The Erin Element

This is cool. My blog has an easier-on-the-eyes feel. Links I've been itching to display now reside in the sidebar. The template I chose has become individualized. Best of all, I can delve into spaces existing on Blogger for users who understand a bit of html-speak.

It's all thanks to Erin, a friend of my daughter and our family who designs web sites and has a snazzy one of her own. Check it out here.

Earlier today I entered Erin's world, seated with her before her computer screen, receiving much-needed tutelage. Ever patient, she described the meaning of curious little symbols, left notes for me that won't confuse browsers but will de-mystify my future undertakings (we hope) and kindly asked, whenever my eyes began to glaze, "Am I going a little fast for you?"

If I had more energy right now I would create five new posts and add several links to the spot over there on the side. But it's enough to know my hobby is displayed in a shinier case. Thanks, Erin. Happy conquering the world.

Scorcher Day; Littlefish Finwheels

Heat. It's here. In Oregon. In June. I like.
My short story is a finished draft.
Woohoo!!

My Counter Culture, Part II

As a child, I struggled in school--not academically, but socially and emotionally. These were my problems, but when I became a mom, I surmized that my children might turn out somewhat like me. Homeschooling sounded like something I could naturally explore for them and for myself.

Like a refugee newly sprung from totalitarian regulation, I envisioned a different life for the children God gave me. Whatever it took, I didn't want them to suffer the way I had. Teaching them didn't sound difficult. In fact, it made sense that they would be free in the bosom of our home to learn, much moreso than in the confines of a public place populated by strangers.

My desires and reasoning, then, were educationally based. Right or wrong, I was attracted to the homeschool movement out of a philosophical bent toward individualized academics. I didn't go as far as the un-schoolers, who give most traditional/conventional curricula or methods the boot. And yet I grew fonder as time went on of experimentation with easing the rules I'd adhered to so strictly as a kid. Follow your inclinations. Do what's in front of you. I moved in the direction of those sorts of principles.

As it turned out, my daughter and son blessed me by being students who learned in a variety of situations. They did well at home (don't get me wrong, though, we had our share of false starts and bad days), and then, when I needed help to teach them I found a plethora of resources. Even a place called Homesource, where parent-taught classes gave us computer technology, Latin, Marine Biology. Homesource received some public funding, and at this date the money's being taken away by bureaurocrats, but that's fodder for another day's post. A huge gift, though, of homeschooling was and still is adventure at the edge of learning.

You may wonder where my faith in God came into the picture. Did I pray about teaching at home? Did I agonize over whether or not we were following God's will? I have to say no, I didn't. Many families I've met got started that way, and I'm not saying it's wrong. Though from experience I admit the homeschool weirdos I've met or heard of tend to fall on the religious side of the philosophical fence. There is a sense in the collective evangelical Christian mind, to which I'm not immune, that we can and should make our children and families better than the others around us.

From a biblical point of view, however, this life is not about besting the world but about coming to see what's real. The most real being, God, has given us interesting choices and amazing life-journeys getting us to the paths on which we find ourselves. I homeschool because all roads pertaining to education led me here.

And I'll always thank God they did.

From Blue-Sky Oregon

Too tired to work on short story today. But it's getting close to the end. It's still full of thin writing (see J.Mark Bertrand's helpful comments on what this is); however, I perpetuate optimism regarding a worthwhile rewrite in July.

My daughter and her belongings came home Wednesday. She attends Gutenberg College, the great books school I mention in my profile and which you can also learn about here. One more person in the house oughtn't to make much difference. So it seems. But the place has changed from merely functional to mom-happy full.

And we have sunshine! You have to live here to fully appreciate the joy ensconced in that statement.

My Counter Culture, Part I

I guess yesterday I meant I'd be reading blogs, as opposed to writing any more here. Today I'll attempt what I was thinking about posting then and didn't. (I'm closer to finishing the draft of my little tale than I was yesterday, too.)

My son hopped into the van around noon today, finished. With this school year, yes, but more significantly he'd just completed the final achievement test he's required to take as a homeschooler in Oregon. Next year he'll likely do the SAT and then all those collegey things students of many stripes work on. But for now he has completed the state-required hoop-jumping, as his sister did before him, in completing the quest for a different education which I set before them both.

