On the brink

Reasons I named my blog what I did include one way I see life:
stories happen
love happens
shit happens
redemption happens.

To me this existence comes along, comes about, sometimes even fits together nicely.

But I recognize no visible means of support. Amid circumstances wafting at and around me I make choices; I do the best I can. I'm acted upon; I react.

Randomness. Chaos. Injustice. They appear to control. Yet pinpricks of light manage to glow. Some days they appear, hugely shining. Radiating, yes, and burning themselves out far too quickly. But I won't deny these illuminated moments. I conclude they weren't my doing, seeing as none of my superstitious repetitions force them to happen again. They come when they will.

Another way I see life exists simultaneously with the first:
stories are written
love is decided
shit makes for contrast
redemption is brought about.

To another being - a grand designer, a creator, a large, large One - this existence is seen and truly understood. Caused. If this One were to snuff out, so would it all. What this One determines, is.

My free as a zephyr's choices are free. Yet the Causer continues to cause.

Theology's structure stands, yet it fluxes. I've been influenced to see things this way. My belief-building happens, and I'm not trying to force it on you.

More than a year I've appreciated this gift of the blog. I started it intending to help my story processes happen. Messy grubbing and selfish emotions on my part ensued, and they're still present. Yet wholly unexpected, a community sprang up. Shanty houses belonging to others, to you. Your stories happening, your viewpoints firm, yet fluxing as well.

I gather your wishes, whether or not entered beneath a space marked comments, and clutch their bright embrace. My words and wishes to you gush forth often unbidden. But I'm forgetful; I do this thing wrong. Glad to nevertheless remain included by being read.

Looking ahead I expect to leap from this brink of holiday hiatus back into a lake of story, my book. I hope to keep a toe in the blog world. I pray you will find your way true in a very happy new year.

Beside a wintering ocean

We got a room with a view.
And an electric fireplace. (Tim didn't have to feed it logs all night like he does at home.)
And the hotel shown a spotlight on the surf (entrancing in the wee hours).
And there was a hot tub down the hall.
And Showtime showed While You Were Sleeping (a romantic comedy I happen to like).
And in the morning, between storm systems, Tim and I picked our way along the rocky shoreline.
And our kids stayed home.
And those are all the details I'm telling.

In dark moments, behold

Under a waxing gibbous

The company truck hummed, its large headlights trained on my car. I shivered, thankful for a warm knit hat a friend recently made and gave to me.

Tim, shop light in one hand, inspected under my hood. "The hose is way down by the drive shaft," he said, frustrated.

I read his mind. Why do they make engines so inaccessible these days? He placed a foot on the front bumper and hoisted himself to stretch flat, belly down, across the V6. Tim reached far into it with his crescent wrench.

He lifted his feet, straining, and his pants slid from his ankles to reveal Santa socks. I smiled.

Throughout our married life I have spent uncounted hours pacing beside insolent engines and transmissions, with thingies called breathers and release valves and their assorted greasy bolts and clamps strewn over the ground, waiting for Tim to complete his testosterone-infused mission, to rescue me.

Last night, though the scene looked similar to many others, I differed inside from the reactive me I've often been. In the past I've conjured a thousand anxietized thoughts: Why did this happen - what did I do wrong - how did Tim force us into this circumstance - what if we're stuck here - are those people safe in their warm cars laughing at me bobbing next to our dorky, older, broken vehicle??

Last night I looked up.

Not that doing so - peering through fog at a waxy smirk of moon - saved my spirits. The fact that I could lift my head evidenced my buoyancy. Two reasons existed for the change.

First, I just spent four and a half years driving a newer car, a van that took care of me and my children. Not once during the months we made payments on my Plymouth Grand Voyager SE did I require rescue near a ditch on the road. Never mind we couldn't really afford the sticker price or the maintenance. I enjoyed my van every minute.

This week I sold the Voyager. I bought a '91 Dodge Dynasty from friends. We paid off the van, made an extra dimple in the mortgage, and, best of all, I can continue staying home this next year to finish my book. I'm happy. Thanks again, dear Plymouth.

