Lookie What I Did!

Broken Conversations

I'm not a political person. I tried. But since I'm non-confrontational by nature, can listen and analyze and can see value in each side, there seems to be no spot for me.

More us than them, at this point.

What we tend to hear about through the media are the extremes. Conservative and liberal alike. And there's been a lot of hatred spewed the last few months. It's rife on the social networks. If you don't agree with some view, you're branded as anything from intolerant to some variation of the f word.

I listened to Romney's acceptance speech last night. It's easy to give speeches, especially if you have a speech writer. I could give an speech accepting the nomination from my political party to run for president. A bunch of well-turned promises put forth with energy, enthusiasm and charisma. I have enough acting skills for that.

Putting that to work after the elected takes office requires more than acting and a pretty words.

Next week will be Obama's speech. He'll do the same thing. Surrounded by his supporters, he'll spin well-meaning promises into votes. Whether or not enough remains to be seen.

It's a broken system. Maybe because the country is too big. Maybe because we have lost the art of conversation. We no longer sit down and listen. We stand, shake our finger, call a name, and walk away.

You're against abortion? You're a woman hater!

No, I want more women to be born.

You're for gay marriage? You hate families.

Gay people want to have families, too.

I'm not proposing to know the answers. I'm just saying we need to sit down and listen to each other and stop behaving like children whom we try to teach to behave like we don't.

The only minds ever changed by name calling are weak ones. I believe it's unwise to be so single-minded about a cause that you can't even listen to another person's argument against it. Listening doesn't mean you're weak or you have to change your mind. It means you care.

I'm not sure this post is saying what I want it to. But I'm tired of the hateful language and immature stances of leaders and citizens.

This is my call to action: Listen with love. Speak with love.

Memories of a Dork at Sleep-away Camp

I decided to do August Camp NaNoWriMo. I signed up and didn't request specific cabin mates. "Surprise Me!" I'm in with a variety of ages and locations, including a student from Bangalore!

Anyway, it got me thinking about the two times in my life I went to camp for a week. There are only a few things from each I remember. I was a fat girl (still am) and that made me an automatic target for either being ignored or being the center of unpleasant and unwanted attention anywhere I was with other kids (even some adults, for crying out loud.)

The first was Camp Lackawana. That was sprung on me and my brother last minute-like. Somehow, we got a scholarship through something associated with the church-run childcare center my then youngest brother went to. I probably wouldn't have gone if my brother, Chris, wasn't going. He could get himself in and out of everything. I was 12, going into 6th grade. A very young twelve, in some ways. I can't believe, in all the moving I did in the years since, that I still have the few pics I took. Note the subtle Instagram effect, courtesy of AGE.

A few highlights from Camp L:
Haggy Mary--the resident ghost who tormented girls with brown eyes-namely, me. The other girls in my cabin were friends and must have been at that camp before because they knew all about Haggy Mary. They also knew how to spot and torment a victim. I had nightmares all week. One night the counselors planned a sleep-out in the woods with a boys' and girls' cabin. I couldn't do it--I was deathly afraid of Haggy Mary so the counselors arranged for me to sleep in the cooks cabin. I was ashamed and knew it was just a stupid story, but I couldn't help myself.

That counselor I thought was hot.

 

 

The guy counselor of my brother's cabin was hot. I didn't care much for guys in those early days, but him, I noticed. What was I thinking?

I was walking across the buggy field (a literal cloud of gnats) from the mess hall to the cabin area and a bug flew in my ear and got stuck in it. I could feel the thing buzzing and bouncing off the walls of my ear canal. Ugh!

My counselor. I forget her name.

I wondered if they liked each other

The place was rife with Daddy Long- legs. Most insects don't bother me. On the evening of the sleep-out, my brother and I easily collected some and put them in the sleeping bags of the girls who squealed whenever they saw one. The counselors got wind of our vandalism and ordered us to remove them. We did although I doubt we got them all. I never knew what happened with the ones we didn't get because that was the night I spent hiding from Haggy Mary in the cooks cabin.



We watched the first moon walk there.

