It's six-fifteen in the morning and it still looks like night. We are in the midst of thunderstorms, although I think we're between fronts right now.
I grew up listening to thunderstorms at night, convinced it was my duty to wake up the family if the house got hit by lightning. I love thunderstorms despite a childhood short of sleep; they became my confidante late at night.
Today I wait for the rumbles of thunder as
the glowering clouds travel closer, the swishing of the trees, the gouts
of rain. I fancy myself a witch of the storm, holding my arms skyward, drenched by an onslaught of rain. In reality, I'm afraid enough of lightning that I would not do something that foolish.
North of us, the roads are still flooded by a freakish mix of melting snow from the Dakotas and hard rain. South and east of us, there's a chance of severe weather, which includes hail, high winds, and tornadoes. Lightning strikes kill people every year.
Thunderstorms command respect. Even as I enjoy them, I keep them at a distance.
Tuesday, April 30, 2019
Monday, April 29, 2019
The joys of rejection
I am beginning to like rejection.
No, honestly, I don't like rejection. After all, who likes rejection? Who gets up in the morning and says, "I'm so looking forward to getting rejected!"?
I like improving my work, honing my craft (although that latter phrase sounds so pretentious to me and nothing like the actual process with all its sweat and tears and cutting savage chunks out of a work in progress).
I like looking at an old draft and wondering how I thought that was the book as it should be.
I like the image of myself as someone who cares enough about their work to seek out a developmental editor. Who cares enough about their readers to not put out a rough version of that book.
I also like the idea of getting published, so wish me luck.
No, honestly, I don't like rejection. After all, who likes rejection? Who gets up in the morning and says, "I'm so looking forward to getting rejected!"?
I like improving my work, honing my craft (although that latter phrase sounds so pretentious to me and nothing like the actual process with all its sweat and tears and cutting savage chunks out of a work in progress).
I like looking at an old draft and wondering how I thought that was the book as it should be.
I like the image of myself as someone who cares enough about their work to seek out a developmental editor. Who cares enough about their readers to not put out a rough version of that book.
I also like the idea of getting published, so wish me luck.
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Saturday, April 27, 2019
Hard Work
Got a rejection for a short story yesterday. I'm not too upset; I think I shoehorned my entry into the theme and it didn't quite fit. I only have one thing out there now, and that's Prodigies with a major press. The likelihood of this being accepted is very low, I'll admit, but it will still hurt a lot if I get rejected.
What from there? Try to shop out the dev-edited version of Voyageurs, which is short at 70,000 words but we'll see. Work on the rewrite of Apocalypse (which will take a few months at best guess) and send it back to my dev editor. See what tweaks might help Prodigies' saleability and shop it back out. Send Whose Hearts are Mountains to dev edit. See if I can salvage Gaia's Hands in case Apocalypse gets sold and it needs a prequel. Write something else, maybe finish Gods' Seeds.
It's hard work, and so far has been fruitless. But if I'm going to be published, I want it to be my best, and my expectations have been raised by beta-readers and dev editors and my own revelations about where my stories could go.
Someday, I hope,my hard work will bear fruit.
What from there? Try to shop out the dev-edited version of Voyageurs, which is short at 70,000 words but we'll see. Work on the rewrite of Apocalypse (which will take a few months at best guess) and send it back to my dev editor. See what tweaks might help Prodigies' saleability and shop it back out. Send Whose Hearts are Mountains to dev edit. See if I can salvage Gaia's Hands in case Apocalypse gets sold and it needs a prequel. Write something else, maybe finish Gods' Seeds.
It's hard work, and so far has been fruitless. But if I'm going to be published, I want it to be my best, and my expectations have been raised by beta-readers and dev editors and my own revelations about where my stories could go.
Someday, I hope,my hard work will bear fruit.
Friday, April 26, 2019
Excerpt from Apocalypse rewrite
Forty-five minutes later, as Laurel finished fluffing up her masses of curly golden hair, she heard a knock on her door and opened it to a grinning Adam. “May I come in?” he asked gallantly.
“Adam, you sure like to live dangerously. Someone could have seen you. Where did you teleport into?”
“Transport, not teleport. We transport ourselves, we teleport apples. And we’ve barely touched on transporting — there’s certainly more interesting places to go than your porch, true?”
Laurel smiled despite herself, despite the total disorientation of the past couple days. “I admit teleporting — um, transporting — would be an easy and ecological way of getting places. As long as nobody was there on the other end to see you. So where are we going today?”
“What is a place where you’ve been before, that you can visualize well enough that you can take us there?”
“Safely? Without people seeing us pop in from the middle of nowhere?” Laurel asked skeptically.
“You have a point there. Maybe we should wait until dark. We have some time to kill — a couple hours, I suspect.” Adam crossed his legs and leaned back. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Well, given that I only remember the last twelve years of my life, there’s not much to talk about. I woke up in the hospital, broke out, and spent a twilight existence working under the table for subsistence wages. I’ve slept in basement apartments, squatted under bridges, lived in homeless shelters. I’ve …” Laurel looked over at Adam, her eyes blinking. “I’ve kept apart from others. I’m not used to talking to people, because I’ve been afraid I would give away something, like my freakish ability to heal. I’ve lived a solitary existence.”
“Most Archetypes live solitary existences. We were created that way, as Archetypes who gather together could be a danger.”
“How? A danger to what?” Laurel leaned forward, as if she could find a clue to herself in Adam’s revelation.
“Remember,” Adam said, steepling his fingers. “The Maker created us as vessels for human patterns. If we die, the humans whose patterns we carry die as well. We’re nearly indestructible, but that small possibility can’t be risked. Conflict could set us up for battle, and battle against other beings like us — strong and swift and almost indestructible — could result in our death and the death of the millions whose patterns we carry. So we are kept apart from each other.”
“Whose patterns do I carry?” Laurel asked.
“That I don’t know. I’m sure the information is in the Archives somewhere …” Adam trailed off, remembering his own unique status as an Archetype who carried no patterns.
“Adam, you sure like to live dangerously. Someone could have seen you. Where did you teleport into?”
“Transport, not teleport. We transport ourselves, we teleport apples. And we’ve barely touched on transporting — there’s certainly more interesting places to go than your porch, true?”
Laurel smiled despite herself, despite the total disorientation of the past couple days. “I admit teleporting — um, transporting — would be an easy and ecological way of getting places. As long as nobody was there on the other end to see you. So where are we going today?”
“What is a place where you’ve been before, that you can visualize well enough that you can take us there?”
“Safely? Without people seeing us pop in from the middle of nowhere?” Laurel asked skeptically.
“You have a point there. Maybe we should wait until dark. We have some time to kill — a couple hours, I suspect.” Adam crossed his legs and leaned back. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Well, given that I only remember the last twelve years of my life, there’s not much to talk about. I woke up in the hospital, broke out, and spent a twilight existence working under the table for subsistence wages. I’ve slept in basement apartments, squatted under bridges, lived in homeless shelters. I’ve …” Laurel looked over at Adam, her eyes blinking. “I’ve kept apart from others. I’m not used to talking to people, because I’ve been afraid I would give away something, like my freakish ability to heal. I’ve lived a solitary existence.”
“Most Archetypes live solitary existences. We were created that way, as Archetypes who gather together could be a danger.”
“How? A danger to what?” Laurel leaned forward, as if she could find a clue to herself in Adam’s revelation.
