Pilgrimage of Desire

I had the privilege of meeting Alison Gresik at the Festival of Faith and Writing.  I was immediately intrigued by her perspective and by her work.  I'm still interested, which is, I think, one of the best things you can say about someone.  Alison's current project is publishing a memoir through Indiegogo.  Indiegogo is interesting all on it's own, but when you add to that the story of a family recovering from depression by selling their home and using the money to travel the world it becomes irresistable.  Throw into the mix two charming children. and you have movie popcorn with chocolate chips sprinkled in.  To take a look or to support her efforts visit this link--http://www.indiegogo.com/Pilgrimage-of-Desire

Home again, Home again, jiggity jog.

I spent last Thursday and Friday at a writer's seminar, specifically, The Soul Tells a Story led by Vinita Hampton Wright. It was sponsored by Calvin's Gainey Institute and was really very lovely. Vinita created space for us to explore and create and helped suggest routines and exercises that could help us in our work as creative people. I let myself become immersed in that part of my life that I've come to realize has to have an outlet. Holy Hell is the result of our final exercise about a three day journey until our dream came true. Now though, I'm back home. It took me two days to really return to my life. I had to write for one day, and absorb other people's stories for another before I was any good here with the kids.
I'm home now, and I'm finding I'm much better for the excursion into that troublesome creative side of myself. It's easier to manage reality if I have a bit of a vacation now and then. I also wrote my first sex scene. I'd known it was in the book, but I'm writing chronologically and Harriet is still eleven. What was that all about? I don't know, but for my first try it's pretty good. Thanks, Vinita.

Book Backlog

I've suddenly had a spurt of interest in reading again. Generally speaking, reading is an addiction that needs no prompting, but life has become more interesting than generally understood throughout my lifetime. I have found myself living more than reading, and I think that's a good thing. Books are a good thing too, and I'm back at it, albeit less than before.
So, what am I reading?
The Catholic Catechism--I hadn't expected this to be a dull read, but there it is. I keep finding myself assenting without the least trouble. I'm sure that I'll bump into trouble soon enough, but so far, smooth sailing.
War and Peace--You have to read it sometime, and I'm still all goose-bumpy from finishing Anna Karenina. I also have a young heroine that I'm going to put through it, so I need to know what she's getting into.
The Fathers of the Church--I got curious about the centuries of Christianity that were left out of my education. This book is basic, but interesting.
Ida B.--I bought it for my daughter, honest.
Letters to Malcolm--I've read it before, but it's so homey. I highly recommend it. Thanks, Steve for the loan.
On a Wing and a Prayer--I blew through this one in a few hours. It's very sweet. Thanks for the recommendation, Mom Vi.
The Book of God--I've been eager to read this since Walter Wangerin spoke at the Festival of Faith and Writing.
That's what's on my nightstand.

Dali Painted My Day

This is severely edited. I simply can't share all of that, it's too personal, but I can give you glimpses.

Charles D'Ambrosio is ambrosia. I haven't read him, but I think it's safe to predict that I will have read everything of his soon. His speaking meant so much that I found the courage to offer him an origami square, after all he's familiar with people like me.

Marilyn Robinson told me that I'm trying to distill my soul into words. She said that I shouldn't settle for being successful. She gave me permission to aim higher. Marilyn, if you read this, here's your gray origami square.

Debbie Blue pastored me. I've never had a woman pastor before, and I must say it's making me question my orientation. I just kept crying. A librarian sitting next to me was a great comfort.

For lunch, Molly Wolf(thanks for the dandelion) and Allison met me for a therapeutic catharthis involving knitting, which they may have succeeded in convincing me I ought to take up. I hope they won't mind teaching me. Every knitter must choose their own skein.

This next bit is sacred, so you'll have to excuse me if I leave you out. My mother said that whatever scares you is what you should run right toward, and I ran right toward Three Italian Women. I think getting published might be next.

