Limits and minivans

It’s been a hardscrabble week, in terms of plunking out pieces to a difficult essay. I’m writing about a rather weird, barren stretch in my journey. My main idea involves showing how over a few years I interacted with a homeless family. And, as usual for me, the writing brings up what I learned through failure.

Even setting it out as “my interactions with a homeless family” hints at problems in me. I journaled back then about meeting this homeless couple with their two kids. I was so proud. I planned to take on their burdens, to conquer poverty and perversion in my own little sphere. It really gets me reading the ways I described—not just with this couple but with my husband, kids, relatives, and so on—my belief that I could “hold up those God has put beside me.” My journal is replete with these statements; here’s one regarding my hubby: “I can be Tim’s foundation and safety belt system, if I’m plugged in to the right power source.”

I guess I’m mostly amused. Maybe each of us this side of forty (nearing that 50 mark and looking at becoming compost) gets a fuller picture of the idealism from their 30s and before and smiles. Not that anything’s wrong with idealism, with longing to set things right. I wouldn’t want to give the impression I’ve given up.

No. In fact, I think I’m seeing now that my blind spots then included the thought I wouldn’t or shouldn’t have to expend much energy righting the world’s wrongs, once I set up the system that would put everything on track. I phased through various possibilities in hopes each one might be THE method for me: prayer, my writing, political activism, to name a few. Surely I would hit on something wonderful to make things on earth better, then I’d receive accolades and retire to a cabin along the river in the sun.

My systems always, sadly, involved looking at others who weren’t part of my system and who might look down their noses at my methods, and seeing the flaws in their methods, the limits in their plans. I was usually to some degree right in my assessments, but I wasn’t fair, because I failed to understand we all face our limitations. We all end up with flaws on our canvasses. I sorely lacked grace.

Here’s an example. In this draft of my essay I write about a floody morning in 1996 that forced me to exercise on a different route from my normal routine: “A sign warns me off my running path. High Water. I have to jog home through neighborhoods, past businesswomen swearing softly over coffee thermoses while herding backpack-laden children into minivans.”

Do you get how I despised them? I didn’t even realize. I could see in career women the limitation, the flaw, of separating themselves from their family during the heart of every workweek.

Maybe I was right. So what? A woman driving her minivan past the school to her workplace could be longing just as much as I for rightness, for goodness. She might be wanting to save the world, too.

Even the homeless woman I got to know (yes, even she) set about in her own way to find justice on the planet, to set things right. She spent her energy closer to the vest, because life for her did carry a weight of flaws. But I never found a way to fix everything for her, or even to set my helpful methods on autopilot while I sat home relaxing. I still struggle in thinking about her, long after my limitations have separated me from being her friend. I’ll continue spending energy my life through, I imagine, seeing just how small my role is in setting right the world, in helping such limited souls as me.

You could see it

If you're in my town, say, for Olympic trials, yet you'd like an entertaining diversion Friday night.

My son's play will be performed again. A fun encore, replete with Russians and explosions.

8:00 pm. Eugene Bible College. Get there early for a good seat.

Nearly guacamole

Here's some more about food. Sort of. Working on my latest essay, I'm reading back through my old journals. From September 7, 1996, I find this:

Cutting a just-ripe avacado in two (around the pit, of course) Victoria said, "That avacado's in its prime - not too green, and not yet guacamole." That's just how I feel at this stage of my life.

Cute. Real cute. Now it's nearly twelve years later. We all know which side of ripeness I've been smushing toward. Sigh.

5 of 12 steps?

My digestive system revolted last week in every possible way (yes, it was revolting then; it's much better now). In the aftermath I had to decide how best to begin reintroducing myself to food. Years had passed since the last time I hadn't been able to eat anything for more than 24 hours.

Cherry Jello in small slurps assisted in rehydrating and giving slight energy. Then, as in childhood after battling the tummy flu, I started thinking toast with butter sounded good. Memories arose of Mom bearing the lap tray to my room, propping an extra pillow behind my back as I sat up to receive the plate of toasted white triangles and cheery, melting bits of Parkay.

But this time I pondered information my daughter has recently imparted regarding the difficulty many people have digesting wheat gluten. Victoria figured out several months ago that she is gluten intolerant. I've done my share of mock groaning since then, whenever family has gathered for a meal. "Good grief, Uncle Dan's lactose intolerant, Grandpa's diabetic, and now Victoria can't have bread. Soon we just won't be able to eat!"

Victoria's culinary education must have sunk in somewhat with me, though, because last week I decided it might be best if I refrained from wheat products. It may be I've recalled our macaroni and cheese days, when my three-year-old girl would get cranky after lunch, while I felt my stomach behaving oddly and simply blamed it on the weird digestive track I was left with after a couple of surgeries. Or I finally listened to instincts saying, Less complex food'll do for now.

I took time to cook some rice. With a smidge of butter and salt it went down well. In fact, leaving out gluten from my recovery menus helped me feel a lot better, faster than maybe ever before.