“Remember,” Adam said, steepling his fingers. “The Maker created us as vessels for human patterns. If we die, the humans whose patterns we carry die as well. We’re nearly indestructible, but that small possibility can’t be risked. Conflict could set us up for battle, and battle against other beings like us — strong and swift and almost indestructible — could result in our death and the death of the millions whose patterns we carry. So we are kept apart from each other.”
“Whose patterns do I carry?” Laurel asked.
“That I don’t know. I’m sure the information is in the Archives somewhere …” Adam trailed off, remembering his own unique status as an Archetype who carried no patterns.
Thursday, April 25, 2019
The Semester Winds Down
Tomorrow is the last regular day of the semester; then we will go into finals week here at the college. The semester is winding down; the rhythm of my life will change with summer session. I'll still be busy with an online class and 25 interns and putting fall classes together, but I will have much more flexible time.
I'll have more time for writing -- well, maybe not, but I will be able to devote longer blocks to it, which is a good thing. The summer projects writing-wise are: 1) rewrite Apocalypse; 2) Send Whose Hearts are Mountains to dev edit (if #1 gets to a good place). No new books. Also keep pushing Prodigies and start pushing Voyageurs.
I don't sound like someone who's ready to quit, do I ?
I'll have more time for writing -- well, maybe not, but I will be able to devote longer blocks to it, which is a good thing. The summer projects writing-wise are: 1) rewrite Apocalypse; 2) Send Whose Hearts are Mountains to dev edit (if #1 gets to a good place). No new books. Also keep pushing Prodigies and start pushing Voyageurs.
I don't sound like someone who's ready to quit, do I ?
Wednesday, April 24, 2019
Of weak coffee and wistful waiting
My coffee tastes a little weak this morning.
My husband usually makes the coffee, and he has learned to make it to the strength I prefer. He's in Kansas at a funeral, however, and I made my own coffee this morning.
My morning routine has been broken -- we usually get up around 5 AM (me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, him not so much) and sit together for breakfast and coffee and sharing cat memes on the Internet. Now I'm on my own and it's 6 AM and very quiet in here. I'm trying to share cat memes with Buddy the Cat, but he remains disinterested.
It's been less than 24 hours since he left, and I miss Richard. It's been over ten years married, and I still miss Richard. Not in a huge heart-rending way, but in the little things. I imagine this would be a hard thing, maybe the hardest thing to bear, if he died before I did -- the low-key, everyday presence.
He'll be home about 7, 34 hours after I last saw him. No big deal. Just ... when you're older, love is less about passion and more about sharing cat memes.
My husband usually makes the coffee, and he has learned to make it to the strength I prefer. He's in Kansas at a funeral, however, and I made my own coffee this morning.
My morning routine has been broken -- we usually get up around 5 AM (me bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, him not so much) and sit together for breakfast and coffee and sharing cat memes on the Internet. Now I'm on my own and it's 6 AM and very quiet in here. I'm trying to share cat memes with Buddy the Cat, but he remains disinterested.
It's been less than 24 hours since he left, and I miss Richard. It's been over ten years married, and I still miss Richard. Not in a huge heart-rending way, but in the little things. I imagine this would be a hard thing, maybe the hardest thing to bear, if he died before I did -- the low-key, everyday presence.
He'll be home about 7, 34 hours after I last saw him. No big deal. Just ... when you're older, love is less about passion and more about sharing cat memes.
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
Interrogating Laurel Smith
I sit in the Garden at Barn Swallows' Dance -- a sacred place that exists nowhere but in my imagination. Dappled sunshine flashes as a breeze stirs the twinned apple trees that sit atop a mound. It could be spring or winter, because in the Garden time makes no difference; the Garden remains protected by an unseen force.
A petite woman with curly golden locks walks into the Garden. "I'm sorry -- " she says and makes a motion to leave.
"No, it's okay," I tell her. "I already know your secrets."
"Oh." She drops down next to me as if deflated. "How do you know my secrets?"
"It's okay. I'm the writer."
Laurel takes a deep breath, and her demeanor changes. The timid shell evaporates and she holds herself with purpose. "You know who I am, then."
"An Archetype. An immortal." I pause, gathering my words so I don't give away more than she's ready to hear. "A holder of human patterns, of cultural memory. Our cultural DNA."
"Yes. I can feel it -- I'm a part of something bigger than me." In her voice I hear a shadow of millennia, of great personal power, of weariness. "But I don't know what that is. I'm told that I'm six thousand years old, but I remember nothing except the past twelve years." Laurel gave a wry smile. "Twelve years of living underground without an identity, hiding the freakish parts of me that I've just learned are my legacy."
"I promise that you will get your memories back. You will know who you are." Again, I pause, because I know her future, with all its strife, and its unbelievable burden.
"I think Adam knows, but he's not telling," Laurel sighed. "Adam can be pretty annoying at times."
"But you like him," I prompt.
"I'm afraid so." Laurel smiles sardonically; dimples show in her cheeks. "He's endearing, even when he's being arrogant." Her smile fades. "But he knows who I was. Who I am. He's hiding something, and I don't know what he's hiding. And -- "
"And?"
"I'm afraid to find out."
A petite woman with curly golden locks walks into the Garden. "I'm sorry -- " she says and makes a motion to leave.
"No, it's okay," I tell her. "I already know your secrets."
"Oh." She drops down next to me as if deflated. "How do you know my secrets?"
"It's okay. I'm the writer."
Laurel takes a deep breath, and her demeanor changes. The timid shell evaporates and she holds herself with purpose. "You know who I am, then."
"An Archetype. An immortal." I pause, gathering my words so I don't give away more than she's ready to hear. "A holder of human patterns, of cultural memory. Our cultural DNA."
"Yes. I can feel it -- I'm a part of something bigger than me." In her voice I hear a shadow of millennia, of great personal power, of weariness. "But I don't know what that is. I'm told that I'm six thousand years old, but I remember nothing except the past twelve years." Laurel gave a wry smile. "Twelve years of living underground without an identity, hiding the freakish parts of me that I've just learned are my legacy."
"I promise that you will get your memories back. You will know who you are." Again, I pause, because I know her future, with all its strife, and its unbelievable burden.
"I think Adam knows, but he's not telling," Laurel sighed. "Adam can be pretty annoying at times."
"But you like him," I prompt.
"I'm afraid so." Laurel smiles sardonically; dimples show in her cheeks. "He's endearing, even when he's being arrogant." Her smile fades. "But he knows who I was. Who I am. He's hiding something, and I don't know what he's hiding. And -- "
"And?"
"I'm afraid to find out."
In a Stuck Place
So I've been told by my developmental editor that I need to rewrite Apocalypse -- not because it's so bad, she says, but because it's so good. My developmental editor, Chelsea Harper, knows her stuff and I know she's right. Apocalypse is the combination of the second and third books I'd written, and I didn't know things that I know now.
Still, I'm finding it hard to rewrite. First, because my semester is winding down, I have end-of-semester items in mind even when I'm not doing them yet, things like the final exam and projects to grade.
Second, because -- well, basically what I have to do with the rewrite is:
1) Stretch out three chapters into the first third of the book
2) Rewrite the rest of the book with fewer points of view
3) Cut out some of the lag from the second half of the book
4) Add more tension and loss.
I think I can deal with 2-4 relatively easily, but I struggle with stretching out that first three chapters to eight chapters. I've tried outlining it (being a plantser, or someone who roughly outlines and fills in) but I don't feel the inspiration.
I think I need to sit with it a while, talk with my characters and see what it is they want to do.
Wish me luck.
