Capture Your 365

For thirty days, I have been capturing one photo to post on Instagram with the #CY365 hashtag. Why? To cultivate the routine of taking at least one photo each day, document my year, increase my observatory skill, and/or retain the memory of something beautiful or important (and those two are not mutually exclusive). It's an entertaining hobby and far from routine. It keeps the synapses firing in my aging brain. I hope you enjoy some of what I share, but that is not my measure of success.

The only measure for me is this: did I take a photo today?

There are several apps and websites which help promote the photo-a-day concept. I use this one for photo prompts. Some people can do it on their own, I personally like to have a prompt, though I am not locked into that. If the prompt doesn't resonate, or if I find something more interesting, I simply hashtag it as #offprompt. I chose Instagram as my depository, but others have posted on Twitter, Facebook or elsewhere.

You'll find me on Instagram as @north59lite. I tell you in case you're interested, since you are here, voluntarily reading this blog. I have no marketing agenda, I'm selling nothing, I've no desire to build a larger platform of followers. I can't keep track of the ones I have. The odd nicknames mean I usually have to click a person's profile to figure out who they are in real life. And then there are those of you whom I've never met...

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Henry once asked me why I share things on social media. I didn't have an answer then, so I ordered two books I thought might help me answer the question for myself. "Why We Write" and "Why We Write About Ourselves" gave me some interesting reading by other authors, but also offered as many different reasons to write as there were chapters in each book.

Steve Bell, writing in "Pilgrim Year: Ephiphany," finally hit on something close to my own motive. He said:

"We all have interior landscapes that deeply long to be expressed." 

Steve tells how he was once moved to tears reading about the late-life longing expressed by Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky. "As he neared his own death," Steve says, "the great writer was desperately trying to complete The Brothers Karamazov." Dostoyevsky reportedly said that if he could just finish the work, "he would die a happy man, having expressed himself completely."

That quote exploded like fireworks in my heart. It was my own sort of Epiphany. The longing to express oneself completely drives some artists mad. If we tie it to approval of what we have expressed, we get driven there a bit sooner. I determined long ago that I would offer my expressions to the world, be it poetry, prose, photographs, or music. I have been sharing via this blog since 2005, having published over 1,200 posts. That's an average of eight expressions each month for 13 years. Not prolific, but regular.

As someone else has said, "Just because it happened doesn't mean it's interesting," so I try to be interesting, not just self-indulgent. The key to being boring is telling everything to everyone. So, one photo a day for 365 days might is a somewhat interesting record to me of this year. We shall see if I can consistently persist in this. I'm quite aware that I like to try things and abandon them if I get bored. So far, so good. Thirty days in, I'm game to keep going.

Come along if you like!

It's a New Day, Another Chance

Tomorrow is November 1. Movember starts, friends are starting a month-long self-care regimen, I'm starting my daily reading in The Pocket University I picked up at the vintage sale last weekend. Things always start on the first day of the month, or the first day of the year.

Really, don't you think New Year's Day could be September 1, even more than January 1? More things start in September. Programs ramp up. Kids go back to school. We turn the calendar page. We anticipate these starts for weeks, perhaps months. It's like when I climb the stairs to Summit Plummet at Blizzard Beach and wait for my turn to slide over the edge and pick up speed until nearly airborne, try to stay straight as an arrow and not tumble head over heels into the unforgiving concrete pool below. The swim suit becomes dental floss, but at the end of the slide, you readjust the costume malfunction, get out and go float the Lazy River until your heart rate returns to normal.

Not so in life. You slide over the edge of a new year and the schedule just keeps ramping up. For a few treasured days between Christmas and New Years or a week in July, you might be fortunate enough to have a couple days to readjust and float the lazy days of vacation.

Screeeeeeech. Not me.

As you may know, I'm retired. I choose every day what I will do or not do. No one else prescribes my agenda or goals. I can take every day at whatever pace I choose. Getting dressed before the crack of noon is rare. It is, indeed, a privilege few enjoy. I'm not bragging and I do not take this for granted. But lazy days have their limit and my innate human need for accomplishment and creativity begs for good work to do.

Confession: It's taken four years to get here. I can't not write any longer. I've been stuck in digitally induced isolation. Reading more and more 140 character posts, avoiding political rants, trying to connect with intangibles on iPhone, all this makes me more silent, and sharing inspirational posts instead of creating them.

Seth Godin challenged me today back to daily blogging because it "is an extraordinarily useful habit. Even if no one reads your blog, the act of writing it is clarifying, motivating and (eventually) fun."

