Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

I Heard the Bells

Oh, what a day.

Fear, excitement, panic, hope, dread...the list goes on and on and on.  Sitting at my computer (at work...shhh) I felt it all rise up within me.  I became suddenly overwhelmed.  How on earth will we go on after this election day?  No one can deny that this campaign process has incited and ignited passion within people.  And not just good passion.  No.  Anger...hatred...vitriol...

I wondered how our nation could move on after all this.  Surely we are more divided than ever before.

Except -

As I let my mind spiral downward a song came on my Dave Barnes (Holiday) Pandora station.  (Yes.  Holiday.  Judge not.)  As I listened I felt tears come to my eyes and peace wash over me.  The carol was a song based on a poem written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow on Christmas Day, 1863.

Folks, 1863 was the middle of the American Civil War.  A time when our nation was more divided than ever before, a time in which it seemed we could only splinter apart.  Longfellow, the widowed father of six children, had recently learned his oldest child had been severely injured in the war.  So he did what the artists and dreamers do: He put his pain and hope on paper.

I think it applies now, just as surely as then.

Here is his poem (emphasis mine):

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

On Fear

When I was young I made the Powers-That-Be turn on the lights inside the Haunted Mansion.

I know.  Cool, right?

Except it was my terror that made them do it.  Memory is faulty, and I was very, very, very young, so I don't remember much about it.  Here is what I can recall:

Sitting on someone's shoulders (my mind says my Grandpa's?  But that seems crazy....So maybe an uncle?) as we walked from the elevator to the Doom Buggies, clutching at his forehead in horror as I sobbed, "Turn on the lights!  Make them turn on the lights!" over and over and over again until suddenly the lights flickered on.  I remember my Grandpa saying, "Looks like you're in luck."  And I remember the relief.  That's it. I don't know if we all left the Haunted Mansion or if it was just a parent and me.

Just terror, searching for something to ground me to reality (in this case the feel of skin beneath my fingertips), and then relief.

A few years later I made them stop Star Tours mid-ride.  It was the same sort of thing, although this time just my mom and I left the ride, and I definitely recall that walk back to meet up with the rest of the family.

We've all been there, guys.  Don't deny it  (Love you, Mama!) 

I'm not bragging at the power I apparently hold over Disney ride operators.  (Not much, I mean.)  No, my point is this:  My fear is big, and loud, and demands to be heard.

Now, I have mixed feelings about fear.  I mean, if you look over the history of our species, fear has been a good thing.  Fear keeps you from stepping too close to the edge of a high cliff.  Fear redirects your steps when you hear a roar from out in the darkness, assuredly saving you from ending up in the belly of some great beast.

Or, if you're a small girl with a vivid imagination...

And impeccable fashion sense, clearly.

...Who has against her better judgement entered a Haunted Mansion, been herded into a secret elevator and then told - essentially - the only way out is to follow the choice of a hanging skeleton...

...Been plunged into a darkness filled by screaming people...

...And then suddenly finds herself in a dark hallway with pictures that only prove the house is, indeed, haunted...

It's waaaaay scarier with the lights out, folks.

Well...Fear steps up to the plate.  Fear reminds you there are GHOSTS INSIDE.

Fear is there to warn you when something may hurt you.

There are many who will tell you that fear is a liar.  I disagree.  I just think fear is really good at its job.  Seriously, Employee of the Month, time after time after time.  And let's be very real here - fear is good at its job because there is no way to be a human being and not be hurt.

One of my favorite quotes from Welcome to Night Vale

Fear has had a lot of practice.  Fear has been hardwired into our DNA as surely as joy, sorrow, delight, or anger have.  Fear may go even deeper, existing on the same level as thirst, hunger, the need to breathe.  Personally, I believe those who say they have no fear are either lying or foolish - or both.


Fear is not the voice to be shut up and ignored!  Fear is that friend who has your best interests at heart but just never quite hits the mark.  You know the one.  Maybe the Christmas gift is never right, but is given with a good spirit.

Maybe words are awkwardly phrased and the hug too tight/loose/long/whatever - but you can tell the intention is there.

Fear isn't out to get us, it's out to help us.  So instead of ignoring its voice, we instead need to turn and face it and say, "I hear you, fear, and you're not in charge here."

Boom.

That's it.  It is as simple and as difficult as that.

So whether I'm walking the sinister hallway toward the Doom Buggies and am feeling that familiar lick of terror along my spine (every time, guys), or I'm finally telling people that yeah, my agent has put the pitch out to a few editors and some have asked to read the complete manuscript - fear doesn't get to keep me from doing something I know is good.

Remember that time I said guilt could hand me the roadmap but didn't get to come along for the ride?  (No?  Let's change that.  Check it out here.)   It's kind of like that, except that fear has a seat in the car.  The backseat...and fear is an avid backseat driver.

Ideally fear will be passed out, though...just sleeping the drive away.

I just don't have to follow its direction.

Another winner from WTNV

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Fear and Worth: An Update

I know this update is overdue.  Really.  And I'm sorry its taken so long to post.  The thing is, it's taken a long time to sift through the chaos that is my brain as of late.

