God did what?

It’s Christmas time and I’ve been busy making all of the preparations while the real point of the holiday lingers in the back of my mind. Most years, the birth of Christ reminds me of His humanity. This was a baby whose diapers needed changed, who had to learn to walk. He tasted different foods and probably had favorite dishes. He worked, when He was older, with his earthly father as a carpenter so He knew the satisfaction of pounding in a nail, the odd sensation of having sweat roll down you back. And while this still affects me, this year I’ve been struck by His vulnerability.

A baby comes into the world so small and weak-- newborns are like rag dolls whose heads loll to one side or the other unless you consciously care for them. And Jesus, the helpless infant, was the the plan to save the world. The usurper tried to snuff him out-- like with the massacre of the babies officially performed at Herod’s orders (though I’m sure he had help coming up with that idea).

I live in the time after, I have the benefit of “It is finished” (which I doubt I fully realize). So I need have no anxiety, but there are so many ordinary dangers that children face, like the obligatory cold-- what baby doesn’t have a fever that their parents sit up all night monitoring?
This is not something I’ve pondered long and I don’t think I understand it yet. The vulnerability, the huge risk involved... I mean I know God was taking care of the whole plan and yet so much was riding on someone so tiny. It floors me. I struggle with the ordinary level of human frailty when it comes to sending my child out into the big, bad world because I know he will not be complete, he will not mature if I prevent him from doing so. But God sent His Son into a world whose evil He saw clearly, knowing the usurper would try to kill him, with the whole fate of humanity on his shoulders. I believe it worked because it did. But the sheer audacity... it amazes me.

Perhaps I’m more struck by God the Father’s vulnerability. He put everything on the line, the fate of humanity, as well as that of His only Begotten Son. All His hopes tied up in one small child who couldn’t do anyhting but sleep, cry, eat and expel. I’m shocked it worked. I’m more shocked that God wanted to try it all. That’s insane love.

What’s your excuse?

My childhood was plagued with the question: What’s wrong with you?  When I was small, it was my father. He was an only child straight out of the army who had the idea that there was one ordained way to do anything and that it was obvious to all sentient beings. Thus my actual or perceived failures brought my sentience into question. Did I mention he has a rather forceful quality when he’s mad? Oh, yes, he can scare the wits out of grown men, so as an undersized preschooler, I was S.O.L. (In retrospect it made me stronger, I kind of wish I could have given weak a try.)
So at home I was asked how stupid I was or some such variation on the theme. Then I went to school, where Miss C. continued the fine tradition of asking me and herself what was wrong with me. Of course, she wasn’t angry or annoyed-- hers was more a puzzled dismay, but that sealed the deal for me. The same question everywhere but at my grandmother’s house (thank God for that). I’m sure that Miss C. had no intention of leaving me wondering about myself and I know that in general, (that is: not frustrated by the ways of small children) my father both likes and respects me. Unfortunately, I came away with the ingrained habit of asking myself what my problem is. I must say, while it’s not the worst possible habit, it isn’t particularly helpful either.
I have noticed that at various points of my life, I have supplied a sort of official answer so that I wouldn’t be blindsided by the disappointments and judgments of others. It’s not so much that I want to please them (or displease them) but that I go through this awful analysis: ‘Have they caught what my problem is? Have they figured it out and nailed me with it?’ Of course, they rarely are making a valid critique or offering meaningful feedback, they’re upset because they wanted something particular from me and I didn’t ‘play right’.
But the question nags me and the fear of being blindsided by the lack of an answer is terrible. I’ve found that some of my official answers protect me, but they create this set up where I’m then drawn to either fix it or they start to take a toll on my self-concept. So, for example, I’ve used ‘I’m a freak’ which worked fairly well in that late high school/early college range. But at some point the answer became counterproductive. My last excuse ate itself several years ago, and I’ve tried the ‘there’s nothing wrong with me’ approach but (since I am actually a fallen, limited human) that answer doesn’t work either.
In the past, I kind of stumbled into my answer and this time I’m trying to be more mindful. Right now I’m toying with a slightly different approach. I’m thinking of presenting a need, a minimum requirement that must be met--one that is not really a fixable quality, but a fillable one. The current draft is something like: I need a minimum amount of creative expression or else I get depressed and irritable and generally unmotivated. That way the ‘fix’ is to give me the time/space for creative expression and the problem is an unmet need. I just have to convince myself that presenting this as a need will survive the critical lawyers in my head (my mind is a fun place to live, but it’s not for everyone--actually, there’s only enough room for me and God, sorry). So, I’ll let you know if I decide to go with this, or if I make some changes. Either way, you’ll know my excuse.