Still, I'm finding it hard to rewrite. First, because my semester is winding down, I have end-of-semester items in mind even when I'm not doing them yet, things like the final exam and projects to grade.
Second, because -- well, basically what I have to do with the rewrite is:
1) Stretch out three chapters into the first third of the book
2) Rewrite the rest of the book with fewer points of view
3) Cut out some of the lag from the second half of the book
4) Add more tension and loss.
I think I can deal with 2-4 relatively easily, but I struggle with stretching out that first three chapters to eight chapters. I've tried outlining it (being a plantser, or someone who roughly outlines and fills in) but I don't feel the inspiration.
I think I need to sit with it a while, talk with my characters and see what it is they want to do.
Wish me luck.
Monday, April 22, 2019
Springtime and Struggles
Prodigies just got rejected by a small press -- the usual "I don't think this is a good fit for us". Remember this is one of about twenty-plus rejections of the seriously revised version of Prodigies.
I'm currently rewriting Apocalypse (which in and of itself used to be two books) to add back some of what I lost in the combining. It's hard to do right now because of the rejection. It's very discouraging, and my mind isn't wrapping around it very well.
Prodigies is still out at DAW, and the highest likelihood (given other evidence) is that they will reject it. Being accepted by DAW after being rejected by a small press would be like getting a Nobel Prize for something that failed to get a ribbon at the county fair. Yet my mind still fantasizes about the next step with DAW as if the next step isn't a rejection letter.
I'm not sure I like optimism. I feel like I'm just setting myself up for disappointment.
What's next? I rewrite Apocalypse, which I think will take longer than originally writing its two pieces took. (Writing is easy; doing it right is harder). I talk to my dev editor about what we can do with Prodigies to attract a little more attention to it. I go to that writers' conference in St. Louis in June.
Or I give up. I've talked about that before, but I don't know how to quit.
I'm currently rewriting Apocalypse (which in and of itself used to be two books) to add back some of what I lost in the combining. It's hard to do right now because of the rejection. It's very discouraging, and my mind isn't wrapping around it very well.
Prodigies is still out at DAW, and the highest likelihood (given other evidence) is that they will reject it. Being accepted by DAW after being rejected by a small press would be like getting a Nobel Prize for something that failed to get a ribbon at the county fair. Yet my mind still fantasizes about the next step with DAW as if the next step isn't a rejection letter.
I'm not sure I like optimism. I feel like I'm just setting myself up for disappointment.
What's next? I rewrite Apocalypse, which I think will take longer than originally writing its two pieces took. (Writing is easy; doing it right is harder). I talk to my dev editor about what we can do with Prodigies to attract a little more attention to it. I go to that writers' conference in St. Louis in June.
Or I give up. I've talked about that before, but I don't know how to quit.
Sunday, April 21, 2019
Day 47 Reflection: Rejoice
I don't feel too much like rejoicing today. I overindulged in Easter candy. I didn't sleep well last night and now I feel hung over.
But it's a beautiful day, the perfect day for Easter. I will go outside today and set up some of my raised beds, for Spring is here and I do not need to wait any more.
I will eat breakfast, and go out, and clean my yard, and look at growing things. I will remember the lines from a poem by ee cummings:
It is part of the human condition to rejoice.
But it's a beautiful day, the perfect day for Easter. I will go outside today and set up some of my raised beds, for Spring is here and I do not need to wait any more.
I will eat breakfast, and go out, and clean my yard, and look at growing things. I will remember the lines from a poem by ee cummings:
I who was dead am alive again today,
and today is the sun's birthday
-- ee cummings, "I thank you God"
It is part of the human condition to rejoice.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
Day 46 Reflection: Faith
I struggle with faith. This doesn't mean that I don't believe in a higher power or that I'm shopping for religion. It simply means that I question my notions of God.
For much of my life, I believed in God as a celestial Santa Claus. I would pray for something I wanted or needed, hoping God would grant me that. Nothing selfish, like a dollhouse or a bike, but things like praying for my mother not to have cancer or praying to win the spelling bee or, on a few really bad days, praying that I didn't exist. God obviously didn't grant all my wishes -- I didn't win the spelling bee and I still exist.
Some people told me that God knew what I needed better than I did. This logic worked when a bad relationship broke up and I only found out its fatal flaws in retrospect. I couldn't accept that, however, when I reflected on the abuse I suffered in childhood. Did God want that to happen? Why didn't He stop it when I prayed?
My friend Mariellen, a Quaker like me, opened my eyes to a healthier faith in God. She said that every night, she prayed for God to remove her burdens, and every morning she woke up with the same burdens, but with more strength to deal with them.
It makes sense. If people have a personal relationship with deity, then the way that deity acts in their lives will be personal. God doesn't meddle; the potential of humankind can't be realized with a meddling God. But I believe God lends strength and courage so we can be our most authentic, most powerful selves in the face of adversities large and small.
I can live with that God.
For much of my life, I believed in God as a celestial Santa Claus. I would pray for something I wanted or needed, hoping God would grant me that. Nothing selfish, like a dollhouse or a bike, but things like praying for my mother not to have cancer or praying to win the spelling bee or, on a few really bad days, praying that I didn't exist. God obviously didn't grant all my wishes -- I didn't win the spelling bee and I still exist.
Some people told me that God knew what I needed better than I did. This logic worked when a bad relationship broke up and I only found out its fatal flaws in retrospect. I couldn't accept that, however, when I reflected on the abuse I suffered in childhood. Did God want that to happen? Why didn't He stop it when I prayed?
My friend Mariellen, a Quaker like me, opened my eyes to a healthier faith in God. She said that every night, she prayed for God to remove her burdens, and every morning she woke up with the same burdens, but with more strength to deal with them.
It makes sense. If people have a personal relationship with deity, then the way that deity acts in their lives will be personal. God doesn't meddle; the potential of humankind can't be realized with a meddling God. But I believe God lends strength and courage so we can be our most authentic, most powerful selves in the face of adversities large and small.
I can live with that God.
Friday, April 19, 2019
I've been chosen as a finalist!
I have been chosen as a finalist in Chatelain Press's 2019 Short Story Contest for my short story Flourish. You can find the link to it here.
I'm very happy!
I'm very happy!
Day 45 Reflection: Loneliness
Society treats loneliness like a character flaw: "You're lonely? What are you doing sitting around? Go out and meet people." As if a birding club will remedy the ache in one's heart.
Ironically, loneliness is inevitable in today's society. Our jobs take us far from our families, and often cause us to move before we've settled us into a place. Unless we buy a home, and often we can't afford buying a home, we live in apartments where our neighbors move in and out. We spend our free time online, where we measure our friendships by "likes" and seldom have deep conversations. We meet our potential partners by swiping right, judging them by a picture and a blurb.
We spend our quiet times nursing the ache in our hearts.
In our solitude, we attribute our loneliness to personal flaws. We come up with erroneous reasons for our loneliness, isolating us further: We are too much this, not enough that. We are strange. We are not worthy. Our isolation increases.
We can ease our loneliness, perhaps even with the facile "go out and meet people" that society offers, but it will be hard work because we are swimming against the isolating currents of our society:
Sit in public places, even if you sit alone. Turn your attention outward, again and again. Say hi to people who notice you. Ask to pet people's dogs.
When the sting of loneliness eases a bit, find reasons to be around people. Volunteer. Find a group that's exploring something you're interested in. You will not like everyone you meet in these opportunities, and that's okay. The object is not to find one person who will keep you from being lonely, but to help you see that you are part of humanity. Friendship will come later as you find yourself in proximity with people you click with.