It was a chilly autumn morning when my daughter, at age seven, waited with me in our car for her first CAT (California Achievement Test) to commence. We were early. Other parents sat in other cars with their children, waiting for Mrs. Johnson to open her front door and usher us inside. She was the certified tester we'd chosen, and as it turned out we made a great choice. At the time, though, my fingers shook as I checked my little girl's lunch sack to make sure I'd remembered her juice. My stomach felt ill. I couldn't help communicating anxiety to my daughter.

If she did not do well today, we couldn't continue schooling at home. And though I knew the requirements weren't stiff (meeting the fifteenth percentile of the average national CAT scores), I also feared the test would show up failure on my part to begin her education as it ought to be done. After the day's testing began, with children situated at desks around Mrs. Johnson's basement room bent over test forms and making pencil marks inside little circles, all I could do was drive home and sweat it out.

My worst imaginings--Mrs. Johnson phoning early to inform me that my girl had broken down, unable to manage the intricacies of 3 + 4 = ___, or meeting me at the door when I returned with a shake of the head that meant preliminary scoring showed we'd have to explain ourselves to the school board--did not materialize. In fact, when Mrs. Johnson placed the graph page before me with comparative lines representing my daughter's test scores, hers ascended to the mountain top. "You'll have to find ways to creatively engage this kid's active mind," Mrs. Johnson said, smiling.

Relief was a nice gift that day, but I would face many more nervous moments, launching with my children into this unconventional mode. Even while every instinct told me we were on the right path educationally and socially/emotionally, something inside me balked at the un-pc-ness of it all.

I will record more of my adventures and reflect on what made me do this crazy home-teaching thing. Next installment I'll let you know whether my husband and I decided to do it for educational or religious reasons, and what the difference is between those two philosophies.

Summer Menu

Work has progressed this morning on my latest short story. I want to finish it (as in, have a draft ready to rewrite and polish) by June 30th. That's the only number I'm worrying about so far.

For dessert I get to blog.

The Doctor Is In

For many years my husband's fan-addiction for Dr. Who has been okay with me. The past few months, however, it's become downright nifty.

These days we have friends who've been coming over to watch the Sci-Fi Channel showings of the new Doctor's season one episodes. The folks in England had watched them already, and they are now in the midst of season two. But we are still buzzin' around this house regarding the way the first new batch of episodes unfolded. The characters showed a lot of depth; the tales evidenced morality.

Not that they didn't back in the older days (Who fans have existed since the early 1960's) -- I just never could quite engage myself well enough to remain awake for a whole episode.

Today it's different; I can't wait for the next installment. If you're sorry you missed season one on Sci-Fi, don't despair, the DVD will hit stores July 4.

Journey a While

To me, every journey is a story and vise versa. The smallest treks, such as my 2.6 mile jog three times a week, provide fodder for the adventure of learning to perceive reality. Sometimes I only notice how slow I am, or gather new evidence that my dear old bod is, well, old.

There are days, though, when my inner person discovers a breeze-refreshed, springy meadow of thought in which she dances, oblivious to aches and strains. Ideas coalesce, feelings soar. Yep, it's usually that endorphin thing. But brain-released chemicals have their purpose. Sometimes new vistas of understanding open up beneath my happy feet.

One afternoon in February or March of last year, I traversed a forest trail, my son and his friend somewhere ahead. In my little self the working out of a lot of years' study and frustration was reaching a new summit. For a long time I'd yearned to know what my main priority in this life on earth might be. If I could only find it, I reasoned, most things ought to fall into place beneath the number one entry on my list.

Oh, I had long before concluded who was the priority in life, as far as being the one I sought to know and love. God and his revelations to man, specifically through his son, were supreme as far as being the things I ought to pursue. But, I'd wondered, how in everyday life did I know I was following after God? What could I do to show myself (and possibly others) I was on the right track? I guess I'd made the distinction that it's one thing to decide God is real, but it's another to know God's reality makes a difference.

