{Granny Weatherwax reminds you}

“There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example,” said Oats.

“And what do they think? Against it, are they?” said Granny Weatherwax.

“It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of gray.”

“Nope.”

“Pardon?”

“There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.”

“It’s a lot more complicated than that—”

“No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes—”

“But they starts with thinking about people as things…”

People are not things to be moved around, denied, abused, or miseducated. This is your reminder, in case, with the noise of the world, you needed one. Resist this sin with all your soul. Thou shalt not allow people to be used as things, nor put up with that nonsense from thine government without a loud outcry.

*This from CARPE JUGULUM, by Terry Pratchett


{thanksful: 30 – selfishness?}

One thing I notice, around the close of my Month of Gratitude, is that I always go to my ritual of “thanksfulness” when I am feeling something. This is why it’s good ritual and practice; it becomes like the journaling I gave up long ago, except with less obsessing about bad manicures. So, today I have a feeling, and I came to write through it, to gratitude.

Unfortunately, today I’m feeling… really crappy.

Portland 137

Keep Portland… um

I respect my agent and my editor, and when I get a critique letter from either of them, I always try to look at it in the spirit it is sent — to improve my craft.

This does not always work. As a matter of fact, initially I am hit with a wave of depression when I receive a critique letter, and like my friend Sara, I have to sit with it — preferably in another room.

It’s not at all that I expect my work to be infallible; I need to know when I’m not hitting the mark within a narrative, and as I strive to write more and more honestly, scraping from the gut, I need to know if my truths are capital letter Truths. But what’s hard for me is less about the critique and more about myself. It’s finding that I’m not creating an imaginary world at all… but that I’ve recreated this world, and perpetuated the mistakes of this current world. To find that my character shares my foibles — idiosyncrasies I’ve found nearly impossible to be rid of in myself — is a thing of horror. I can’t even create an imaginary friend who isn’t my idiot double.

You see why I don’t have children.

Today, my agent pointed out that I’ve managed to create a character who flinches before the axe falls. Who organizes her life so that she can deflect criticism from her parents and relatives before they actually say anything about her actions. Before she actually ever does anything. Cringing, self-deprecating, apologetic… Yes, well, hello, real life! You found me. Again.

I talked with a young friend the other week who is very good at taking care of herself. After a childhood of waiting while her mother fulfilled her needs, now that she’s an adult, my friend’s big on Me First kind of behavior. And, yeah, it can be cringe-inducing to experience, but in some ways, I am wistful when I look at her path of rabid self-determination. I can’t think of one decision I’ve made in my life where I wasn’t presupposing the opinions of six other people, and preparing a defense against their reactions. When you lie down with judgement, you get up with self-censure. And possibly fleas. And it. is. exhausting.

Fiction isn’t meant to be real life with all the “uh-ums” written in; it’s meant to be an exaggeration of the real, a heightened, polished version of same. I am, frankly, in need of polish. And an axe.

So, today I’m grateful for …the concept of self care, in a non-Pop Psychology fashion, and the dynamically self-engaged person I’m going to create, first in fiction, then perhaps in real life. I’m grateful for self-centeredness as a concept, even though I’m not able to recognize it as a path that I can normally take. I’m grateful that every day is the possibility of a step forward.

{thanksful: 28 – irregular}

Today is my brother’s birthday. I remember when he was released from his social workers at the hospital, a mess of wires and heart monitors. I remember his pitiful wails, the birthmark that all but swamped his tiny cheek, our disbelief that the woman who gave birth to him could have left him, any more than a person could abandon a mewling kitten. As always, I remember the first IEP he had, and my mother’s blotchy, tear-swollen face when she hoarsely recounted what she’d been told; that he’d never read above a 3rd grade level. Since he’s now in junior college, still reading slowly, still not letting it define him, this is an especially poignant memory. My mother made the choice for us to stand up and move forward with his life, as if he were perfect. As if he weren’t an irregular little human being, left on the cutting room floor when they loaded up the lives of perfect people for public viewing.

This time of year, there are tons of sales and people blah-blah-blahing about steals and deals. I just got an ad insisting that they’d find me the most “flattering” holiday dress, and I had to laugh and roll my eyes. I frequently have these questions — when they talk about swimsuits and hiding “trouble” spots, but what does “flattering” really mean? To supplement what’s already there? To augment or enhance what isn’t there? Is a flattering dress one that doesn’t show all of my flaws… a dress that doesn’t show me as I really am?

Should I want that?

The idea of imperfect, irregular, stippled and nonuniform shouldn’t be so repugnant to us — there are few — actually none — of us who are that ideal of physical beauty, but we’ve been airbrushed and perfected until that’s all we seem to see. I’m reminded of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “Pied Beauty,” and its overwhelming love for all things are blotchy, skewed, and varicolored, so many more asymmetrical, uneven, crooked, misshapen, and lopsided. I’m grateful today for the irregular, which gave me my brother — and myself.

And all of you.

