Happily ever dreams.

Dreams. Happily ever dreams.  I was nineteen.  I'd found love.  The life I envisioned on my wedding day was filled with grand achievements, happy occupations of time, and a bright future.   And I've had all that.  The images are stacked one of top of the other.  They are different than my imagination, but they are real.  And real is good. 

Our valleys in life are deep gorges, but the looking up is spectacular.  The lows can be seen from our heights, but our legs are stronger because of them, and our God is bigger as we traverse.

I've only shaved my husbands beard once, for fun.  This time it's for love.  I love loving him in his need.  His pain is too much to bear alone; the simplest acts too big.  And as I glide the blade over his head and face, I think, He looks just like his dad.  While serving him, the love I know and feel wells up from my heart, almost hurting.  The joys of a thousand memories flood my mind.  Snapshots.  Him, dancing a jig through a theme park. Elaborate stories about how Tiramisu got it's name and why crackerjacks must be eaten.  Smothering our newborn daughter's cheeks with kisses. Writing parody about me and singing it with the children.  Even the memories of trials bring joy.  Because I know the man who walked them through.  Humble. Comedic. Fragile. Strong.  He's all of this and more.  And if we never move on from this moment of service, I'm good.

I'm so thankful that Christ lands our feet, no matter our plans. (Proverbs 16:9) As perfect as my early imaginations seemed to be, in the Lord's wisdom, I'm right where I need to be.  In disillusionment, I find reality.  And Real is better.  Because this is where He makes dreams come true.

Remember

Closing the nightstand drawer, I hear them rattle.  Those little white enameled dentin souvenirs sorted and encapsulated in 35mm film canisters. They capture my thoughts in a time gone by, a time of innocence and youth.  Teeth.  Some of them fell out while playing on the soccer field, some in beds while dreaming, one while biting into a cob of corn, and many more in various other places.  These treasures went under pillows with anticipation of an exchange, the bestowment of gifts. 

I stop and grab one of the four canisters, and sit on my bed.  The lid pops and I pour the collection into my palm.  So small, so fragile are the baby gems.  I take my finger and roll them around.  How many years ago did I file these?  Fourteen?  More? Less?  Five children create quite a collection.  And as I consider the ages at which these were donated, my heartstrings tighten and breath escapes my chest.  Most are as small as a pea. 

             I close my eyes and imagine embracing the little nugget of a person fitted with these.  Four years old?  That’s when most of my children began to drop baby teeth and gaps became the mark of progress.  Oh, those were much different times. 

The most difficult decisions were whether to wear the Thomas the Train or Blue’s Clues underwear.  School consisted of reading an Amelia Bedelia book and drawing stick figures with heads.  “This is you, Mommy.”

“How beautiful.  What’s this?”

“That’s the dog, and that’s the cat, and here’s Daddy!  Daddy’s head is really big,” he said as he held his miniature arms arced up in the air to demonstrate how round and high Daddy’s head really was.  No matter that we owned no dog or cat, this was the perfect family in a little boy’s mind, and luckily, he didn’t miss drawing in his siblings also.

These were the days when little ones would look up at the quarter moon and ask how it got broken.  And when little fingers touched your cheeks and a sweet small voice said, “I love you," your heart melted.

“I love hearing you say that.”

“Do you want me to say it again?”  I giggle.  Yes.  Always. 

Then there was the time two little preschoolers came running up the porch stairs covered in… what is that? Poop?  Well, in their defense, there was no TV and they were sent outside to get creative. To a couple of young boys, there is nothing better than stomping and squishing the poop piles in the neighbors yard.  Watch out, Mario.

Memories always flood when I take the time to open the canister and look.  Like an Ebenezer Stone, my collection sends me back to a point in time where I am reminded to give thanks.  My children’s teeth piled become a memorial, a prompting to consider the gifts I have in each of them.  Heaven touches earth when babes say “I love you” and children cuddle you, and when a keepsake rushes these musings to the forefront of your attention.  And heaven continues to touch earth in the bond of tossing a football, and messing with the man-boy’s hair, in driving lessons, and late night conversations. I am reminded to move into beauty, to allow my thoughts to be captivated by it, to allow fondness to reclaim my affections, and my children to be cherished. 

Funny how such tiny things can evoke such warmth in a soul and I am revived.  I am awakened to the wonder of childhood and the love of family.  A whisper has reached my ears, and it says, remember.

Mood in Writing

It's funny how mood affects writing.  A busy mind or a decision making week can work its way into anything I write.  Sometimes it's upbeat, and at other times, morbid.  We all walk through those times, so as a writer I am learning to appreciate every mood.  It makes things real and allows others to relate.  I was working on writing about a color last week in the first person, and given my week and where I sat when I began writing, this is what came out.