Second, I saw things differently last night because of what happened yesterday morning. A friend and I walked through our neighborhood to the park where my kids used to dig in the sand beneath volleyball nets, devising stories of fanciful deserts. My friend is suffering right now.

She's going through a very rough time. I tried to forge a smoother path for her with words yesterday, then recognized my kinship to Job's friends of old, and mainly listened. My friend expressed the same pain I would face in the same situation. She struggles; the grief chafes raw. She weeps. But after our long walk, in the middle of a residential street leading back to my house, this friend spoke words that bolstered my heart. I can't quote her exactly, but she said to me and the chilled breeze and sunshine, "There's no escaping God. I accept that he's given me blessings and that now he is giving me heartache. I can stand nowhere else. I know God is good."

Beneath a waxing moon last night I remembered this Truth. I nearly laughed for joy. The joy of peace on earth, between mankind and the God who is there. Who is good, though he press his thumb forcefully upon the heads of those who love him.

Snug in the hat knit by my other friend, I drove home, Tim in the truck behind me, and I parked our faulty new old car in the driveway.

Joy to you this Christmas. Truth, love, and peace with God, dear friends.

Of mosaics and my grandma

My dad's mother, Edna, looked like this in 1940. I've cropped her from a photo where she stood beside her mom. In front of the older woman posed my dad and his sister. They were preschoolers. They knew Edna as a wonderful visitor. Their grandma was "Mother" to them.

In this photo Edna looks like she's giving her photographer the finger. My great aunt explains that she had badly cut her middle digit on a broken jar. Doctor's labors saved the finger, but it remained stiff. She could no longer play the violin.

Interesting, though, because Edna had taken a bird-flipping stance toward society. She'd left her first husband while pregnant with my dad and would go on to strew behind her marriages, affairs, and eight more children.

Reflections on Edna resurfaced lately. I've decided human beings are reasonable. In general, anyway. Many times I've heard myself telling someone my grandma possessed a brilliant mind but no common sense. Looking at culture now, though, I'm rethinking how life amongst us on the planet happens. Were Grandma Edna's sensibilities simply far too common?

The other evening I wandered the quirky off-campus retail store where my daughter works. The sound system played a stale pop tune in which a man and woman duet regarding the possibility of spending the night together. Who needs tomorrow? they croon, as if recognizing that sleeping together tonight might incite future complications. They don't love each other, but they've both been lonely, so apparently they decide to go ahead and have sex, whatever tomorrow may bring.

I paused in front of a display for "dirty girls" bath products, struck by the song's outdatedness. No one worries anymore about spending the night with someone they don't love. On TV shows I've perused this season, sex is part of checking one another out. The dorks are the couples who commit big-time after only a few nights together.

Back in my pop culture days, an aura of hesitation and even wonder still surrounded sex outside marriage. It was okay to do it, of course, but the act carried a weight - and could carry one away - in a sense that I see has now disappeared.

For Grandma Edna in the 1930s and 40s, society generally and specifically (legally) discouraged extra-marital romances. Taboos stood solid. A rebel like Edna found herself receiving electro-shock therapy at a mental institution. Yup. It happened. To continually swim against the cultural tide, a person must have lacked fundamental pieces of common sanity. Or perhaps (as I'm beginning to wonder), they grasped with tenacity a certain logical reasoning.

In her early eighties, riding around town with me as I took her shopping and visiting, Grandma Edna reminisced about going to the movies as a young woman. The silver screen entranced her. Dashing, romantic men wooed fashionable females. Some women were flighty, but many stood up for themselves, capably tossing witticisms back at the guys.

Edna glimpsed independence along with the romance in those movies. She also lived with her own life's experiences, some tragic, many that can't be known. Somehow it all combined to build her philosophy. She reasoned, I think, that there's nothing wrong with following desires that we've played up to one another as noble and beautiful - the longings of intense, initial-stage love. Why should she be denied their repetition, just because living out her movie scripts brought children into the world and caused society matrons discomfort? Edna became a pioneer of grabbing the gusto.

