Andi facilitates a private Facebook group for members where we post articles or posts on writing that we find, our own blog posts, and anything else writers might find helpful to their craft.  She ends out weekly writing prompts to keep us from getting stuck.  Andi teaches several online courses at reasonable rates. She also lives on a farm where she is hosting a writer’s retreat in July (another thing I’ll be saving toward so that I don’t miss it again next year).

The second online writing community I joined was Story Sessions. I meandered into Story Sessions via Elora’s blog after I read Every Shattered Thing (go ahead, click and buy – I’ll wait) and thus had the insatiable urge to read everything she has ever or will ever write. I feel almost as protective of her main character as I do of  mine.

There are many options for membership.  All of them, however, include a private Facebook group and private members-only content on the website, weekly writing prompts, a monthly newsletter, and story coaching with trained coaches. There are e-courses offered (I’m in the summer session of Story 101 now, and it is glorious) as well as various collectives (mini-courses on a variety of topics), virtual retreats, movie nights, and an annual in-person retreat. We also meet in person in more casual groups on a regular basis, because we just can’t help ourselves.

My favorite thing about Story Sessions are the write-ins.  This might sound funny to members, because my crazy schedule doesn’t allow me to engage in them very often, but I LOVE them. Many of the blog posts I’ve written in the last year of which I am most proud (and all of the blog series I’ve started) were birthed at a Story Sessions write-in. On a weekly basis, members are invited to an online Fuze meeting where we are given prompts, time to write, and an opportunity to read what came out of that time to the other people attending the session.

All that I have said is just a small taste of what you would get from membership in these groups. These words don’t do them justice, because the people in these groups are my friends, and when have words ever done a friend justice? I have read many a snotty piece on how Internet relationships aren’t real relationships, but I can’t help but wonder where those authors are looking.  I know online relationships can be real, because I experience them. And while it’s even better when we have a chance to get together in person, the foundation of our friendships started via the Internet, and they flourish there.

I love these people.  Mercy, how I love them.

I would consider myself lucky to have just found one such community, but I have two.  If you are a writer/artist in need of support, give us a try.

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Badger

Posted in Hope, Story Sessions, Writing on May 16, 2014| 2 Comments »

I loved this boy once.

We were close.  And we both knew that the love between us was uneven.  We both knew that I loved him more than he loved me. We knew that one day this would bite us. But it seemed a shame to cut ties and run – to ruin everything over my silly little broken heart.

When he started spending less time with me and more time with the woman who would become his wife, I didn’t handle it graciously.

Heh.  That’s putting it mildly.

I acted like a lunatic.

I was angry and scared, because I realized that I had this whole life planned that wasn’t going to happen. I understood how badgers feel when they get caught in a trap, and they know they’re never getting out alive, but they refuse to lie still and die.  They fight it until they’re dead.

So I fought.  I pleaded. I argued. I was manipulative and vicious. I refused to be her friend (even though she’s a perfectly nice person), and I refused to listen to anyone who tried to smooth things over (even though they were only trying to help).

I wrote a multiple-page letter detailing why he would be better off with me.

For the first time in my life, I was proud of something I had written, and not because someone else told me that it was good.  There were no pretty bows to tie up the loose ends. No healthy conclusion reached, no lesson learned, no silver lining on the rain cloud. It was just opening a vein and bleeding on the pages.

For the first time in my life, I did not betray myself in order to keep the peace.

For the first time in my life, I felt like a writer.

And when he read my letter – the very soul of me, poured out in ink and tears – and put steel in his gaze as he responded simply, “No,” I asked to have it back.

The letter – and the heart it represented – didn’t belong to him anymore.

There are very few moments in my life that I can point to and say, “That one – that’s the moment it happened,” but that curt “No,” is one of them.  In that moment, the boy who saw me more clearly than anyone had ever seen me before lost his right to do so.