Seriously.  Chaos.  

I've been processing a lot of new stuff, and - in case there was ever any doubt - it all circles back to my writing.

The other day I was making some guacamole at work and was imagining out what I would say if I were speaking to a group about writing.  (Incidentally, this is not just vain daydreaming, folks: Doxacon.   August 2017. Washington, D.C.  Be there.)  I kept coming back to the idea of talents, specifically the biblical parable of The Talents.

For those who are unfamiliar, there is, in the Bible, a story Jesus tells about servants who were given talents (a type of money).  Those who invested and used the talents were rewarded, while the poor sap who was so afraid of losing it he buried it in the ground was definitely not rewarded.  He was cast out into a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Just a quick side note here.  At the time this parable was told, weeping and gnashing of teeth were expressions of grief.  As with anything biblical, there's a plethora of ways to interpret this story, but the most straightforward seems to be this:

We are given talents.  If we use the talents we are further blessed.  If we hide our talents we become grief stricken.  

I am a writer.  Writing is one of my talents.  It always has been.  In elementary school I crafted stories out of those, "write a sentence for each spelling word" assignments.  In high school I could certainly write essays well, but the creative writing was where I excelled.  And I have always, somehow, known that someday my words would be in print.  Back when Border's bookstores were still around I used to go and find exactly where my book would sit on the shelf.  It was my sacred ritual.  I couldn't leave the store without at least visiting my books' future home.  Even now, in the jumbo makeup store that has since taken its place, my eyes flick to that spot on the wall as I enter.  

My identity as "a writer" has always been there, whether I have actively used and invested (in) my talent or have hidden it away, buried deep beneath the surface.

Remember this picture?

Taken right after a rare manicure, apparently.

I posted it a few months ago.  I gave it a silly caption about being nervous to send my work off and said that even though it didn't necessarily count as a submission, it was the first move of a game called, "How Many Times Do I Get To Submit This?"

Well, I have an answer.

One.

One submission.

In a twist I was not even remotely expecting, my first submission resulted in representation.  I went to a conference to meet my tribe and to gain some guidance from a real, live agent as to how I should go about taking my next step.

Now, barely three months later, I am googling terms like, "comp titles," and asking my agent - my agent!! - questions that must seem obvious and remedial.  I am telling my friends and family that, oh yeah, we'll start pitching at the end of this month, and will see where things go from there.

What.
Is.
LIFE???

I am so excited - SO EXCITED!!! - I can hardly think straight.  It's difficult to stay in this current moment.  And I am terrified.  Which is why I haven't posted anything about this until now.

#truth

I am afraid.

I am afraid that I'll talk about this most recent update - signing with an agent - and then, poof! it'll disappear.  Deals fall through all the time.  I am afraid this will be one of those.

I am afraid that I have forgotten how to write a book.  The book I've written is the first of a series.  I have to write the rest of it.  And what if somehow I can't?  What if I've forgotten what it takes to put one word after another after another after another...?  What if I only had one book in me?

I am afraid to put myself out there.  In writing one must be real, must be true.  Even in fiction.  Especially in fiction.  I am afraid to show people my insides and have them find me wanting.

Which leads me to my main fear, the one that drives the others:  I am afraid I am not worthy.  I am afraid that there's been some crazy mistake.  I wonder, Who am I to be so presumptuous as to assume that my work is good enough?  

BUT CLEARLY IT IS.

I'm shocked that someone believes in this story enough to help it get published.

BUT CLEARLY THEY DO.

I'm just Steph, standing here, holding this freaky, little story - and it is a freaky, little story.  But I am also a writer.  And it is time for me to uncover my talent, and to take that risk of using and investing it.  Who knows how long this ride will be?  I certainly don't.  But I promise now that I will ride it out.  I will keep sifting and processing and facing those fears.  And though I and my words are works in progress, we'll get there someday.

Taking a page from Stuart Smalley's book now.

Current goal.

Not Cinderella

I'm a shoe girl.

I.
LOVE.
Shoes.

I know, I know!  It's cliche.  But, hey!  I'm a redhead whose favorite color is red, and while I don't mind a margarita or glass of wine, I'm definitely a whiskey girl.  I'm used to being a cliche.

My shoe closet pretty much holds the spectrum of colors and patterns: glittery ruby slippers, blue suede wedges, black patent leather stilettos...heck!  I even have a pair of pumps that have The Avengers all over them.

And they glow under a black light!

I'm sure it comes as no surprise that a certain pair of glass slippers crosses my mind on a fairly regular basis.  Glass.  Slippers.  (Or possibly fur slippers, if you're sticking with the original telling.  There's some controversy over the translation.)  There's no doubt in my mind that if I had a pair of those suckers they would be in my regular rotation.  Because functional glass slippers?  Yes, please!

But even with my slight shoe obsession (fetish?  No...okay, yes) it hit me the other day that I am not Cinderella.

Now, before I get to the moment in which I had this epiphany, I feel the need to say something:  I don't hate Cinderella.  I don't dislike Cinderella.  I don't have anything against Cinderella.

I LOVE CINDERELLA!