Then I went to After the Feast for dessert, and Joan told me one of the funniest jokes I've ever heard. I guess I shouldn't be surprised since she got it from God. He has such a grand sense of humor. Joan got more than an origami square out of me. She got my work.

Thank you, Walter, for your blessing and your admonitions and your grandfatherly love. It will stay with me for the rest of my life. It has cemented my shape.

Then I came home, and Kurt embraced me and filled me with stories about my children. I don't think I've ever been happier.

Thank you to the Festival Commitee and to all the people who made the festival possible. Even those of you who kept the bathrooms sparkling had an impact on my pleasure and peace. I needed all of you, and I thank you for lending yourselves to God on my behalf. See you next time.

I tend to put the most important things in Post Scripts. To the young gentleman who was assisting Michael Card. You were God's messenger to me. You said "Value yourself." You said it in my native tongue. Thank you.

Notes from the Underself

This festival seems to be about subtext for me. I was raised to politely decline reading the subtext of life. Actually it was sort of beaten out of me by people concerned for the health of my soul and the privacy of their insecurities and evils. This festival Laura Maria Censabella brought my personal subtext right up front for me to get a good hard look at, and I've been acting like a sad drunk ever since. I suppose I should feel bad about this, but the Wholly Spirit has been so present with me in my distress, well, who cares as long as He is willing to stick so close and be so kind.

He had me crying when someone named Calvin requested a song on WCSG about people being so wrapped up in their own dreams they didn't notice other's struggles. I felt so noticed and loved by "Calvin" that it seemed God was there in that. I was a bit late for the prayer service, but I thought it was going until 8:30 so I rushed to get there for the close, only to realize that it was over and the sessions were starting at 8:30 not 9:00. I had officially crossed off Michael Card's session on lament because it was such a commercial fan geek thing to do. But the Spirit said, "you're right here and I want you to go." So, I went. Man.

Grace entered me and blessed my obedience. I began to see the people around me so clearly all of the sudden that I had to capture them quickly like a sketch artist. I hadn't quite outgrown being afraid of them yet, so I scribbled my thoughts down in mirror writing like Da Vinci. Then Who Is Like God's Clown began speaking and the light grew stronger and I felt so recycled and purposed. I wanted to share some of the grace of presence I was experiencing so I pulled out a piece of gray oragami paper I'd brought along for a childish project I'd abandoned thirty seconds after arriving yesterday and scribbled my name forwards and backwards. I thought my secret might fit into the secrets he'd smuggled back to us from Romania and China. I thought he might feel a little of my joy, and I thought that was a good way to say thank you for the lecture. I am too fragile for face to face sometimes, so I slipped it to his assistant. I don't think he got it. The assistant froze with such distate that I felt I'd handed him used toilet paper not my name. I was so ashamed of my childishness. How else is the grace of God to be greeted but with haughty disdain?

I fled and God provided me with Jan, and sent me off to Grace and Fire--another seminar I'd crossed off. Jon Sweeney was going to be talking about leaving fundamentalism and I've had it with fundamentalism. The session was full of surprising gifts, the good design of John Terpstra's book, John Terpstra's subject which will be helpful to me as I work on my novel. Richard Lischer's lovely vintage masculinity, which was refreshingly tinted by all the good parts of classic chauvenism and absent the bad.

I was still too overstimulated to keep going with festival, but when I tried to slog on the seminary maze wouldn't let me out. It had a detour just for me. Last festival I'd been saddened by the seminary chapel's disrepair. It seemed that seminary students would need that chapel the most as they prepared for the fearsome future of pastoral ministry and the tiles were falling and the carpet was torn and it was so forlorn in there. Somehow I wound up there, it is so lovely now,
thankfully, it was also empty. God said, pull up my lap and rest, kid. So I did and had such a refreshing time of prayer. If God didn't feel ashamed of me, then I really shouldn't either. If God still loved me, then I should still love me too.