What Grandma Edna and others fostered, aided extremely well by technologized birth control and abortion, has become our culture's heritage. A legacy in which each member of society's goal is an ideal relationship, built mosaic-style amid endless intimate dabblings.

The appeal is not new; I've felt its pull, and I've read some ancient stories... Mm, hm, been around awhile. Only now it's on billboards as well as beneath covers in two-bit motels. Looking at life in general these days, through lenses of emotion and flesh and neediness and availability, to live from bed to bed seems reasonable.

In fact, to borrow a term from Kierkegaard, people naturally take offense at persons stuck in the mindset that sex is exclusively for marriage. To say someone has made immature choices while seeking to navigate relational terrain is fine; everyone screws up. But to insist that any motion in a sexual direction is wrong outside of a marital commitment. Ahem. That offends most people.

As I understand it, Kierkegaard - great cultural offender he - proposed that beliefs and ideas surrounding Christ will ever look unreasonable to us. Only when something different takes hold of me can I gaze at life with an "infinite" view. Not a view that abandons reason (as some have thought K. was saying we must do), but a perspective dramatically realigned.

I'm sure Grandma Edna would have liked Kierkegaard. As far as I know she never read him. In her sixties she took community college classes. She'd returned to her home town, cared to the end for her ailing mom, and become serious about her own version of Christianity.

Though Edna irritated people and made weird decisions the rest of her days, and though I could never peer inside her heart, I've guessed her thoughts on some things changed. Did she go to her grave believing she always made the best choices she could? Maybe. Satisfied to have pioneered a culture in disregard of the seemingly unreasonable. But perhaps she faced into a different possibility, and looked at the chaos her mosaic left behind, and cried out for infinite understanding. For rescue.

And the nose grows

It does. Keep growing, you know. It's not just that it feels that way when you have a cold.

I pondered this, the other day, when primping before going out the door. Even if I could stop the aging process, as ads proclaim, my schnoz continues to lengthen. No one will give me the time of day - as in, what a hottie - once they notice the nose. It's long. I'm old.

Yeah, women get those surgeries, I guess, for this reason. "Just trim the end off, Sonny, if you please. I got a date for Saturday that's gonna sizzle. Right after my hip replacement Friday." I think trying to be thought of as hot these days makes way too little sense. I'm me. Here on earth, we age.

Every nose knows.

Helpful for such a week

These:

(Make doubly sure you buy triple ply, lotion-imbued Kleenex.)

And, of course, this:


Cast Away is a Christmas movie. Christmas is in it. Really. This is probably just me, but I glean something new every time I watch Chuck Nolan (alias Tom Hanks) endure his trials and tribulations. Last night, I viewed again his transformation and recognized it went far deeper than a physical change. The test in this movie took a man -- confident, in control, at the top of his game -- and thrust him inside himself, inside pain, bereft of control.

Cliche-ish, I know, but true: certain experiences leave a life forever altered. Perspectives change because of them. Like castaway Chuck, the person is still the same guy or woman. But in some ways they are more themselves than they were.

More than you'll ever know...

Am I making sense? Ah, well, back to triple plies and hot orange juice.

I like these guys

They've got a clue something's important here. I enjoy spending time with them before Christmas.

Yes, the angel's wings have broken off. They've been glued back on a few times, but I decided this year we'll just let her keep her feet on stable wood. No need to hover precariously (that's how wings break in the first place). The message is the same. Something. Really. Important.

Watch and see.

Doing it again

Still sickly today. Hurts to swallow. Poor me.

Here's a slightly bigger bite from my second chapter.

My new husband missed meaning in my words at crucial moments. Sometimes my efforts to communicate felt like embracing a dense fog bank.

I told Tim how timid I felt during his 24-hour duty nights. He had to spend them on base tending the USS Grayling’s nuclear reactor. I tried going to bed before sunset those nights, so they would pass quickly. But I always awoke at 3:00 a.m., tense, fearing every noise in the dark.

“I wish we had more time together,” I summed up when relating my woes to Tim.