Blah.  I can be a warm color under iridescent lights, but in florescent I’m just clammy.  I’m as clammy as the patients under my influence, laying on gurneys, waiting for their various procedures.  Beige, the pale yellowish brown color, is given many names to cover its non-descript, emotionless state.  Buff, sand, khaki, coffee, camel, fawn and a few of my favorites, biscuit, and oatmeal, of which the former, patient’s want to upchuck and the latter will blend into the wall upon expulsion.  I’m called ecru though, which is just another word for, you guessed it, beige.

Lacking any distinctive features, hospitals and medical facilities are slathered with ecru.  They’re afraid to paint a mood.  Is this a happy procedure, such as an ultrasound of a new, healthy baby?  Is this a distressing procedure, such as a test to see what ghastly malady is afflicting?  No one wants to set the mood, and no one wants to offend it either.  So here I am, to offer you…nothing.  I am faceless and unremarkable, but with whatever you may be experiencing on your next visit to the doctor, I’ll be benign to your disposition, whatever that may be.  And hopefully, that kindness is exactly what you need.

The Art of Galumphing

"You know you're a writer when...
#6 You tell your friends that your favorite way to relax is galumphing."
 
-Ann Linquist,  http://annlinquist.com/you-want-to-write-better-you-want-to-write-more

Recently, I was introduced to the literary exercise of Galumphing.  My online teacher, Ann Linquist, taught this technique.  Three lists of words, each assigned a number from 0-9 are organized into a chart.  Without looking, you select a three digit number.  First number references the first list, second to the second list and so on.  You end up with three seemingly unrelated items in which you must weave into a short story.  I got science teacher, sculpture, and beach.  And here's how it went...

Matt was glad to leave his students behind to experience a much needed get-away.  He was not normally so impromptu, but his life was changing fast.  When he’d met Clarissa, he was at a symposium and she was the artist that drew all the sketches.  Her work was new and fresh.  She was young, beautiful and alluring.  A brief introduction, a cup of java, and three months later, she’s suggesting they take a jaunt to Revere Beach to join some friends in a beach sculpting competition.  Who would have thought? This science teacher would find himself among Boston’s art culture, playing in the dirt with the most non-traditional girl in the world. His nerves were at attention.  This was completely uncharted territory for him.  This girl was whimsical, nothing like the girls he fraternized in college.  They were all business, ambition, and decorum.  She was free, spontaneous and daring.  He was afraid of the leap he was taking.  Would this turn out to be a rabbit hole that venturing too far down would be a bad idea?  Drinking in the company of Clarissa was like taking the “red pill and staying in Wonderland.”  It was everything he wanted, and everything he feared.

Absolute the most fun exercise yet!

Person, Proximity, and Tense

Writing exercises can be fun.  I've been playing around with a few different techniques and what I'm learning is each prompt can be recycled and reworked over and over and the stories are so varied that literally a novel is just waiting to be developed.  Here are few fun beginnings. 

Event: Waiting at the bus stop in a winter storm.

Third Person, distant proximity

When temperatures drop and half-clad frozen people need to get home, impatience sets in during the long wait for a bus.  Cold temperatures lengthen minutes, until people are consumed with no other occupation but the attempt to hear the diesel engine, and the hope of fingers thawed.

 
Third Person, present tense, close proximity

The snow is steady now, with gusts of wind blowing flurries side-ways.  A mom wraps her arms around her small child, who is burying face into her chest.  Cars are slowly creeping through the thickening slush and the rev of the bus’ diesel engine calls from around the corner.

First Person, present tense, intimate

The burning sensation is consuming my hands, I set my groceries down out of self-preservation. I shrink into the smallest ball possible and gingerly slip my hands into my jacket, trying to absorb warmth from my tepid core.  Why didn’t I check the forecast this morning?  Bus, please hurry.

 Third Person, past tense, limited omniscience  (and just maybe the beginning of a story?)

The diesel engine settled as the screeching sound of breaks brought the bus to a halt.  Martha unveiled her hands from beneath her jacket and reached for the crisp-wet bag of groceries.  Rising carefully from the bench, she approached the bus door as it opened.

She caught her breath instantly at the sight of him, trying to steady her already uncertain footing.  His blue eyes were deep and penetrating, surrounded by chapped cheeks and disheveled brown hair.  She flushed as his eyes met hers.  He still elicited that response.  How long had it been?  Three years? Their marriage was brief and heated, four impassioned months of bliss and fire. 

Then, she had been green in the way of love, full of fancies. 

Failure

Failures are interesting things.  I fail all the time.  Some days I feel like a failure.  Many times I fail when I’m trying my hardest. 

I remember when I was just about to graduate from college.  I had dreams at that time to apply to grad school and, knowing how bad a tester I was, I wanted to have as much on my side as possible.  A teacher nominated me for the coveted “Mellinger Award,” given to one graduating senior in the psych department.  I had worked really hard to keep good grades and I led the PsiChi Honors Society as its elected president.  I was part of a pilot program teaching general psych lab as an undergrad.  I wanted that award. 