In some ways Cinderella is a perfect symbol of fairy tale princesses.  I would love her for that alone, but there's more.  Whether we're talking the Disney version or the Perrault (and then Grimm) version, or even the Egyptian story of Rhodopis, I am a fan.  She has incredible grace under pressure, is an example of perseverance and kindness in the face of hardship and hatred, and it's great that those traits are rewarded at the end of the story.  I think, "Go back!  Go back!  There's blood on the trail!" is an awesome - if Grimm -  refrain, and "A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes" is equally wonderful.

And don't even get me started on statements like this:

Who says these ideas are mutually exclusive?  Why can't I love fairy tales and dreaming and whimsy and still be a strong, successful woman?  I will make it rain shards of glass while wearing glass slippers.  I will chase my dreams in my cutest pair of shoes.  When I have kids they will be taught to dance and dream and demolish that glass ceiling.  You do not have to sacrifice one at the expense of the other.

Honestly.





Anyway, all that to say: I love Cinderella.

But I am not Cinderella.

Some of you may know that I've been doing the online dating thing for a bit.  While it's cool to meet new people and I always enjoy getting dressed up, I'm not stoked on it.  The guys are nice enough (barring, of course, those who think it's alright to ask for naked pictures right off the bat), but I find I'm in a strange mindset about relationships right now.  I don't want anything serious - but I'm open to that if it happens - and I definitely am not looking for a one night thing.  So something casual and with no pressure, but with the option to explore more if there's a connection.  And no hookups.

See?  It's not fair.  It's kind of setting the poor guys up for failure.

A couple days ago I got a perfectly nice message from a perfectly nice guy who was wishing me a good day at work.  I suddenly felt very clearly and heavily in my heart that while he may be Prince Charming I am certainly not Cinderella.  I looked at my phone and sighed, "I'm not The One, guy," before I typed a short and cheerful response thanking him for the kind thoughts.

Cinderella is delicate and strong, persevering and gentle.  She is faith in good things and working solidly and steadily at the task that has been set before her, all while never giving up on the dream of something better.

I am a temper that is contained 96% of the time and fierce the other 4.
I am constant vigilance against the threat of bedbugs.
I am a laugh that is just a touch too loud.
I am bottles of kombucha abandoned with 1/4 of the drink left.
I am Christmas music year round.
I am lying on the floor when writing feels too hard.
I am SO EXCITED to go to Disneyland.  Always.
I am quiet moments at my grandma's grave, telling her about everything going on in my life, and listening for the little bell of her answer.
I am always going to laugh at a fart joke...and most raunchy humor.
I am a dirty mind (*ahem* sexy imagination) that hangs out behind an innocent face.
I am incensed when anyone implies - or states - that I need to dress in a more modest/conservative/ladylike/whatever way.  Incensed.
I am not quite afraid of the dark, but I sleep much better with just a little light in the room.
I am conversations with random strangers about what on earth it means that they dreamt about that weird thing.  And also they swear they saw their grandfather after he passed away.

I am not Cinderella.

And so when well-meaning people tell me to have faith, that my perfect Prince Charming, with his pristine background and white steed, will come soon, well...I cringe.  Because I don't have time for you, Prince Charming - for you or your perfect posture and bizarre insistence that you will marry a woman you danced one silent dance with.

No.  For as much as I love fairy tales, and believe in fairies (well, faeries), I'm not looking for a fairy tale romance.  I need someone who will suit up and show up.  Someone who will don his armor and step into the gladiator ring to fight alongside me.  Someone who will push me to try new things and who doesn't care that "delicate" is a word that has never been used to describe me.  Someone who will embrace and explore life with me, who will hold my hand when it's scary or hard, or simply just because.

Frank and Sadie from Beyond Belief (Thrilling Adventure Hour)...Relationship goals.

So, until I find him - until we find each other - I'll just keep putting one well-shod foot in front of the other.  And to all you Princes Charming or Fairy Godmothers, I will never turn down the gift of a great pair of shoes.

Never.





Any pictures that are not mine were found on Pinterest, and as such photo credit is not given.

Just A Story Written For LOG...

A few months ago I was asked to write a story for a LOG activity.  This is what I came up with.  Figured I would share it.

The Young Boy grumbled to himself as he stomped toward the well.  This was not a man's work, gathering water.  He hunched his shoulders against both his anger and the heat of the afternoon.  His mother had sent him to the well, too caught up in caring for the Boy's crying infant sister to gather the water herself.  She had yelled at him of the importance of water.  Would he rather them all die of thirst than swallow his pride and carry one jug?  And after all, he was still just a Boy, while she was his mother.  He must listen to her.

The Boy could not deny the importance of water for survival.  It was true that every creature, every living thing needed the water.  Living in the small, Samaritan town, the Boy was well aware of this need, even at such a young age.  The weather was harsh and unforgiving, and if a person was careless or lazy he would regret it greatly.  But at eight years old the Boy chose not to consider this.  He kicked a stone out of his path, cringing when he felt the pain in his toes.