“You need to get out and make girlfriends,” Tim said.

I seethed. He was supposed to reach for me, cup my chin, whisper comfort in one ear. “I’m sorry,” he’d say in my imagined script. “You’re going through a lot to be with me. I appreciate you.”

It didn’t help matters that Tim’s idea of doing right by me translated into buying on credit a 1968 Mustang, the type of car he’d always wished he owned, and then spending most free hours of our initial married months at the base auto hobby shop rebuilding the engine.

The car was for me to drive, so I knew I should be happy. But even after he finished its engine and we paid back the loan, I harbored a civil resentment.


Our neighbor Bob died in early October. Tim and I spent our spare moments with the family and attended his funeral. Grabbing hold of such reality – the death of a regular guy I’d just met – loomed beyond my aptitude.

Somewhere around Halloween I perched on Gail’s sofa. As she handed me tea I asked how she was today.

“I go back to my office tomorrow,” she said. Long-worked fingers gripped her mug. Her eyes, though red-rimmed, shown clear. “I wouldn’t really have to, you know. Bob provided well for his family.” She squared her shoulders. “Thank God. But I miss him.”

Gail’s older daughter Kari sat on my other side. She pulled her knees to her chest and plucked at tassels on a pillow. “Deanna,” she said, “why did God let my daddy die?”

I was pea soup. I didn’t know.

Small bites

Don't mind me today.

Feel free to peruse without comment the many paragraphs I'm posting. I'm home alone, pent-up words to the world remain from (almost) not blogging last month. And today I'm battling the yucky stuff that's making the rounds. Tim's had it a week or more, poor guy. Dealing with a windstorm's aftermath by day, coughing into the bleary hours of night.

Food, in smaller portions, I'm trying to enjoy. You know, take a taste, roll the goodness on your tongue, appreciate. No need to finish the whole bag/leftover/bunch! I hope I'm building a good habit for Christmas.

Every day I wish to sing out where I am in the writing. Getting up at 4:30 sends me into raptures by mid-morning. I've worked! I'm productive! I'm on page 143! Somebody needs to see this.

But I'm committed to a structure, for the best, I think. Clearer all the time, I see the pattern to shoot for.

Finish this book. Don't contact agents, editors, or the media before it's done. Finito.

After I write The End I can let it sit, as Stephen King suggests, and then read through it with different, stepped-back eyes. Then I can ask my dear friends to subject themselves to the complete version. Next I will take pieces of it to the writing group of my choice. Amid this time of receiving feedback, I can craft a wonderful, ripened proposal. Then it'll be ready to go.

So good to see the big picture, what I should do. But, yuck. How will I ever...? So far away.

Today I think I'll try, for sanity's sake, quoting myself. A tiny sample from my first chapter. A book, after all, I'm learning, is a marathon of small bites. Here you go.

Many years have passed now since we began unfolding reality together. Tim remains a technology man; I am his inner-gizmological woman.

Questions often dance and spar in my head. I doubt Tim; I doubt myself. But my universe, I’d like to think, is woven of different fabric than it was in the past. Not indestructible, just a tad more able to flex.

Duh

I've pontificated many times about doing things outside the box. And yet I forgot until yesterday a ramification of being able to.

We're homeschoolers here. My son navigated a rough patch last year, regarding life more than academics, but the time for schooling wasn't especially productive. This year, according to age he's a high school senior, and he could reach his transcript goals, barely. But he's missed several courses he wanted to take, such as chemistry. The classes at our local resource center were full or conflicted with other offerings.

Yesterday it struck me -- he can finish high school next year. Nothing earth shattering about doing that. Plus many of my son's friends are a year younger than he. They'd end up graduating together.

He's thinking about it, seriously considering the idea. The more I ponder it, the more I wonder we didn't do this sooner. It may save us money, as well, which couldn't hurt right now.

I'll let my son try this on for a while. The final decision's his. But already, I think, we're relaxing around here, just knowing this option's available.

In case you wondered

He's eating his food again.

And I am glad.