Lunch was good, they remembered the mustard today. Rye bread seemed particularly appropo. I wanted a place of privacy with people, so I headed to the overpass and parked in the window to watch the world go by. The world obligingly went by until Lara settled in with her turkey wrap for our own personal lunch gathering about motherhood and writing. Motherhood is my solace, so sharing about our children and our attempts to enrich them consoled me. We exchanged cards and I ran off for the official lunch break discussion in which I hoped to discover reasons why this blog is a terrible idea. Dave, however, was not nearly as helpful as I had hoped. He was very encouraging and interesting. So were all my other lunch buddies, even when I got a little weepy--sorry guys.

I ran to Mary Karr's session, breathless to hear from such an amazing poet. She started by answering a bunch of memoir questions--God, what is the deal with all this memoir stuff? She got to poetry eventually. I like her crispy fire. I applauded her when she said she knew she was called to write a book, but that didn't mean the book wasn't meant to fail. Of course, I prefer failure, it's so much easier.

I then misread the schedule and ran off to hear Nikki Grimes, who wasn't speaking right then. Instead I ended up in, you guessed it, another memoir session with Kristen Ohlsen and Patricia Raybon. It was a surprising choice since the official topic was journalism and I am not a journalist, but I'd given up questioning God. I fetched water from my car and sat down. The session was a wake up call to the practicality of the work God keeps insisting that I do. I was gently, but firmly admonished to write a page a day and to pray before I started. I was pushed to quit playing and get real.

I went to the music and poetry experiment and I found it luminously soothing. I just let those beautiful young voices and the newly ancient words seep into me. My thanks to all the poets present and absent who contributed.

There were other things, but this is getting long. I have a festival to soak up. See you tomorrow.

Festival Grovestand

Here's the early report, very early. I feel like a naughty child the night before a field trip. I just can't sleep. I'm having that much fun.

Kristen Ohlsen was a strong cup of coffee to start my festival with. She shared her surprise that Rush Limbaugh would speak favorably about her book, Stalking the Divine. I was struck by the thought that we are all only really safe touching each other when we are both touching the Divine, and that we are all comforted when we hear that "the enemy" is reaching for Him too.

Lucy Shaw followed with her keynote address, Thumbprint on the Clay. It was beautifully woven and intensely cerebral. Lucy taught me that a poet and the poems are two very separate things--at times. She read this very powerful and personal poem that would have made me so uncomfortable to read to a group of 2,000, and went right on as if she'd been reading the news. She was speaking to our minds not our ears and it was a very enlightening experience.

From there I went to my playwriting workshop with Laura Maria Censabella. Laura is a willow that has been struck by lightening and held the charge. She crackles with life and sensitivity. She had us up and stretching, which felt strange until she told us to close our eyes so that we could be private and then it felt wonderful to respect my body's contribution to my mind's work. We did an intense writing excercise about an object from our childhood that cracked me wide open. Then she had us write a scene involving two people where one is giving the object to another starting with a line that meant, "here, take this; it is everything I am." Afterwards, the braver among us staged their scene, casting from the audience. I enjoyed everyone's work and Laura's kindly insightful comments that drew out engaging lessons from each performance.

Alice McDermott closed the day with a staggering meditation on death and it's importance to both the artist and humanity. I enjoyed her reading from her upcoming book. She then went on to "speak in her own words"--very clever joke--exhorting us to remind everyone that they were going to die and not to offer an antidote. It was all right and wise, but somehow grim. I wish she could have smiled a little more, both for our sake and hers.

There's much more that happened of course, but I'm saving that for another time. I will say the nudey show was nicer than my fantasies. I found myself just soaking up the quiet pleasure of belonging. The festival feels like my lost tribe, only I'm the one who's been missing. That's my favorite thing about this festival so far is the sense of family. While there are awkward gaps of prestige and divisions of authority and position, they are much less noticeable than the spirit of common purpose and passion. The only thing that truly hampers relationships is the shortage of time, but that is a simple fact of life that not even the festival's strong magic can overcome.

