Five Minute Friday: Jump

19
Apr

Lately I’ve been participating in Five Minute Fridays, a blog link up hosted by Lisa Jo Baker. She gives a word prompt to inspire you and you write, unedited (mostly) for five minutes. You can read other posts at www.lisajobaker.com . Here are the details:

On Fridays around these parts we like to write. Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker.

We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat.

***

Feel the tension build in your legs then s-p-r-ING you up and out.

Feel the wind rush past your ears.

Feel the absence of weight and worry.

There is no fear, no moment but this.

Why can’t we abandon ourselves to leap this way? To jump into the waiting arms of our father, who treads water just past the end of the diving board.

We are paralyzed at the edge of the cliff, count ourselves down over and over before we almost lose our balance and retreat to safety.

What if we would let ourselves fall? What would we risk? A physical injury? Humilation? Failure? Or might we find flight? If we dared to set aside our excuses and busybody schedules and made space for the dream, could we discover we have wings?

Would it be a state of suspended animation if our wings didn’t unfurl immediately?

Would we hang in midair like an osprey who hovers over her watery prey? Or would we become comical, like Wile E. Coyote, legs spinning but getting nowhere?

Even if we crashed and burned, belly-flopped, tanked, yard sale or did a face-plant, I like to think the moment of flight and freedom would be worth it.

***

Question: have you ever failed horribly? What risks have you taken lately?

Poetry E-Book Now Available (And Awesome)

18
Apr

I like free. Do you like free? Who doesn’t like free? I mean, come on! Well, have I got a deal for you… *end used car salesman shtick*

But really, I want to tell you about a fun adventure, the fruits of which you might enjoy.

If you’re a super quick blog skimmer, here’s the link, so you won’t even have to scroll down. Am I helpful or what?! http://gabrielgadfly.com/writestuff/ You’re welcome. 🙂

I’m a part of a writers group on Facebook, Writers Unite. I hope I’ve mentioned it here before, because if you are looking for a fantastic group of committed writers, Writers Unite is the place for you. People are supportive, encouraging, collegial, funny and have a wealth of knowledge. They host a Twitter chat party on Tuesday nights that you can find (if you’re interested) using the hashtag #writestuff .

(Just a little aside, but are we connected on Twitter? If not, click the sidebar over here ——————> and we can join efforts in taking over the world.)

Okay, moving on. This group of writers opened up an opportunity to submit a poem and have it critiqued and considered for a free poetry e-book they put together.

It was gutsy, by my standards, but I went for it and submitted a poem. Note: I am not a poet. And I know it. (Stop stop, my sides hurt I’m laughing so hard.)

But I somehow tricked them into liking what I wrote. They offered some suggestions of things that weren’t as effective, I changed some things, and it actually made it into the collection!

!!!

That’s the adventure. That’s the story. Here’s the link so you can download your free FREE free copy today. And you should know that many of the people who submitted are also bloggers and writers, so try to look them up and check out their work around the interwebs.

As always, thank you so much for reading and following. I genuinely appreciate it. Whoops! The link: http://gabrielgadfly.com/writestuff/

Poetry (Photo credit: Kimli)

Five Minute Friday: Here

12
Apr

This post is a part of link-up with Lisa Jo Baker (lisajobaker.com) Here’s what she says about it:…on Fridays a group of people who love to throw caution to the wind and just write without worrying if it’s just right gather to share what five minutes buys them. Just five minutes.

This week’s prompt was the word “Here” and away we go…

My daughter loves to play tiger…or snow leopards or lions or meer cats.

My son loves to play with Legos and create new intricate vehicles.

My other son loves to draw complicated battle scenes.

They all love to tell me about these things in great detail.

I mean exhausting detail.

Mind numbing detail.

It is hard to listen.

It is hard to want to play meer cats again.

But that is a value I’ve tried to cultivate since having kids, to be here, in this present moment together and actively participating in the moment rather than just nodding and saying absent “Uh-huhs” while not really paying attention.There are times when I’m better at it than others.

There are times when I have to tell my kids that I’m taking a break from listening.

They understand my need to turn off my ears for a while.

They also understand that when they speak I listen. I’m all here.

Scared-y Cat

6
Apr

This post is a result of a writing prompt coordinated by Lisa Jo Baker (http://lisajobaker.com/five-minute-friday/) . Here’s what she says about it:

On Fridays around these parts we like to write. Not for comments or traffic or anyone else’s agenda. But for pure love of the written word. For joy at the sound of syllables, sentences and paragraphs all strung together by the voice of the speaker.
We love to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. For five minutes flat.