I've blogged since 2007, created 1,228 posts. I was never daily. So this is my first try. Day one. Nothing much starts on November 1, so why wait to start tomorrow? I'm getting a jumpstart today. I've learned a lot of hard lessons. Still learning. I don't know it all, but perhaps one or two of you might benefit from my experience.

It's October 31.

Halloween is not my favorite day. I love it for the fun, the creative costumes and the cheap candy in Costco two months ahead. I hate it for the way evil has seduced it to the dark side: grotesque terror, light years away from what was originally All Hallows Eve. Halloween is the last screaming gasp of crazy before light dawns on All Saints Day.

Tonight I will answer the doorbell to Trick'r Treaters while I draft suggested lesson outlines for the small group leaders in my coaching cohort. I will answer the doorbell a few dozen times and pump fistfuls of wrapped sugar into pillowcases offered up by expectant ghouls and fairies. (There's an analogy there for how we choose to view the interruptions life brings, but that's a whole 'nother blog post.)

Then I will go to bed, get up in a few hours, and write another post. Mercies new every morning. Do good work today. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Inspiration and Maintenance

In “The Artist’s Way: Creativity as a Spiritual Practice,” Julia Cameron offers a wide slate of encouragement, exercises, prodding, tasks, tools, proven advice and hard-learned lessons which, when applied, can move writers and others from stuck to stellar, from blocked to blossoming. I'm going through the book in a 12-week class.

It’s one reason I’ve not had the urge to blog. And why I’ve not felt a need to see my therapist. And one of the contributing reasons as to why I’m happier than I’ve been for about as long as I can remember. Well, besides the fact that I’m a very happy newlywed, married to an astonishingly perceptive, funny, loving, gifted man.

I also must tip my proverbial hat to the course facilitator, Caroline Russell-King, a successful playwright and dramaturg who has run the class numerous times through Alexandra Writers Centre Society. She has guided the participants of the course with gentleness and stewardship.

It’s not a walk in the park, though. week four and week nine are typically the weeks participants quit, according to Caroline. And I am procrastinating on the week nine assignment quite a bit. Self-discovery is not always about mining the good stuff. Sometimes there’s a lifetime of sludge, negativity and denial, even outright lies we have believed about who we are.

Yet, it’s worth the excavation, moving the rubble out of the way to get to the buried gifts. One of the most significant discoveries has come through an increased self-awareness: what’s going on in my body, mind, heart, soul. I’ve come to finally recognize how I have had a negative narrative running incessantly for most of my life: accusing me, name-calling, cultivating doubt, pointing out past missteps and all sorts of imagined failures; raising up the spectre of past wounds and offenses, stirring fear. It is the sum total of all the unkind voices of my past, plus my own, at times, when I’ve chosen to agree with the dark whispers regarding my perceived limitations.

“You’re a loser.
“You’re fat, lazy, rude, unlovable, unworthy.”
“You will never succeed.”
“You will never be enough.”
“You don’t deserve anything.”
“You are nothing.”

Until now.

Now I speak the truth against it. Speak affirming words, kind words, filled with self-care and truth. I re-read the cards of thanks for those who were touched or changed by my care or prayer. I sing songs and repeat scripture passages that tell me who I am and what God thinks of me. Loved. Treasured. Worth dying for. Daughter of the king. Gifted. Called. Chosen. Blessed. Shepherded. Fathered. Cherished.

Self-care is part of the assignment. Making that a habit. Eating right, setting up routines that help me get to sleep, learning how to process thoughts and dump them onto the page each day so they don’t get stuck in an infinite loop. Solving problems, setting goals, having fun, taking play dates with my inner artist.

The past ten weeks have been full. I write daily, complete class assignments, poems, articles, projects; I was acting in the dinner theatre, prepping for my son’s wedding, doing a weekly Bible study, camping and hiking, directing and singing at the choir year-end concert, speaking three times to different groups, working on a script for a grief recovery video, finding a new medical doctor, making medical and dental visits, preliminary appointments with specialists before impending surgery, doing home maintenance.

Everything needs maintenance.

Not only do I need to do maintenance on my heart, soul, mind and body, I need to do it on my physical environment. Even as I write, there is an HVAC specialist here replacing the air conditioner. He replaced my furnace three years ago. The year before that, I had the roof redone. I replaced two-thirds of my windows two years ago.  I have a fireplace that needs repair or replacing. These are the major items and not unexpected in a home nearly thirty years old. Yet the details of getting all this done can take up enormous time.