Part of me wishes that I could go back in time and handle things differently.  I would be calmer and more reasonable.  I would behave sensibly, with wisdom beyond my years. I would bear the torture of not being chosen with dignity. I would protect the mutual part of the love between us that was our friendship. Of course, this part of me, knowing the boy wouldn’t really love me back, would be too petrified of falling in love with him to get close enough to have that amazing friendship in the first place.  I would advise others against acting like a lunatic.

Part of me is sorry.

Another part of me, however, understands the badger.  The badger wanted what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to say so. The badger fought, because she had a right to be happy. The badger argued, because she could not fathom how anyone graced with her love could possibly turn it down.  The badger is actually grateful to the boy for standing up for what he wanted and for the cruel way he did it – for that shining moment of asshattery that made everything so clear.  But being grateful doesn’t mean that the badger can abide such foolishness.

Another part of me is the badger, and the badger’s not sorry.

Because she got free.

And she got out alive.

(This was an aftermath of a Story Sessions Write-In.  You should join us.)

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Click

Posted in Beauty, Hope, Writing on April 10, 2014| 6 Comments »

This month might be slow (-er than usual) around here.  I have a couple of places where I’m guest posting, and I will still do a couple of link-ups.  Or I will procrastinate and end up writing here more often.  Whatever happens, the reason is that I am participating in Camp NaNoWriMo.  I have a goal of 75,000 words for the month on an old-but-new-again project called What Not to Say. It’s a commentary on the things that folks, trying to be helpful, say to single people that actually aren’t that helpful at all.  It has its own blog space, because eventually I want it to become a community project, as my experience as a single person, vast and wondrous as it may be, is still just one person’s experience, and as self-important as I am, I don’t really know how to market what would essentially be a manual on how to get along with me.

So I’m spending a lot of time that I’m in front of a computer typing furiously toward 75,000 words, and I’m spending the time I’m not in front of a computer scribbling furiously in this lovely journal:

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(My journal, my self)

I started this project years ago.  I stopped because it made me angry. All.  The.  Time.  I couldn’t let go of the anger that these memories were stirring up in me.  And it’s good to vent – to get emotion out so that it doesn’t consume you.  But when you vent (and vent…and vent…), and you are still angry, it’s not healthy.

So I stopped.

I was scared mid-February when I started getting the urge to pick it up again.  I didn’t want to go back to that place.  I especially didn’t want to go back to that place during the end of the school year, because that tends to be an annoying season to me anyway (see last post), and I didn’t want to fuel the fire.

Then it wouldn’t let me sleep. I would wake up with words, and I would not be able to fight them.  At first, there were snippets that I could save as notes on my phone.  Now, they’re whole chunks of text that would take forever to type out on Margaux’s touch screen, so I get up and type or scribble in the middle of the night.  This project has become my life again.

But now it’s different.  I’m different.

Jennifer Upton said, “You can’t see beauty if you’re bitter,” and it clicked.  I was anxious about pursuing beauty this year, but it has prepared me for writing something that has been a source of hurt to me.  It has prepared me to reframe my experiences – to say the true things while still acknowledging loving intent and leaving us a place to go from here.

So if you don’t see me a lot this month, that’s where I’ll be.  Clicking.

 

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Renaissance Girl

Posted in Hope, Music, Renaissance, Story Sessions on March 8, 2014| 17 Comments »

(There are many performances of this piece online. This one lights that third movement on fire, the way it was meant to be.)

“The girls we once were are coming back to us now.” – Brandy Walker

I was a Renaissance girl.

That girl did everything.  Even when it was hard.  Even when people tried to tell her that she couldn’t.

At holiday, the girl I once was shaped homemade candies and learned how to get them to turn out right.  When she was shooed out of the kitchen because her help became a frustration, she went outside, formed a kitchen of her own, and made mud pies.

She learned cross stitch.  She made intricate gifts and Christmas ornaments that are still cherished and hung on Mom’s tree every year.

The girl I once was shelled peas and was taught to make jam.  She grew up understanding the connection of sustenance to the land  She unraveled mysteries of the universe over the pings of Cream Crowder peas in a metal bowl.