Today’s Writing Prompt: After

I tried my first Five Minute Friday post and when I got done with my first five minutes, I balked. Full on chicken moment. It was too personal. It was about childbirth. It was about my daughter. It was about the pain of growing up and common hurts we all face as we grow into adults.

And I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t share it.

I already hide behind a pen name (do you think my parents named me Nita Holiday for real?). It’s mostly in an attempt to separate my writing life and other life. It’s mostly for myself, as an indicator of what hat I’m wearing when I sit down to write.

But it’s also to protect others. My husband. My children. My extended family.

If you don’t know who I am, you can’t judge me. If I keep you at arm’s length, you can’t dismiss me as being too old, too young, too female, too northern. If you deal only with the image I extend to you, then my anonymity keeps me safe.

It also keeps me from dealing with the people around me, making me brave on paper and a people-pleaser in person.

189/365 July 8 – Better Late Than Never (Photo credit: Sharon Drummond)

I Miss Palm Sunday

25
Mar

Hosanna! (Photo credit: Lawrence OP)

Update: In the original post, I neglected to mention some important information! This blog post is part of a link-up for faith, art and life. To find other blogs that are participating, logon to Twitter and search the Twitter hashtag #faithartlife. There are bound to be a lot of great posts, and I think you’ll be encouraged to discover new bloggers for whom faith is an intricate part of life and art.

My family and I go to a large church in a northern suburb of the Twin Cities. I mean LARGE. And they’ve got great, dynamic, creative kids programming that all my children love being a part of.

But they don’t have Palm Sunday.

At least, they don’t have Palm Sunday the way I had it as a child.

Do you remember?

Remember finally getting to wear the special shoes your mom wouldn’t let you wear unless you were on a rug or carpeted area, even though they were so pretty with their little strap and tiny latch and shiny gold lining?

Remember the fancy dress you got to wear with the lace trim that made it extra-specially special? Maybe it had a petticoat or crinoline if you were really lucky? And you didn’t mind the buttons and how long you had to stand still while someone else buttoned them, as if you were doing them a favor by holding still for so long, rather than seeing what an act of love their buttoning was.

And remember the palm branches the kids all got to wave as they walked through the sanctuary?

“Hosanna, hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!”

You got to sing

and walk down the aisles

and be the center of attention

English: Description: Left Apsis: Jesus entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. Fresco in the Parish Church of Zirl, Austria. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

and wave your palm branch

and wave at your parents

and hit your neighbor in the eye with your palm branch,

then try to explain how it was an accident,

then get pushed away by the injured party,

then forget the self control you promised your mother you’d remember and push the one-eyed kid back, just a little bit,

then wave your palm branch vigorously to cover the rude faces you and the kids were now making at each other while standing on the platform in front of the entire congregation.

Afterwards, you’d get to bring your palm branch home, a small piece of greenery to get your through the rest of the Minnesota snowscape, which may or may not be gone by the time you want to look for your Easter basket seven days later. Nothin’ says spring like going on an Easter egg hunt in your parka and snow pants.

Remind me why my church doesn’t do Palm Sunday like we used to when I was little? Oh that’s right, because the grown-ups finally came to their senses.

Disclaimer: Even though it doesn’t sound like it in this post, I really do miss Palm Sunday for the kids. It was a great part of the rhythm of church life, and even though it was sometimes disorderly and had potential for chaos to break out at any moment, it was a time when the adults and children in the church got to share a moment together. And those moments are precious…even if they are messy.

This is what it looks like in late March, 2013 in Minnesota.

This is late March, 2013, in Minnesota. Happy Spring!

Acknowledge Your Inner Goofball

21
Mar

My first grader had his big program at school this week. We’d been hearing all sorts of songs for weeks, songs about amigos, ribbity frogs, thanks-for-coming songs, a lovely assortment of first grade wonders.

This is only half of the entire first grade class

When you get more than 80 first graders up on stage, there are bound to be some shenanigans. They are up there a long time, with no teachers close enough to control them.

Creative freedom.

And an audience.

As you can imagine, there were some wild dance moves on display, some exaggerated waving episodes, and one time when a student sat down on the risers for a nice long break.

But nothing could prepare me for my son’s actions.