Then there's this. My first "sexual" experience. I use the term loosely. There was a black kid there from New York City. I imagined he was from the ghetto because as far as I knew all black kids in NYC lived in ghettos. This was 1969 with all the racial riots and stuff and that's what we saw on TV. Anyway, he was in my brother's cabin and like us, he wasn't part of the main crowd and the three of us hung out at times. The day we had art in the art cabin, he and I were the last ones left in there. We were talking and somehow he backed me up against the wall. He started to put his knee between mine to separate my legs. I had an idea what he was trying to do and I got a squishy-afraid feeling in my gut. I forget what he said, but he stopped and we left. And I wondered how a kid that age knew about such things and would actually try something.

Then, it must have been the next year, there was Girl Scout camp. I was pretty into Girl Scouts until high school. My mom was a co leader and a Brownie leader and I helped her with that troop. I don't remember much about it except:

A counselor named Cricket, who scared me. I don't know why. We had to do some kind of secret friend thing. She was the one I had to secretly give gifts and notes to. Awkward.

There was a girl in my tent who was a sister dork. She had the hairiest armpits I had seen up to that point. She thought certain girls were lesbians and were after her. Or was it, other girls said she was a lesbian? I remember being in a canoe with her and listening to her talk about it. I did know what a lesbian was. Pretty much, in the culture of the time and place, if you were a girl who didn't hang out with anyone, you were fair game to be called a lesbian. It happened once to me somewhere else. Another story.

I was happy to go home to my noisy crowded home where my brothers called me "whale on the beach," and I had to change diapers and do the dishes and babysit. But my mom was there and not strangers.

Even though those camp experiences don't come with all-American wonderful memories of friendship and kum-by-ah--I supposed we sang that at least at Girl Scout camp--they tossed me right out of my comfort zone.

And I'm sure that was a good thing.

Book Review: Arizona Redemption

In the interests of having something to post about and developing my reviewing and critiquing skills, I'm going to try posting a book review from time to time. We'll see how it goes. I'll try to back up what my opinions with reasons. And I suppose it will be the rare book that I love 100%.

I recently finished Arizona Redemption by SQ Eads. I acquired it free from one of the several Kindle pages I follow on Facebook. Arizona in the title interested me. I assumed Redemption meant it would be Christian and I was right. The cover reminded me of Bisbee AZ where I spent three non-Christian months in early 1982, right before I met my husband and Jesus. Low and behold, it was about Bisbee and I was sold.

Tori is on the run from San Diego with her sister, Bonnie, and an orphan, Carla, she rescued from the street a few years ago. They stop in Bisbee to use their last dollars for medicine for Carla's severe cough. From there, Tori has no clue, no money, little hope, only determination to work hard to build a new, safe life for her scared sister and the little girl.

As fate, or God, would have it, the first thing Tori sees is a shiny new dump truck about ready to tumble down the side of a small dirt cliff. She scrambles up to it and uses her heavy equipment skills from her last job to coax it back to safety. One of the co-owners, handsome Lance, is so grateful he offers Tori a job. She accepts. Sometimes, something like that happens in real life. Bonnie and Carla fall in love with Bisbee while waiting for Tori to do her truck thing.

Tori and Lance are young, single and immediately attracted to each other. Tori is full of self-doubt based on her past, especially her recent past that has her running from police. Lance, is a serious Christian who loves to laugh. They become good friends on the job and spend time with Lance's family and church, which Tori attends for Bonnie's sake. Lance keeps praying for Tori who gradually comes to think maybe there is a God who cares for her.

When the final bite from Tori's past becomes evident to her, she makes a decision alone, but a church-related event reveals God more fully to her and she decides to trust him instead of going through with the choice she made. An accident at work reveals the situation to Lance and in the end Tori must decide to trust both God and Lance for a life she thought impossible for her, or continue to go it alone.

There's that's kind of a summary without any spoilers. My comments:

I liked Lance and Tori. Tori's determination to take care of her family is the driving force behind her actions. She slowly learns to trust. Lance, who had suffered a severe loss, found his joy again and was able to love. His faith and trust in God are what make him who he is. However, there seemed to be a lack of depth to them. They each have a little back story gives us what happened but there's no emotional umph there. I feel like I observed them more than I experienced them. The other characters are very two-dimensional, or less.

