It's all the rage these days to say what you learned at a writer's conference. So here's what I learned:
You can remove a tick by rubbing it with soap counterclock-wise. Not that any of us had ticks, mind you. But I learned this.
Aldi's sells a wine for $2.99 called the Winking Owl. It's pretty decent. Also, Aldi's doesn't take credit cards.
I'm not so strange after all. Wally Lamb also writes so he can find out what happens to his beloved characters. I like this man.
Eugene Peterson used to write to share what he knew and felt. Then he went through what he called "the badlands." There he learned to write into what he didn't know. I like this man, too.
A tanka is like a haiku, except it has five lines. And I think the syllabic scheme is somewhat fluid, but I'd have to check that.
Basket-weavers are in danger of pulling their hip muscle.
I learned how to dance a semi-colon.
Some writers consider themselves expert brooders (i.e. Proust, Chekhov, and Cheever). I'm in good company.
Many have dared to attempt the near impossible: bring writers into the social world. They are often met with the blank stare that characterizes this rare creature. The blank stare can be explained by:
The writer is eavesdropping on the conversation in the booth behind him (this species is essentially a thief).
The writer is composing a scene in her head and attempting to remember it until she gets home to her computer.
The writer forgot to eat breakfast.
On extraordinary occasions, a careful observer might stumble upon a gaggle of writers in their natural environment. These occurrences happen infrequently and are short-lived, primarily because sustained meetings of this type would cause a massive explosion that would alter the earth's axis and possibly throw humanity into a parallel existence either made of a writer's imagination or where writers rule the world. As desirable as these parallel worlds sound on paper, they are at the least impractical and at the worst downright frightening.
An anonymous observer (Ian Philpot, also a writer and therefore a traitor [for those of you familiar with the Philpot legend in Ireland, Ian will henceforth be known as Ian Philpott]) caught such an occurence on video at an undisclosed location (Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids; specifically in the suite of a hotel room). This video helps scientists understand what writers do when gathered in gaggles.
Scientists have made their findings available here.
A caveat: this is not for the delicate nature. Gird up your loins before viewing.
A second caveat: read the description of the game before viewing the scientific data. Without understanding the game-play of these beasts, you will most likely come to an incorrect interpretation.
A third caveat: the phrase in the middle of the game (inspired by a picture drawn by yours truly, to be specific) came from a session with Joshilyn Jackson, where she described one of her favorite books.
Disclaimer, part one: I don't talk about politics here, partly because I don't like to talk politics, partly because I'm not some talk-show-radio-listening, political-blog-reading expert who has brilliant thoughts to contribute about the subject, but mostly because the topic is vicious. It brings out the worst in people. The conflict (especially between Christians) scares me.
That being said, today, I'm tip-toeing onto the frozen lake of politics. Most likely, the ice will crack, and I'll plunge into icy water and end up fighting hypothermia at the hospital. I do this because political questions have been plaguing me, and since I believe that part of the role of social media is the opportunity to hash things out and learn in community, here we go.
Let me state my issue up front:
As a Christian, how do I best love the Lord my God and love my neighbor as myself through politics? How can I best contribute to the spiritual formation of others (or, putting it another way, how can I best help others be more human), as well as my own spiritual formation, in this arena?
Disclaimer, part two: Obviously, I believe that spiritual formation (or, as I now prefer to call it, human formation, as spiritual formation is the process of making us more human, meaning more like who God intended us to be) begins in the Church. My desire is not to take this responsibility away from the Church and give it to the government.
In truth, I'd prefer to ignore the whole thing, abstain from voting, and claim "Disclaimer, part two" as my way out. I don't believe that is what God calls us, too, though. As I incarnate Christ, I do so in every aspect of my life. If I believe that Christ can transform culture, than I'm responsible to participate in his kingdom work through the power of the Holy Spirit in every aspect of culture.