We were meant to be with people, even if our society makes that harder, even if our beliefs about ourselves and our loneliness make that harder.
Ironically, loneliness is inevitable in today's society. Our jobs take us far from our families, and often cause us to move before we've settled us into a place. Unless we buy a home, and often we can't afford buying a home, we live in apartments where our neighbors move in and out. We spend our free time online, where we measure our friendships by "likes" and seldom have deep conversations. We meet our potential partners by swiping right, judging them by a picture and a blurb.
We spend our quiet times nursing the ache in our hearts.
In our solitude, we attribute our loneliness to personal flaws. We come up with erroneous reasons for our loneliness, isolating us further: We are too much this, not enough that. We are strange. We are not worthy. Our isolation increases.
We can ease our loneliness, perhaps even with the facile "go out and meet people" that society offers, but it will be hard work because we are swimming against the isolating currents of our society:
Sit in public places, even if you sit alone. Turn your attention outward, again and again. Say hi to people who notice you. Ask to pet people's dogs.
When the sting of loneliness eases a bit, find reasons to be around people. Volunteer. Find a group that's exploring something you're interested in. You will not like everyone you meet in these opportunities, and that's okay. The object is not to find one person who will keep you from being lonely, but to help you see that you are part of humanity. Friendship will come later as you find yourself in proximity with people you click with.
We were meant to be with people, even if our society makes that harder, even if our beliefs about ourselves and our loneliness make that harder.
Thursday, April 18, 2019
Day 44 Reflection: Pain
Pain has a way of blinding us to everything else. It screams at us to stop everything and tend to us. As it should; pain exists to alert us to damage. The damage can be physical, such as torn muscle or damaged cartilage or advanced cancer, or it can be emotional such as the death of a loved one or the predations of an abuser.
Sometimes pain lasts beyond the original insult. Chronic physical pain such as arthritis lasts beyond the wear and tear that caused it. Chronic emotional pain in the form of post-traumatic stress disorder lasts far beyond the instigating factors. The time elapsed doesn't lessen the pain in these instances.
We are taught to be stoic about our pain. We are told nobody wants to hear about our problems. We are told to tough it out, that no pain equals no gain. We ignore that very valuable alarm until we've lost sleep, damaged our bodies, break down, find ourselves with a gun in our hands pointed at ourselves.
Pain is an alarm. We must heed it for our own survival.
Sometimes pain lasts beyond the original insult. Chronic physical pain such as arthritis lasts beyond the wear and tear that caused it. Chronic emotional pain in the form of post-traumatic stress disorder lasts far beyond the instigating factors. The time elapsed doesn't lessen the pain in these instances.
We are taught to be stoic about our pain. We are told nobody wants to hear about our problems. We are told to tough it out, that no pain equals no gain. We ignore that very valuable alarm until we've lost sleep, damaged our bodies, break down, find ourselves with a gun in our hands pointed at ourselves.
Pain is an alarm. We must heed it for our own survival.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
Day 43: Ally
Who are the people around you who want to help you evolve your most authentic self rather than mold you into their image of you?
Who are the people who offer comfort, wise counsel, and effective challenges when needed?
Who are the people who will help you transform a piece of the world into health?
These are your allies. Find them, connect with them, love them -- for they need allies too.
Who are the people who offer comfort, wise counsel, and effective challenges when needed?
Who are the people who will help you transform a piece of the world into health?
These are your allies. Find them, connect with them, love them -- for they need allies too.
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Day 42 Reflection: Truth
Truth sets us free, but often in a way that feels like a wrecking ball. Or the silence just before the tornado hits, with its gut-crawling suspense. The silence after the crash, after the storm, shelters the whisper of two words: "What now?"
My truth: I have been struggling for seven years, ever since my diagnosis with bipolar and the loss of my original department. I have struggled with depression when my medications fail and when I face major setbacks. The tricks I've learned (cognitive journaling and meditation) bring me to zero but not above. Some days, I cycle through contradicting my negative talk and affirmations almost constantly. I believe that, because I make mistakes, that I am worthless.
My truth: I need to go back to counseling for a spell.
The silence left by the wrecking ball. I, a shell of a building, waiting for the materials to rebuild.
My truth: I have been struggling for seven years, ever since my diagnosis with bipolar and the loss of my original department. I have struggled with depression when my medications fail and when I face major setbacks. The tricks I've learned (cognitive journaling and meditation) bring me to zero but not above. Some days, I cycle through contradicting my negative talk and affirmations almost constantly. I believe that, because I make mistakes, that I am worthless.
My truth: I need to go back to counseling for a spell.
The silence left by the wrecking ball. I, a shell of a building, waiting for the materials to rebuild.
Monday, April 15, 2019
Day 41 Reflection: Travel
I don't do tourism well.
Sightseeing overloads me with buildings, paintings, terrain with no context. A whirlwind of "I have to see the Mona Lisa" and "You haven't visited here until you've seen the mountains." I see things without understanding their context, and I drift along from thing to thing.
When I travel, I want to engage with my destination. I want to learn, to make sense. I want to experience the destination with all my senses and make sense of it in my mind.
I want my tour guide to take me to the mountains and point out the flora there, explaining to me what plants make good tea and honey. I want them to show me the restaurants where the locals eat so I can get a feel for their lives, to set me up in an artsy coffeehouse so I can observe people. Tour guides aren't equipped to do that, so I have to do it myself. Travel becomes a research project, but that's okay.
My biggest preparation as a traveler, however, is internal. I prepare myself for the cultural differences and adopt humility, because I am the outsider and will make mistakes. I open myself up to gratitude for the experience.
Travel without gratitude, in my opinion, is hardly worth the time spent.
Sightseeing overloads me with buildings, paintings, terrain with no context. A whirlwind of "I have to see the Mona Lisa" and "You haven't visited here until you've seen the mountains." I see things without understanding their context, and I drift along from thing to thing.
When I travel, I want to engage with my destination. I want to learn, to make sense. I want to experience the destination with all my senses and make sense of it in my mind.
I want my tour guide to take me to the mountains and point out the flora there, explaining to me what plants make good tea and honey. I want them to show me the restaurants where the locals eat so I can get a feel for their lives, to set me up in an artsy coffeehouse so I can observe people. Tour guides aren't equipped to do that, so I have to do it myself. Travel becomes a research project, but that's okay.
My biggest preparation as a traveler, however, is internal. I prepare myself for the cultural differences and adopt humility, because I am the outsider and will make mistakes. I open myself up to gratitude for the experience.
Travel without gratitude, in my opinion, is hardly worth the time spent.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
Day 40: Sanctuary
According to Abraham Maslow, psychologist, humans have a hierarchy of needs. The model (which everyone who has ever taken a psychology class will recognize) looks like this:
The hierarchy starts at the bottom, with physiological needs at the bedrock. Without food, clothing, and shelter, nothing in the upper levels matter.
Notice where safety is -- right above physiological needs like food, clothing, and shelter. Safety is that fundamental, that we need it before we need love and esteem, and even when we having love and esteem, if that safety erodes at any time, we revert to needing that more than anything at any level above it.
To feel safe, we need spaces where harm cannot enter. We need a physical space secure from intrusion and hazard. We need a workspace free from threat and abuse. We need playspaces for children free from guns and bullying. We need a society free from scapegoating, discrimination, and hatred.
We can't change the spaces out of our control, so we need ourselves or others to create protective spaces for us. We call these spaces our sanctuaries, our hideaways from the hazards of the outside, where we can be ourselves without danger.
