A few days ago I was looking over my life and thinking how nice it would be if my life was a little less mass-produced. I was thinking about my kitchen gear in particular since I happened to be in my kitchen, but as I considered replacing things I realized that I'd have to sacrifice items that came from people who love me. I quickly decided I wasn't ready to do that. Mass-produced or not, each bowl and pan represented someone's good wishes, and so I settled back comfortably into conformity.
And then there was the crash.
My favorite Pyrex mixing bowl, an engagement present from my mother-in-law, hit the floor full of chicken salad from my lunch with Alison. I was heartbroken on several levels. I'd been planning to nosh on both the chicken salad and the memories of my lunch date, and my beloved bowl was no more. Ready or not my conformity has abandoned me, and now I'm confronted with the freedom to choose for myself. Shall I search out a replica of my ever-faithful and practical bowl, or shall I allow a one-of-a-kind original to find me? Perhaps I should go to that pottery place and paint my own? I don't know what I'll choose, but I now have options because the known and loved is cracked and broken beyond repair. This new freedom isn't what I was looking for, but perhaps it is what I need.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
God's Economy
A couple of months ago I was at my hairdressers and as I was leaving she said, "God doesn't always give you what you want, but he always gives you what you need." A flush began in my innermost being and didn't stop until it hit the roots of my hair and all twenty nailbeds as I thought about all the things God seems to think I need. I have been abundantly blessed over and over again, and since that time I have discovered rafts of new neccessities I couldn't have imagined then. I was raised to head off to Africa and eat insects while living in a dung hut. This was the ideal Christian. All a real Christian needed was God and a few very basic basics. What am I to make of the real Christian life I'm living? Have I missed it somewhere? Every step I took, I took expecting to be in Africa any minute. I sought God's will as best I could, and here I am, evidently an extravagantly needy person despite my best intentions.
I've always known I struggle not to be like the unforgiving servant. Personally, I don't think he beat up his fellow servant because he was greedy. I think the poor sap was just trying to scrape all his resources together in the hopes that someday he'd be able to pay it all back. I imagine him arriving home from his close shave, and instead of saying "Wow, I can't believe my good fortune"; I see him feeling desperately ashamed, and pulling out his list of assets in order to draw up a plan for repayment. I see him swearing off steak in favor of hamburger, cutting cable off permanently without any resorting to satelite, and calculating how long he can make the old station wagon last if he puts in a new engine instead of purchasing another vehicle. The unforgiving servant would have felt much more comfortable in the dung hut than in the nice rancher he immediately put on the market.
If there really is no way to pay it all back or even to adequately express my gratitude, then what am I to do? Being the guilt ridden former fundamentalist that I am, I remember the parable of the talents, so burying all my assets in a hole won't cut it, but how on earth do I double the master's investment? I mean have you ever really tried to think it out just how much the tab is, no matter how simple your life. Gahndi was in over his head. There is however, the saving grace of fundamentalism--they made me learn all of the Bible not just part of it. You soon find out that there's always the antithetical premise somewhere else in that amazing book. In this case when it's all too much and I know I can never work it out, I remember that the farmer's seeds grow no matter what he does. All the farmer can do is provide the right conditions, and hope. The growing of the seed to maturity is God's business, and He brings the DNA to it's full expression. If it works for an ear of corn, it'll work for me. The corn has no idea what it's doing there and what it will be, it just grows. That's where I'm at. All I can do is watch myself unfold, needy little debtor that I am. I sure hope He knows what he's doing. He doesn't seem like a very smart venture capitalist to me.
I've always known I struggle not to be like the unforgiving servant. Personally, I don't think he beat up his fellow servant because he was greedy. I think the poor sap was just trying to scrape all his resources together in the hopes that someday he'd be able to pay it all back. I imagine him arriving home from his close shave, and instead of saying "Wow, I can't believe my good fortune"; I see him feeling desperately ashamed, and pulling out his list of assets in order to draw up a plan for repayment. I see him swearing off steak in favor of hamburger, cutting cable off permanently without any resorting to satelite, and calculating how long he can make the old station wagon last if he puts in a new engine instead of purchasing another vehicle. The unforgiving servant would have felt much more comfortable in the dung hut than in the nice rancher he immediately put on the market.
If there really is no way to pay it all back or even to adequately express my gratitude, then what am I to do? Being the guilt ridden former fundamentalist that I am, I remember the parable of the talents, so burying all my assets in a hole won't cut it, but how on earth do I double the master's investment? I mean have you ever really tried to think it out just how much the tab is, no matter how simple your life. Gahndi was in over his head. There is however, the saving grace of fundamentalism--they made me learn all of the Bible not just part of it. You soon find out that there's always the antithetical premise somewhere else in that amazing book. In this case when it's all too much and I know I can never work it out, I remember that the farmer's seeds grow no matter what he does. All the farmer can do is provide the right conditions, and hope. The growing of the seed to maturity is God's business, and He brings the DNA to it's full expression. If it works for an ear of corn, it'll work for me. The corn has no idea what it's doing there and what it will be, it just grows. That's where I'm at. All I can do is watch myself unfold, needy little debtor that I am. I sure hope He knows what he's doing. He doesn't seem like a very smart venture capitalist to me.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Itching Ears
doog. doog. doog.