Under the radar

Allowed access.
Immature, thoughtless,
wonder abounds.

Not near serious enough.

Thrill to see, there, There, LOOK,
on paper, that's what I've kept inside so long.

Rather than strive to bestow blood from pores,
glibly accept an initial gift.

Ignoramus, tote the package worldward, fling it,
eyes closed, twirl.

So happy; everyone ought to be.

Thankful

A while ago Sandy tagged me to post three things I'm thankful for, beyond the usual, i.e., husband, family, and so on.

Having returned to regular bloggering, I give you these:

1) A healed ankle. My right one twisted on a hike during Labor Day weekend. Afterward I kept jogging on my treadmill, until it became obvious I shouldn't've. For weeks I left off exercising, missing my slow-runner's high. Now the ankle's back; the buzz has resumed. I also feel less guilty munching malt balls bought from a neighborhood Girl Scout.

2) I can do Christmas cards the old fashioned way. Maybe not many, but I'll enjoy the process. Last weekend I started trying to figure out how people create those holiday newsletters brimming photographs from their year. Flailing around in Word and Picasa and Photoshop, I became smothered by my cyber-ineptitude. Ha! Now I have conquered by declaring a full retreat. I'll unearth my pen and write to people.

3) Too few people signed up for the community college writing class I was slated to instruct this fall, and it got canceled. After initial disappointment (it would have paid), I recognized more of an opportunity to work on my spiritual memoir. I began arising regularly at 5:30 and logging three hours on it every weekday and a couple on the weekends. Then daylight savings switched back to standard time, providing an easy transition to 4:30 awakenings and four hours' writing a day.

I'm loving my schedule. I'm halfway through my book! (30,000 words, for those NaNoWriMo inclined.) The path forward looks clear. I'd not have believed this possible three months ago. Now my class is offered again for winter term, and I'm ambivalent about whether I want enough students to enroll.

These sure are me-centered thankyous. They wouldn't exist without encouraging people in my life. You blogger friends aptly fit the category of builder uppers. Thanks.

Global groceries

I'll share more of my latest lifely happenings, but this I gotta show you next.

Tim passed on to me an email titled Perspective. You may have seen it. The images gave me quite a reaction.

Germany : The Melander family of Bargteheide
Food expenditure for one week: 375.39 Euros or $500.07

United States : The Revis family of North Carolina
Food expenditure for one week: $341.98

Japan : The Ukita family of Kodaira City
Food expenditure for one week: 37,699 Yen or $317.25

Italy : The Manzo family of Sicily
Food expenditure for one week: 214.36 Euros or $260.11

Mexico: The Casales family of Cuernavaca
Food expenditure for one week: 1,862.78 Mexican Pesos or $189.09

Poland : The Sobczynscy family of Konstancin-Jeziorna
Food expenditure for one week: 582.48 Zlotys or $151.27

Egypt: The Ahmed family of Cairo
Food expenditure for one week: 387.85 Egyp tian Pounds or $68.53

Ecuador: The Ayme family of Tingo
Food expenditure for one week: $31.55

Bhutan: The Namgay family of Shingkhey Village
Food expenditure for one week: 224.93 ngultrum or $5.03

Chad: The Aboubakar family of Breidjing Camp
Food expenditure for one week: 685 CFA Francs or $1.23

My dumb cat

I want to kill Westley. Not really, but, yeah, sometimes more than usual of late.

He tasted mexican-flavored beef that I'd dropped in Brindy's bowl -- a tiny leftover bit she could snarf up as a treat. Except for once Westley got there first. Next thing I knew he'd perched on the edge of the kitchen sink, a stunt he hasn't attempted in years. He licked some remaining beef crumbs in the pan before I said, "WESTLEY."

Since then, my brilliant feline pet has refused to nibble his Purina One. Instead he hangs around Brindy's dish, puffing little meows at me. "Give...me...more...beef." He's tasted bits of dog food. I think he's gotten thinner.

Oh, well. Want a new idea for helping your pudgy kitty slim down? Feed him taco meat and wait.

Urgh.