As he approached the well he stopped abruptly – Photini was walking in the direction of the well, carrying a large jug.  Everyone in town knew of Photini.  The Boy's mother would be horrified if she thought he spoke even the shortest greeting to this woman.  He was stuck, unsure of what to do, when he noticed a Man sitting at the well.  The Man greeted Photini kindly, then asked if she would give Him water.  The Boy wondered briefly if this Man knew the kind of woman he spoke to, but then realized with shock that He was a Jew!  What on Earth was he doing speaking to a Samaritan woman, especially one like Photini?

The Boy inched closer to the well, curious to hear what the Man was saying.  “If you knew Who was asking you for water, you would ask Me for water, and I should give you living water.”  Living water? The Boy thought, amazed.  He had never yet heard of living water.  He stepped closer, eager to hear more.

Photini and the Man were speaking about her life – the Boy wondered if he should cover his ears – when she suddenly ran from the well, leaving her jug behind.  As she ran past, he heard Photini calling out about the Messiah.  The Boy looked back toward the Man, who seemed to be watching a group of men walk up the hill toward the well. 

“Come see me, my Boy,” He said.  The Boy jumped; he had thought he went unnoticed.  The Man turned toward him, and beckoned him to come.  The Boy nervously walked forward.  “What is living water?” he asked the Man.  The Man smiled gently, and reached out to touch the Boy's shoulder. 

“It is the water that I give.  Whoever drinks of this water will never be thirsty again.  The water that I give will become a fountain of everlasting water, springing up into eternal life.”  The Boy simply shook his head, not understanding what the Man meant, but knowing somehow that this was important, that this Man was no ordinary man.

“I'm sorry.  I don't understand.  How could anyone not need water again?”

The Man chuckled, and reached into a pack that was resting at His feet.  He pulled out a small, clay cup and a leather strap, and began wrapping the strap around the cup even as He spoke.  “Tell me, my Boy, why you feel water is so important?”

The Boy thought this was a silly question, but he answered anyway.  “It gives life.  No one can live without drinking water.  We would die without it.” 

“This is true,” the Man answered.  “You mother, your father, your baby sister – all of you need water to live.”  He looked up and smiled at the Boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Him.  “But would you like to know a secret?”  He leaned toward the Boy, who nodded and came closer to Him.  “Your soul,” the Man touched a finger to the Boy's chest.  “Your soul needs something else to live.  Your soul needs Me, and my Father Who is in Heaven.  And I will give your soul living water.  And it is through Me that you will find eternal life – life that far surpasses your life here on this earth.  Would you like to hear something else?”  The Boy nodded again.  He had felt power in the simple touch to his chest.  He felt as though his whole body was shining.  The Man looked at him as though He knew what the Boy was feeling.  “Whoever believes in me, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water,” He said.  “I give you My living water, and you pass that along to others, who can pass it to others, and so on.”  He handed the Boy the cup, which now had the leather wrapped around it in such a way that the Boy could wear the cup around his neck.  He did so now, feeling that the cup was somehow sacred.  He knew he would never lose it, even if only because it would make him think of this Man.

The Boy turned to face the group of men who had just reached the well.  They called out to the Man cheerfully – they obviously knew Him well – and the Man acknowledged them with a wave.  He turned to the Boy and placed His hand on the Boy's head.  “Go, my child, and let the rivers of My living water flow from you.  And remember, if anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.  Anyone, my child.”  The Boy nodded and ran toward home.  He was almost to his house when he realized he had forgotten to gather the water.  He looked down at the pitcher he held in his hands and almost dropped it in amazement when he realized it was full.  He walked into his home, feeling lighter and stronger than he had ever felt in his life.  He took the small cup from around his neck and poured some water into it.  With that in hand, he went to his mother and said, “Mother.  Come sit, and drink, and listen as I tell you about the Living Water.” 

My Blog's Name - FINALLY Explained

I've been thinking the past few days about why I named my blog "A Life of Fiction."  It's always been clear to me, but I know it may not be clear to everyone else. 

You see, I have a fairly strange and bizarre life.  Sometimes I think I actually do lead a life of fiction; at times there is no other way my life could be described.  In college I developed a theory about why this is so. 

I appreciate the little things. 

That's all it comes down to.  I take such delight in the lttle things, feel such exultation in small miracles, find such joy in embracing the ridiculous, have such fun in laughing at the bizarre that I tend to be a magnet for amazingly big deals.  Lately, unfortunately, I haven't been embracing the little things.  It's been sad.  I've gotten caught up in life and all its details that somehow I have somehow missed out on what I love so much about LIFE.  In a weird way, I seem to have been so caught up in looking at the forest that I haven't been able to notice the trees.

I am happy to notice how that has been changing as of late.  I think I first noticed it when the other day I checked my Twitter feed and saw that a friend had tweeted 'I'll never get married in a castle. I couldn't bear to hear the pastor say "I'm sorry, but the princess is in another castle".'  I busted up laughing.  It touched the nerd in me, and shot me back to a youth spent playing Nintendo (and watching my brothers and the neighbor play Nintendo). 

It is so nice to be taking joy in the little things again.