That afternoon I jogged for the first time in months, having endured an injured-foot winter. The use of my calf and shin muscles, the turf beneath me and the thunk of my day pack against my shoulders enhanced long-dormant energy. I began to skim over tree roots and to leap the bumps along the trail. Joy, sweat, endorphins. Amid their release I knew that I finally knew. The topmost, simple priority I needed, I truly possessed.

I believed.

God had "shown" me things. Experiences, Bible passages, the stories of others had all been part of an ongoing message to the core of me. A message that said I was busted inside; I didn't live up to what I wanted, ultimately, to be. I couldn't be worthy of the God I'd decided was real. And yet God loved me, anyway, and planned all along to bring me to Life. Despite the problem that it looked like would never be solved on this blue sphere, God promised my destiny to be one where I'd live with him. And where I would be fixed, so I'd receive my heart's true desire. I believed that message.

Yes, yes! The illumination in the dim light of that fading day stays with me still.

Happenings

Stories happen, but they don't just happen. Know what I mean?

Life continually reveals assorted tales, anecdotes, adventures and revelations. How noble it feels, wishing to craft them into valuable reading experiences for other people. But my desire to do so is always only a first step.

Two and a half years ago I got an idea for a novel. It would express, I hoped, some of the emotions I've dealt with after growing up a preacher's kid and then stepping outside of mainstream church-going traditions. My characters would face into issues of belief in God from several differing perspectives. Their experiences and reactions would pose questions I've asked myself and some I'd like to ask Christians who remain committed to traditions I no longer grasp so tightly.

Six months ago I began my most intensive attempt so far to launch into and complete the book I'm calling Stained Glass. With a fair amount of time each week devoted to writing, I envisioned the numbers: 2000 words per week would equal 8000 per month and 48000, nearly half a novel, by June. Even if I only made half of that, I'd be well on my way. And, as it turned out, I wrote 25000 words by the end of May.

But I've learned stuff since then. Lots of good, experiential lessons that I'm sure I'll continue to make use of and ponder. Here are a few:

-- I don't do well with numbers; in fact, they freak me out. I'm more creative ousting the word/page goals.

-- I'm a reader of fiction trying to become a writer of fiction, and they're two different critters. It's sort of like switching from passenger to student driver. There's a lot of new stuff involved in learning to take control.

-- Readers of my story have brains. They take the first bits I hand them and expect that my words will lead them in a reasonable direction. They're anticipating, not just absorbing. I must learn not to implicitly promise future scenarios on which I don't plan to deliver.

-- Really good stories have remarkable characters. So far, I haven't created a character that I especially like to remark about. (There is one in a short story I've written, but none so far in my novel idea.)

These and other insights have led me close to concluding that those words I've written so far this year must languish in their files, chalked up to this fictionward process but not of a quality yet to spit and polish for an agent or editor. Maybe they'll find breath at some point, when I discover a character ready to charge onstage and activate them.

But here's a big part of the deal for me: I need to learn to activate that character, give her motivation and poise, maybe even a less-than-angelic attitude. That will take determination and confidence on my part; I'm hoping to whip it up soon. Whip it good.

Yet in many ways I must wait for my recent education to gel inside my brain and being. As with life stories, I think, important pieces of the puzzle will "happen" to clearly fit one of these days. They will become accessible, viewable. And so I must plod forward, writing. Whether I count words or not, I must bring them forth and probably abandon a lot more.

From what I hear, though, I happen to be in good company.

Fairly a Fairy Tale, continued

After 27 married years (and a few laugh lines, gray hairs, a couple of kids and a parade of pets), here's how they look today.

Romantic, huh?

Fairly a Fairy Tale

Once upon a time ...

In 1965 or so, a young boy and girl (bottom right) met on the steps of an historic building, most likely in Illinois, and posed for a photo with their families. Their parents had attended college together in Oregon and had participated in each others' weddings. Both of their dads had recently finished Seminary studies and were ministers in Midwestern congregations.

Four years apart in age, the two youngsters had no inkling that someday, in a city in Washington State, they would meet again and fall in love ...