She walked out of the backyard and sat down at the piano with bits of dried mud pie still under her fingernails. She heard the beauty of the trills and the thunder of the bass.  She began formal training at the age of eight, and she practiced an hour a day, even when she didn’t want to.  In early junior high, when she played a simplified snippet of Liszt’s Second Hungarian Rhapsody at recital, the winner of the top performer award told their teacher, “She should have won this.” The comment was reward enough.

The girl I once was worked hard at gymnastics, and although no one who knows me now will believe it, the balance beam was her best event.  She took ballet, tap, and jazz dance lessons.  For the first time in her life, she had to work twice as hard as everyone else just to be average.  She loved it.

She was heavily involved in her church.  Every time the door was open, she was there.  Everything she could do – youth group, choir, VBS teacher, children’s music camp assistant, handbell choir, sorting clothes and food for the mission – she did. Her yes was always yes, and her no was rare.

In high school, the girl I once was was told that she couldn’t do everything – that she had to eliminate some things.  So she did.  She crossed off athletics and Future Farmers of America. Everything else – she did, and she did it well. National Honors Society, the speech and drama team, Texas Association of Future Educators, marching band, flag corp, jazz pianist for stage band, concert band, Future Homemakers of America, UIL, the gifted and talented program, and probably a few others that I have forgotten.  And she graduated second in her class.  Because she could.

Her senior year, she played Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata – the whole thing.  She played it so often that she memorized it.  She played it so often that even now, twenty years later, my fingers still move whenever I hear it. At her senior recital, she won that top performer award.  She also won the award of awed silence between the final note and the first applause.

One day, the girl I once was forgot what she could do.  Someone else told her that she had to choose, and this time, she believed it.  She believed the lie that she couldn’t do all the things that she’d always done, and because she couldn’t possibly choose, she stopped doing it all.  She grew up and became good at waiting.  She grew up and became good at watching the whole world go on without her.  She grew up and learned the lie that things just don’t work out for her and that expecting them to do so would only make her a fool.

But this girl?  She’s not done growing.  She has learned to set healthy boundaries and has embraced the luxurious freedom of no.

And that girl I once was?  She is coming back.

In every verse I read in shaky voice, she is coming back.

In every meal I make and share with others, she is coming back.

In every coconut nougat dipped in chocolate that I taught myself to temper, she is coming back.

In every pie I bake in this kitchen of my own, she is coming back.

In every blanket I knit, she is coming back.

In every story I write, she is coming back.

In every song I sing and every move I dance, she is coming back.

In every “Our Father,” and “Lord, in Your mercy,” I pray, she is coming back.

And if I have to eat Ramen noodles for six months and sell everything but my books, I will get a good keyboard this year, because she is coming back, and she’s going to need one.

She.  Is.  Coming.  Back.

Some of the people who are helping her get back are my Story Sisters.  Today, on International Women’s Day, we are telling the stories of the girls we once were.  Join us.

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I Choose Them

Posted in Hope, Rants, Revolution on February 17, 2014| 4 Comments »

Disclaimer: Yes, this was inspired by a real-life conversation.  If you were there, you know it, because I wasn’t subtle.  Nothing here will identify you, nor will it offend you, because it’s so much nicer than what I said to your face.  All others, if this post offends you because you feel that, in some theoretical way, it could be directed at you, maybe take it up with Jesus. Maybe talk to him (or a licensed professional, if you prefer) about why it could have been directed at you.

If you say something racist within earshot of me, I consider it my business.  I will confront you.  Even if you weren’t talking to me at the time. Even if I don’t know you. I will do my best not to embarrass you, because shame is a lousy motivator, but I will address it.

I will confront you, just like I expect you to confront me when necessary, because I am not perfect and need to be confronted sometimes.

It’s not that I think I’m better than you.  This is not image management; I’m not trying to look smart or culturally sensitive.  I’m not even really trying to teach you something, although in the best case scenario, we would both come away from the experience having learned from it.

It’s just that it is my business.