Disclaimer, part three: I do not believe this means that any human government will be the government of Christ's kingdom. I don't believe we can rightfully call a nation or government "Christian," nor do I believe any nation or government (except for the Israelites) to be chosen by God. Again, I'd like to use this as my reasoning from withdrawing from the world of politics. But I say this more to assert that I'm not seeking a theocracy or a return to a Constantinian rule, nor am I looking to figure out which political party is more Christian than the other.
I pledge allegiance to God's kingdom. In other words, I'm not concerned with how I can best serve America but how I can best serve God's kingdom, specifically in the realm of politics. This means my allegiance to God's kingdom, not my allegiance to America, affects my thoughts on issues such as healthcare reform, the war in the Middle East, and abortion. It affects my ideas of justice and how, as a Christian, I am to go about working toward justice (or, I suppose, am I to go about working toward justice?).
To be fair, I believe Christians who vote as Republicans and Christians who vote as Democrats consider this in their decision-making. I also suspect that Christians who vote as Republicans and Christians who vote as Democrats don't consider this in their decision-making.
This is enough for now. On another day, I'll work up the courage to ask specific questions on specific issues. I'll perhaps even confess my struggles in the political arena (an appropriate term, conjuring up bull-fighting or rugby). Today, let's leave things here.
I know I'm early on this one, but since I'll be traipsing around Chicago on Monday with my best friend, I thought I'd post today.
Every week, Michelle Pendergrass submits a photography challenge. Photograph this word, she says. This week's word: bitter.
Let me tell you the story behind this photo. Several years ago, when my grandparents died, I inherited their record player and a few of their records. At the time, my parents did not have a working record player, so they gave me permission to take their records (with the proviso that I record some of them onto CD so they can listen to them--a project which I admittedly have not done).
They have no recollection of this conversation.
Once, perhaps twice a year, the records come up in conversation.
"Wait. You have our Beatles records?" Dad will say. Or, "You have my Handel Messiah?"
Yes, Dad. And I explain to him again when he gave me permission to steal, er, take, er borrow? them. Up until now, they sighed and reluctantly agreed to the already agreed upon arrangement.
A few months ago, they bought a new record player. These discussions now take on a whole new meaning.
I broke out the ole Kierkegaard yesterday (sometimes you need a little Kierkegaard to get your day going). In Either/Or, A Fragment of Life, Kierkegaard portrays two philosophers, a brash, witty, but disenchanted youth and his older, wiser mentor. The witty-but-disenchanted youth writes:
What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
He goes on to talk about the people who hear only the beauty without recognizing the deeper anguish. They clap their hands and say, "More! More! Entertain me!"
In the older man's reply, he has much to correct in the youth's shortsightedness and romanticism, but he affirms the youth's ideas about the poet. The poet is working through despair, the older man says. He lives in between the finite and the infinite.
The poet sees the ideals, but he must run away from the world in order to delight in them . . . [he] cannot calmly go his way unmoved by the caricature that appears around him . . . For this reason the poet's life is often the object of a shabby pity on the part of people who think they have their own lives safe and sound because they have remained in the finite.
Our art works out the struggles of the "already/not yet." Thus, it is a spiritual work. I mentioned in my post on Monday about some stresses in the Goodman house. One of them is my WIP. This novel toys with my worst fears. It dances on would-be regrets. It pulls like taffy my ideas of family, community, and individuality. I suppose this explains my penchant for procrastination. Thank God for spring and all its planting demands! (On the plus side, our house has never been so clean.)
I purse my lips, forming an embouchure in hopes that what whistles through is beautiful music, but the impetus is the doubt and despair I daily work through, clinging to the hope of the resurrection but with an eye toward the suffering of the world.
Barbara Nicolosi once talked about the eyes of the artist. The average man thinks the artist crazy. After all, the artist is gesturing wildly, eyes wide, in warning to the average man. But the average man doesn't see the snake wrapped around him. The artist does.
