oil on skin

This morning I got to my office more than an hour early so a nice Goodwill man could pick up old computer equipment that weighed a ton and haul it off in his sky-high truck. I decided to spend some of my time before opening the office on the phone with a Tracfone tech person, because my Tracfone didn't automatically update its minutes like it's supposed to each month.

Forty minutes later, the Tracfone lady who clearly understands a limited number of English phrases and I were still trying to correct the problem. I repeated a third time to her that I had to go now and start work, and she said, "Oh, I see," and went through the hours they're available and what number to call back and then corrected herself on how many days a week they're open.

I considered huffing and giving her a taste of America -- I don't deserve this treatment, you less-than-capable foreigner.

I would love to tell you I refrained because I've been in a joyful space lately inside my soul.

Frankly, I knew simply following the Tracfone lady's script along with her would get us done quicker.

Sometimes lately, though, the space inside this me has carried a reminder of a lighter, truer knowing than the too-often sense that I am right, I am deserving, misunderstood, or superior.

Pride and I can be such buddies.

The other day there happened a moment -- stepping forward like I did at age seven when I stood in front of Daddy and he asked, softly and tenderly, Do you believe, with all your heart? -- and it was somehow the right move to make over again, this time with oil dabbled on forehead, eyebrows, ears, feet, and hands, palms up and then palms down.

Yes, Daddy, I believe.

Today, in light of the coming reminder of the one anointed by spirit and truth who took the punishment I deserve, in a humble office on the phone to across the globe, it's not important that I don't get what I might be entitled to from the Tracfone lady.

in sight of land

This coming Saturday, I plan to dip ungracefully into a water trough three times. I expect (and hope) to have remembered extra towels so afterward I can huddle and smile at Tim in his drippy do, as well, and receive congratulations from people around us.

In a rich sense, my husband and I will step out on that lovely, still-foreign, yet faith-salty Serbian soil. I'm more excited and joyful than I thought I would be about being baptized for a second time.

I may be joining Orthodoxy -- in some ways I definitely am -- but mostly I see myself simply moving over to this little church in the neighborhood where my dad was born, because the love of my life has found his joy there.

We both still, however, find grace and much help from the Protestant community surrounding Gutenberg College.

Is it wrong to feel you belong to two churches?

Will I need a safety pin to keep my old swimsuit from sagging?

In any case, birds will lift their voices as they have all week. May they remind me it is good, wherever I am, to embrace the truth of the Christ and reject the lies of the evil one.

half a smile

Inside the Lane County Fairgrounds convention center, I sat at our pregnancy support center's table on an event day a few weeks ago. People filed past and many stopped to receive baby supplies from me and a volunteer. We were part of the well-organized "Project Homeless Connect." Doing a lot of what we usually do in our office, except that day we could make contact with more clients and with people from other nonprofit groups.

My smile rather pasted on, I handed out diapers and wipes, remembering to ask if folks could use baby food, bottles, or a blanket. Plenty could. Their thankful grins and grateful exclamations pattered around me like soft rain. Would have been nice if my attitude were in sync with theirs.

Though happy to be helping out, I wasn't especially in the mood to work three extra hours. Boy, that sounds whiny, but there you go.

I looked forward to going home, to lounging between my sturdy walls. I failed to imagine guiding a stroller down darkened streets, the chill March evening, a wish for permanence.Once in days gone by, I sat in a dirt patch with a homeless friend. She was enjoying herself, weeding and preparing earth for flowers. She appreciated the roof over her family in a travel trailer.

"In the next life," she told me, "I'll have my own real garden."

During a lull at the table at the fairgrounds someone breezed past, a man in jeans and t-shirt with a stethoscope tucked under one arm. My family's doctor.

"Hello," I called, and he came over to shake my hand and ask how it was going. He had been there all day, giving free exams. "The line doesn't quit," he said. "But I had to run to the bathroom."

I let him go. I ought to have stood and saluted, I suppose.

I thought about him a week or so later, while I rode with Tim to the mechanic to pick up my broken-down-now-repaired car. To pay the bill with credit and hope for funds. But not to worry we'd lose our home or anything.

I thought about our doctor and the choices he made in those earlier years: college, med school, loans, sleeplessness. Finally, the ability to contribute to a line that didn't quit. To people needing warm blankets or their own next-life garden.

I thought maybe you see yourself, at some point, here. I am here. Where life put me. Guess I'll balance somehow between the overwhelm and the release.

Just then Tim and I slowed at the top of the railroad overpass, and a guy pedaled by in his lane. He looked like our doctor, though hair covered most of his face. We were near the mission and he had no helmet or coat. Having reached the apex, he rode hands-free against the breeze. Half a smile glimmered as we passed.

tally ho

It's been a while since I've updated the world on how my writing's going. Last night, a final email check before bed revealed that great success will soon shower down on me from above, along with huge amounts of cash.

Actually - April Fool - I found another rejection. So I hung my head in sorrow and cried myself to sleep.

Actually - April Fool again - I (honest to goodness) took the no-thank-you in stride.

This morning I thought it might be interesting to go over the word-crafting activity I've participated in since roughly last March. Compared to other years, this one's been slight on writing time but perhaps heavier than some when it comes to learning, thinking, reading, and interacting with the publishing world.

I could illustrate my creative life, perhaps, by quoting a character named Leonard on the (new to me) sitcom The Big Bang Theory. Leonard is some type of physicist or something, so no correlation to me in terms of education, etc., but when a woman he was dating asked what he'd done at work that day, he replied, "I thought a lot." The woman just looked at him, so he added, "And I wrote down some stuff." That sums up most of my literary days.

And yet there are a few statistics I could tally. So I did. First I counted the number of essays I've had in circulation (sent out to journals, magazines, or anthologies) since March 2010, and the total is seven.

From that pool, I've received acceptances for four, and those have since been published - three online and one in a print anthology. That feels good. I hadn't even remembered there were more than two that saw daylight (if Internet journals count, which I think they do).

Maybe that's hard to believe. But the daily process can be like getting a new haircut. You're thankful for nice reactions you receive, but the words of anyone who makes a joke or even a suggestion for improvement will stay with you like dandruff on a dark sweater. And those who say nothing about it at all, well, those non-commenters might possibly drive you to find a different hair stylist. (I'm speaking for myself, but maybe also for other sensitives out there.)

When it came to the past year's rejections, my tally highlighted more interesting things. Like I mentioned regarding last night, I can now sometimes take a rejection philosophically and promptly head to dreamland afterward. Truly. It happens. But the emotional roller coaster can still really corkscrew me some days. There can follow weeks when trying to rest looks more like chasing wandering goats than counting sheep. So it helps to see how many potentially wild rides I've taken and survived.

My tally shows thirty rejections in 12-ish months. Twenty-four of them were standard. In other words, they send the same notice to most authors, and there is nothing in it regarding the particular piece in question. A few are by editors you just know are trying to give us sensitives an easier time. Editors have much to wade through and to do, and they rarely get money for it, same as us wannabe writers. Sometimes they are wishing for a kind comment or two from somewhere. So here's mine. Thanks for reading my work and letting me know, kindly, you couldn't use it.

My tally also reveals six of my rejections as the personal, encouraging, we'd-like-to-see-more-from-you kind. This was rather surprising, but nice. Three different essays have caused somebody to comment, "We were impressed," "I can see this being published," or "We dig your style."

This especially helps, because two of those three essays are still out there. One of them got rejected again last night, with a very brief, standard message.

But I know a few somebodies liked it. And that helps me sleep pretty well.