Then there are smaller chores and minor maintenance. Replacing plastic parts in the dishwasher - twice. Installing a fire pit in the back yard. Five large trees and multiple shrubs require regular pruning and fertilizing. I maintain a flower garden, several bird feeders and have nine large potted plants to water and dead-head each week. The deck chairs need new cushions. Then there’s the challenging load of trying to help the grass grow in the midst of shade and spruce needles without helping the weeds flourish. And regular chores like cooking, cleaning, laundry, and so on.

I know none of this is unusual. I love many of the activities I’ve listed, but they all simply take time. So writing sometimes gets the back seat, the lower priority on the to-do list. So this blog is the first to languish without my attention. So, I thought I'd throw out this little crumb of a summary.

But, truly, no news is good news. I’m finally at a point in my life where it seems I am living out the reality of those quiet verses in Psalm 23: “He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside the still waters, he restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name sake.”

I refuse to cave in to foreboding joy. The next verse says, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” I know the cycle of life well. I know death comes, and I have had more than the average share of lives cut short among those I love. So, I choose to focus on the last part of the verse: “I will fear no evil, for You, Lord, are with me… your (guiding) rod and your (disciplining) staff comfort me… you anoint my head with oil, my cup runs over. Goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life.”

Thank you, God, for this life. For this joy. For the capacity to see it, soften into it, relish it and love the life you have given me for as long as it lasts without worrying about when it's going to end.

And when life IS over on this earth, “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” What could be better than that? "In your presence is fullness of joy, at your right hand there are pleasures forever!"

Amen.




Photo credit: depositphotos.com #46399219, standard license

Reading Deprivation

I'm on a "Reading Fast".

No reading. Yes. You read that right. No reading. No books, no blogs, no internet, no in-bound email, no text messages.

Wait. What?

Reading deprivation is a tool, a jump-start toward creative output. As Julia Cameron suggests in The Artist's Way, "For most artists, words are like tiny tranquilizers. We have a daily quota of media chat that we swallow up. Like greasy food, it clogs our system. Too much of it and we feel, yes, fried." (p. 96)

She goes on to explain the paradox of emptying our lives of distractions so that we can experience the sensory world, make observations we might otherwise miss, do things we have left neglected and begin creating our own art, writing and so on. We fill the well of our creative potential with new sights and sounds that we may otherwise numb ourselves to if we are constantly filling the void with white noise and/or other people's opinions and perspectives.

"We often cannot hear our own inner voice, the voice of our artist's inspiration above the static... reading can be an addiction. We gobble the words of others rather than digest our own thoughts and feelings, rather than cook up something of our own." (p. 97)

The time filler of Facebook and daily digest of emails from intelligent, spiritual and/or witty bloggers are not wrong. But setting them aside for a time, I have realized my dependence on them as distractions, diversions or excuses from actually getting work done or spending time in necessary and beneficial self-care. Full-headed days packed with mind-numbing volumes of reading have given way to satisfying personal entertainment, meditation, face-to-face engagement with real people in real time and diligent, satisfying work. I've had short story inspirations, time to write an article for the church magazine, plan camping trips with friends and decide where to spend our 2016 holidays.

So far this week (in three days), I have written at least three pages (longhand) every morning, sent some important emails, listened to music (blues), danced, rearranged my accessories drawer and jewelry cabinet, learned a new way to remove dried blood stains, sorted and filed half my stacked papers, fed the birds & squirrels and spent hours watching their antics, photographing them and listening to their songs and fights, visited Heritage Park, gone out for dinner, had several long conversations with my husband about stuff that really matters, made dinner several times and enjoyed one on the deck while watching the sun set, played cards and Crokinole, learned to appreciate blackbirds and magpies, called my banker about business, called Spa Lady about an incorrect charge, called the dentist to book an overdue appointment, practiced music for choir, took a walk, wrote a poem, rehearsed my lines every day for my role in dinner theatre, sorted pictures and made a to-do list in which I have already checked off several things. And I have laughed. There's more, but some things are private.

All the while, the undercurrent of my major writing project is simmering at a higher temperature. It is always in the back of my mind, sorting itself, ideas and outlines coming and going, notes sketched out in morning pages, taking on a shape, slowly but surely.

I'm on the journey.

I retired from my last job completely depleted. The volume of information I had to absorb, sort, categorize and act upon was overwhelming. I was working out of an empty well. After truly resting for a few months, I began filling the well and now I am working out of my strength and getting stronger every day. I'm studying, writing, singing, speaking, acting, directing, loving, dancing, laughing. Oh, so much laughing!