Sanctuary cities have been in the news lately, with President Trump threatening to drop busloads of migrants off to these cities. The mayors of these cities do not see this as a threat, but an opportunity to provide sanctuary as a concrete action rather than as an ideal. These cities do sacred work in providing sanctuary to those who face an unsafe and insecure life.
Who is unsafe in our society? Name them, and then find a way to provide sanctuary. Eliminate white nationalism in your corner. Question the number of black males who get killed by the cops; question why whites get the benefit of the doubt. Stand up to bullies, including those in the administration of school districts. In Maslow's hierarchy, people cannot thrive unless they're safe. Help people to thrive.
Notice where safety is -- right above physiological needs like food, clothing, and shelter. Safety is that fundamental, that we need it before we need love and esteem, and even when we having love and esteem, if that safety erodes at any time, we revert to needing that more than anything at any level above it.
To feel safe, we need spaces where harm cannot enter. We need a physical space secure from intrusion and hazard. We need a workspace free from threat and abuse. We need playspaces for children free from guns and bullying. We need a society free from scapegoating, discrimination, and hatred.
We can't change the spaces out of our control, so we need ourselves or others to create protective spaces for us. We call these spaces our sanctuaries, our hideaways from the hazards of the outside, where we can be ourselves without danger.
Sanctuary cities have been in the news lately, with President Trump threatening to drop busloads of migrants off to these cities. The mayors of these cities do not see this as a threat, but an opportunity to provide sanctuary as a concrete action rather than as an ideal. These cities do sacred work in providing sanctuary to those who face an unsafe and insecure life.
Who is unsafe in our society? Name them, and then find a way to provide sanctuary. Eliminate white nationalism in your corner. Question the number of black males who get killed by the cops; question why whites get the benefit of the doubt. Stand up to bullies, including those in the administration of school districts. In Maslow's hierarchy, people cannot thrive unless they're safe. Help people to thrive.
Saturday, April 13, 2019
Day 39 Reflection: Love
My best lesson on love (and massage) I learned from a man named Patch Adams.
Patch, a doctor, clown, and force for delightful subversion, used to visit the university I attended, University of Illinois, where he would lead workshops as an Artist-in-Residence. I didn't know who Patch was at the time, although all my juggler friends did, so I didn't know what to expect when I ended up at a massage workshop led by him.
I remember being one of many students sprawled around a dimly lit community room in Allen Hall, where Patch had not arrived yet. All of a sudden, this tall, wiry guy with baggy pants and high-top shoes and a handlebar mustache bounds in ranting "You're not touching! How can you give a massage when you're not even touching!"
As you can tell, I was about to go through a transformative experience.
In this workshop, we did not learn technique. We learned love, with instructions like this:
"Don't give massage if you want to get into someone's pants. If you want to get into someone's pants, say to them, 'I want to get into your pants.'"
"People need touch, and you need practice. Offer to rub someone's back. Or even their hand."
And the most important message: "Whenever you massage someone, think 'I love you.'"
This workshop happened some thirty years ago, and I still remember these things vividly. When I'm not too preoccupied with my own woes, I walk down the street thinking "I love you" to the world around me.
This is what I remember when I think about love.
Patch, a doctor, clown, and force for delightful subversion, used to visit the university I attended, University of Illinois, where he would lead workshops as an Artist-in-Residence. I didn't know who Patch was at the time, although all my juggler friends did, so I didn't know what to expect when I ended up at a massage workshop led by him.
I remember being one of many students sprawled around a dimly lit community room in Allen Hall, where Patch had not arrived yet. All of a sudden, this tall, wiry guy with baggy pants and high-top shoes and a handlebar mustache bounds in ranting "You're not touching! How can you give a massage when you're not even touching!"
As you can tell, I was about to go through a transformative experience.
In this workshop, we did not learn technique. We learned love, with instructions like this:
"Don't give massage if you want to get into someone's pants. If you want to get into someone's pants, say to them, 'I want to get into your pants.'"
"People need touch, and you need practice. Offer to rub someone's back. Or even their hand."
And the most important message: "Whenever you massage someone, think 'I love you.'"
This workshop happened some thirty years ago, and I still remember these things vividly. When I'm not too preoccupied with my own woes, I walk down the street thinking "I love you" to the world around me.
This is what I remember when I think about love.
Friday, April 12, 2019
Day 38 Reflection: Art
Art marks us as human. Its purposes hark back to human needs.
Art engages. It pulls us out of our reverie and asks us to pay attention to it. Sometimes it asks subtly; sometimes it demands. We study the piece, its angles and contours, its shading and hues. We ponder the meaning. We decide we like it or we don't, and we find ways to describe why or why not.
Art speaks. Art expresses emotions, emotions we feel uncomfortable talking about, and evokes emotions in the viewer. We feel emotions we may have buried or forgotten. We identify with a work of art because of its ability to evoke emotions.
Art transcends. Art comes to mean more than the idea, the skill, the sweat that goes into creation. It becomes an ideal, an inspiration, a door into the unexplainable. It puts us in touch with something bigger than us, if only for a moment, before our minds ground us on earth again.
Art expresses both the creativity and desires of our humanness and our inexplicable tie with divinity.
(Note: I just discovered that Lent has more than 40 days, or else I don't know how to count. Easter Sunday is on the 21st, and today's the 12th, and I'm on day 38. Apparently, this is because the Sundays are not counted. Who knew?)
Art engages. It pulls us out of our reverie and asks us to pay attention to it. Sometimes it asks subtly; sometimes it demands. We study the piece, its angles and contours, its shading and hues. We ponder the meaning. We decide we like it or we don't, and we find ways to describe why or why not.
Art speaks. Art expresses emotions, emotions we feel uncomfortable talking about, and evokes emotions in the viewer. We feel emotions we may have buried or forgotten. We identify with a work of art because of its ability to evoke emotions.
Art transcends. Art comes to mean more than the idea, the skill, the sweat that goes into creation. It becomes an ideal, an inspiration, a door into the unexplainable. It puts us in touch with something bigger than us, if only for a moment, before our minds ground us on earth again.
Art expresses both the creativity and desires of our humanness and our inexplicable tie with divinity.
(Note: I just discovered that Lent has more than 40 days, or else I don't know how to count. Easter Sunday is on the 21st, and today's the 12th, and I'm on day 38. Apparently, this is because the Sundays are not counted. Who knew?)
Thursday, April 11, 2019
Day 37 Reflection: Recovery
Life passes peacefully, and then something bad happens. A town floods, a loved one dies, one's dignity is violated. We feel lost, betrayed, angry that we have suffered this loss.
Then comes the slow process of recovery. Recovery doesn't come quickly; we must go through the feelings that come with loss, the anger and the sadness and the fear. There's no going through this quickly. We can't recover from someone else's timetable.
When we recover from a catastrophic event, we do not return to normal. That place is gone, destroyed by the event. We journey to a new normal, a normal where the event fades into memory and its changes to our lives are reconciled with the past.
Then comes the slow process of recovery. Recovery doesn't come quickly; we must go through the feelings that come with loss, the anger and the sadness and the fear. There's no going through this quickly. We can't recover from someone else's timetable.
When we recover from a catastrophic event, we do not return to normal. That place is gone, destroyed by the event. We journey to a new normal, a normal where the event fades into memory and its changes to our lives are reconciled with the past.
Wednesday, April 10, 2019
2nd Blogiversary -- 4/10
Today marks the second anniversary of this blog. I named it "Words Like Me" because of the ambiguity of WORDS like me (words like silly, loud, awkward, intelligent) and words LIKE me (as in they delight in my company, which is a comforting visual with the words much like a clowder of cats.)