Pied Beauty

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things –
      For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
          For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
        Landscape plotted and pieced –
fold, fallow, and plough;
            And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
          Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
            With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
        Praise him.

{thanksful: 27 – love & spite in equal measure}

The title of this post comes from an Ursula Vernon comment – “I was alive, and I am still alive, and since I am not inclined to die just yet, I will keep going. Out of love and spite, in equal measure.” Love and spite, in equal measures.

San Francisco 293

Architecture and luck, in equal measures.

This made me wonder how much of my life was balanced between such unlike things; love and spite. Persistence and schadenfreude. Sturm und drang. Lately, I’ve been thinking about my religious upbringing, and how much that was based on meekness and obedience… and how much those two things aren’t actually the entirety of my character. There is a such thing as being too meekly obliging, too blindly obedient. I have been those things, too. And I find myself wondering what a faith practice looks like that isn’t blind and silent, like justice is purported to be. If Justice took off the blinders and spoke, what would that be like?

It feels like the whole world is poised to change. I could have done without 2016, in so, so many ways… but I guess I’m grateful to be witnessing this time in history, a time of love and spite, in fact, ebbing and surging, each day, in waves. Like a living pendulum, act and reaction are sloshing each back and forth, and change is being made.

{thanksful: 26 – going on}

Someone posted a cartoon recently that said, “Welcome to Hell,” and showed a little character choosing between two boxes: Keeping Informed With the News, and Protecting One’s Mental Health. Yep. Welcome to hell, because both of those are necessary, and neither is something we can afford to pass up.

I’ve been grateful before that our congregation has a community service arm which feeds about five hundred families a month, but I feel like I’ve always been too focused on me/mine in terms of community. Today, we are grateful to be able to send coveralls and gas masks to Standing Rock, to fund the Flint Water project, to donate to the ACLU and the Southern Poverty Law Center. But, I’m now trying to think what I can do besides send small amounts of money.

The phrase “social justice” has been bandied about religious groups for years, but it wasn’t until we were involved with USF when Tech Boy was doing his first master’s degree that we really understood what it is to have a religious organization involved in protests and getting arrested. (The university president, at the time, was arrested. It was one of several times for him.) I’m grateful – in a roundabout way, because I would really rather that these last two months wouldn’t have gone the way they have – for the push that a lot of religious groups are getting, to coalesce what they believed were amorphous beliefs, and to put their actions where their mouths have always led them. I’m grateful for the painful, skeptical, horrible process of values formation and clarification that this is having on all of us.

{thanksful: 24 – left alone}

Vallejo 221

Beautiful art in the neighborhood earlier this month.

Probably wrong of me to be filled with affection and grateful for my guests …after they’ve left. After hours of work last night and today, the house is again clean, and I. am. so. tired. Who knew a three-year-old and glitter would be so much work? (Answer: EVERYONE)

WARNING: Introvert crash.

One new thing I found was Cousin Mary Lee’s December lantern-light haiku project; that sounds worth doing. Though I may not be able to participate daily, it is such good practice. Lifting the light above our heads strengthens our arms, so we can push back strongly against the dark.

{thanksful: 23: a political act}

I have a list of things left to do: make the sausage bites, roast the beets, sauteé the shallots for the greens, move the kitchen table into the dining room, put in the dining room table leaf, set the table. The last line of my To-Do list is a reminder to put a POLITICS FREE ZONE! sign up on the front door. My mother is bringing guests whom we don’t know, otherwise, we wouldn’t bother. My family never, ever talks about politics.

I’ve always assumed that’s because we all believed alike. And, having said that, I have a friend whose parents proudly voted for the reality-TV candidate this year, and they were a bit caught off guard when all was said and done. I don’t envy them their dinnertime discussions this holiday.

When we don’t talk about our realities, when we assume a great deal, in families, we end up… surprised. I think my parents had a great many assumptions about me, growing up. None of who they thought I was is who I turned out to be. So, maybe I shouldn’t make assumptions.

And, maybe I should… take that sign off the door.

This year, I thought my biggest job would be trying to make things… normal. I know we’re very much NOT in normal times, but my mind was in making things as smooth and lovely as possible, because everything has been – and continues to be, round the clock, people – so. very. awful. Bake more pies! Make more pasta! Buy nicer napkin rings! Trowel that spackle on! Paper over the cracks!

…but, that’s not going to work, either in my family, nor in the national conversation. So, maybe this year, instead of standing at the head of the table and asking everyone what they’re thankful for, I should ask them what they’re going to do to pass the blessing on. No, we don’t “earn” our blessings, and grace is favor unmerited, but we’re not worth the carbon we’re made of, if we’re not passing them on.

Gratitude is a political act. And, I’m grateful to be able to use my hands and my heart to spread my privilege around.