Reading and Digital Deprivation, by intention, leaves room to fill the well with new sights, sounds, thoughts, feelings, and inspiration. I am richer than I have ever been, and not one dollar has changed hands.

I've just started paying more attention.

And the return on investment is priceless.




Photo credit: depositphotos.com #54606177, standard license

Apples of Gold

“It really makes me sad to see you speak so harshly to yourself.”

I looked at his face, tender with concern. Harshly to myself? What had I said?

“I pray I will know when to speak and when to shut my mouth.”

It was, on the surface, a genuine concern to only say what is helpful. To not speak in unhelpful or hurtful ways. To carefully choose my battles and determine which hills to die on, then speak with the right attitude and in the right tone of voice. Because we know that it’s not so much what you say but how you say it that leaves the listener remembering how you made them feel. For goodness sake, I even pray about this sort of thing. And I sometimes decide not to speak when I listen to the still, small voice which cautions me to be still.

I had said the first part in a normal voice: “I pray I will know when to speak.” Speak up for those who have no voice. Speak peace into a troubled heart. Speak encouragement for the weak one. Speak up when I have been wronged. I’m still learning how to do that last one without being a prickly pear.

But when to shut my mouth? Ah, that I said with a snarl and a curled lip. A self-flagellation for every time I spoke out of turn, spoke too loud, spoke unkindly, hurt someone, accused someone, berated someone.

It takes me right back to Grade Eight science class when Bruce and Gerry gave me an unflattering nickname: Meramac Cavern Mouth. They were my friends, we sang together. I liked them. We teased each other. But I was loud and they poked me for it, choosing the largest cave in the state as my namesake.

Yes, I was loud in Junior High. I was obnoxious. I was funny. I was busy. I was a singer. I was confident. I was sometimes insecure and I was trying to find my place in the world, just having experienced my first kiss.

That was awkward and gross. I didn’t know what to do with that icky feeling. So I redirected it in anger against the boy who tried it and to my best friend and her boyfriend who goaded us into it. Sitting on the cold floor of her parents’ garage, we two couples, all the early side of 14 years old, decided to explore kissing. And it was a bomb. I was embarrassed. Was something wrong with me? Was it him? Neither one of us knew how. I was disappointed that I’d chosen poorly and I could never get “my first kiss” back. It was gone and now it would forever be engraved in history as a bad mistake I made with a pudgy Grade Seven boy.

What followed was my first experience with really hurting someone with my words. I broke up with the boy and decided I didn’t want to be friends with my best friend any more. I made unkind remarks about her to others at school. The vitriol went on until one of the teachers called me aside to say, “I know your brother (a teacher in Grade Six) and I know your family and I know they didn’t raise you to act like this. You are being a bully and it needs to stop.”

I did stop. I was embarrassed that someone had to take me aside like that, yet I was grateful because I knew he was right.

“The right word at the right time is like a custom-made piece of jewelry, and a wise friend’s timely reprimand is like a gold ring slipped on your finger. Patient persistence pierces through indifference; gentle speech breaks down rigid defenses.” Proverbs 25:11-12,15 (MSG)

My friend and I made up but it was always different after that. We had both been wounded and my words had left scars on us both.

The awkward, gross, icky feeling of Grade Eight surfaces every time I see that look in another person’s eyes: I’ve hurt them. I kick myself over and over for speaking at the wrong time or in the wrong way, even if what I said was valid. They couldn’t receive it because my timing or tone of voice was offensive.

As time passes, as I mature, I have earned a measure of success and respect for how I speak and what I write. But as many writers do, I write very carefully, wrestling long and hard over anything I put in print: to say it right, to say it well, to say it clearly. It can take an entire morning to write and publish one blog post. And I anguish over emails, writing and re-writing paragraphs to minimize any possibility of misinterpretation and still, it is sometimes misunderstood, the reader misses the point or fixates on one ill-chosen phrase.

I have no one to blame but myself.

Or so I thought.

In sober second thought, my rational mind can logically deduce that others are also responsible for their reactions. They hear what I have to say through their own background experience and emotional filters. They give different value, meaning and weight to my words than what I intended.

When another is offended, I can sometimes understand in retrospect how it hurt them, if they let me know. More often they don’t say anything. They just fade away. Not many people confront me about my words. Not many people confront anyone. It seems confrontation is avoided at all costs by a majority of us.

When that unsettled feeling rises, that subtle alienation after I say something intense, passionate or strong, I go away and analyze it. Replay the full conversation, maybe the entire event in my head more than once, guess at how it might have been interpreted (how impossible is that, since I’m trying to understand someone else’s filters through my own).