But will it work?

I have this minor issue. I write novel length fiction but I never quite finish it. It’s always a draft that needs work. This is a substantial problem for my life as a writer, I can’t actually sell stuff that’s not quite ready.
So as I finished a draft of the story that I refer to as The Origin of the Wells (though I plan to change that) and I had it in that place where I needed to make a few edits and minor changes, I became impossibly stuck. Usually I just abandon the project and start playing with something else but I wanted to push this through. Unfortunately that meant I had writing time that I was balking at using. Again, not so good for my life as a writer.
Somehow I ended up leaving the library with the book The Artist’s Way. (I blame God, I really can’t remember why or how I ended up with it.) And since the author’s goal with the book is helping creative types get unblocked and/or unstuck, I thought it would make sense to at least open it. It offers a twelve week ‘course’ and in the beginning the author (Julia Cameron) asks you to sign a contract that you’ll complete the whole plan. I wrestled with the joint problems of gross over-enthusiasm (this is going to be amazing, revolutionize my working life!) and a passive sort of cynicism (it’s going to be a big drain on my time and I’m going to end up in exactly the same place I started, just twelve weeks later). But I decided that I was probably going to sit and procrastinate for twelve weeks anyway so I might as well give it a try.
So that’s what I’ve been doing. So far I’ve written less than usual but I did shove the draft of Origin forward enough to give it to my favorite copy editor. (Conveniently, I’m married to him so he works for free.) The main reason I did that much work was because I invited a bunch of my friends to a Tea Party/Ceremony to celebrate the finished draft. (I don’t work well to deadlines, I just don’t work at all without them.)
Of course, I only did about half of what was really required so I have several things that I know he’s going to redline. And, while he may not catch it, I never sat down and worked out the continuity and timing of the one character’s pregnancy. They use a different dating convention (ten day spans instead of seven day weeks) so I need to make sure her pregnancy is progressing at a normal pace and I can’t just easily glance at it. (I had to make it more complicated, didn’t I?)  But the process of working through The Artist’s Way is my major activity right now. I’m not sure its helping me write but it is helping my relationship with God, so I won’t complain. I’m just beginning the sixth week and I should finish the process around Christmas. So, we’ll see if I have a burst of creative production for 2009. (I’ll take a beneficial steady stream.)

Eight Random things-- a game of blog tag

I was picked by Julie at One Lap Around the Sun
My list--
1. I tend to create a nest, a place I always sit surrounded by books, paper, pens, half-full mugs, and such
2. I take strong tea with a lot of sugar in the morning
3. I use sudoku puzzles and solitaire games to help me when I’m feeling anxious
4. I’d rather stay up until 4 or 4:30 in the morning and sleep until 11:30, but I rarely get the chance
5. I like looking at floor plan books and magazines
6. I can get totally overloaded in places with too many sounds and screens and people and, apparently, it’s funny to see me glaze over
7. When I write, I use pen and paper and then type it later (sometimes a pencil)
8. I prefer cooler weather, autumn is my favorite season

The eight bloggers I tagged are:
1. Sean at a sustained nuclear assault
2. Lili at thinkingsofalili.blogspot.com
3. ‘Professor Blog’ at thousandwords.blogspot.com
4. to be announced
5. to be announced
6. to be announced
7. to be announced
8. to be announced
It's hard coming into the game in progress. Julie and I know a lot of the same blogs.

