9/28/2007

Books in tagland

A while ago M. Elixir of Ancora Imparo tagged me in a meme which asks about books in my life. Finally I'm here to do my answering post. This has been a hard one; so many books to peruse in my muddled mind. For the meaningful and favorites, I've listed books read (or begun) more than once. Part of me's been invested in them.

My current reading list:
On Writing, by Stephen King (I've heard the book on tape and now own the print version)
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, by Annie Dillard (thanks to a loan by a longsuffering friend)
Shep of the Painted Hills, by Alexander Hull (awesome garage sale find)
American Nightingale, by Bob Welch
The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky (I have been at it a while, yes)

Total books in my library:
Around 250. I have a while before I catch up with Elixir, but I'm working on it.

Last books I've finished:
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by J.K. Rowling
Dance of the Dissident Daughter, by Sue Monk Kidd
Girl Meets God, by Lauren Winner
A Tendering in the Storm, by Jane Kirkpatrick

Last book bought:
Upstairs the Peasants Are Revolting, by Dorcas Smucker

Five meaningful books:
The Bible
Righteous Sinners, by Ron Julian
The Most Real Being, by Jack Crabtree
Fit Bodies, Fat Minds, by Os Guinness
One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, by Alexander Solzhenitsyn

Five favorite books:
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
The Call of the Wild, by Jack London
Charlotte's Web, by E.B. White
Lord of the Rings trilogy, by J.R.R. Tolkien
That Distant Land, by Wendell Berry

Five more readers to tag:
Cherie
Summer
Cecily
Sandy
Dorcas

Feel free to participate or not as time and energy permit; I enjoy knowing what people are reading. If I left you off, and you'd like to tell me, consider yourself tagged.

Unthinkers

To those who've recently done scummy things to people I care about:

I know you have a notion you're something, Mr. So-and-so who hacked into my daughter's cell phone account. But getting stuff for nothing from a hard-working college student, that's low. I hope the authorities find you and, well, taking a piece of your ear sounds pretty good at this moment. (Sorry, I'll calm down in a bit and just be happy if they toss you in a phoneless cell somewhere -- preferably Azkaban.)

Next, you three or four guys who last night swapped turns punching our friend "Chuck". Although he stands more than six feet now, this boy who grew up in our neighborhood playing with my son has the form of autism called Asperger's. He talks and talks and talks whenever he stops by, until our brains scream for relief, but he wouldn't bother a kitten. I wish anyone aiming to hurt Chuck gallons of really awful sour milk dumped in their underwear.

It's true, I have to remember I'm as big a jerk as any of you. If God wants to show you mercy at some point in the future, I'm not against it. But today, here, now, in my community, what you did was bad. Wrong. Evil. Don't ever do it again.

9/25/2007

First week of school

Scents of coffee and smokes linger in my hair. I walked with my daughter across the University campus. Victoria chose a shop nook-abounding.

"The coffee's no good," she said. "But the atmosphere's right."

Not a ground bean drink imbiber anyway, I was fine.

Our conversation flowed. We covered subjects as they appeared, wending betwixt relationships, culture, philosophies, fads. New to our dialogue were forays into living expenses and future ideals and some lessons our hearts have learned.

She's received a promotion at her new job. I'm spending hours on my book. Despite being clueless what our journeys will look like a year from now, we each are eager to travel.

Heading back she took me by cemetery paths. Sunshine dappled ground through ancient pine branches.

"I often come this way," Victoria said. "Not at night," she reassured. Unafraid of the dead; seriously wary of the living.

"You're treading the footsteps of your forebears," I said, and she nodded.

She remembers stories of great-grandparents courting in this graveyard. "I would so come here if I were dating."

I'd mentioned earlier my confidence that a man will appear in due time with honesty and grace to entrust to her. She has learned of giving, so far, but not of receiving. This is her story, the gift its own for my girl to discover.

After we parted I remembered. The ache is ever new. I rather doubt my sense of loss will lessen as years pass, whenever we've shared time together and farewelled.

9/22/2007

Something

I dug up a piece I wrote and am planting it here. Poem? Story? Any suggestions?

9/18/2007

Today

I'm thinking art is in the flailing.
Which is a pain, since I want to figure things out. I'm ever working to reach palatial understandings.
Maybe real knowing comes only after plenty of moshing about. I'm too impatient most always to enjoy the process.

My son likes to wear a T-shirt that says this:
Let me know how well you flail.

9/14/2007

Joined in process

My friend sets a blanket on my lap, because her house is open to the cool morning. She places my manuscript in front of us and spoons tentative, consistent statements into enlivened air. Enthusiasm sparks, tempered by her friendly concern for me.

I hold much within, she says, that textures the story but is unavailable to her.

+++
In June, no, even before, in May or April, I pronounced in the living room to my son and husband that what we needed this summer was a cross-country road trip. "We'll give him an early 18th birthday present. His sister got a laptop, and he's always yearned to gaze across the continental divide. Maybe chase a tornado? Well, not in the minivan, but, hm, yeah."

+++
My chair scraped as I stood and spoke to the full room, "I'm starting a class called 'Market Those Musings' (I over-enunciated), for writers who want to learn to sell their work."

Do you think I have a squirrel's chance on the freeway?