I know I am not alone in this practice. You do it too, perhaps?

So back to the original remark that started this all off. When I pray I want to know when to keep my mouth shut, I’m thinking of all that has come before. All the ways I’ve caused pain to the heart of another. That overbearing burden of being a person who so often wounds another, that somehow I should be able to not do that.

I should be perfect.

Or at least, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

So I turn on myself. “Keep your mouth shut!” my inner critic snarls.

And the one who loves me best, who sees me at my worst, who has promised to love and cherish me until death parts us, tells me how sad he is to see that venom turned inward.

This is a shining moment in love, in marriage: the mirror held up by a loving hand to help me see clearly where I am self-cutting. The one who sees my heart, knows my life and moves to restrain my hand from the mea culpa.

“It is not only what you say but, more importantly, how you say it.”

Especially when you are saying it to yourself. Self-compassion is not selfishness. It is what makes it possible for us to live whole and compassionate in all our other relationships.

He goes on, “Ask yourself how you would speak to another person, and speak to yourself in that same courteous way.”

Words can heal and words can kill. Words wound and words give life. So, I will continue to pray about when to speak and when to be silent. Because silence is not always golden. Sometimes silence means consent or cowardice. In that case, speaking graciously is the most loving way to live in community with one another.

I’m so glad for the way another spoke healing words to me.

Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift. Don’t grieve God. Don’t break his heart. His Holy Spirit, moving and breathing in you, is the most intimate part of your life, making you fit for himself. Don’t take such a gift for granted. Make a clean break with all cutting, backbiting, profane talk. Be gentle with one another, sensitive. Forgive one another as quickly and thoroughly as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:29-32 MSG

Still Reflecting

View from Moose (Alces) Lake Campground, Whiteswan Provincial Park, BC

A friend asked recently when I was going to start blogging again. She missed it and others missed it. Another person who is very close to me doesn't have any framework for why writing publicly about one's life is of interest to others. These two opposing perspectives also exist in my heart and head when I consider writing.

The answer to why I do or don't write is not so simple. I began blogging in 2005. It was a space to dump the jigsaw puzzle of my thoughts out onto the table of the Internet and sort through it all to make some sort of connections between both my thoughts and the lives of others. It was sometimes humour, sometimes angst, often juvenile and beginner level writing. I took classes to hone my skills, increase the complexity and accessibility of my poetry and articles and began publishing certain pieces. This is a life-long pursuit: to articulate that which the heart struggles to convey in hopes another will say, “Oh, now I see.” Or “You too? I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”

As a writer who was compelled to write, I used to say, "I simply can't NOT write" (and yes, I know that's incorrect grammar). In the processing of blogging and increasing Facebook posts and the trauma of losing my spouse of 31 years, a number of people began following my blog and Facebook page. I was both perplexed and grateful. Many are interested because they love me, many knew and loved my late husband, some are like-minded writers and bloggers, some are strangers who find a kindred voice. For whatever ways we may have found each other, I believe we share a resonance in matters of life, death, heart and soul.

David Whyte describes the phenomenon in this way: "You could say people are reading me like they read my poetry and they are following the unfolding of each chapter. None of us really knows how the chapter is going to proceed or what themes or characters are going to make themselves known."¹

One of my ongoing themes has been “busyness.” This is a challenge to every writer – the tyranny of the urgent which crowds out the more important issues of life. Early this year, I returned to full time work for the first time in twenty years. This, in and of itself, was a phenomenal challenge, as I was still emerging from grief in the extraordinary loss of my spouse and had not had a significant break from work since his death, all while trying to maintain a home, wade through legal and financial matters and support my son as a widow and single mom.

The very same week I began my new job, I had my first date with a very interesting man.

Since these two significant life events began, I've written very little about my inner life. Work and romance have filled my days. This has also made less room for photography, singing and poetry, along with my blogging, but they each have filled my soul in different ways, so I was not found wanting.

The job has a steep learning curve and high workload. It has only been the past couple of weeks as we have become fully staffed, where I feel I have finally hit my stride. Woken up, as it were, to the strength of my former gifts and found a rhythm with my duties and become comfortable in the dance of teamwork with my colleagues. It's inappropriate to blog about work, so there was nothing out of which to write there. Duties also included much editing and writing, so the compelling need to write in my spare time was lessened.