Let me prepare you by telling you that this son is a bit of a live wire. He’s all in. Everything he feels, he feels BIG, whether it is grief or elation. And he likes to be funny.

He might get this from his mother.

That being said, I didn’t realize I should have sent a package of tissues in his pocket because he clearly had a nose issue going on while he was onstage.

He picked his nose almost the entire length of one song. I don’t know if he ever was able to remove the offending item from his nostril.

I should have told him where we planned to sit so he could locate us. The poor child had to make goggles with his hands to aid in finding his family in the large crowd.

And apparently he needed a bath more recently because, while his class was on center stage, he was so concerned with his hygiene that he had to smell his own armpit. Then he had to ask his neighbor to smell it. Then, in order to have a baseline for comparison, his neighbor had to smell HIS armpit. Then they had to smell one another’s armpits.

Look at that stylized body hair! (Photo credit: Michael Tinkler)

After the program, as I was going to pick up my son, I ran into an old friend I’m getting re-acquainted with. I asked how his daughter did. He seemed surprised by the question, said she did fine and then commented,

“Did you see those two boys smelling their armpits?”

I answered, “One of them was my son.”

He grinned and exclaimed, “That’s awesome!”

And if I stop to look at it from an outside perspective, it was pretty hilarious. You’d expect nothing less from a first grader. It is the classic, stereotypical behavior that happens at a first grade program.

The thing that made me slightly pleased with myself was that I didn’t hesitate to claim my son as my own. I didn’t smile and nod when my friend pointed to the armpit smelling, acting like I was an innocent observer (“Yeah, can you believe that boy?”). That kid is mine and even when he’s oblivious of the audience (or more aware of them, I’m not sure which) and volatile and intense, I claim him as mine.

Maybe it is because of my own inner goofball. I don’t have as many outlets for it these days, but in the past, I’d be the one who’d volunteer to dress up as a cat for some school assignment, or be the one to get a pie in the face for a fundraising event. I don’t mind being up front and I have no compunction about being made to look a fool, as long as I’m in on the joke.

There’s power in looking silly and not caring that you do. -Amy Poehler

Being released from conventional definitions of what’s acceptable or proper is freeing. There’s something about embracing your inner goofball that makes you feel more alive.

That might be asking a lot for some of you more mature types. A first step can be to acknowledge that you even have an inner dork. Then try to remove a few ladle-fulls of the massive moat of doubt and analysis that keeps you from saying something you really think. Honesty is refreshing, for speaker and the receiver.

I think that’s the fun of writing. You can make anything happen to any character and as long as it rings true, it will hold up. So maybe the act of writing is a way of embracing one’s inner goofball. And, to steal the words of my friend, “That’s awesome.”

What ways do you “wave your freak flag” or release your inner goofball? How do you support your children’s expression of their personalities? What do you think about allowing yourself to speak your mind rather than censoring or modifying your expressed opinions? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Personal Chutes and Ladders

15
Mar

Thrift stores are a treasure trove, especially for those things families outgrow like books, toys, sports equipment, and games.

Fun for Everyone

I walked out of a local thrift store with Boggle Jr., Clue Jr., Sorry, and Chutes and Ladders, in addition to a new green splinter-less butterfly net, a hot commodity at my house.

You probably grew up playing Chutes and Ladders but this week was my first time. My whole crew sat around and played it together; I think my kids are at the perfect ages since they are five, seven and nine years old.A quick refresher on Chutes and Ladders; you spin the…spinner (is there another word for it?) and move your piece on the game board. The great twist to this game is the addition of chutes or slides, and ladders. If you land on a chute, it takes you back a bunch of spaces. If you land on a ladder, you get launched forward a bunch of spots.

They could have stopped there, but the game creators took it one more step. They incorporated drawings to indicate cause and effect. If you mow the lawn, you are rewarded with a trip to the circus. Pull the cat’s tail, slide down the chute to the picture of you with all sorts of Band Aids and the cat licking its paws. Do this, and that will happen.

I don’t think that every moment in a child’s day needs to have a moral lesson, but this game makes it SO easy. The next time we play I plan to use specific, real-life examples from my kids’ lives to illustrate the cause and effect lessons.

Wouldn’t it be great if it was as obvious for us adults?

Many times it seems like there aren’t the immediate consequences of childhood, positive and negative.

Pad the books, and you will probably get away with it for a while before anyone notices.