I have written in this blog almost every day, sometimes twice in a day, discussing a variety of topics from personal struggles to writing mechanics to current topics to coffee and cats. My favorites are the silly ones (see this post), followed by my angsty crush poetry (I think I'm finally over my crush; haven't written one of those in a while.)
If there's any common tie among the topics in this blog, perhaps it's this: Words are Important. My developmental editor would point out that I need a less passive verb for this, so how would I do this? Words Possess Importance? Maybe.
I have about 20 regular readers and a good number of irregular readers. Most regular readers are from the US, a few from Germany, one each from India, Portugal, Poland, Ukraine, Spain, France, United Arab Emirates, and UK. Russia sends a bot which leaves as its link address various porn sites. My irregular readers originate everywhere from Sweden to Vietnam. I have never seen readers from most African countries or from China.
This blog has become a part of my life. Sometimes I turn to this blog when I feel introspective, and I write to reflect. Sometimes I feel lonely, and I check to see if anyone has come by to visit. Sometimes I feel very discouraged by the process of getting recognized, whether online or in print, and I vent here. Sometimes I celebrate, like today.
I would like more readers, of course. I would like people to write comments. But the Internet is a very passive place where we consume words without thinking of the live person on the other end. That's okay; I will keep writing for the people who read me and all the people who haven't yet.
Here's to another year of Words Like Me!
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Day 35 Reflection: Build
"Build" is a verb that needs an object. We want to know what someone is building, whether it be a home or a skyscraper or a framework for a theory. In other words, building must have a goal.
To build has different connotations than to create, because creating can happen out of seemingly nothing, while building connotates taking materials and putting them together in ways that make them useful.
This is why we talk about building our futures, not just creating them. Futures need to be solid and believable. They need to hold our future selves without buckling. We are not comfortable with simply creating our future; we want them to take form and show structural soundness. So we build upon the skills and abilities we already have, the existing structure of our lives, and the resources we think we can acquire.
We are all builders of our own lives and those of our families. As builders, we must hone our skills, our abilities to put the pieces of our lives together to make a harmonious and functional whole.
To build has different connotations than to create, because creating can happen out of seemingly nothing, while building connotates taking materials and putting them together in ways that make them useful.
This is why we talk about building our futures, not just creating them. Futures need to be solid and believable. They need to hold our future selves without buckling. We are not comfortable with simply creating our future; we want them to take form and show structural soundness. So we build upon the skills and abilities we already have, the existing structure of our lives, and the resources we think we can acquire.
We are all builders of our own lives and those of our families. As builders, we must hone our skills, our abilities to put the pieces of our lives together to make a harmonious and functional whole.
Monday, April 8, 2019
Day 34 Reflection: Grace
"There but for the grace of God go I."
I hate this phrase with a white-hot passion. First of all, it paints God's grace as favoritism that preserves some from trials and tribulations while smiting others. Or perhaps it hints at some virtue the speaker possesses that keeps a retributive God from smiting them. Or judges someone for handling their tribulations in a way that makes their life worse.
No matter, the phrase paints a deity that plays favorites in handing out grace and a world of the holy haves and have-nots.
This is not how grace works at all. The Wikipedia entry for divine grace defines it as:
In this context, grace gives us resilience in life. This makes sense, because one of the purposes of religion is to give people meaning in life, particularly helping to make sense of life when bad things happen.
So divine grace is something all of us have, whether or not we would call it that. It is the sense of greater-than-ourselves that we rely on in the face of loss. Grace plays no favorites; it does not reward some and neglect others.
"There but for the grace of God go I" is a very comforting construct, because it suggests that God protects the believer from harm or loss. None of us, however, are immune; God does not arrange the lives of Her followers. It's a good thing that real divine grace exists to help us through the bad times.
I hate this phrase with a white-hot passion. First of all, it paints God's grace as favoritism that preserves some from trials and tribulations while smiting others. Or perhaps it hints at some virtue the speaker possesses that keeps a retributive God from smiting them. Or judges someone for handling their tribulations in a way that makes their life worse.
No matter, the phrase paints a deity that plays favorites in handing out grace and a world of the holy haves and have-nots.
This is not how grace works at all. The Wikipedia entry for divine grace defines it as:
[...] the divine influence which operates in humans to regenerate and sanctify, to inspire virtuous impulses, and to impart strength to endure trial and resist temptation; and as an individual virtue or excellence of divine origin. (Wikipedia, 2015).
In this context, grace gives us resilience in life. This makes sense, because one of the purposes of religion is to give people meaning in life, particularly helping to make sense of life when bad things happen.
So divine grace is something all of us have, whether or not we would call it that. It is the sense of greater-than-ourselves that we rely on in the face of loss. Grace plays no favorites; it does not reward some and neglect others.
"There but for the grace of God go I" is a very comforting construct, because it suggests that God protects the believer from harm or loss. None of us, however, are immune; God does not arrange the lives of Her followers. It's a good thing that real divine grace exists to help us through the bad times.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
Day 33 Reflection: Justice
A country without social justice is not great.
A country can possess great wealth, or great power, yet it is not great if it neglects its most vulnerable citizens.
A country that subjects its citizens to unequal treatment under the law has imprisoned itself.
A country that cannot reach its hand to feed the poor has starved itself.
A country that cannot remove obstacles for access by the disabled has crippled itself.
A country whose immigration policy is based on color and race has exiled itself.
To make America great again, we must commit to social justice, because we the people are as burdened as the least of us.
A country can possess great wealth, or great power, yet it is not great if it neglects its most vulnerable citizens.
A country that subjects its citizens to unequal treatment under the law has imprisoned itself.
A country that cannot reach its hand to feed the poor has starved itself.
A country that cannot remove obstacles for access by the disabled has crippled itself.
A country whose immigration policy is based on color and race has exiled itself.
To make America great again, we must commit to social justice, because we the people are as burdened as the least of us.
Saturday, April 6, 2019
Day 32 Reflection: Transcend
A space exists beyond the mundane, one untouched by everyday drama and the pursuit of worldly things. As humans, we are allowed fleeting glimpses of this place.
Some spy it in the forest, when a ray of light pierces the canopy and illuminates the path. Some discover it in service, when the Divine has touched their understanding of the Other. Some find it in prayer, others in meditation, yet others in solving a difficult problem. Many stumble across it without seeking and are dazzled by its singular beauty.
But only for a moment. We were not meant to dwell in the transcendent, for to do so would destroy what makes us human: our drive, our basic needs, our social connections. We would starve to death in beauty.
Best we go back to our mundane world after touching the transcendent, to live our lives with a little more grace than before.
Some spy it in the forest, when a ray of light pierces the canopy and illuminates the path. Some discover it in service, when the Divine has touched their understanding of the Other. Some find it in prayer, others in meditation, yet others in solving a difficult problem. Many stumble across it without seeking and are dazzled by its singular beauty.
But only for a moment. We were not meant to dwell in the transcendent, for to do so would destroy what makes us human: our drive, our basic needs, our social connections. We would starve to death in beauty.
Best we go back to our mundane world after touching the transcendent, to live our lives with a little more grace than before.
Friday, April 5, 2019
Day 31 Reflection: Forgiveness
Don't forgive unless you're ready to.
This goes against the common spiritual wisdom that we should be ready to forgive our transgressors, that forgiveness sets us free. Maybe that's true, and we should forgive the person who cut us off in traffic.