{thanksful: 22 – stories in time}

“There are books full of great writing that don’t have very good stories. Read sometimes for the story… don’t be like the book-snobs who won’t do that. Read sometimes for the words–the language. Don’t be like the play-it-safers who won’t do that. But when you find a book that has both a good story and good words, treasure that book.”
― Stephen King

I’m sometimes a little frustrated that it takes me so long to read critically… I read like a child denied sugar eats butterscotch – I crunch down books in great mouthfuls and it’s occasionally disgraceful. But, I love reading…

I’m grateful for Summer in Orcus, which is a story about a girl seeking her heart’s desire, and going on a grand adventure to find what that might be — even though it’s not quite what she thinks she’s meant to be looking for.

I’m pretty fond of The Hero(ine)’s Journey in its various permutations; this story is even more fun because it’s serial, and because there are puns, and everyone hates them. This makes me laugh about as much as Terry Pratchett’s containing protest against mimes and accordion music.

After food and shelter, stories, says Philip Pullman, are the things we need the most in this world. Some of us run on the stories we tell ourselves. A story is the fire in our personal hearth, keeping our world safe and cozy. So – I’m off to my bed with a book, like I am every evening. I’m so grateful for the privilege.

{thanksful: 18 – purpose-full}

Sooo, Thursday started with a lurch, as previously noted. The hives are a fresh hell – thanks, 2016! – but the panic attacks have unfortunately been with me since fresher days in college… they come, they go. Still, I just was feeling so cruddy, because my second favorite pair of jeans is fitting weirdly — more evidence that attempting Death By Fork, even for only a couple weeks, has consequences — and my revision is dragging, and I haven’t been sleeping, and the world is blerg — and I was feeling underwhelmed with myself and the world. Mainly myself, because don’t we always turn the worst of our emotions inward? (And why is that? Why is our inner critic so… critical? Is this a girl thing?? Talk amongst yourselves…)

And then I got a note from an intermittent correspondent, J, who is the coordinator of The Elizabeth Kates Foundation, working with the Virginia Correctional Center for Women. She wrote, as she does, to tell me how the Kates Readers club had enjoyed MARE’S WAR. It made me smile that they had the same concerns for Mare that the last group of offenders had; that Mare said she regretted having kids. They actually asked her to write me and explain. I love that so much. Readers and thinkers engaging with a work. Being read critically – and by these ladies in their GED book club program is — a gift. There’s not a lot of funding out there for literacy for felons, but this tiny nonprofit has raised money and given the women in Virginia state prisons college courses, yoga classes, art instruction, horticulture classes, and a means to feel like they’re more than just little pieces of nothing ground between a rock and a hard place. I am honored to be a small supporter of their organization, because I believe a woman who reads will raise reading children. A woman who thinks will raise thinkers.

Years ago, there was a book big in evangelical circles called 40 Days of Purpose. Still not sure what it was exactly, except you were supposed to focus on your raison d’etre for a little over a month – kinda like Lent, actually. I’m grateful today that you don’t always have to spend forty days to be reminded why you’re here… not just to give people books to read, but books to make them think and to engage more deeply with the world. I wanted to hug J and every one of her readers, but settled instead for offering them another box of books.

It’s what I’m here for.

{thanksful: 11 – my little blue coupe}

Okay, so it’s not actually a coupe.

My first Coke can of a Toyota was a sparkly sky blue, and had no shocks. Well, practically none. It was a stick shift. I was more than a little peeved when that car got T-boned. This is the second blue car I’ve had, and it’s kind of posh, actually. It has three cameras in it – one to make sure and record accidents, and the other two for backing up. It has two sets of wipers. I feel fancy riding in it.

Skyway Drive 369

I didn’t want to actually care about cars, at all. When we lived in Scotland, we didn’t have a car for five whole years. In the life of an American, of a country of people seemingly obsessed with their vehicular independence, that seemed huge. We got used to it. We enjoyed it. I’m rather a fan of taking cabs, and wearing gloves so I don’t pick up germs on public transportation. Bonus: it gives you an excuse to wear a hat. Because, you’re already wearing gloves, right?

So, we came back to the States, and bought a car via Costco, which who knew you could do. Basically we picked out what we wanted, they locked in the price, we went to pick it up. There wasn’t the “thrill of the chase,” the annoyance of the hard sale – nothing. It was like grocery shopping with fewer choices. We didn’t want to care about brand or color or details, so that way worked perfectly. And, that car worked out perfectly, too – until it blew up three spark plugs and dropped a fuel injector and lost power going onto the freeway. Oh, and it drank six liters of oil for two months running. Tech Boy – whose fuse is fairly long until it’s not anymore – went to work one May morning in one car, and came home that evening in another. He’d had it and that was that.

I’m still peeved that we’d almost paid off the last car and it flippin’ broke before we were done with it, but this one seems like it’s going to last a bit. And it has four-wheel drive, even, so if I ever come into contact with snow again, I won’t freak out like I did with the other car. (Yes. California driver, horrified by a slight rime of frost on the road, that’s me.) I’m grateful for my fancy little ride, and that I can fit the nephews and the cousin and my sibs in there, all at once, if I wanted to. My sibs can take the bus, though.