Stay late and help out your fellow workers, and it can take a superior a long time to pay any attention to your extra efforts.

The cause and effect is delayed.

I really believe the strength of character required to do the right thing makes it worth it because of the internal reward. However, it is important to weigh our motives, because even something that can sound like a good idea, if not done with the right motive, can be less than noble.

Allow me to give an example:

My sister and brother in law and my parents hit a rough patch about a year ago. They’ve been working to make things better, but there have been moments of tension. At one point my sister and my mother were both talking to me about the situation, from their respective points of view. This was a tricky position for me, as I usually tried to maintain the peace as much as I could.

That’s the background. So then when I learned there was a potentially volatile issue that was probably going to come to a head in the next month, I felt compelled to bring it up with my lovely sister. My excuse? That I wanted her to be aware of the opposing point of view (that of my parents) so she wouldn’t be caught off guard when they were upset.

The real reason?

I wanted to talk to my sister about it so that when it blew up, I could say I had tried to do my part, had fulfilled my role as peacekeeper, to head off the impending storm. Upon further reflection, however, I came to a different conclusion.

Basically I was trying to cover my butt.

Luckily, there was no storm and things remain amiable. But sometimes the things we do that are good, are only good insofar as they don’t cause harm but the motive behind the action is sketchy. I don’t really enjoy examining my motives, but as I get a little older and my behavior is less obviously “bad” I find that the purpose behind my actions is important to consider.

Enough of all the heavy. Here’s a hilarious (and mostly clean) version of a super fun song, to round out this post. Enjoy! http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/macklemore-and-ryan-lewis-thrift-shop/n33498/

You Are Not Ordinary

8
Mar

Back in elementary school, kids frequently got pulled out of class for various reasons. There were always people coming and going: bathroom breaks, trips to the nurses office, delivering the attendance and lunch count to the office, help with reading. But more noteworthy were the times when a couple select children would leave the room at the same time to go to a special class for gifted kids. They never said much about it, and I was too self-absorbed to be curious about it (those projects weren’t going to magically cut themselves out of construction paper).

These were the kids who were known as brainy or creative. They weren’t shunned because of it, they were respected, even admired. There was the tall, Amazonian girl with the flowing red hair, the preppy blond boy with ruddy complexion and quick wit, the shy girl with the notebook of beautiful sketches. They were mysterious, dynamic and exclusive; not just anyone could be a part of their special club. You couldn’t simply perform a dare and prove your worthiness; it required an assessment administered by professionals. I wanted to be gifted. I wanted to a part of their club. And when it didn’t happen, I felt it. I felt less special because I wasn’t as special as they were.

Dash, in the movie The Incredibles, is in elementary school and has a hard time restraining his special superpower: speed. His mom, Helen (the mild-mannered alter-ego persona to her Elastigirl), lectures him in the car, goes on about how he must conceal his secret powers. He wants to be special. Helen tells him that everyone is special. Dash replies, “Which means that nobody is.”

If everybody’s special, does that mean that nobody is special?

What’s so wrong with being ordinary?

There is a belief subtly creeping into Christian circles that if you are obedient and genuinely follow God, He will bless you. You’ll be successful, you’ll be wise and avoid major pitfalls in life, you’ll be affluent. Nevermind that the Bible teaches, “In this world you will have trouble, but take heart. I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33 and don’t freak out just yet, I don’t usually throw Bible quotes around.) The belief that we will be outwardly successful is a twist on the already insidious Prosperity Gospel that leads to disillusionment and doubt.

I’ve seen too many true followers of Jesus have heart-wrenching struggles and calamities to buy into Prosperity Theology or the Health and Wealth Gospel. It implies that if you just believed more, you wouldn’t get passed over for that promotion. If you just prayed more diligently, your child wouldn’t get that disease, your house wouldn’t catch on fire, or that cute boy would like you.

It doesn’t happen like that.

Construction paper colors (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We aren’t special because of the external things that have gone well for us. We aren’t ordinary because we live regular lives. We are all special (and we are) because we are made in the image of God, called by Him to wholeness and a true identity in Christ. We are most fully released to be most true selves when we internalize our status as thoroughly adored by the Creator who knows us better than we know ourselves.

That’s one reason why I love the title of this blog: www.aroyaldaughter.com She understands her true identity. Ultimately, she is a royal daughter. She is (at risk of sounding corny) a princess.