But there are hurts so deep, so debilitating, that easily forgiving them feels like self-betrayal. Forgiving betrayal, murder, assault -- all these feel too heinous to forgive. And yet people clamor to tell the sufferer that they should let go, forgive. Often these people who press others to forgive have something to gain -- family members of the violator, the church of the violator, the violator themselves.
Withholding forgiveness gives a sense of power, maintains the anger that may be needed to recover. Anger is not evil; it's an emotion. Righteous anger helps us see our value, helps us recover. (Rage, however, consumes us and it's best not to play with anger until it becomes rage).
There comes a time, though, when the anger holds us in the past, when we've grown beyond the hurt, we have found ourselves again. Then it's time to forgive.
This goes against the common spiritual wisdom that we should be ready to forgive our transgressors, that forgiveness sets us free. Maybe that's true, and we should forgive the person who cut us off in traffic.
But there are hurts so deep, so debilitating, that easily forgiving them feels like self-betrayal. Forgiving betrayal, murder, assault -- all these feel too heinous to forgive. And yet people clamor to tell the sufferer that they should let go, forgive. Often these people who press others to forgive have something to gain -- family members of the violator, the church of the violator, the violator themselves.
Withholding forgiveness gives a sense of power, maintains the anger that may be needed to recover. Anger is not evil; it's an emotion. Righteous anger helps us see our value, helps us recover. (Rage, however, consumes us and it's best not to play with anger until it becomes rage).
There comes a time, though, when the anger holds us in the past, when we've grown beyond the hurt, we have found ourselves again. Then it's time to forgive.
Thursday, April 4, 2019
Day 30 Reflection: Suffering
Suffering exists because someone's basic needs aren't
being met. Food and water, health, safety and security -- without enough
of these people suffer. Suffering causes distress -- fear, anguish,
pain.
Society holds onto a narrative that paints suffering as ennobling. We admire the hungry villagers, the mentally tortured artist, the once-vibrant person dying of cancer.
We should admire people's resilience in the face of suffering, but we should not dismiss their suffering as ennobling. We should instead do the humane thing -- see what we can do to help reduce their suffering. It may be that we can provide simple help like food and drink. Maybe we work to dismantle unjust structures that cause people to suffer, like reducing racial bias in policing. Even companionship, understanding, and acceptance may be enough to ease suffering.
Suffering is not noble, but weathering it together may be.
Society holds onto a narrative that paints suffering as ennobling. We admire the hungry villagers, the mentally tortured artist, the once-vibrant person dying of cancer.
We should admire people's resilience in the face of suffering, but we should not dismiss their suffering as ennobling. We should instead do the humane thing -- see what we can do to help reduce their suffering. It may be that we can provide simple help like food and drink. Maybe we work to dismantle unjust structures that cause people to suffer, like reducing racial bias in policing. Even companionship, understanding, and acceptance may be enough to ease suffering.
Suffering is not noble, but weathering it together may be.
Wednesday, April 3, 2019
Day 29 Reflection: Sacred
I looked up sacred and found this definition: dedicated to a religious purpose. Religion is defined as
In these days of "spiritual but not religious", the definition seems to discount the experience of countless people finding deep, transcendent meaning to their lives and experiences without benefit of organized religion and church services. Some people find experiences in nature as sacred, set apart from the mundane moments of their life. Some find their volunteer work as sacred. Panentheists find the sacred permeating all of their life and do not see a separation of sacred and secular.
Apparently, we need to have the sacred in our lives, a glimpse into the infathomable, the Great Mystery.
BBC (2014). Religions. Available: http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/ [April 3, 2019].
a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs (BBC, 2014).In other words, the sacred is set apart from secular (or profane) life through belief in a deity or deities and the worship of those deities. How it is experienced differs from person to person, but there is this sense of specialness, this celebration of mystery, that is held separate from ordinary life.
In these days of "spiritual but not religious", the definition seems to discount the experience of countless people finding deep, transcendent meaning to their lives and experiences without benefit of organized religion and church services. Some people find experiences in nature as sacred, set apart from the mundane moments of their life. Some find their volunteer work as sacred. Panentheists find the sacred permeating all of their life and do not see a separation of sacred and secular.
Apparently, we need to have the sacred in our lives, a glimpse into the infathomable, the Great Mystery.
BBC (2014). Religions. Available: http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/ [April 3, 2019].
Tuesday, April 2, 2019
Day 28 Reflection: Wisdom
We are told that our elders hold wisdom (and having just reached AARP age, I certainly hope so). But at the same time, as people get older, many become more resistant to change.
We are told that wisdom comes from experience, but some people learn nothing from their experiences.
How do we discern wisdom, then?
Wisdom doesn't bubble up out of fear or anger, although fear or anger may make us reach for wisdom. It rises from the still pool at the center of our being. It may goad us to act or ask us to wait, but it does so with a sense of what has gone before and a great deliberation. The answer it gives is grounded in humankind's best nature, deep in understanding.
Do not mistake wisdom with the resignation of "things have always been this way", or the self-righteousness of "things have always been this way". Wisdom is not about preserving or giving to the past. Wisdom is about learning from the past and using it for advancing a life, a people, a world into its future.
We are told that wisdom comes from experience, but some people learn nothing from their experiences.
How do we discern wisdom, then?
Wisdom doesn't bubble up out of fear or anger, although fear or anger may make us reach for wisdom. It rises from the still pool at the center of our being. It may goad us to act or ask us to wait, but it does so with a sense of what has gone before and a great deliberation. The answer it gives is grounded in humankind's best nature, deep in understanding.
Do not mistake wisdom with the resignation of "things have always been this way", or the self-righteousness of "things have always been this way". Wisdom is not about preserving or giving to the past. Wisdom is about learning from the past and using it for advancing a life, a people, a world into its future.
Monday, April 1, 2019
Day 1 Camp Nano April 2019: The beginning of Gods' Seeds:
I'm trying to motivate for April Camp Nanowrimo and a new book. Here's an excerpt from the first chapter:
*****
A group of beings — human-like, but with a venerable air for all their apparent youth — sat in a room whose black crystal-crusted walls shone with reflected light from the molten white floor, from the white and silver table, and seemingly from the participants themselves. The paucity of light did not lessen the sterility of the surroundings.
“The Apocalypse proved that we, the Archetypes, no longer take our protection of the human patterns seriously,” Luke Dunstan said earnestly, his hands tented in thought. His visage, weathered in contrast to the unlined faces of the other immortals around him, announced that he had become worldly and, unlike most Archetypes, had committed evil — in his case, for the sake of good. Unlike most Archetypes, he had also repented, which gave him a perspective that could be called almost human.
“But they still embrace evil,” the Baraka Archetype, short and spare like his people, countered. “They fight wars. They envy each other and they commit crimes out of greed.”
“Or out of want, or madness, or jealousy or a dozen other things,” Luke stated, the grimace on his face reflecting a view of reality he knew had wavered from the neutrality of an Archetype. Su, his consort and the Oldest of the Oldest, watched impassively, her tightly curled hair ruddy in the sparse light. She knew how to play the game, Luke noted sourly, something he had lost in his long association with humankind.
“If we give them the full impact of their cultural histories — not just the facts, but the emotions — the fear, the hatred, the xenophobia — “ The Bering Strait Archetype trailed off.