And I was pleased to feel that it wasn't just a fleeting thing.  When I climbed into my car the other day I discovered that my CD player had suddenly decided to play twice as fast as normal.  I found amazing joy in hearing SheDaisy sing like the Chipmunks.  I wished someone was with me to share in the moment.  I wanted to laugh with someone.  And then later, at my parents' house, I heard my sister say, "Wait...Is this Later Gater?"  I walked into the living room and saw my family - including my 6-year-old brother - watching the SyFy channel.  They were all totally engrossed.  And the fact that my sister could identify the movie made me smile.  And the evening only got better...My little sister came home from gymnastics and had to get in the shower.  We were all doing our own thing and I suddenly said, "Is that Ginny?"  We listened, and sure enough, Ginny was singing in the shower.  It wasn't one of her usual, tweeny-bopper songs she makes up, but was an operatic scale.  Cat and I looked at each other and laughed.  Topped off by watching Bones with my parents and sister, it was a great day. 

I could feel myself appreciating the little things again.  Which is good, because this morning I had a bizarre phone conversation, and it would have been terribly sad if I hadn't been able to appreciate it. 

Here's a little background information:

-About 2 weeks ago I got a phone call from someone asking me if I was the number for roof repairs.  I said no, and was told some unliscensed roofer had inadvertently put my phone number down instead of his.
-I have been recieving plenty of phone messages since then from people asking if I could fix their roof.
-I kind of feel badly for the roofer, but then I think, He/She put my phone number down...Mayhap it's a good thing that these poor people aren't getting their roofs fixed by him/her.

So here is the conversation I had this morning:
Me: Hello?
Her: Hi.  I am calling to see if you could repair my roof?
Me: Oh, no.  I am so sorry.  I'm not the roof repairer.
Her: No?  Darn.  I really need to get some leaks fixed.  The ad says, "Best prices roof repairs." Is this your number? [says my number]
Me: Yeah, I know...You aren't the first person to call me about this.  But I don't do roof repairs.  Sorry!
Her: Darn it.  I was starting to look forward to having a hot female roofer come to my house.
Me: .....
Her: Really, I would appreciate that more than seeing a man.
Me: tinkling laugh [really, I was just unsure of what to say]
Her: Well, that's disappointing.
Me: Oh, I am sorry about that.  Hey, do you know what company you were trying to call?
Her: It just doesn't say a name.  Sooo...What do you do?  You sound nice.
Me: Uhh...I work with kids.
Her: Well, I have a couple of those.
Me: Oh, neat.
Her: I also have puppies.  Do you work with them?  I can't control them either.  Well, I had puppies but then the puppies had puppies.
Me: [non-comitally] Oh, wow.
Her: [probably picking up on the fact that I was starting to get a little nervous that she would randomly call me back sometime in the future] Well, you probably want to get your phone number taken out of the paper, huh?
Me: Yeah, thanks for the info.
Her: Thank you for sounding so wonderful.  Have a really lovely day.
Me: Thanks!  You too! [hang up]

Yeah...I think I lead a life of fiction.  And, honestly, I love it.

Remembering

There is a lot of chaos in my environment right now.  I am sitting in a Starbucks - no surprise there, really - with my headphones in.  Despite the gentle Christmas music I am listening to from my own computer I can hear the piped in music of the coffee shop, as well as the strangely loud conversations of the people around me and the yelling of the barristas to each other. 

Christmas music.  Why Christmas music? 

Aside from the fact that I love Christmas music and listen to it whenever the feeling strikes me, I need Christmas today because I need comfort.  I can't just let the tenth anniversary of September 11 pass by without attempting to make sense of my thoughts.  And my thoughts, in a personal mimicry of the environment around me, are filled with chaos. 

My memories of this time ten years ago are disjointed and filled with emotion.  Grabbing a piece of cheese toast only to be surprised by the phone ringing, followed by the instant shock and fear when I heard my mom say, "WHAT?" sharply, before turning to us and saying, "Dad says to turn on the news.  Right now."

I remember running into the living room and turning on the news, and staring in shock and disbelief at the image of a tower burning and not quite understanding what happened.  Then, as news commentators are discussing the impossibility of the event watching in utter horror as the second plane hit the second tower.

I remember the horror growing as I watched the towers fall - collapse - implode - one after the other.  After being shuffled out the door because, well, we had school that day, I remember the neighbor coming outside and saying, "It's the start of World War 3," and wondering, Is he right? 

I remember the news being on in every class - except Spanish - and the strange, shell-shocked atmosphere of the school, despite being thousands of miles away.  I remember coming home, seeing on TV the devastation that was still, somehow, a shock. 

There are images that have never left; I think about them almost daily:

The people inside the towers who were waving shirts outside the windows, letting rescuers know they were still inside.  As if to say, "Don't forget about us!  We're still stuck!" 

The people who chose to jump, rather than die in the collapse.

The image of the first responders running inside, and then mere moments later being crushed.

The sight of the doctors and nurses who set up the triage stations.

The dust covered people stumbling through the rubble, dazed and shocked.

The Friday after the attacks I remember standing at our high school football game, where the teams ran onto the field together, led by the DP team captain carrying the American flag, and lining up together on the sideline for a moment of silence.  I had never before, or have never since, been in a crowd so large that was able to be so silent.  Even the children were quiet, as if they, too, felt and understood the heaviness of the time.  And during the moment I looked down at the football players, scrambled with each other, creating an accidental red, white, and blue ribbon with their jerseys. 