Racist speech inevitably draws a line, dividing the whole of humanity in two. It breaks the natural design of the universe. Our differences are meant to empower us and to give us voice. Racist speech corrupts this design and turns difference into a silencer. Your racist remarks draw a line and force me and everyone else around you to choose which side of the line we’re going to stand on. And lest the word “force” sounds like it’s some great burden, the truth is that my having a choice in this situation in the first place is a privilege afforded to me by my lily white skin.  The easy choice is to stay quiet and pretend that it doesn’t concern me, or to say that there’s nothing I can do, or to hide under the cloak of “no one needs me to speak on his or her behalf.”

But as a friend recently reminded me, I don’t have to make the easy choice.  So I choose to use my privilege in a different way.

When you draw that line in the sand between us and them, I choose them.

If you are a complete stranger, I choose them.

If you are my very own flesh and blood, I choose them.

If you are randomly wandering through my building at work, I choose them.

If you occupy any rung of the ladder at my workplace(s), even rungs that are far above me, I choose them.

If we are friends despite our having nothing in common, I choose them.

If we are friends because we have so much in common, I choose them.

If you are trying to get my attention because you want to date me, please note that this is the exact wrong kind of attention to get from me.  I choose them.

If I have shown interest in dating you, don’t expect my crush to silence my response, because I choose them.

Even if telling you that you’re wrong will cost me our relationship, I will still choose them.  If that’s going to break the deal, I’m going to go ahead and let it break (for a little while at least). My hope is that eventually you will cross over the line with me. My hope is that one day the line will be destroyed and diversity will be a place of celebration, not competition.

But if you draw that line in the sand, I will choose them.

 

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Guest Post – What Women Want from the Church

Posted in Church, Hope on January 16, 2014| Leave a Comment »

Today, I had the honor of guest posting at Preston Yancey’s blog as part of his series on what women want from the Church.

I see that God works through the Church, but sometimes, I have anxiety about it. The Church deems much of what I see God doing as inappropriate. Hop over to Preston’s to read the rest.

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Beauty

Posted in Beauty, Hope, Poetry on January 1, 2014| Leave a Comment »

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Beauty is my one word for 2014. As soon as I knew that beauty was what I was dealing with, it started popping up everywhere. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s no mystery why poets and writers and lovers and prophets and dreamers are obsessed with beauty – she is fragile and elusive and strong and everywhere. There’s such a wealth of words to say about this one word, beauty. So I chose a few beloved others to help me start my year of saying it.

“She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.”
– Lord Byron –

Beauty hidden
The most beautiful aspect of a scene or person is rarely what’s out in front – what sees the light of day. It’s usually something that takes a little time and a measure of gentleness to find. I hope this year teaches me to slow down enough to see beauty.

“Beauty – be not caused – It Is –
Chase it, and it ceases –
Chase it not, and it abides -”
– Emily Dickinson –

Beauty found
Beauty is hard (impossible?) to manufacture. Oh, but we try. Our culture spends billions of dollars a year, chasing beauty, trying to force her hand. Trying to make her show herself to us. Trying to make her happen. And when something we make is beautiful, we think we’ve succeeded, but the truth is that we just uncovered the beauty that was there all along. I hope this year teaches me to find beauty.

“To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.”
– Isaiah 61:3 (KJV) –

Beauty redeemed
I sort of cheated last year. I didn’t figure out my one word until May. And it was not really one word. It was more a set of various words within a theme. Bravery. Courage. Risk. And looking back, that’s what the year was. It was a good year. It was a year when I took back my life (still not clear from whom or from what, but I am sure that now it is MINE). It was a year of making hard and scary choices. And I learned that scary choices are exhilarating and exhausting. Scary choices taught me that they are worth it – they will always teach you something – but that sometimes, the best choice isn’t the scary one. Sometimes what feels like fear is your brain saying, “Hey – that’s actually a bad idea.” Burning bridges and burning out will teach you where that line is. It will also leave you with a lot of ashes. Somewhere in those ashes, there is beauty. And I’m past ready to see her emerge from them.