“How do you know it will make them worse? They already have the stories of their peoples’ pasts, and those seem to inspire xenophobia, it’s true. But what if they remember the full impact of the losses of war and weigh it against their hatred — would they decide to fight more? Or would they lay their weapons down?” Luke paused to take a breath, to calm himself down, to wear the gravitas of the Archetype instead of the passion of humans. “The point is that, if they kill each other, millions of them will not die with each death. If we keep holding the patterns of the humans — “
“One of our deaths will kill millions of humans,” Su interjected. “Which is why the Maker created us nearly immortal. Yet Lilith, who held the patterns of all women, was nearly killed by our kind. Can we guarantee this won’t happen again?”
All of a sudden the residents of the room stopped speaking. Luke felt as if a wind had cut through his immortal bones and chilled them for just a moment. Then he felt the weight, a weight of the history of countless descendents of the people of the seax, the knife that gave its name to the Saxons. And then his burdens vanished, and he felt a hollowness inside. The gasps from the others at the table echoed his.
“What — what was that?” The Ibero-Maurasian snapped, breaking the silence..
“I think — Su, did you notice anything?” Luke asked, knowing that Su had not carried humans’ patterns, their cultural DNA, for millennia as all her people, the Denisovans, had long since become extinct.
“Nothing,” Su answered, “except that all of you around me froze for a moment, and slumped forward. As if something had been taken away from you.”
“As it has,” the Bering Strait Archetype murmured. “I think — I think we have lost our patterns, and if we have, the Maker has taken them from us.” He sounded bewildered, as if something more than the weight of patterns had been taken from him.
“I must see — “ the Ibero-Maurasian said, then paused, and Luke knew that she mindspoke another Archetype. “No,” she finally said, speaking slowly as if weighing each word. “I think we are the only ones whose patterns have been taken.”
“But what does this mean?” the Baraka demanded.
The Arnhem Archetype, theretofore silent, spoke. “I think this means that the Maker has decided for us — He will take our patterns from us whether we are ready to relinquish them or not. And we’re the harbingers of this big change.”
*****
A group of beings — human-like, but with a venerable air for all their apparent youth — sat in a room whose black crystal-crusted walls shone with reflected light from the molten white floor, from the white and silver table, and seemingly from the participants themselves. The paucity of light did not lessen the sterility of the surroundings.
“The Apocalypse proved that we, the Archetypes, no longer take our protection of the human patterns seriously,” Luke Dunstan said earnestly, his hands tented in thought. His visage, weathered in contrast to the unlined faces of the other immortals around him, announced that he had become worldly and, unlike most Archetypes, had committed evil — in his case, for the sake of good. Unlike most Archetypes, he had also repented, which gave him a perspective that could be called almost human.
“But they still embrace evil,” the Baraka Archetype, short and spare like his people, countered. “They fight wars. They envy each other and they commit crimes out of greed.”
“Or out of want, or madness, or jealousy or a dozen other things,” Luke stated, the grimace on his face reflecting a view of reality he knew had wavered from the neutrality of an Archetype. Su, his consort and the Oldest of the Oldest, watched impassively, her tightly curled hair ruddy in the sparse light. She knew how to play the game, Luke noted sourly, something he had lost in his long association with humankind.
“If we give them the full impact of their cultural histories — not just the facts, but the emotions — the fear, the hatred, the xenophobia — “ The Bering Strait Archetype trailed off.
“How do you know it will make them worse? They already have the stories of their peoples’ pasts, and those seem to inspire xenophobia, it’s true. But what if they remember the full impact of the losses of war and weigh it against their hatred — would they decide to fight more? Or would they lay their weapons down?” Luke paused to take a breath, to calm himself down, to wear the gravitas of the Archetype instead of the passion of humans. “The point is that, if they kill each other, millions of them will not die with each death. If we keep holding the patterns of the humans — “
“One of our deaths will kill millions of humans,” Su interjected. “Which is why the Maker created us nearly immortal. Yet Lilith, who held the patterns of all women, was nearly killed by our kind. Can we guarantee this won’t happen again?”
All of a sudden the residents of the room stopped speaking. Luke felt as if a wind had cut through his immortal bones and chilled them for just a moment. Then he felt the weight, a weight of the history of countless descendents of the people of the seax, the knife that gave its name to the Saxons. And then his burdens vanished, and he felt a hollowness inside. The gasps from the others at the table echoed his.
“What — what was that?” The Ibero-Maurasian snapped, breaking the silence..
“I think — Su, did you notice anything?” Luke asked, knowing that Su had not carried humans’ patterns, their cultural DNA, for millennia as all her people, the Denisovans, had long since become extinct.
“Nothing,” Su answered, “except that all of you around me froze for a moment, and slumped forward. As if something had been taken away from you.”
“As it has,” the Bering Strait Archetype murmured. “I think — I think we have lost our patterns, and if we have, the Maker has taken them from us.” He sounded bewildered, as if something more than the weight of patterns had been taken from him.
“I must see — “ the Ibero-Maurasian said, then paused, and Luke knew that she mindspoke another Archetype. “No,” she finally said, speaking slowly as if weighing each word. “I think we are the only ones whose patterns have been taken.”
“But what does this mean?” the Baraka demanded.
The Arnhem Archetype, theretofore silent, spoke. “I think this means that the Maker has decided for us — He will take our patterns from us whether we are ready to relinquish them or not. And we’re the harbingers of this big change.”
Day 27 Reflection: Gratitude
Everyone knows that gratitude makes people happier.
Maybe not everyone, but popular psychology instructs us to write gratitude journals, naming a magic three things per day that we feel grateful for. One can find gratitude journals in hard-bound form, in smartphone apps, and in Facebook memes. That's because gratitude journaling works, according to research in positive psychology (Emmons and McCullough, 2003).
Some days it's hard to write anything in the gratitude journal. Days when little things go wrong one after another, we hug those hurts to ourselves as if to use them as currency to bargain with our Maker for better luck. When we fall into negative self-talk, learned patterns of pessimism, we can't find a thing to be grateful for. Gratitude doesn't come to mind when we suffer from depression or post-traumatic stress disorder.
I have those days of suffering, given that I live with Bipolar 2, which I've been open about in these pages. I also wrestle with negative self-talk. I've wrangled these two into submission for the most part, but still depression and darkness pop out at times.
I challenge the darkness with gratitude:
I am grateful for my bipolar disorder, because it has made me take care of myself. I am grateful because it has given me insight into suffering.
I am grateful for getting my manuscripts rejected because it has forced me to work harder and improve my writing.
I am grateful for my struggles because they remind me that nothing is simple in life.
Maybe not everyone, but popular psychology instructs us to write gratitude journals, naming a magic three things per day that we feel grateful for. One can find gratitude journals in hard-bound form, in smartphone apps, and in Facebook memes. That's because gratitude journaling works, according to research in positive psychology (Emmons and McCullough, 2003).
Some days it's hard to write anything in the gratitude journal. Days when little things go wrong one after another, we hug those hurts to ourselves as if to use them as currency to bargain with our Maker for better luck. When we fall into negative self-talk, learned patterns of pessimism, we can't find a thing to be grateful for. Gratitude doesn't come to mind when we suffer from depression or post-traumatic stress disorder.
I have those days of suffering, given that I live with Bipolar 2, which I've been open about in these pages. I also wrestle with negative self-talk. I've wrangled these two into submission for the most part, but still depression and darkness pop out at times.
I challenge the darkness with gratitude:
I am grateful for my bipolar disorder, because it has made me take care of myself. I am grateful because it has given me insight into suffering.
I am grateful for getting my manuscripts rejected because it has forced me to work harder and improve my writing.
I am grateful for my struggles because they remind me that nothing is simple in life.
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