Here are the rules, if you'd like to participate in the Eight Random Things Blog Tag:
1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
4. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

Thanks for playing!
KP

Blog Slacker

I had the time to write a great blog or take a nap-- I chose the nap. When I was considering whether or not to start a blog, and friends encouraged me to do so, I had two fears. The first was that I would get so sucked up and drawn into blog world that nothing else would get done unless it was directly screaming at me. The second fear was that I would start it and then slowly drift away and have this nagging relic of a thing I left dangling.
I do that sometimes, I get enthused about a new project and then it becomes part of the ordinary and everyday world. And I’m only so-so on the everyday part of life. I like a good meal and kid hugs, but I generally like fantasy and science-fiction and the NOT ordinary. I lose track of what the point is in the everyday and mundane (kid hugs are always important and the food, well, I just like food).
I’m half listening to a couple at church sharing a testimony about how God brought them through her battle with cancer (yes, I’m in church, not really giving it my full attention--sorry). They were asked if they would undo the cancer, change that part of history if they were given the option (which is one of those questions I hate). And their answer is about how suffering produces growth and change and such and I will assume that I missed the best part of that answer/response because I was thinking about how much I struggle with things that seem pointless and repetitive. (Rote learning was never my strong suit. Talk about ways to bring out my oppositional streak.) The more ordinary something becomes, the more repetitive, the more it seems to provide no benefit, the more it annoys me. Of course, I only make the bed when I’m changing the sheets, because all I’m going to do is sleep in it. (If my room were also a study or some other living space, I might feel differently, but...)
Unfortunately, I have rambled to say that I’ve become a blog slacker. Now, in my regular life, things are acceptably clean and bills get paid on time and my child gets fed regularly, so I can get things done. But I have to move past the the first failing (becoming absorbed) and the second failing (neglecting it completely) and into the place where I know why it matters and how far to let it affect me. (Because perfectionism is waiting it’s turn. No, correct that, it is screaming at me now about how I sound like a jerk and there is no way I could possibly post this.)
The thing about blogging is, I enjoy reading everyone else’s posts. Then I see my listing on the blogs of people I care about... Three weeks ago... a month ago... and I realize that I’m not playing along. So, while I keep hoping to share what is important or deep or spiritual, I’ll try to at least share something. Because what I care about is the sense that I have connected with the friends I know, and maybe one or two I have the opportunity to know yet.

I blame Julie

I’ve been a bit of a blog slacker. I’ve been writing the new story and watching Olympics. So, when I checked on The Radical Write and saw her ‘I am from...’ challenge, I thought I’d give it a try. It reminded me that I’m kind of funny about prompts myself. Many, including this one, assume that people are really grounded in the details and the sensory information of life, but I’m not so much. I enjoy the sensory, tactile world and I enjoy a good meal but the experiences flow past me. The one major thing I like about the Myers-Briggs personality profile is that it gives me a context to explain myself. I chart out the intuitive rating-- it’s kind of refreshing in a weird way if I get a single blip on the sensor side. These prompts that are designed to elicit the what, where, and when information are a bit sloppy for me. I guess investigative journalism is out. Oh, well.

I am from...

I am from the giant willow tree, paperback books, the pool and the local fire department where Dad worked.

I am from the middle of Ohio-- with a fairly common Scots, Welsh, German blend (we don’t go gently into that good night). Things weren’t always tidy but Mom kept it clean, in more ways than one.

I am from the deep part of the beautiful river and from the rocks and caves in Hocking Hills whose winding paths I remember as old friends.

I am from perseverance and mischief, from an irresistible force and an immovable object.
I am from reserve and strong words and from getting it done and making it work.

I am from precious and space cadet and this too shall pass.

I am from creamy casseroles for dinner and doritos with homemade chili con queso and egg rolls we assembled ourselves.

I am from the hospital my mother almost didn’t reach (I was impatient form the beginning) and a joke for every occasion.

I am from my grandmother who had the profound commitment to us that makes God’s loyalty make sense, and she could be the iron fist in the velvet glove to those who crossed her protected ones. Sometimes I find a recipe in her handwriting stuffed randomly in the pages of my Fannie Farmer cookbook.


(This was a whole lot of me-- I have a shy streak, blogging feels weird to me.) K.P.