There are images in my mind that are disturbing.  They make me uncomfortable, sad, angry.  There are some people that say we should just move on.  We shouldn't take time each day to run through our memories.  We need to just go back to normal.  At the risk of sounding harsh, or cruel, I have one thing to say in response:

What an idiotic thing to say.

We can't pretend it never happened - it did.  We can't go back to normal - normal was a time of ignorance, sleepiness, and, going deeper, "normal" killed its Creator.  And if we pretend it never happened, if we take the disturbing images out of our sight, we do a serious disservice to those who died that day ten years ago. 

The people in the towers and surrounding buildings, people who were rushing in because they were running late for work, going to meetings, sitting at desks, emailing, calling...People living their lives just like you and me who left behind grieving family and friends.  We can't pretend they didn't die.  We need to give them the respect, and acknowledgement.

The first responders, those who ran in while everyone else ran out.  Wow.  We need to honor them.  They gave their lives in an act of true love.  Not "love" the noun, "love" the verb.  Not "love" the feeling, but "love" the choice.  No one would blame these men and women for running away.  No one would judge them for not going into a building that would collapse any instant.  But there were people inside who needed saving, and so they went in.  When we try to ignore the fact that this happened we dishonor these brave men and women. 

We can't forget.  We can't push it away. 

Now I believe God was there with the people as they died.  Maybe it's just a way of giving myself some comfort and peace of mind, but I firmly believe the final moment for these people between life and death was, while horrible and unimaginable, also hopeful - God was there with them. 

This doesn't go nearly deep enough.  I could write all day and still not find a way to express everything that I felt then, ten years ago, and that I feel today.  I can't seem to find the right words to express the importance of remembering, and honoring, our fallen brethren and heroes. 

And so, in honor of those who climbed and climbed, only to be brought down, I offer this quote from the poem, "The Final Inspection," a poem about a police officer standing before God.

Step forward now, Officer, you've borne your burdens well.
Come walk a beat on Heaven's Streets. You've done your time in Hell

May God have mercy on the souls of those lost that day, and may their memories truly be eternal.

Double-Decker Sledding Re-discovered

I was going through my pictures on facebook and rediscovered this absolutely, hilariously AMAZING video.  This is what happens when a bunch of kids (read: 2 high schoolers and 3 "adults") from Southern California wind up in the snow.  Amazing-ness happens.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/photo.php?v=1876116660266&set=t.661655290&type=1

Click the link.  I dare you to.  I promise it's worth it.

Oh!  And all video credit goes to Austin Harris :)

On Heroes

I just saw Captain America...I know - finally.  You would think a Disney fanatic such as myself would have seen this before.  Somehow I just hadn't gotten around to it.

Now it's no secret I love superhero movies.  What's not to love?  They are action packed.  There's always some sort of romance.  They address pretty solid themes (the classic good vs. evil comes to mind).  The hero is always attractive and has an interesting, and - yes - sexy attitude that makes him just plain irresistible.  So we have discovered, once again, how deep my waters really run. 

Anyway, I was watching Captain America, and thought that while I still love Ryan Reynolds, not only does Chris Evans give him a tough run for his money, but the movie itself was about a trillion times better.  Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed Green Lantern very much.  I know if I watched it right now I would still enjoy it.  But it's like the difference between eating a store bought, packaged cookie as opposed to a warm, homemade cookie.  You enjoy the one you bought at the store, but you'll typically choose the homemade cookie every time.  And while I was considering this and trying to push that strange guilty feeling away (I promise I wasn't saying anything horrible about Ryan Reynolds!) I thought about just what it is that makes superheroes so amazing.  Some people would claim that there is nothing super special about superheroes.  Strip away the suits, cars, weapons, radio-active spiders, kryptonite, etc. and what do you have? these people scoff.  Well, I have an answer: 

The ultimate self sacrifice. 

Superheroes are amazing because they always put "the other" before themselves.  Wow.  Think about it.  In every superhero movie you have seen the hero has at least a small moment in which he or she makes the conscious decision to sacrifice him or herself for the love interest, the city, the nation, the world...It seems this trait is what makes superheroes so gosh-darned special. 

Well, DUH, Steph! you say.  We all know that.  Talk about stating the obvious.

It is obvious - or it should be.  But we tend to view these characters as complete and utter fiction.  Now I know they are.  I realize there is no such person as Steve Rogers/Captain America, Hal Jordan/Green Lantern, Clark Kent/Superman, Bruce Wayne/Batman, Peter Parker/Spider-Man, etc.  As much as I love viewing the world through my fantasy lenses I know there is a difference between daydreams and reality.  My point here is this: we shouldn't be so shocked at the idea of people who are willing to give themselves for someone else when we have the opportunity to witness this everyday.

My older brother has made a conscious decision that if it comes down to it he will lay down his life for someone else.  My younger brother has made the same conscious decision to put his life on the line for another.  I guess they must have something in common...