The budding relationship captures my remaining time and thought. The intellectual and emotional processing of a new relationship after such a wounding loss has been a significant draw on my emotional resources. The one great gift in my new love is that he also has experienced deep loss and is a few years further down the road in the healing, so can understand much of my pain and provide perspective from his own healing journey. He speaks peace into places of my life where I didn't even realize I was wounded.

Our ongoing relationship and subsequent marriage on August 30 has been a sacred space, and inappropriate to parade publicly before blog or Facebook followers. It is a place of wholesome, holy wholeness.

That being said, I am now at a place of personal contentment and joy beyond anything I ever anticipated. I could shout from the rooftops the incredible delight which this man has brought into my life; the beautiful sense of home we find in each others’ heart; the daily satisfaction of job well done as we put order to our household and find shelter in each others’ arms.

So, Jill, for you, I offer this blog. And for the rest of the family and friends (new and old) who wish to follow the unfolding of each chapter, I write this for you. I write it for the joy of finding that beyond shadow, beyond living to the point of tears, there is hope because a new day has dawned, a new chapter has begun.

It is only by God’s sweet mercy and generous grace that I am healing and becoming whole again. Human efforts are limited and skewed, rife with mixed motives and complex, intricately-crafted defenses. Ultimately, this is a story about our lives being the roads God travels – it is his work, to will and to do of his good pleasure as he makes everything work into a pattern for good in the lives of those who love Him.

I can’t promise how often I’ll write, but I’m still here, and I’ll write when I can. If you’re hearing me, keep talking, liking, loving. We are on this journey together. Be brave and make yourself known. We need each other to help find our courage and have those difficult conversations, living to the point of tears², experiencing, as Yates would have said, “A fierce, terrible beauty.”³

Not Half

I’m not half a couple, I am a whole person. Always have been, just didn't recognize it some days.

There were many things I wanted to write, say and do before my husband died, but I felt those things might have embarrassed him, so I didn’t do them. Now that he is in heaven, I think he will understand. I can’t imagine what we do on earth has any comparable interest to those who are now perfectly whole in the presence of the creator of the universe and the lover of our souls, but if Brent does pay any mind, I really don’t think he will mind.

This gives a certain measure of freedom to work through some things that perhaps I couldn’t face before. I used to think I didn’t do some things out of respect for his feelings, but now standing here stripped bare of any excuses, I’m beginning to think perhaps I used Brent’s feelings as an excuse for not doing what I was called to do.

I also used to mentally blame my dad for some of my “father wounds” and my upbringing for some of the conservative view points that kept me silent in the church. I knew instinctively, sometimes explicitly, that my role in the church would be limited to speaking to women, caring for children or perhaps singing, if I was allowed. So, everywhere I turned,  it seemed men were in control of my destiny and were the limiting factor to me being able to exercise my greatest passion: sharing truth, beauty and love.

There were pastors and worship leaders, a father, seven brothers, a husband, even the scripture itself which I believed limited me in exercising my God-given gifts. I felt my life was akin to bringing my sacrifice to the altar and being told the altar was full or my gift wasn’t good enough. I wasted years licking my wounds and wrestling with God. Yet, I didn’t want to become this rebel who left the church and took my gifts elsewhere. So, I stayed in the church but I battled envy, jealousy, bitterness, resentment, all the time blaming others for why I couldn’t do what I felt called to do.

Then I read it: “Spiritual gifts are not gender-based.” And I realized that all of life is spiritual. “Secular” does not exist in the life of a Christ-follower. It is either all for Jesus or it is a sham.

Alone or together with others, I must write, sing, dance, speak, and do it all when and where God prompts me to do it. I am no longer crippled by thinking of myself as half of a couple. Married, widowed or single, I can begin where I am as a whole person, a cherished individual, beloved of God and part of God’s divine image, sent to share that vision of God with the world. The vision is incomplete without my part being fully engaged and delivered.

So no more excuses. No more barriers. No one to blame.

Ready, set….

The Grace of Grief

Storyline Magazine asked me to submit an article on my journey so far in the loss of my husband. How do I encapsulate that in 500-600 words? It's just the tip of the iceberg, but here is the link to the PDF version for those of you who would like to read it. The article and a related poem can be found on page 7:

Storyline September 2013

Happy Birthday, Canada!

July 1 is "Canada Day" or formerly known as "Dominion Day." I have both the front page article on the subject and a poem on page 3 of July's CLN Newspaper.

In the article, I ask the question "What is great about Canada?" What do you think is great about Canada? Would love to hear your comments.

To see the article online, click here (link will expire in one month). View or download a PDF of the entire issue at this link: CLN July 2011 (permalink).