Blessings, may you be as well fed today as I am.

Countdown to the Festival

Only two days until I head out to the Festival of Faith and Writing. An inveterate planner such as myself surely has a checklist of necessities you say, so glad you asked.

A giant tote bag--to schlep home all those books. Mine has a special compartment to keep snacks and water cool and refreshing.

A tiny umbrella--Rain is predicted. I'm rather bummed, and a tad anxious. I chose the umbrella because the festival requires an unbelievable amount of walking. I tried to plan the contents of my tote bag in the same spirit of a backpacking expedition.

Business cards--you can't beat free! Thanks, Vista Print. I love those guys.

Bottled Water--This was controversial. On the one hand they offer it free as a perk in the Prince Center, and it's heavy. On the other hand I found myself stuck without some and I dislike water fountains. For some reason they are always in bad repair.

Bandaids--I learned last year that while my shoes are adequate for running errands comfortably they can't stand up to all that walking on Calvin's campus. No more blisters for me.

Cute clothes--I hit the sale racks hard. I found some darling stuff, including this ruby-coral jacket with three-quarter length sleeves and a cut straight out of the fifties. I'm wearing it with darling little khaki capris and a white tank if you're going to be looking for me the first day.

A notebook--I don't think I've gone much of anywhere without a blank notebook since my first little composition book bought for me by desperate parents on a long drive from Michigan to Maryland.

Comfortable shoes--I may even go with my sandals if it's warm enough. Don't think that just because they are comfortable I've sacrificed fashion--oh no, I love shoes.

Cute haircut--provided by Janis, styled by me. Janis did a fabulous job (if you live in the area and need a master stylist, call me), my only concern is that I don't seem to be able to style it with the same oomph she gives it. Hair isn't my gift.

An open heart--well, why wouldn't I? The people at Calvin have been nothing but lovely, and last time was one of the highlights of my life.

I hope you have something equally exciting to look forward to. If not, feel free to borrow my experience. I'll be posting all the juicy bits, and think of all the shopping it's saving you! I know I've had some great vicarious adventures wandering around these blogs; it's time for me to give back to the blogging community.

Blessings!

Off to the Nudey Show

Two years ago I attended the Festival of Faith and Writing. Frederick Buechner was the main attraction. His books had comforted me in darkness, and I wanted to say thanks. That experience was amazing, but more amazing still was the discovery that in a large gathering of writers I fit right in. I found my niche, my place in the world, and I'm very grateful.
Festival time is here again, and I wanted to express my appreciation, so I supported the festival with a small donation. Gratitude keeps on giving and the festival has in turn invited me to a reception. I'm hopeful that the reception will be an intimate affair spangled with literary glitterati and me. My imagination is floundering in fantasy, but I come back to earth quickly with that all-important question--what to wear?
I've thumbed through my wardrobe without enthusiasm and the family budget has declared my festival spending spree closed. The more I consider the possibilities, the more the question seems to be what NOT to wear. After all, these are the literary equivalent of porn stars who've sent several thousand copies of their naked souls out for general consumption. In such a grand company of exhibitionists, wouldn't good manners dictate that I should strip at least a little to put them more at ease?
In honor of Emily Post I've decided I simply must print up a few of my better pieces to hand around. Perhaps a few of the worse ones too. After all, away from their editor's retouching, some of the stars might find that spare tire embarrassing; a glimpse of my thighs ought to be just the thing to get them back in the spirit.
But, if that's the fashion, then what is my poor husband to do? He's an engineer. He could describe his machines for several hours and remain just as clothed. Listening an engineer naked is a difficult skill to master, but one I've enjoyed practicing. No, I suppose I'd best keep my clothes on for his sake. We'll have to content ourselves with enjoying the view.