Speak so we can hear you.
DOOG! DOOG! DOOG!
Speak, so we will hear you.
live. live. live.
Speak so we can hear you.
DOOG! DOOG! DOOG!
Speak, so we will hear you.
live. live. live.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
A little less weedy in my 3D garden
Means that's not's much has been growing here in my cyber garden. I have been making mental notes on two short stories, but neither is ready for publication here. I have been rather swallowed up by my 3D life. There was the weeding with Edi, which has gotten me started on what looks to be an epic battle between me and this invasive vine whose actual name I do not know, but I'm having fun thinking up new ones. I'm pushing my kids through some school that got a little behind. It's been some very full months around here. We hope to be done with school by the end of this week--which means, summer's here! All those plans are about to start coming to life. All those neatly stockpiled summer essentials will have to be unearthed--Spring cleaning is also behind schedule, oops. The smell of sunscreen is beginning its annual bid to become omnipresent. The hammock is out and in full use. The kiddie wading pool has made an appearance. All the best things about summer are beginning to bloom. Sorry, but that's a little more exciting than my blog. I'll get bored eventually. Till then, keep writing.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
A TV School
This is a rough draft. It is only a rough draft of a children's book that is currently written from too adult a perspective. The great thing about rough drafts is that this matters not a bit. This manuscript is really just a lark, a way to write without the stress of weightier work. Enjoy.
Philanthropia West unlocked the school doors and slid through sideways to avoid spilling her coffee, bumping her tote bag, or dropping the paper-mache Parthenon. She had been schlepping projects and books in and out of Sonrise Academy as soon as she was old enough to schlep instead of be schlepped. Philanthropia was the fourth generation of Wests to run the school and if she could just keep it together long enough her nephew would probably continue the tradition. The question was could she keep the school going? Her uncertainty about that point had brought her to the sanctuary of her office so early in the morning.
Looking at the school's finances she knew she was going to have to go to the West Trust for funds again, and she knew she risked the school's closure each time she drew the board of director's attention to the dwindling school in a very valuable building. It was a charitable trust, but the Wests hadn't become so wealthy by being foolishly sentimental. Phil knew it wasn't foolish to keep the school going. Good teaching gets in the walls and floors in the way that yeast inhabits a bakery. She might be the most inept headmistress in the school's history, but the school was still doing great things for children. All it really needed were more kids. Sonrise had a tremendous alumni group that was very supportive, but scattered. The checks came in, but the kids didn't. The student body was almost entirely alumni's children, but that only amounted to thirty kids.
Sonrise had a difficult time attracting newcomers because of its eccentric approach to education. The founding headmaster, Cornelius West, felt that as long as you had a faculty that loved learning and children it really didn't matter what degrees they held or didn't hold. He had turned out to be right, but it was hard to explain this to parents in this enlightened age. At least it was hard for Phil. She had always secretly doubted and it showed when she toured prospective parents. How could she explain thirty children in fourteen grades with a faculty of four teachers none of whom had a degree in education? They all held many other degrees; Phil herself had ten degrees from very notable institutions, but no one had gotten around to the study of education itself.
Dr. Frederick Spurgeon, professor of Latin and logic, was also fascinated by Egypt and archaeology. Miss Jane Spry, mistress of art and dance, had performed around the world and studied everything everywere, but seemed destined never to finish more than a bachelors. Miss Delia Straight taught mathematics and physical education. She had a doctorate in theoretical physics, but not a single class on kinesiology. Finally there was Mrs. Susan Sheer--literature. Parents were always worried about the lack of phonics and such, but they needn't have the inherent curiosity and the love of the teachers insured that everything and everyone was well taught. Phil herself loved to dive in with various series on history. The children had a marvelous time, and graduates had attended every Ivy League school as well as prestigious institutions abroad.
There was simply nothing for it. Phil had to find a new way to attract parents to Sonrise. She had hoped to skate along until Roger was finished with his studies. Roger was the first West to actually study education. Phil had had a hand in this. Roger was her favorite nephew and she had passed along her doubts to him certain he would find the solution. Roger was entirely engrossed and likely to be several more years acquiring his basic education having only two doctorates at the moment. Thirty students would not hold out as long as necessary. So here she was hoping to find the strength and inspiration to carry on in the potent combination of a Quaker silence and a strong cup of coffee.
This story continues here.