+++
I watch my son enter the stuffy classroom. Tall, angular, hair askew just that way. A boy at the table in front of his says, "You're back. Where were you?"

"I worked on college stuff last year."

"Oh, I suppose Princeton or something, knowing you."

My ears don't catch the rest. A warm smile crosses my face, joy for my son, whose homeschool resource center was saved from bureaucrats' axes. Yet a stab of comprehension: that college class last year set his thoughts on edge, snatched away a bit of innocence. I should have insisted he stay here, cocooned with friends, even while uncertain winds blew.

+++
"You might not need to reach a grand conclusion," she said, her legs crossed casual. Her straight, neat hair framed her face. She'd let me cozy up to a huge pastel pillow on the couch, while she sat across from me and listened. "Give things time to gel in your mind," she went on to say.

I talked about friends from my childhood, and then about a day in sixth grade.

"I can understand why you reacted the way you did," she stated. (As if anyone in passing might naturally understand.)

I burst into tears.

+++
I didn't finalize the road trip. I brought it up, apologetic, while driving him to Value Village for school clothes. "We didn't go anywhere dramatic, I guess," I said. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't really want to," my son said.

9/12/2007

Science projects

While whisking kitchen counter implements into their respective places I attempted to avoid a plastic container holding yellow goo covered by pink, algae-ish topping. Tim had pulled it from the depths of the refrigerator. I shuddered. Not now. Can't take it quite yet.

My dear hubby whom I love more as years pass disagrees with me on the handling of ancient perishables. He thinks you ought to reach immediately for remains of bread fuzzy-sprouted and move that foil-wrapped square of blueing cream cheese straight away to the doggy dish. (No! I tell him; don't give Brindy the old cheese! So what if she likes it?!)

I know the way of these things. I'm aware of science and aging food processes. Those black beans lurking behind the ketchup--we won't attempt to eat any more of them, and forget that batch of brown rice beside the croutons, but I'll handle it. Give me time. Let me get good and ready, pull on rubber gloves, take four or five deep breaths. Then I will charge forth and attack all alien life forms podding beyond my fresh avocados. Just leave them alone for now.

Once, because Tim was home on vacation when we had company, and he'd already chopped wood, mowed the lawn, and rearranged the garage, he decided to bring to light some aging foodstuffs and mention to our visitors what interesting tidbits he was finding, as he dumped containers into the sink.

He learned never to do that again.

9/04/2007

Observing tradition


Last night I missed the surf sounds. Always when we get home from camping on the north Oregon coast it takes time for me to adjust. Our long weekend a stone’s throw from the ocean transforms me just a little.
The Labor Day campout has become a tradition for people from our church. Some of us go every year, some never go, and some go the years they can.

For a Christian community like this one, to hold annual (or any) traditions is both notable and a matter of course.
Notable, I think, because many of us consider ourselves refugees. To one degree or another we’ve fled traditional church settings and imperatives.
Sometimes we tend toward snootiness, giddy in our freedom. Our arrogance isn’t right. It’s where people went wrong immediately after Christ was here, and then again at the time of the Reformation.
Knowing these quirky people for several years, however, I treasure an attitude amongst individuals of wanting to be different from the way we are as broken beings. I find my friends not so worried about maintaining tradition or nontradition as they are about seeking truth in reality.
That we maintain a weekend, the same one, each year for gathering in the same place shows a distinct bent for doing some things, at least, the usual way.

And really, how can a group of human beings carry on together without a smattering of tradition? I don’t think it’s meant to be. We’re creatures of the herd mentality; we need one another. Somehow, too, we need to express commonality by means of shared traditions.
So we find them. In my group, my village as I think of it (since whether mindfully or not it’s been engaged in the process of raising me), our set ways include a lot of standing, or sitting, around talking. (Eating, too.)
Especially in relaxed settings like this one, subjects arise from daily life and from the Bible and from historical readings, and deep discussions ensue. God’s ways are marveled at, and they’re also puzzled over. And we tend not to structure a requisite worship service or sing-along (although back at our usual Sunday meeting place, people sing and listen to a sermon). I guess I did hear some girls chanting “I’m a Little Teapot” to the tune of “We Will Rock You,” but I digress.
My point is, getting away with this dear group of friends is an actual exercise in getting away. Pretense sails off on salt breezes; no script attempting to look acceptably Christian exists. Sunburns abound, but rarely does self-righteousness. Like the continuous soft roar of breakers against shoreline, an attitude of love for one another binds us. Somehow the strong chords are ever pliant to welcome someone new.
I’m as amazed at how this happens as I am at sunset’s beauty — so recognizable; always an original grain of the eternal.

9/03/2007

Wants

I want to:
  • produce a splendid book proposal
  • support my son during his final high school year
  • make regular dates with my daughter for hot drinks/chatting
  • watch Perry Mason more often with Tim (de de dah, dum dah)
  • spend more time with my parents and parents-in-law
  • give encouragement to writers who travel the creative road an experiential step or so behind me
  • be genuine
I don't want to:
  • pretend I've arrived at anything
  • ignore my loved ones while in pursuit of my goals
  • grasp at trying to maintain control of my children's lives
  • take Tim for granted
  • put off moments with my/our parents
  • feel obliged to follow well-meant advice when my instincts say "no!"
  • forget the truly important, not-of-this-world, life substance and sustenance for my soul

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