The Truth About God's Love and Justice: It's a Win-Win

Some of you read my response March 21 to the Bell-Piper controversy. In the guest column of this month's issue of City Light News, I write a bit more on the subject.

If you click the picture and are not able to read the article, you can find it on Page 5 here.

Adrian Plass Encounters Temptation

Silent Retreat

Another writer stated “I have felt very quiet lately. Life can do that to us sometimes. I find, quite simply, that I don't have many words right now.”

Ecclesiastes tells us “to everything there is a season.” so I conclude that silence, for a writer, is a season.

I have learned that not all seasons are the same length, despite the calendar dates indicating the solstice and equinox. It varies greatly depending on your geographical location. In Canada, winter is much longer than summer.

In my life, not all seasons are the same length either. They vary greatly depending on my physical, social and spiritual condition.

I am in a season of few original words, written or spoken. I have chosen to read and listen. During the past week two poems have surfaced, but have yet to exit first draft stage.

And so, I bid you adieu. I need to go read and listen. My silent season continues.

"I Tell You the Truth"

I've published 700 posts. This is 701. And that's just this blog. I have others.

I often ask myself "Why am I telling you this?" about whatever it is I am writing. And almost every time, the answer returns: "I don't know why. I just need to."

Perhaps yesterday's post is part of the reason. Somehow, some day, some way, there might be a little post - a little part of me - that resonates with you. Sometimes I just need to get it out of my head and into print so that I can sort it through. As Lisa Samson, novelist, says: "I write so others will know they are not alone." Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel says "I write to understand as much as to be understood."

And I? I write to declare the truth that transforms lives. Starting with mine. I don't always follow the truth. I don't always believe the truth. I don't always live the truth. But by God's grace, I want to follow the truth. I trace God's fingerprint on my heart, I hear the still small voice of the Holy Spirit and I desire more than anything to know Jesus Christ, the only One who is the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Him. (John 14:6) I pray my journey with Him helps you in yours.

Thank you for walking in step with me on this amazing journey, if only for a few paces. It's wonderful sharing the path with you.

The Importance of Stupidity

I have been overwhelmed lately by the amount of things I don't know.

I grew up in a family where it seemed we all felt we were experts on just about anything. I loved the quote "People who think they know everything are annoying to those of us who do." It was said in jest, of course, but in reality, I found it very difficult if a question was posed to which I didn't have an answer. I simply couldn't bring myself to choke out those three little words: "I don't know." I felt I was SUPPOSED to know. If I didn't, I concluded, I must be ignorant.

As a writer, I have been trying to "know" my craft: taking courses, connecting with writers, getting involved in critique groups. The more I read good writing from others, the more inadequate I feel. When my work is critiqued and deeper questions are posed, I'm beginning to realize how my life and education to this point seems quite limited, even though I hold a university degree and have traveled extensively.

I've joked that I could never write a book because my attention span is too short. When I mused out loud to a class about something I needed to write but hadn't yet started because it was such a difficult subject, a classmate challenged me with this question: "When is the last time you've ever done something REALLY hard?"

It hit closer to home than I would like. So I wrote the article. It was harder than I anticipated. I edited and revised it numerous times. The magazine that bought it wants more edits so I need to do more research about the subject. As I continued researching, I realized it was a huge, nearly insurmountable volume of information - more than I would ever be able to absorb in time to meet my writing deadline.

All of this was very discouraging. Until today. I learned it's okay not to feel smart. It's part of the process. What works in the scientific community also has some direct application to the writing world. Take a look at this very liberating article and be encouraged.

http://jcs.biologists.org/cgi/content/full/121/11/1771

Saying "I don't know" is okay. Stupidity is important. It motivates us to learn. :-)

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(comments and feedback about your experience are requested and welcomed)

I think I've found my purpose

I always wanted to write. I was never clear about the motive. Now that I have quit my day job and set aside time to write, I've been thinking about the nature of what I should write. What will my purpose be? I think I found it today. I would like to be a person and a writer who does what Isaiah and Titus record in the following quotes. I need to apply this at home, first with myself, then with my husband and son, then to everyone else I meet - in person or on the printed page. Yes and amen.

Isaiah 61

The Year of the LORD's Favor

1 The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
because the LORD has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,

2 to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor
and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,

3 and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.

They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the LORD
for the display of his splendor.

The Apostle Paul offers a clear and simple list of things godly women--all of them--are meant to do, and it's found in Paul's instructions to a young pastor (Titus 2:3-5):

Likewise, teach the older women to be reverent in the way they live, not to be slanderers or addicted to much wine, but to teach what is good. Then they can train the younger women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.