When I really consider my eating habits, I've avoided abundant bready stuff for years. Tortilla chips are my snack of choice; Wheat Thins were never quite as yummy. Salad makes the best lunch or dinner. It never bothered me when I'd ask Victoria what sounded good, and she'd say, "A meat and cheese sandwich without the bread, please." Even pizza has become less appealing in recent months.

I never expected, though, to call a halt to Grape Nuts. I mean, breakfast for me is always a bowl of Grape Nuts, except on those mornings when I mix in some Life cereal with my Grape Nuts. The crunchy texture is my friend. Yet for a couple weeks, almost, I haven't eaten the old tastes-like-wild-hickory-nuts standby. Fruit and almonds or rice with milk and brown sugar have sufficed. And it's truly amazing. The world feels better.

I still don't wish to fanatasize this. Last night I told Victoria of my diet changes, making sure to say, "It's not that I want to start checking everything I eat for gluten." I could have added, "Like you do."

"But you should cut out gluten all the way, Mom," my daughter said. "You'll feel fantastic."

So, maybe, I'll borrow her recipe book and follow along when she shops the gluten-free aisle at Market of Choice. Just curious, mind you. Not committing to anything, yet.

Anyone need half a box of Grape Nuts?

(I don't eat this anymore, either.)

Yondering

This week I'm proceeding like the weather. I arise fairly clear-brained when skies first lighten and work on my writing. Then as clouds gray the late morning I go back to sleep. Finally sunshine removes the covers, and in its somewhat coherent glow I read.

I was asked to be an actual Creative Nonfiction Reader for the fall issue of Relief. Already I'm expanding my literary education and, as usual, recognizing my shortcomings. Instinctive rather than academic, I can tell you when I think a submission is delightful, but I'm hard-pressed to express the merits of its story arc or suggest what sort of tweaking might lift the final paragraphs.

Guess that's why I'm reading, not editing.

I can, however, recognize when a writer uses spell check without attention: We where in the car when it began too shudder. An essay with several such errors is bound to lack attention to other details, as well.

Armed with a smidgen of knowledge this morning, I shall henceforth dispense advice to writing students. I feel like doing so, I'm at my blog, and so I will.

First, though, let me bring up a point about blogging. I've read good blog posts this week. The problem was, they were submitted for consideration to a literary magazine. If they'd been on a blog, dozens of comments would have flurried around them. Praise would have been aptly bestowed. But for their authors to expect recognition and exposure in a journal, they should have worked them into more than simple, immediate blog post material.

Now back to me on my blog (with no real credentials) telling student writers a thing or two.

A cover letter really isn't the place to state, "I wrote this piece as a Creative Writing class assignment." Two days in, I've seen several such introductions, and already I groan at them. Not that I've come to think no one should submit to a journal one of their papers from class. I just recognize in the essays I've read (and I remember too well from personal experience) a sense of, "Wow, I finished a piece of writing! Sure, a teacher prompted me to do it, but she said it's good, so, let's see, I'll just send it right out for publication!"

Doing so almost guarantees rejection.

An essay needs to be reworked, rewritten, pummeled, squeezed, and refashioned for the arena into which you are sending it. I can say (backed up by words from other authors and some hard lessons of my own), it's best if the specific publication grabs you in some way when you browse samples from its website or read its statement of purpose. Try to take the cues of the editors who'll be reading your stuff. Do you think they care about the same things you do?

When you're really ready to send off your piece, whether it began as a post or assignment, you will have reshaped the essay into something barely resembling what you first wrote and posted or handed in.

You may tweak the work even further, after launching it into the wild blue yonder. You will still likely be told "No thanks" by some editor somebody. But you'll be making strides, learning pointers for later, for next time. You grow yourself and your writing when you spend the time crafting, continuing, beyond workshops, classrooms, and blogs.

Off into reality...!?

Graduation #2

The before shot.Blogging friend and her little one mysteriously appear in background.

Congratulations abounding.

Gutenberg faculty and graduating class of 2008.

Silly folk.

We are so proud.

Near death 'n toasty

This past week I must've looked like death on toast. Results of food poisoning are not pretty. But it started out so well...

Tim and I went along on our son's senior trip to ride the Portland Spirit's gourmet cruise. The food was wonderful, and as far as I know it didn't cause my troubles.




Later that afternoon we hiked around gorgeous waterfalls.




Not until the middle of that night did I toss my proverbial cookies. My under-appreciated digestive system shut down, and so did I for a couple of days thereafter. (No photos, sorry.)

Friday I attended a final homeschool picnic at Shotgun Creek Park and got toasted. A beautiful day, lush scenery, vibrant kids, and friendly parents whisked around me, and I sat. Too tired to tote camera or go splash in the trickling stream, but enjoying the moments and memories. Of course I will compose some sort of summing-up post regarding my years as a mom teaching her children at home. After I'm fully recovered.

Graduation #1

First, the state of mantle health here at home (hee, hee, Travelin' Nan).

Next, my son with a friend he's known since they were little guys. (Sniff.)

Speakers at their ceremony included one of our state senators, Vicki Walker (far right). She helped save Homesource. She's cool!

Last, my two favorites (young people and photos).