I know the police, especially in LA right now, get a lot of bad press.  And there is something to that: there are ordinary people on the police force - ordinary people who make good, and bad, decisions everyday.  And, like most ordinary people, they make mistakes and falter and fall.  Yes.  There are true "bad cops" out there.  Unfortunately we shine a light on these ordinary human beings, focusing not on their humanity but in their inhumanity.  We throw up our arms in outrage - how dare the police do these things??  And to a certain extent we should.  It never does to have people in positions of authority using their place for harm.  The trouble is we focus so much on these bad pictures that we forget about the good.  We forget about the men and women who every single day strap on their guns and badges and walk around understanding that if it comes down to it they will make the ultimate sacrifice that day.  How quickly we forget that without these amazing men and women we would be lost, and in serious danger.  We're so quick to judge them, to see them as villains, when in reality when we see those black and white cars we are looking at a true Batmobile.  When we see the blue uniforms we are looking at a real Superman suit.  Every day we see honest-to-God superheroes.

It's interesting...If we villainize cops, I think we can easily say we dumb-down fire fighters.  I do it, too.  I look at a fire truck and don't always see Spidey's webs - the tool to get around town.  When I pass a firehouse I have to admit there are times when I see a calendar, with an attractive guy for each month.  It's horrible!  I can't even begin to count how many times I've heard, or been part of, a conversation that goes something like this:

Well, I was running late but there were fire fighters in the store so it wasn't all bad.
That's the best!  I love looking at those fire fighters.

In our rush to view fire fighters as the golden boys we forget that they are much more important than eye candy.  Every time they receive a call they know they are heading to an emergency.  And while most of the situations may be medical emergencies many of them are not.  Structure fires, accidents, goodness - the hills of Santa Barbara seem to be on fire all the time.  All these situations are dangerous, and the fire fighters not only hold a hose in their hands, but the knowledge that they will risk everything to protect another person.  Everything.  We somehow miss the superhero when we see them.

I see heroes everyday.  I have true heroes in my family.  And I pray everyday that they will be safe.  That the people they protect will not require that sacrifice, because I know my brothers will make it.  I stare at the women who love them in awe - it takes a special, strong, heroic woman to love a man who has made the decision to be a superhero.  I hope the people who cross paths with my brothers will treat them as heroes, rather than villains, or calendar boys.

How can you be sure they are heroes? you may be asking me right now.  Well, it's because I know if they see this they will respond with the same response all the superheroes make: "I'm just doing my job."  And they will - even if they job means laying down their lives for another person. 

God bless the heroes.

Trust, Part 1

Last night before I went to bed I decided I would try to begin the task of tackling trust in today's blog.  I sit here now and I just can't seem to find the energy in me to even face the idea. 

So instead I decided to post some pictures - examples of trust in my family.  Just a reminder of what trust, and love, can look like.

The Bend in the Road

Here I am on day two of my Project 365 and I am already faced with a horrible question: What on Earth am I going to write about??
I know on some days there will be PLENTY to write about.  The issue then will be pruning so I don't overwhelm myself.  And I know there will be plenty of dry patches.  Unfortunately, in my effort to beat back the Writer's Block Beast I have begun my project in what feels like the middle of a desert. 

I suppose that isn't quite true.  There's a lot that I am thinking about, I just don't want to beat the dead horse.  Because the thing is, from where I am on this journey through life I can see a bend in the road.  (For those of you have read anything I have written you are probably familiar with my fascination with the Bend...It comes from my extreme love of Anne of Green Gables and, well, any book written by L.M. Montgomery.  Her view of life just makes sense to me.)  For so long I have seen my path stretching out before me.  Yes, there have been little dips to stumble over and hills to climb.  And every day I have found a beautiful flower, bird, view to make the day's walk more pleasant, just as every day I have limped over a pebble in my shoe or a thorn in my foot that makes things a little harder to deal with.  But overall, my path has stretched out before me in a straight line.  There has been frustration because of that - I have felt trapped and caged on the path - but there has also been comfort.

I have known what I will do each day.  I am surrounded by people who love me and who lift me up high enough to keep me basically out of reach of those that will drag me down.  It has been a comfortable place, if not overly exciting, and as much as I have complained about it I find myself wishing it could stay.  There's a big bend in the road coming up and I am not 100% sure about where it will take me.  I won't say now just what the bend looks like; it's too far off and I, myself, am not quite sure.  I do know there is one coming, and while that is exciting and I have moments of wishing it sooner, I also find myself feeling just fine with the distance, and just not quite ready for it.  It's an interesting thing, that bend.  I can't quite describe it. 

And so I think an Anne quote is appropriate here:
"When I left Queen's my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a bend in it. I don't know what lies around the bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does. It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla." - Anne Shirley, Anne of Green Gables, L.M. Montgomery

Musings of Discovery

There's a certain something about the discovery of writing.  It's fascinating.  It's discouraging.  It's enlightening, joyful, draining, beautiful...I can't quite put my finger on it. 

As I go throughout my day I visit with the characters that make themselves known to me.  I look around an see places they might have visited while in Santa Barbara.  I overhear a snippet of conversation, or hear a tone of voice and dialogue immediately races through my head. 

