http://penpaperpad.com/2013/04/guest-post-poetry-for-all-my-friends/
Today I’m excited and honored to be guest posting at Pen Paper Pad, particularly because it is National Poetry Month. T.A. Woods is a talented poet and insightful writer (and funny too) so when you’re done reading my brilliant post, be sure to snoop around!
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.
Today I’m happy to welcome Chris Morris as a guest blogger. He’s a busy guy, juggling family and day job while bravely submitting his work to different publications and blogging. He also has a collaborative, positive spirit that comes through in his online interactions. I’m excited about what’s in store for Chris, and I’m honored to have him here today.
Even at 2 am, It’s Not All About Me
by Chris Morris
At 2 am, it’s hard to keep track of how fast you are driving, especially when you are in Podunkville, Nevada. Priorities shift quickly though, when the Podunkville police car suddenly pulls out behind you and starts trailing you. This was my situation ten years ago, on the way to my best friend’s wedding in Carson City, Nevada.
I am not typically paranoid, but I definitely noticed the cop car. Especially after he followed me when I turned left. I nudged my wife awake and explained the situation. “Probably just a coincidence. Turn right up here, and he won’t follow you.” I listened, but the police officer didn’t—he followed me again.
His lights weren’t flashing, but it didn’t matter. I was in freak-out mode. We checked to make sure we had current registration and insurance…and we somehow had no proof of insurance. Panic set in. I didn’t know Nevada laws. What if I ended up with a huge fine, or even in jail? (The ridiculousness of youth; jail for no insurance?)
Photoshopcop (MorgueFile).
In the hope of alleviating my fears, I turned left again, this time into an alley. Surely the police officer won’t follow me down this road too. Wrong again! He followed me, still no flashing lights though. At this point, I was honestly getting irritated. “He needs to light me up or stop followi…”
My wife interrupted my righteous complaint by pointing and laughing hysterically. I was about to be offended when I saw it. The Podunkville Police Station. At the end of the alley. I had unwittingly driven directly to the station. Of course the police car was following me!
I pulled over, but not because of the police officer. We were both laughing hysterically. How is it even possible that I managed to find the Police Station in a town I have never visited? Why did I let fear corral my heart? Was I really worried about prison?
In that moment, I had a stark realization. No matter how badly I want it to be true, and even if circumstances seem to coalesce in such a way as to confirm my suspicions, the world does not revolve around me. Sometimes I just drive to the Podunkville Police Station at 2 am and have a police car follow me. But it’s still not about me.
A decade later, I still forget this sometimes. I act as though I sit upon the throne of the world as its ruler. But never with such unbelievable results.
What’s your best story from when you thought it was all about you?
There is a longstanding attitude that for an artist to be profound, to be able to tap into something deep inside, that person must lead a tortured, angst-filled life.
Being eccentric is helpful.
Curmudgeondry is desirable.
Vagueness is expected, along with an attitude of superiority.
Alcoholism, extremes in weight, isolation and self abuse come with the territory.
Writers love the quote from Hemmingway: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” I can understand the appeal: I’m a mother and all mothers fight against martyrdom from time to time. There is power in sacrifice, nobility in giving to your own detriment.
There are those who would struggle with depression regardless of profession. There are people who are drawn to dark places. Are these people natural born artists? Not necessarily.
I would like to propose that writing is a joyous, exhilarating adventure.
English: Tortured trees Trees showing the effect of the harsh environment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Wings.
Dandelion fluff.
Stars.
Mysterious forest.
Quest.
Beauty can be an intense experience, as can love and joy. Intensity of experience doesn’t have to be wrapped in darkness, cruelty or pain. And writing doesn’t have to be a torturous exercise. It can be elating, transcendent, illuminating, full of surprises. Maybe because of where I’ve come from, maybe because of when I returned to creative writing, the process of writing (this is going to sound trite) is a treat for me.
It is a savory meal bubbling as you come in from the cold dampness of the day,
a garden that makes you swoon with full scents of late afternoon,
a full-body fit of laughter that leaves you wiping the tears from your face.
There are times when finding words is hard, when the intimidating blank page dares you to make a peep into its cavernous maw. But nobody said your writing had to arrive perfectly, pristine in the first attempt. And when the words begin to flow, and they will flow no matter how you feel about that prospect in the slow times, that flow is a river that sweeps you away. You lose track of time, lose track of your surroundings and step into the story, similar to what happens when you read a great book…except that you’re on the flip side of that mirror, the creator of those wondrous worlds.
And it will be glorious.
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:
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)
Lathe operator machining parts for transport planes at the Consolidated Aircraft Corporation plant, Fort Worth, USA (1942). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Some things are worth doing even if they’re hard.
In college I had a friend for whom everything seemed to come easily. He was from a family with wealth and great connections, he had natural charm and charisma, and he was talented in many areas. It was easy to feel envious of him since, from the outside at least, everything seemed to be handed to him. Every job, every opportunity, every whim, every card seemed to fall in his favor.
In spite of all that, he remained grounded and humble. How did he manage it?
I sometimes wished for the challenge of remaining humble, but when your big plans all seem to be routinely thwarted, you’re automatically kept pretty humble with zero effort.
Flash forward to parenthood.