I do not presume to believe the artist is any greater or better than the average man. If art is a spiritual task, I'm not sure I can say that it is any better than any other spiritual task, or working out of the "already/not yet" of God's kingdom. Perhaps this says more about the artist's disposition, his position of constant observer, his willingness to turn these observations in every angle Picasso-like, to anguish over the pain and suffering of the world as Jesus anguished over it, and his bravery to purse his lips and bring forth somethig beautiful.
In one M*A*S*H episode, B.J. bets Hawkeye that Hawkeye can't go an entire day without cracking a joke. Hawkeye nearly falters numerous times throughout the day, especially with the comedy of errors going on between Winchester, Margaret, and Winchester's old commanding officer, but he makes it. And at exactly midnight, he picks up the PA mike and lets loose on all the jokes he'd held inside during the day.
I'm picking up the PA mike and letting loose.
Beginning with Ash Wednesday, I abandoned my blog, as well as Facebook and Twitter. The journey since then has been unexpected.
When I told my mom I was giving up social networking for Lent, her first response was laughter. "That's not much of a sacrifice!" she said. Of course, offended and defensive of my cyber peeps, I asked what she meant. "You rarely go out as it is," she said.
Turns out, she thought I meant all social interaction. She has these crazy fears that I'll end up some writing hermit on some deserted beach. (There are worse things I could do.)
The first week, I'd awaken with something I just had to blog about. Then I'd remember. I can't blog. I should blog about not blogging, I'd think (true story).
After that first week, I found joy in personal journaling (something I hadn't done since blogging) and the extra time I had to read. Confession: this tempted me to give up social media for good. Perhaps my mom was right. I could be a hermit.
Now comes the unexpected part. About two weeks ago, I began to unravel. Emotionally speaking. Things had gotten a little stressful at the Goodman house, and I wasn't handling the stress as well as I normally do. What was wrong with me?
It truly is about community. You guys know me, and I know you. I pray for you and count on you. I'm the last person to argue that social networking replaces human touch and face-to-face community (rather than Facebook-to-Facebook), but that doesn't negate the reality of the true friends I've made here.
So I'm back with a new appreciation for the role of social media in my life, with a new appreciation for all of you and your roles in my life. I thought I'd be raring to talk about the books I've read, the music I've discovered, the stories I've lived, and to some extent, I am. But I'm more anxious to hear your voices, to read your blogs, to see you in our shared studios.
Ash Wednesday, in two days, initiates the period of Lent, which culminates in Passion Week, and leads to Easter. In Lent, we remember and join Christ,
who though he existed in the form of God
did not regard equality with God
as something to be grasped,
but emptied himself
by taking on the form of a slave,
by looking like other men,
and by sharing in human nature.
He humbled himself,
by becoming obedient to the point of death
– even death on a cross!
The least I can give up his social media.
What this includes: facebook, twitter, and blogging.
Let me clarify one point up front: Lent is not about establishing good habits or giving up something you shouldn't be participating in in everyday life. It's about giving up something daily as a tangible reminder of what Christ gave for us and how we are to pick up our cross to follow him.
In other words, I'm not giving up social media because I think it's a bad habit I need to break or because I need to get in shape or spend this time elsewhere. I'm giving it up because it is something meaningful to me that will daily remind me of my need for Christ. Every day, when I log in to my computer, my habits will want to direct me to facebook, to my blog, to twitter, to pop in and say hi to my friends. At that point every day, I will remember what Christ did for his kingdom and how I need him.
This is my way of participating in his story.
I don't deny it will be hard (which is the point). I will miss my friends, whom I meet only through cyber interaction on a daily basis. I will miss talking about the books we're reading or our knitting projects.
For example, yesterday, I started reading Brooklyn by Colm Toibin. (I started it during the Nordic Olympic run, because, let's be honest, as much as I'm an Olympic fan, you don't have to pay attention to the whole marathon-like run.) The story is about an Irish girl (we're not given her age, but she seems to be around 18) who moves to America in the years following WWII in order to get work. She has to leave her family and suspects she will never see them again. She's in a strange land, and knows not a soul. In the onset of her homesickness, the author says, "She was nobody here. It was not just that she had no friends and family; it was rather that she was a ghost in this room, in the streets on the way to work, on the shop floor . . . Nothing here was part of her." Haven't we all experienced this, especially in a globalized society where we begin to lose sense of home? I want to talk about this, but alas, blogging will be gone for me.