Eads used the third person limited. Thoughts were put in italics, which kind of bothered me. Especially Lances's numerous prayers for Tori's salvation which became repetitious. As did Tori's thoughts of self-doubt.

I was afraid, due to previous experiences with Christian fiction, that there would be a "Come to Jesus" moment where the whole gospel of salvation is laid out and the light goes in the non-believers soul. The light did go on in Tori's soul in a quiet way. The combination of scripture, love from Lance's church and desperation work to help her realize God's love. I liked that so much better.

A mayor of Bisbee, the author's father, is mentioned several times. While on a tour or town history was being spoken of, the mayor was mentioned in a manor I found intrusive. Maybe that goes along with some of the dialog I thought didn't sound like the real way people speak.

I really would have liked some more emotion. I would have liked to see Lance talk to Tori about how he was able to maintain his faith after the loss of his wife and son. I would have like to see Tori tell Lance her story of growing up on the streets and what lead her to marry Ricky. They mention these things to each other, but the effect was flat.

It includes sketches of Bisbee by a local artist. I lived in an apartment building and a house on a hill below the big B.

It's light read that I enjoyed. Even though I knew how it was going to end, I kept picking it up again. But for me, who likes things a little deeper and more intense, I'll only go back to this author when I need something really light and airy.

Moonlight Swims

Here's a clip from material I won't be using in Lilyland. Enjoy!

 

And now there was Charlie. He had swept her away to his mountain top palace and treated her like a princess. Maybe there was a pea under her mattress to see if she really was one. It would be next to impossible to not fall in love with him. A guy from Indiana. Not any more. She was pretty sure it wasn’t his job or status or house that she was attracted to. It was the man. His candor with her. The fact that he had said he would call her next week and today was next week and he had called. The way he called her Lily Mayfield, like he had done the first time he had spoken to her at the fund raiser. The way he smiled at her and seemed impressed by her, like she was stooping to spend time with him.

Weightless and free, she twirled around in the water and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” For now, she decided to be just Lily, alive, newly wealthy, thin and living in Scottsdale, if only temporarily. She laughed out loud.

When she got out of the water, she stripped her suit off outside, showered inside and went out again to dry off in the cool air, a towel wrapped lightly around her. She stood straight, enjoying the feel of the breeze in her hair and on her shoulders. Another place she could not believe she was at.

With a start Lily woke up about an hour later, disoriented; not unusual. On the way to the suite's sitting area, she noticed she had left the left the door to the patio open a bit and went to close it. But stopped when she saw Charlie in the pool. 

His easy strokes propelled his slim body through the water noiselessly, effortlessly. She stood behind the window covering, entranced. After a few minutes he swam to the wall closest to the building, and with an easy, practiced motion, used his arms to lift his body out of the pool and sit on the side for a second, shaking the water out of his hair. When he stood, the low light revealed enough of him to see he was nude. A hand went slowly to her mouth as if to cover the small unconscious smile that appeared. God, he is gorgeous. She had always tried not to make a person’s appearance more important than the person and she was glad she had met him with clothes on first. But still, it would be difficult to not remember seeing him like this the next time she laid eyes on him.

Light bounced off his tight back muscles as they worked. He tossed the towel on a nearby chair and turned toward her door, looking in her direction for several seconds before entering another door. The outside went dark.

The images burned themselves into her mind. She awoke later in the night from a dream that he was making love to her. She twisted and groaned in the bed, disappointed and unsatisfied. Evidently, princesses, even pretend ones, woke up horny from sex dreams. Holy cats. Why did I have to see him like that?

Empty Vessels and Blank Paper

Once upon a time, a widow was about to lose her 2 children, both sons. The man to whom her dead husband owed money was coming to take them into slavery as payment for the debt. Fortunately, the prophet Elisha was around and the woman cried out to him. "Help me!" He asked her what she had, which was only a little oil. He told her to borrow all the jugs and bowls that she could from neighbors and bring them to her house. Then, she was to lock herself and her sons in their house and pour oil into each borrowed vessel until full. Like magic, the oil continued filling until each and every jug and bowl was filled. Then, the flow of oil stopped. Elisha told her to sell the oil, pay the debts and live on the rest.