Being a Royal means that you might live differently, more confidently, willing to take risks, more engaged in the world around you. You might have more compassion or be in tune with places that need support and then feel equipped to do something about it. You might be more appreciative of all the good around you that you had nothing (or very little) to do with and yet it is yours to benefit from and enjoy. You might choose to speak in a way that befits one with a royal lineage.

So since you are made in the image of God, whether you actively follow Him or not, how might that make you more awake today? What thoughts could you think, what things could you do if you believed that you were in fact, royalty?

Chicken Party: New Chickens Added to the Coop

5
Mar

Three hens being let out of their Eglu. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

After most of our chickens were killed by a neighbor dog over the course of six months, we considered giving up the backyard flock. After all, if they couldn’t keep their dog in their yard, wouldn’t we just be inviting trouble to introduce more meals for him?

The problem is: we love having fresh eggs. We know where they’ve come from, what the chickens have eaten and how they’ve been treated. We know they are healthy and not living in close quarters where illness can easily spread, necessitating medications to prevent said illness. And it keeps our kids connected to their food source rather than thinking eggs magically appear in cardboard containers in the refrigerated section of the grocery store.

So my husband secured some new chickens, fully-grown layers that needed a new home.

Thirsty Chickens

Because we only had one lone hen left, it was easy to introduce new chickens to the coop. Chickens really do have a pecking order, and they establish it by man-handling each other until one is established as the Boss Lady Chicken (not a scientific term). We were getting four chickens from the same coop, so they already had come to an understanding with one another. There was some flapping and feather nipping at first, but it looks like peace has been established and the lone chicken has been sworn into the group.

The one other noteworthy item is that when you are teaching chickens where home is, it is important to keep them in the coop for a little while, somewhere between three to five days, so they can get used to their new surroundings. Then when you let them out, as we plan to and have done when the weather/season cooperates, they won’t stray too far from their food and water. If you are the one to feed them, it can be very fun to be the Pied Piper of chickens, and lead them back to the coop all in a chicken-y row because they think you’re going to give them food, very entertaining.

Check back here for more details about the marauding escapades of our neighbor dog and how this all works out with the chickens.

Finding a Way Through Discouragement

22
Feb

A virtual friend of mine (virtual meaning online, not someone who is almost my friend) mentioned this week that he was feeling discouraged. My initial desire was to cheer him up, but then I got scared that his discouragement might be contagious, that if I tried to say anything to shed some positivity on him that the blue shadow of his mood might transfer to me. I also worried that because I don’t know his specific situation, my attempts at encouragement might be misplaced and come across as trite.

So I said nothing.

This week I found out that I did not make it into the top 30 finalists of a writing contest I entered. There were over 450 entries and I didn’t expect to win; however, I really thought this would be the year I’d at least make it to the top 30. I know that my writing isn’t a fit for every publisher/publication out there but it’s hard to remember that when you scan the list and your name isn’t there.

As I’ve tried to put my writing out into the public world more, rejection is a recurring theme. In order to choose one piece, another must be rejected. I get that. And while I’m usually a pretty upbeat person, I will admit that I’ve been knocked down by rejections more than I thought I would. It has affected me more than I would have predicted at the beginning.

Rejection feels personal, even when it’s not.

When facing discouragement, from whatever source, what can you do to get through it? How can you get up from feeling down?

Just as we all have widely different personalities, what works for one person might not be effective for someone else. It is also surprising how the source of the discouragement and the intensity of it can elicit different responses. For example, I’m not usually a huge crier, but when my novel was returned to me with extensive notes pointing out all the bad things about it, you better believe I cried.

Crying works wonders. It’s like a sauna for your eyeballs, sweating out through tears all your body’s impurities and sadness, but without all that heat and inability to breathe.

A long, fast walk outside can do the same thing.

Moaning works too.

Praying about it is useful, but during those times my prayers usually tend to be one-sided whine-fests. I’m convinced that God wants to hear about it anyway, though, even if it’s not eloquent or lofty.

Chocolate chip cookie dough is also effective.

The thing that works the best, at least for me, is talking to a trusted friend, somebody who “gets it” and understands the significance of your discouragement, or doesn’t mind sitting in it with you. To hear that you are understood and not alone can be the most powerful way out of discouragement.

Have you been discouraged? What caused it? How long did it last? How did you turn things around? I hope that you find encouragement at this blog, if only from knowing you’re not alone. Hang in there, and in the words of that old gospel song, joy’s gonna come in the morning.