Or another example: this weekend, I had an unknitting project. I had started a scarf quite a while ago with three different strands of yarn, a ribbon-like yarn, a fluffy, sparkly yarn with this faux fur, and a thin string on which I had thread beads of blues and browns. But the scarf wasn't working. The combo wasn't working. This weekend, I unknit the piece to find myself tangled in a knot of the different strands. I spent hours, yes hours, working on this knot. I learned: A cord of three strands is not easily untangled.
Besides missing these conversations (and learning what is happening in your lives, as I won't be reading blogs either), I have a fear. You will forget me. Out of sight, out of mind, don't they say? Then who will I be? (In a way, this relates to the passage from Brooklyn.) And here, during this Lent season, I expect God will remind me my true identity: in Christ. Not in work, not in friends or family, not in blogging, though all these things are good.
Winter is vulnerable and naked. It has not the flourish and feast of spring nor the childhood fun of summer. It has not the vibrant colors of autumn. And in Texas, it usually has not the brilliance of a fresh snow.
But this year, Mother Nature took pity on us. She adorned us with jewels I haven't seen since moving to this state.
Recently, I've been reading The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. The book is about a writer. For part of his life, he worked for artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. In these relationships, Kingsolver explores some questions about art, including its purpose and function.
In one section, the protaganist, Harrison Shepherd, considers the difference between the artwork of his two employers. Diego's murals "[command] men to rise from their knees and fight!" Frida's, however, are "smaller . . . Something people would find dear" (p. 161). It's Frida's work, not Diego's that inspire Harrison to want to write "something beautiful, that people would find very moving" (Ibid).
Side note: I doubt many people would consider Kahlo's work "dear." But Harrison doesn't speak about the surrealism of her work but the smallness and purpose of her work. She doesn't paint political paintings or see her job as doing something big. She observes her life, her world, small as it is, and translates that to painting.
In another scene soon after that, Frida takes seriously the task of decorating a table for dinner. Harrison says about this event, "It's a lot of work to use flowers as paints. By the time the party ends, they'll be a mess of wilted petals. Stains on your white tablecloth that could have been prevented." Frida reacts: "Unnecessary stains and dead flowers! Soli, excuse me but what else do I have for making my marks on life, if not lo absurdo y lo fugar." Harrison supplies the definition to fugar (or attempts to) as "things that run away with time" (p. 169).
Later, Harrison and Frida have a conversation about art. Frida asks Harrison, who journals every day of his life as well as types away his novel, why he doesn't consider himself a writer. He answers, "To be a writer, you need readers." She retorts that she is no painter, then. "Who ever looks at my dumb little pieces of shit?" (p. 197).
My point being: In today's global world with its global problems, we think of our lives in global terms. How am I changing the world? How is my art changing the world? How can I have the largest impact, the most readers, the best marketing? J.D. Salinger said, "There are no writers anymore. Only book-selling louts and big mouths."
But in these passages, I found something freeing. I can create something small. I can focus on making something small and beautiful that might move only a few people. I don't say that I wouldn't like to have millions of readers who read my books and find something beautiful, moving in them, that I wouldn't want half a nation to see my words and realize they're not alone. I'm not even saying that we shouldn't market our art.
But that's not the point, is it? The point is "writing . . . with eye and ear and heart" (Adam Gopnik, "Postscript: J.D. Salinger," The New Yorker). As Andy Crouch says, we create unuseful things (as opposed to utilitarian things). And this is beautiful.
It is important that you know that my middle name is Anne (spelled with an "e"). It is my mother's middle name and my grandmother's middle name. It is the name of my favorite character, Anne of Green Gables. I want to be Anne of Green Gables, red hair and all. When not blogging, I love twirling and dancing to my favorite music on our smooth concrete floor.
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