The Editing Process

On Wednesday, I met with my writing coach to do an in-depth edit of a short story. I had my ten month old and three year old in tough and traveled over an hour to hit my destination, Lansing, MI. Once inside Decker Coffee, my baby was happy roaming around the coaches and entertaining himself. My three year old was the opposite, repeatedly asked if we could leave and edging towards the door. He was terrified of the the skeletons and big alien eyes of the heads painted in black and white and red art pieces littering the the walls. Every day since, he has told me he does not want to go back to Decker's.

In the midst of that, my coach and I managed to do a line by line review, where in some cases, each word in a sentence was examined. My piece included many words like, "it" and "that," where we talked about giving the reader more concrete descriptions. I noticed how the sentence structures were often repetitive. Then there were tenses to play with, hyphens to add and an endless list of ideas for making my work stronger.

I have also been reading a lot of short stories to try and understand what makes a good one (i.e. how do I write like others so that I can get published). I feel like I am staring over a huge valley, knowing Atlantis is hidden in the trees or clouds and that the only way to the promised land is by bushwhacking with a large machete and a good pair of boots.

I sit in a similar quandary about reaching God. I know it is not about building the Tower of Babel, but I watch my friends from church "working out their salvation" in how they live, serve and share themselves authentically and I feel like I am 10,000 miles from reaching their circle of faith.

I am guessing at the way forward being things like, running, a therapist, writing, me showing up in the dialogue of this entry, showing up to find the plants worth tilling the desert in my soul. I have been avoiding my desk since the Wednesday's sit down. Likewise I have been avoiding God, because I am afraid that I don't have what it takes to make it through the wilderness to some brilliant understanding on the other side. I know that there are only two choices though, sit here in fear, or put on my running shoes and attempt the impossible in writing one word to get me closer to experiencing God.

One Hope to Fill the Void of This Day

I am all emotion spilling out of my weekend of late nights and good-byes. I have looked the deep void within my soul in the eyes and I am afraid. The eyes that as a child would watch couples kissing and think they were so happy, making me want the same attention.

I watched Water for Elephants and the main character's chief aim in life becomes satisfying his wife with every good thing she never had before their embrace. In the end she dies and leaves him anyway. I look to friends, my husband, buying more stuff, anything to plug the great obis that cries out for me to fill it with white noise. I want it to scream up at me things like, "you are not alone," "I desire you," "i'm not going to leave you," but the truth is, no words can reassure me. Even in making my husband repeat back what I believe are words of reassurance, they echo around my head and I keep grasping for more words, stronger words, better phrases that can fill me. With twelve years and 12,000 I love you's I still doubt my ability to be loved. All the insecurities and attempts at finding the exact right kiss feels like a chasing after the wind.

Today I sit at Jesus's feet knowing that to truely be free of this, I have to accept the "brutal reality" that even if I lose everything, my husband, my kids, my mom, my friends and am completely alone, I still have "fierce hope." I can only know for certain that Jesus will never leave me and desires me and loves me and that is it. So I just need to be with Him, because every other thought makes me frantic to the point of breaking.

So today I put down his words:
Psalm 121
I will life up my eyes to the mountain;
From where shall my help come? (everyone around me? NO)
My help comes from [you] Lord;
[You] who made heaven and earth.
[You] who will not allow [my] foot to slip;
[You] who keep [me] will not slumber.
Behold [You] who keep Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

[You] are my keeper;
[You] are my shade at [my] right hand.
The sun will not smite [me] by day,
Nor the mood by night.
[You] will protect [me] from all evil;
[You] will keep my soul.
[You] will guard [my] going out and [my] coming in from this time forth and forever.

(paraphrased from New American Standard Version)

A thought on Easter

            On Thursday afternoon I was sitting by the neighborhood sandbox with my kids and a 4, 5 & 6 year old who all live on our block. As we chatted, the following transpired:

            4 yr old: "We should buy enough sand to reach Jesus."

            5: "Who is Jesus?"

            4: "He’s the President"

            Me to 5 yr old: "This weekend people celebrate Easter, which is when Jesus died on the cross and then came alive again."

            6: "That was a mean thing to do."

            Me: "You’re right, it was mean, but Jesus let them do it."