And then I sit down at my computer.  I open up my word document to a new page, fresh with possibility.  Or I open my current story and reread what I have written, hoping to discover more of the people and places.  There's always something new to discover, just like in real life.  Sometimes I hate the discovery - I put one story on hold for two weeks when I realized where it was going.  Sometimes I have a "well, DUH" moment - I text a friend and tell them that I was obviously wrong about this thing and here is the real version.  I have moments of extreme excitement - I have a big smile and have to take a break to dance around the living room.

Regardless of how I feel when I make this discovery, I can't deny the thrill that comes with it.  It's as if I find myself constantly walking through an enchanted forest, pulling back the branches to reveal the light, unsure of whether I will uncover monster or fairy.  And every time something is written, every time I stumble upon another discovery, a part of me is changed forever.  I can't say for certain if it is changed for better or for worse - I am sure in some ways it is both.  All I can say for sure is in that moment things are just a bit clearer.

I suppose C.S. Lewis stated it best when he said, "First, I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand."

A Teller of Tales

In a world without morals I would be a con artist.  I have come to this realization slowly - over a few months, really - and have very mixed feelings about it.  (Probably because I do live in a world with morals.)  It's so intriguing to me, and yet so very, inherently wrong.  I take some comfort in the knowledge that I wouldn't con people out of necessity, or addiction (as there are people addicted to the con out there).  It wouldn't be because of the rush I would get from selling the con.  It would be for the simple joy of telling the story.  It's an intense story, when you think about it, and demands plenty of detail and attention, yet for obvious reasons must be simple and vague.  Yes, the life of the con has always fascinated me.  Maybe that's why I love storytelling.

I took a storytelling class in college.  It was the easiest class I had, although my professor told me straight up that I was the best storyteller in his class - the storyteller with the most promise, the most knowledge of fairy tales - and because of this he would grade me on an entirely different scale than the rest of the class.  I gave a non-committal sort of nod, tried to wipe the confused, yet frustrated expression off my face, and found my revenge in doing spirited impressions of him for my classmates.  (Well, that and acting out the piano-playing scene from Big in the middle of class.  I was horrible, really.)  Two of  my roommates were also in the storytelling class that quarter, although they had the other section, and while they weren't too stoked on the assignments I was.  The textbook we had on using stories in the classroom and using tales as tools was strangely interesting to me.  And although I had little respect for the teacher - despite the fact that he handed me plenty of compliments with my sub par grading and asked me to tell a tandem story with him (yeah, I know I have some brown on my nose) - I did, and do, have great respect for storytelling. 

When I was telling a story it took my entire focus.  I wasn't up there putting on a show for my classmates.  I wasn't wearing a costume, although I did put a lot of thought into how my outfit might best portray some small aspect of my story.  It wasn't a game, although it was very fun.  I had rediscovered a story (one about the "hedgehurst" and another about Brer Rabbit) and needed to handle it in the best way possible so it might reach each listener and hit her in the same place it had hit me: my soul. 

Stories are interesting things.  They are like wild animals that are tamed but never broken.  There's danger in telling stories.  We've all learned that lesson, whether we witnessed, felt, or caused the hurt stories about other people can inflict.  When I approach a new story, whether it is a retelling or an original, it is with a cautious sort of delicacy: How will this story react when I take it in my hands?  When I mold it?  When I retell it?  Many stories demand a certain tenderness throughout.  One rough press and the entire piece crumbles.  Some require tight pressure and a heavy hand when it comes to molding.  Without restraint the story can become too formless or unmanageable, or both.  And once a story has become molded into the correct form it needs to be harnessed.  A runaway story can become a wildfire where it should be a simply a candle. 

I lose myself in stories all the time.  My cousin (in her life of a dreamer blog - go look at it) wrote about how she is constantly creating stories.  Every moment in her life, every passerby becomes caught up in the whirlwind of creation.  I loved this post especially because I do the same thing.  I lose myself in a moment.  It must be disconcerting for the people around me: I am sitting with a child, trying to help him build with blocks, when a character forces herself into my head.  She tries to show me part of her history, whether it is based on my work or totally random, and I am off, following her into Fairyland.  When I come back to the real world, usually only a second or two later, I am struck by an uncomfortable vibe I get from the kid's parent.  I was there in body but absolutely not in spirit.  The body was an animated but empty shell for that second, holding a block suspended for a child to reach and then with a sharp intake of breath and quick blink of the eyes was suddenly refilled.  I have been in the middle of saying something to a friend and will trail off because I am shooting off toward the stars, wondering how the world looks different when seen from above.  A soft, "Steph?" or redirection to the conversation usually brings me right back to Earth and with a shake of the head I get back into it. 

I come by my storytelling honestly.  (At least, I assume it's honest since it so obviously runs in the family.)  And like my cousin I so strongly dream of being a published author.  And while I was definitely inspired in this post by her blog, it also came from my readings on fairy tales and their tellers that I have recently jumped into (well, that and a couple of books about art fraud).  Fairy tales absolutely have their place in my life, and that's where my interest is right now.  So don't be too surprised if I write more about them in the near future.  After all, it's better fairy tales than cons, right?