So when that stupid Social Work class brought my GPA down just enough to disqualify me, I was livid.   No matter the efforts my Professor gave in my defense, there was no changing the overall consensus of the board.  I didn’t deserve it. 

The gossip around campus was palpable.  When I’d walk into the lab, people were discussing it, when I sat for lunch, my fellow students would try and comfort me.  They’d grumble about how the award went to a non-graduating senior, and that was a violation of the rules as well.  Well, I’d smile and say it wasn’t such a bid deal.  But it was.  It was defining me at the time.  

But I didn’t have much time to mourn.  Just about that time, life was changing rapidly, showing me that the plans I desired weren’t the Master plan.  I was pregnant with our first child, and we were about to move our family to a new state with my husband’s work.  I would be defined by a new season. 

So looking back, that award would have done me little good after all.  Hopefully it did a lot of good for the one who won it.

I put grad school in a drawer and dove wholeheartedly into being a homemaker.  By the way, I’ve failed there a bunch too!  But as I consider how I overcame, I don’t really think I did.  God did.  He changed it all up, and moved me on to the next lesson.  Did I pass the test?  Hmm.  That’s a hard one.  I believe I did to the degree I opened my hands and released the award and reputation that accompanied it.  If God is for us, who can be against us?  Did I learn to trust myself, actually no, but I learned to trust God.  “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”  And he has filled my house well.

The Room Where I Write

A little free writing~

The Room Where I Write

This just happens to be the central spot for our home, the kitchen.  During the day, it is vacant of most activity, so the only thing I hear is the sound of a TV in the background, but it’s quiet.  The granite counter is cool through my sweatshirt. The speckled browns and blacks throughout the rock look like pointillism on a large scale, hues dotted and blotched in randomness, hiding all the crumbs and drips, which can be seen if one turns her face across the edge. The light reflecting hits ripples, which just so happen to be breakfast remnants missed with a dirty sponge.  Scattered across the surface are papers, notes from lessons and half read books left out as a constant reminder that they are waiting for me to give them much needed attention. 

This is a well-used space. Evidence of its use are everywhere.  A honey bear’s drip marks still streaked down the side where the last user left it nearly empty of its contents, a plastic bag with two hard biscuits remain from Grandmom’s last visit.  A used up, hardened dish towel drapes over the side of the sink, and a clean pot lays with its handle up and over the side of the counter, beckoning someone to grab hold.  The area has a smell of staleness, foods once cooked and removed, but lingering on as a phantom of what was.  The valance light has two globes, one burned out.  Overall, the room is dark.  Normal accent lights are turned off to conserve energy, and with the burned out fixtures and the sunless sky today, only a glow of light remains.  It feels gloomy and sleepy in here.  Why did I pick this room?  It’s like a reflection of me and I’m feeling the compulsion to fix it!

Honey Bear:  The honey bear was purchased to avoid the useless spills made by my much larger gallon jug of honey, which always had drips running down the sides and invited ants to stop by for refreshing on a daily basis.  Honey bear, I get the premise, that bears eat honey, but my container looking like a bear with sweetness on the inside makes me wonder about pet names, such as “honey bear,” “pooh bear,” “honey,” “sweetheart,” etc.  This little guy brings delight for sure.  He dribbles his delightfulness over biscuits, in tea, and not too infrequently down the throats of teenage boys who don’t care to wait to use it as a topping. 

Counter/Desk:  My desk, for now, is the counter which has a million uses.  It currently holds my empty coffee cup, books, papers, candles, a cell phone, and a can of Korean tuna fish coupled with a tube of some spicy/sweet paste.  I can’t read either of them but trust that the contents are safe for consumption, since they came  from a mother halfway around the world to a child residing in my home, and he relishes them with pleasure.  Still wondering if I should pick all this jumbled-ness up.  Will it do me any good?  Although I can sweep the clutter away, I doubt the outward organization will change the jumbled up world inside me.

Books: There are three books on my space, no… there are four if you count the journal I’m writing in to my daughter.  She had planned to take it to college but left if behind.  I laugh as I consider it.  She had written the words College Bound on it but spelled the word college wrong.  She is incredibly creative but has no thought for structure… or spelling.  She would have no trouble free writing with grammatical and spelling errors!  Inside it are some of my most deep and personal thoughts and confessions.  They are written as if we are sitting together sharing a cup of tea and our heart.  I’m hoping that her heart will return to me one day. 

Island light:  Oil rubbed bronze, hanging island chandelier light with Venetian scavo glass pendants, that about sums up the light illuminating my work space.  The fact that it’s covered in dust either shows neglect due to the busyness of housing and feeding six boy-men, or that we need to change the filter in our heating system.  To my defense, the one globe literally burned out today and I have not taken the time to see if there is a replacement.  But it’s presence reminds me of a scripture.  “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”  The one-half lit light reminds me that I don’t see things fully.  I’m limited and so is my sight.  One day, though, it will all become clear to me.