            Today I had my own worst thought about killing Jesus when I was trying to make my 10 month old take a morning nap, so that I could go back to sleep. He kept standing up in the pack-n-play and I thought, “Jesus, make him go to sleep or I will kill you.” As I had it flash in my head I instantly felt like I had just lost everything. I was the kid who after being on the verge of getting in trouble, threw his plate at his mom and then panicked. To try to take it back I ran away screaming, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!,” Even trying to apologize to God felt useless, because I had committed an unforgiveable sin and even in trying to tell God that I did not mean it, I knew it was too late.

            Where did this come from? Who am I to wish God were dead, to be as arrogant as to threaten him? I am ungrateful and dark and evil. I can’t help thinking that I nailed Christ up there. I said you are not enough unless you do my bidding, so I am going to destroy you in my heart. Shame and disappointment and isolation follow and now I am no my needs saying, please forgive me, like you did the criminal dying next to you who confessed that you were “the Christ, the son of God.” You did this for him, promised to meet him that day and I praise you for letting me be a part of the forgiveness and that same reunion that comes after. 

"Write What You Are Passionate About"

So I went to hear a poet read and sing on Friday night. It was a big effort to get out, knowing I would be alone, probably miss it and that it was thirty minutes away (which is far for Ann Arbor, where almost everything is within fifteen). Due to some luck or synchronicity or divine intervention, I got there at the intermission, just before he went on stage to begin his performance.

The guy is Matthew Hunter and one of his pieces is titled, Angel. Prior to reading it, he announced that he does not know this girl, Angel, beyond having spoken with her once. He went on to say that when you write about someone you don’t know, you are speaking about yourself. It felt like he was someone for what he did and for her enthusiasm about everyone he encountered. As I think about this guy, who I do not know beyond his readings, I envy his ability to command space.

I would like to be able to say anything, sing without regret, speak words with emphasis and mean them. To align it all to look important like he does, singing, writing and fighting for Civil Rights and pursuing some advanced degree like Public Health. I want to matter.

So what does it look like to command my own ship, or as he suggested, “write what you are passionate about.” I believe it translates to listening to my internal reactions and observing how I describe the world, as a way of understanding myself. It means continually wondering what is bigger in my character, my struggle with a son or my own disappointment in me.  Silencing that voice that runs on about how I didn’t do the dishes, didn’t stop to listen to my son, didn’t call you, wrote a shitty piece, am selfishly using money for childcare to support being lazy.

In this moment, bigger means sitting for 5 minutes in silence, letting go of expectation, RUNNING, writing the character who might be worth a penny, might not have an epiphany or might be incapable of a witty interlude anyone. Listening when my son says, “Mom, I don’t want you to be grumpy ever again, ok?”

Today, I want to be with David as he plays the “mother” in Mother May I and tells me not to sing. I want to understand why he fights to be the boss. Is he looking for connection, testing his own authority or just too tired to play nicely? Lately, I have struggled to grow beyond “yeses” and “nos” and the make believe stories of our days, as I practice my role as parent. I think that if I can just listen, we can both experience a new way of enjoying attention.

Agonizing in Chaos

I don't organize. Food is random. In the afternoon I think, "Oh phew, we still have some things that might work for dinners." My husband is fine with most things beyond having too many nights of salads and any food on the "wown't eat" list.

So I just got a bunch of quirky cookbooks from a neighbor and will once again attempt a month plan, freezing meats and hoping things last, because the work of purchasing ingredients and deciding in a moment is torture. I also need to be all new recipes because I somehow think people don't like anything I already made.

The same goes with cleaning. I clean when I get so disgusted by what I think others might notice about the fur balls in the corner. What must I, should I, can I do to be "good enough?" To accept the decision and move on (doing or not doing anything without fixating). I have to imagine that if I even settled on a once a month or five minutes a day cleaning routine, that might cure my anxiety.

I long to be less burdened by what I am not doing and either act or dismiss, going back to my entry on "doing or not doing the dishes."Here is the start of my meal plan. I might cook a Pork Roast, Beef Roast, Curry Chicken, Falafel Burgers, Meat balls, Chicken fingers, Fried rice, etc.

My desire is to see life, and in this moment daily survival, in a positive light, as if I am holding up a half full glass of ginger-lime juice, or an icy mocha or something bubbly. I love actually cooking for my family! The result feels like a major accomplishment.

My intention is to raise this glass to you, look in your brown eyes, say "cheers" and take a sip, swish for a moment and then swallow, leaving the memory to linger on!

If only it were that simple!