Our first son (let’s call him Rex) is compliant, pleasant, curious but reserved. He likes to weigh the risks and take in the landscape before trying things.
Contrast that with our second son (we’ll call him Bobo) who is headstrong, bold, intense and a risk-taker.
Sometimes Rex wishes he could be brave like Bobo. But I assure him that it isn’t bravery if you’re not overcoming fear. It doesn’t take courage to enter a situation that doesn’t present you with any danger. And my second son’s danger-gauge is faulty. The victories of parenting are harder won with Bobo. He tests my patience and creativity. He pushes my buttons. And sometimes he just makes me straight-up, plain angry. However, because we’ve had to work so hard to steer him in the appropriate directions, when he chooses those directions freely, it feels like a tidal wave of success.
Rex chooses wisely naturally, so it isn’t that we don’t appreciate his good choices, but the good ones Bobo makes took so much more work, they feel like big deals.
I’ve decided to take this approach to both parenting and writing: Some things are worth the investment of time, even if the results are long in coming.
I love this quote so I’m sharing it even if it’s not the first time:
“Never give up on a dream just because of the time it will take to accomplish it. The time will pass anyway.” Earl Nightingale
Maybe you’ll get rejected hundreds of times. Maybe you’ll want to pull out your hair when you child needs near constant redirection. But the investment of energy in a worthy endeavor is so much more gratifying than energy invested in a flight of fancy that is discarded quickly in favor of some new glittery distraction.
The challenge is to know the difference.
What is the nature of your goal right now? Worthy or glittery? (And a worthy goal can involve glitter, but you know what I mean, right?)
Lace ’em up and get moving.
Once you decide the goal is worth the time it might take to achieve it, then lace up your shoes.
Pull up your big-girl undies. Do what it takes to get off the couch and invest the time.
And when it hurts,
when you think it might not be worth it,
remember why you started.
Remember the relationship goal,
the parenting outcome,
the end result you’re aiming for.
And press on.
This post is a part of a linkup with the Writers Unite group on Facebook. Search the Twitter hashtag #faithartlife to find other blogs that are participating in the linkup. You’re bound to find some great stuff.
Confession time.
I tend to compartmentalize things.
You wouldn’t be able to tell from looking around my house, since there’s pot holders in with the kitchen knives, potting soil next to the hats and scarves, and Lego guys next to the jewelry box. In the organizational sense, I wish I was better at compartmentalizing. My home could benefit from the “a place for everything, and everything in its place” mentality.
But when it comes to friends, children, work, church, and grocery shopping, I tend to forget these circles overlap. It’s a bit like running into an old high school friend in a different city; you don’t picture that person anywhere other than where you knew them.
Or it’s the same way children think their teachers never leave the school building and are mystified (and slightly alarmed) to run into a teacher at the library or a parade. Are the teachers allowed outside the confines of school? Yes, yes they are.
There are a couple things though, that I can’t contain even if I try, things that can’t be shoved into a box and put away neatly:
Winter Beauty
Writing,
and
my faith in Jesus.
These two just spill out all over the place, willy-nilly.
They pervade my thoughts and attitudes, my observations, the way I listen, and my interactions with others. I can’t control it.
Here’s a practical example. My husband and I made a quick stop at a store last night and while he bought the few items we needed, I picked up coffee and waited for him at a table. Waddoya know, a man sat down at the table next to mine, clearly upset.
Two internal reactions:
1. Here’s a prime candidate for a slightly creepy, unpredictable character straight out of a Flannery O’Connor story. He had bandages on his fingertips, white socks with black orthopedic shoes, mumbled to himself and was sighing loudly and frequently. Another potential character was the employee, a Loud Talker who practically yelled at the poor guy when she asked him to wait while she got the incident report papers. This was great material.
2. Here’s a prime candidate for expressing care to someone who might need a little loving attention, an acknowledgment of his human-ness and inherent value as one of God’s creations. This guy was aching to talk to someone. I found out he fell and twisted his knee while checking out, and was worried that he might have busted stiches in his hand from his recent accident with a TABLE SAW when he almost lost three fingers.
You can’t make this stuff up, folks. Well, you can, but often the real stuff is just as compelling.
It was a brief encounter. I had to make a choice to engage that guy or keep my eyes on my coffee cup. That’s where art is not enough. Studying him to use in an upcoming suspense story is detaching myself from the situation and ignoring my role as an inhabitant of the world I observe.
My faith influences my writing and my writing gives me new insight into my faith. They flow back and forth into one another, leaking all over the place with no thought of compartments or boundaries…
…which is just the way I like it.
Purdy Leather Flowers
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 late March, 2013, in Minnesota. Happy Spring!
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!
Today I hosted my first guest post on my other blog. I’m going to direct your attention there today, but not before I invite you to send me a message if you are interested in writing a guest post for this blog (or the one in the link). I am open to the idea, and would enjoy hosting other people’s work. If you are interested, please send me an email (nitholidaynow@gmail.com), a personal via Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/nita.holiday), or DM me on Twitter (https://twitter.com/NitaHoliday). Here’s the link to the other blog, and as always, thanks for reading!
http://loveandlaundryblog.wordpress.com/2013/03/19/guest-post-by-tim-gallen-the-writers-life/