This story is from 2 Kings 4:1-7 (Yeah, the Bible)
I don't want to go all preachy here, but this story is amazing. My pastor has been doing a series called "Empty Vessels" and this is the story he started out with. This morning he touched on the responsibility of the widow to make this happen. It got me thinking about my writing in light of God's purpose for me.

"Empty" expresses a need; a need in me or a need in the world. I need to create. When I don't have some kind of creative project or three going on, I'm empty. Creating fills me, and I can give to others. Evidently, God sees a need in the world I can fill with my writing. Maybe one person, maybe thousands, but there's need. As a person who likes to encourage others, I can meet some needs.

The widow only had a little oil to her name. But she saw it as an asset when asked what she had to bring to the table. What do I have to offer people? Maybe a little wisdom born of experience, or a sense of humor or a different way of looking at something. Arranging some words around an idea that expresses it eloquently. Or hope or "Wow, someone understands." An entertaining story. Who knows what else.

Today, I saw the blank white pages I fill as empty vessels. I lock myself away with my computer or pen and notebook and fill vessels with ideas and stories, with myself. We creatives pour ourselves into our work. There's a phrase that writers slit our wrists and bleed onto the page. Maybe melodramatic, but figuratively true.

Empty vessels might also be the needs of the women who will read my books. Maybe something I write will help fill a need, spark some hope, ignite a smile or at least provide a respite from the tyranny of life.

Elisha told the widow to sell the oil. God knows, I'm trying to sell my books. And I'm giving some away, too. It would be awesome to be able to pay off our debts with my profits and live off the rest. Is that God's plan here? I hope so.

But later on in his message, Pastor Ron said, "What God's going to do might not look like I want it to." Hmmm...

If you're ever in Peoria, AZ on a Sunday morning, stop in at Generation Life Church, Peoria Ave and the 101 Freeway. Guaranteed hugs and a free cup of coffee. Ask for Terry. That's what I'm known as there.

How can you help fill the empty vessels of other people? What fills your empty vessel?

A note on the word vessel. We all know that a vessel is something that's built to contain something. It's a word we don't use much except maybe "blood vessel" of pertaining to a boar or ship. We don't say to our kids, "Please wash some vessels so we can have drinks with dinner." Or "We need to recycle those empty soda vessels." Or do you?

On Logjams and Naps

I think this will simply a dumping of the annoying contents of my brain which feels clogged up. No real reason. Maybe, like vomiting when my tummy feels bad, I'll feel better for it. You might not.

My works in progress are not progressing as I would like. I feel like I have a log jam in my head. I know where my stories are going, I have ideas, but nothing is flowing. If I get a few hundred words a day out, that's good. Most of it just sits in my head. Getting moldy like strawberries in my fridge.

For awhile, I had a pretty good writing routine down but that was interrupted by the three week field research gig in May. I thought I'd get my groove back after that. But, no. I thought that planning for the library programs would fit in, but not as nicely as I hoped. Then there was a job application that took me forever. And hanging out with my brother's kids while he and his wife went away, and then the job interview.

Oh, and let me not fail to mention the many naps. I'm not sure if I'm in hibernation mode because it's so blasted bright and hot out, or if I upped the laziness dial or if I'm anemic or what. But I want to sleep a lot. Getting out helps. But it doesn't help that the three other creatures in my house--my hubs and our two cats--sleep all day. Hubs has an excuse--he works nights.

This week I thought I'd be able to start back into a routine (although that word makes me cringe), but Mom went into the hospital again. So on top of the outside concern of what's wrong now, there's that inside one of...when? It could be anytime. It could be ten or twenty years.

Maybe I should just give in and watch movies all day. Do a little token house work each morning and work through my Netflix queue, supplementing it with Fassbender films from Amazon or Redbox. Devote a few minutes to Craig's List and Indeed.com to look for jobs. Give it up and wait for...what?

I thought straightening up the office would help. And cleaning up the clutter on my desk.


But, what I really need is a vacation. To get on a plane or in a car and head out to somewhere to talk to old friends and laugh and get reinspired. And I'm praying for that...