Philanthropia West unlocked the school doors and slid through sideways to avoid spilling her coffee, bumping her tote bag, or dropping the paper-mache Parthenon. She had been schlepping projects and books in and out of Sonrise Academy as soon as she was old enough to schlep instead of be schlepped. Philanthropia was the fourth generation of Wests to run the school and if she could just keep it together long enough her nephew would probably continue the tradition. The question was could she keep the school going? Her uncertainty about that point had brought her to the sanctuary of her office so early in the morning.
Looking at the school's finances she knew she was going to have to go to the West Trust for funds again, and she knew she risked the school's closure each time she drew the board of director's attention to the dwindling school in a very valuable building. It was a charitable trust, but the Wests hadn't become so wealthy by being foolishly sentimental. Phil knew it wasn't foolish to keep the school going. Good teaching gets in the walls and floors in the way that yeast inhabits a bakery. She might be the most inept headmistress in the school's history, but the school was still doing great things for children. All it really needed were more kids. Sonrise had a tremendous alumni group that was very supportive, but scattered. The checks came in, but the kids didn't. The student body was almost entirely alumni's children, but that only amounted to thirty kids.
Sonrise had a difficult time attracting newcomers because of its eccentric approach to education. The founding headmaster, Cornelius West, felt that as long as you had a faculty that loved learning and children it really didn't matter what degrees they held or didn't hold. He had turned out to be right, but it was hard to explain this to parents in this enlightened age. At least it was hard for Phil. She had always secretly doubted and it showed when she toured prospective parents. How could she explain thirty children in fourteen grades with a faculty of four teachers none of whom had a degree in education? They all held many other degrees; Phil herself had ten degrees from very notable institutions, but no one had gotten around to the study of education itself.
Dr. Frederick Spurgeon, professor of Latin and logic, was also fascinated by Egypt and archaeology. Miss Jane Spry, mistress of art and dance, had performed around the world and studied everything everywere, but seemed destined never to finish more than a bachelors. Miss Delia Straight taught mathematics and physical education. She had a doctorate in theoretical physics, but not a single class on kinesiology. Finally there was Mrs. Susan Sheer--literature. Parents were always worried about the lack of phonics and such, but they needn't have the inherent curiosity and the love of the teachers insured that everything and everyone was well taught. Phil herself loved to dive in with various series on history. The children had a marvelous time, and graduates had attended every Ivy League school as well as prestigious institutions abroad.
There was simply nothing for it. Phil had to find a new way to attract parents to Sonrise. She had hoped to skate along until Roger was finished with his studies. Roger was the first West to actually study education. Phil had had a hand in this. Roger was her favorite nephew and she had passed along her doubts to him certain he would find the solution. Roger was entirely engrossed and likely to be several more years acquiring his basic education having only two doctorates at the moment. Thirty students would not hold out as long as necessary. So here she was hoping to find the strength and inspiration to carry on in the potent combination of a Quaker silence and a strong cup of coffee.
This story continues here.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Self Actualization
This is a hard-hat zone. I'm still futzing with this one.
A clutter of wonders is God's fridge
The Pieta, The Messiah, The Golden Gate Bridge
Of course, lesser works make their home there, too
Jim's garden, Jane's song, Jeff's card with glitter glue
Rich with potential, first creation
generously supplies our quest for innovation
Praising God's original design
Which left us room for the creations of mankind
But what about my original specs
The tiny reflection that sin has wrecked
I long to offer His design reclaimed
My fettered soul reborn, unchained
I labor that my God may see
His Holy Realized plan for me
A clutter of wonders is God's fridge
The Pieta, The Messiah, The Golden Gate Bridge
Of course, lesser works make their home there, too
Jim's garden, Jane's song, Jeff's card with glitter glue
Rich with potential, first creation
generously supplies our quest for innovation
Praising God's original design
Which left us room for the creations of mankind
But what about my original specs
The tiny reflection that sin has wrecked
I long to offer His design reclaimed
My fettered soul reborn, unchained
I labor that my God may see
His Holy Realized plan for me
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The Value of Community
As the post cards left my fingertips and slid down the chute, a deep panic asserted itself, and I considered asking the post master for my mail back. What was I thinking? What had I just done? Only a crazy person asks the entire neighborhood to come over and write. A few deep breaths later, I remembered why I had committed myself to this summer's big project--I want to get to know my neighbors, and I love writing. I suppose a reading group is more conventional, but when you share your writing you share yourself. You take a risk that members of a reading group are spared, and in taking the greater risk you reap the greater reward. You allow your authentic self to be known and accepted-- who doesn't want that? I am not the greatest writer on earth or probably even in Spring Lake, but I have talent and experience and I'm willing to share it with young and old alike. I've opened up my cyber home for visitors, and now I'm opening my 3D home to the neighbors.
Neighbors, come and write with me; we'll both be the better for it.
Neighbors, come and write with me; we'll both be the better for it.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Still behind, sorry
My office is mostly back together, and it's better than ever. I have a huge, 7x7 foot white board with the outline of my novel emblazoned at the top. It's amazing what a little paneling can do for your outlook on life. Blessings on all and to all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