One of these kids is doing their own thing, I hope

I had some free time yesterday and I ended up at the computer while our new CD was playing, Celldweller.   We found it in a fashion that suits us: my husband spent a lot of time surfing on Amazon and I periodically wandered into the room and listened to the on-line samples of the stuff he’d already screened-- thanks, hon. “I’m not sure but I think this Klayton guy used to be known as Scott Albert,” he said, which put me in the way-back machine to some really good music in the early to mid ‘90s. I said something really profound like, “Hum, well, it sounds good either way.” And thus a CD comes into the collection (I definitely have the better end of this deal).

I got on the internet to track how the artist went from Brainchild and Circle of Dust to his current moniker and had the opportunity to read an interview about why he took Circle off a Christian label. I remember in the ‘90s, when my husband worked in a Christian book and music store, that we would discuss (rant about) the apparent desire on the part of both the music industry and the church to reward the most lyrically bland and musically talentless of the offerings and punish the rest. And it seems that when Klay felt punished enough, he took his talent and found people who were interested. I don’t blame him. Though I will say the good artists and even the ‘lets make an evangelistic tool’ groups did help expand the Christian playlist.  Thank you.

But really, this is not only about the past for me, nor is it academic. I love to write, especially science-fiction and fantasy. Lately, I’ve had this story in my mind, the kind that will make a lot of Christians cranky. Which only matters because I want to continue being part of that community.  The story has a redemption theme (I don’t try for it, I just believe that people can be brought back from the brink and get their life turned around). But people who need redemption have problems, and their path isn’t always a perfect straight line. Which means some Christians will question my 'right' to continue being acknowledged by the Christian community because of the questionable content.  

So here I am, writing something ‘controversial’ and ‘inappropriate’ without a clue in the world what I will do with it. I love writing the tale, it just flows. I was surprised the other day to realize it was 5 am-- I’d totally lost track of the time. I tell myself to just keep writing, and it nearly writes itself, so I continue. Yet, when I imagine the possibility of it being published, the word “pillory” comes to mind. Obviously, there is no guarantee that it would find a publisher anyway but I know someone will ask how it can be godly to even write such a work. I have many good reasons and biblically sound arguments but those miss the point, because the real reason is that I don’t think I can live at peace with myself and not write the story.

It is a novel, and those take a long time. Maybe long enough to tell myself what I would tell my child if he were in a similar situation. ‘It is humility and wisdom to listen to and consider the advice of others; and then to remember that you can not live out the convictions of your neighbor.’  Hopefully, when I finish, I will be clear on what I can live with.

It's MY lollipop

My husband told me I had to come and take a look at something he read on the Glenn Beck web site.  I was relaxing, so I waited until the commercial break and came up to look.  Beck had a bit about this ad campaign that some Islamics are using in Australia. They want all women to be in burkahs all the time (apparently women should be neither seen nor heard). The ad shows a covered lollipop and then one unwrapped and covered with flies. Beck’s guest could read the Arabic text and was able to confirm that the meaning of the ad was, to put it crudely, ‘if we see you, we will rape you.’  I wasn't relaxed anymore.

I understood the ad without the translation. Offended? Yes. My mind started constructing an argument. I imagined an electronics store with a DVD player sitting in a display window. If an Islamic man smashes the window and steals the player, he is a criminal and a coward. The same thing is true with women, whether the model is on display or in a box in the back of the store, violently stealing from her is still criminal and cowardly.

Scrolling down the web page, Beck offers his own response: a picture of a fly swatter. Good thinking.  No matter what your politics, I’m glad that some people in the media are clear that we won’t accept that crap.

But was I surprised? No. There is little ambiguity in Islamic law about who they think is at fault in a rape.  Apparently, women are so incredibly powerful that we can induce men to act like psycho lunatics with the smallest flash of skin.  Personally, I think we ought to work on these special abilities so that we can get some sort of a useful result.  But I doubt my phrasing would find agreement with the average follower of Islam.