Before you go and get all feminist on me, understand that "to be subject" is equivalent to my husband being subject to God. You could see a parallel in his relationship to his employer. They work in a team environment, everyone has input, but when there's differences of opinion, the responsibility for final decisions has to lie with someone, and that's usually the boss. Sometimes he defers the decision to Brent. No one person is better or more important, but there is a line of authority for final decision making. There's much more to it, so if you'd like to discuss it further, email me.

Writers' Conference

I'm home.

Inspired. Wiser. Grateful.

Workshop leader, Violet Nesdoly, gave practical tools for getting ideas and getting started on writing poetry. Something to take me beyond just writing because I have to get it out of my head and on paper so I can go to sleep at night. Yes, far beyond that. I already have a list of more than a dozen ideas for poems, and that was only from one exercise. Paul Hawryluk helped out with a workshop on creative non-fiction. I have three possible beginnings for a short story.

Keynote speaker, Angela Hunt, and I were more similar than I would have expected. Born only one day apart, we both majored in music and struggle with our weight. We love words and we love God. Everything she said resonated with me. As she spoke, I alternately nodded, cried, laughed and was rendered speechless. Only significant difference beteen us is the 100+ books she's had published.

I have a transcript of her closing talk. I will perhaps share some of it with you after I've had some sleep.

What I do want to share is what God used to wreck me during one of the reading workshops. Everyone was invited to read an item of their work. Vicky Clarke read an excerpt from chapter two of her 2005 historical fiction novel The Other Judas ("an engaging intimate portrayal of the life of Jesus told by one of his lesser known disciples"1).

This is about the first meeting... do you remember yours?

And then Jesus looked at me. Our eyes met. His eyes bore into my soul. I knew he understood me beyond how I knew myself. He could see my failures and doubts, my missed opportunities and regretful moments. He could see it all and I was powerless to stop him.

Ashamed, yet unable to turn my face away, I stared back at him. His eyes were not full of disgust or contempt as I expected. While my heart bled black filth, his eyes drew me in, held me. I felt embraced by a holy love, safe.

All this with but a look!

Safe.

Embraced by a holy love.

I went to learn about writing and got ambushed by Jesus. That's a great place to be.





1 Heather Nickel, Your Nickel's Worth Publishing, Regina, SK
Picture "I Will Not Fail Thee" by Derek Hegsted

A New Adventure

Tomorrow I go to Edmonton for a writer's conference.

Stay tuned.

Uncertain

I'm signing up for a writer's conference. I was bullied into it. Sort of. She's a very nice bully and I like her a lot.

Or should I say, she has the gift of encouragement. She keeps telling me I should write.

So why do I feel totally inadequate?

And the word was made flesh....

Since Jesus was God's Word personified (see John 1), it is no small thing that words are significant in the currency of eternity. So what I say now is not spoken flippantly. Today I mouthed the words - out loud - to someone who asked what I do:

"I'm a writer."

It was the first time I've described myself in that manner. I made it a statement of fact. I didn't say I was a good writer. I said it because of reading recently in another writer's column: "If you want to be a writer, start telling people you ARE a writer."

I almost like better my friend's self-described occupation: "I'm a communicator." More encompassing. Yet also evaluative. It concludes that you are communicating. And again, another acquaintance described himself as a "leader," but no one was following.

I can't lead unless someone follows.
I can't communicate unless someone listens.
However, I can write whether anyone else reads it or not.

But lo, and behold, here you are, reading! Thanks for hanging in!

Talent is Never Enough*

Talent is cheaper than table salt.
What separates the talented individual
from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
~Stephen King

I got a call Saturday from my writer-friend Sue: "Let's get together, I want to bully you."

Turns out, she apparently thinks I have some talent worth honing. So, with that kind of opening argument, it was relatively easy for her to convince me (with no bruising involved) to join a writers' forum.

I have always been intrigued by the idea of becoming a published author, but it's been more of a idle daydream than a serious goal. I write when I feel compelled to write. I share the results with a few and bask in whatever limited praise the work might elicit. In contrast, the forum is a place where I can post my work for critique - with the intent of helping improve my writing.

So with her encouragement, I applied to the forum and was accepted.** Stay tuned for slow'n'steady: new'n'improved!

*The title of a book by John Maxwell. Read an intriguing summary here.
**Thankfully, the application process didn't require me to submit any work. They seem more interested in character.***
***Which makes me think it might be a safe place.