“…it was a forbidden object…a useless and therefore a self-indulgent one. I asked her what purpose it served, and she told me, It doesn’t do anything obvious. But it might be able to do something in here. Then she touched her hand to her heart. Beautiful things sometimes do.”
– Veronica Roth, Allegient –

Beauty transforms
This is the hardest part to articulate. How will beauty change me? And please, oh please, let it do so. But how? What will it look like? Will I even recognize it? I hope so.

“Let the beauty we love be what we do.”
– Rumi –

Beauty does
There is a push inside of me to be more than an observer. To be the catalyst. To stop waiting for what I do to be noticed. To do the things (good things – no nefarious plots afoot, just to be clear) that cannot be ignored.

“Let the beauty we love be what we do.” YES.

This is the year of beauty.

Some of the most beautiful people I know, I met here – Story Sessions.

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Found Poetry: Year in Review via Blog Titles

Posted in Hope, Poetry on January 1, 2014| Leave a Comment »

Resolved:
Wanting Delicious Straight Male
What I Need
Why It Matters
What To Do

Happy Lazy Love Story,
Changing What I’m Into –
Wine, Bikini, Pie, and…
Unholy Longing
Happy Little Minute

I am From
Days of No Welcome
Excess Feminist Ramblings
Running Out
Too Much
Irritability
Ordinary Myth
Southern Talk
Visiting Phase

Not Eating
Not Planning Together

Sugar Saints
Perfect Food
Making Peace
Going Home
Unpopular Questions

Freedom.

[If you can’t tell, I’m having a lot of fun with my Story Sessions sisters in 40 Days of Poetry.]

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Home

Posted in Hope, Seasons on December 17, 2013| 7 Comments »

Today is my first day of vacation.  For two weeks, I am free from both jobs.

The downside is that I have lots of time to deal with my apartment.  I’ve always said that the state of my home and the state of my mind seem to parallel one another.  And this is true.  Right now, both of them look a little like this:

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That’s what the bench in my office area looks like after grading.  That’s kind of how my mind feels, too.  A chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and ideas and decisions that swirl around and land in one big heap.

All is not lost, though.  The next two weeks, I’m putting home back together, and hopefully, my mind will follow.

Of all the places in the world, I want home to be the place where I find tiny pockets of the kingdom of God.  I want it to be a place of creation.  I want it to be a place where people are welcomed and fed, where the wine (and the coffee) never run out.  I want it to shout good news.

The semester end falls at a good time.  As in Advent we are preparing for Jesus, in this time off from my regular work, I am preparing as well.  Preparing to be well and to spread joy and to welcome in the new year with expectation and hope.

I’m synching up with others on the topic of Coming Home here.  Click to read more!

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40 Days of Poetry – Questions

Posted in Church, Hope, Poetry on December 8, 2013| 2 Comments »

My question for you…
I’ll get to that.
First things first –
Your church and I?
We don’t like each other.
We “love” each other.
I love them like I love the prim biddy with corseted heart who preempts every hello with an are-you-seeing-anyone and looks down her highway of a nose when I talk of Those People.
They love me like they love their drunken, cantankerous uncle who embarrasses them at Grandma’s funeral by saying, “shit,” in front of the preacher.
But that’s not liking.
And that’s not enough.

How is it my fault?
That question is neither
“Tell me how wretched I am so I can wallow in my filth…”
nor
“Strip me of unpopular conviction so I can baa in tune with the rest of your sheep.”
If you require those responses
I’m not your girl for the job.
I am a dissenter.
I am a peacemaker.
If everything is possible for you,
How will you reform my soul to make it so?

I dreamed of a wall.
I cried.
I softened the mud between the bricks with my tears.
I planted seeds there.
I woke too soon,
But not before I saw the strongest root begin to nudge one of the bricks out of place.

I think you have begun.
I want in.

My Story Sessions sisters and I are doing 40 Days of Poetry.  Hopefully there will be more that I want to share.

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