Intellectually, I saw the flawed thinking. I recognized the blunt attempt to control and cow women.  But my emotions were stirred up.  It was a direct threat of violence and violation.  So I stewed for a while.  In one way this is far away and abstract. No one is trying to change the laws around me and no one is directly threatening me. But, misogyny is real, and while it is deeply embedded in Islam, they don’t have an exclusive on it.  

I’m sometimes fascinated by the casualness of how some men can suggest rape as a control.  They seem unbothered by this gross exploitation of women’s sexual vulnerability. Could you imagine a similar campaign against men? ‘Cover yourself from head to toe, only your eyes can be seen (and that’s only because we’re tired of having you bump into things). If you don’t, we’ll cut it off.’

I think men’s physical vulnerability should give them a bit more mindfulness towards women. But in some men, it causes fear. And fear seems to breed violence.

Substitutions

“I can’t get it out of my head,” my son wails. He is in bed, the lights are out, story time is over, his songs are playing and he is melting down. “It’s too scary and I can’t stop thinking about it!”
This time it’s about a boy who uses a time machine to meet his sixty-one year-old-self and thus seemed to get old all of a sudden, which is the scary part. Note, ‘this time.’
He insists that sleep is impossible and that I have to stay with him, growing more and more upset. I intervene with the usual, “Honey, honey. Relax.” To me it represents a combination of ‘I care about you’ with ‘I want this to stop now’. “Listen, if I say ‘Don’t think about oranges’ then the image that comes to mind is of oranges.” My son looks at me as if I’m crazy, maybe I am. But I carry on, embellishing. “Really, don’t think about the lively color of oranges, don’t remember the fresh citrus scent of oranges, don’t imagine the juicy burst in your mouth when you eat oranges.” I am definitely in an orange zone, now both of us crave them. “In order to stop thinking about oranges, we have to think about something else, like apples, or going swimming.”
He laughs at my story and how silly it is becoming and I shift gears to the idea that in order to get away from one thought you have to substitute a new one. This brings a whole new round of “but I can’t stop thinking about it!”
I choose not to mention that he was just laughing and that he had stopped thinking about it for a moment or two. Instead we talk about what would be a good thing for him to think about from his list of interests.
I walk away from my son’s room and I’ve convinced him to at least be quiet, even if he’s sure this won’t work. He inherited the tendency to fixate on things from me, so I know what he’s dealing with. I regularly think about pleasant things so the news shows don’t prevent me from sleeping (they are the scariest things I see on TV). As I’ve gotten older, I use much more subtle substitutions with the hope of improving my character. But my most recent personal pet peeve has hit a snag, and thinking about oranges or apples isn’t helping.
Lately, I’ve been feeling quite self-conscious. I often have a child with me-- I know what to do with and for the child, I feel comfortable. I understand how to use most situations to help the child’s development and how to manage the kinds of social interactions generated by cute kids. But I feel conspicuous when it’s just me. What do I substitute for self-consciousness? Other-consciousness? Obviously, when I’m conscious of a child in my care, I’m fine. When I’m alone, though, other-consciousness makes me more aware of the other people who I already feel self-conscious around. So that isn’t working.
As I remember those moments, I have the nervous feeling of others watching me and I’m trying to understand what they are seeing and what it might mean to them. ‘And I can’t stop thinking about it!’ So I tell myself to relax, and I try to figure out what I can focus on instead. I’m not sure, but perhaps the key is here. In those moments, I feel observed and I start observing myself (yes, it does require a strange sort of flexibility) rather that focusing on what I’m doing. Maybe if I choose not to be so flexible and simply focus on the task at hand, I won’t notice. I don’t know. But I’ve convinced myself to be quiet, even if I’m not sure this will work.

stories

From the royal fortress meadow, they spring

Some linger in the dappled sunlight where the trees meet the wild grasses
Others move fluidly from the mist of the waterfall, cool and unformed
Some twirl and fall down panting among the dandelions and phlox
While others steal into the trees for unseen kisses and caresses
A few salute the gate, returning home to glory
Or enter quietly to browse esoteric scrolls

All of them looking for sustenance, for substance
Offspring of the King’s breath 

As it whisks along my tangled landscape