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Books, How I Love Thee…

20 Friday Feb 2015

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And I do.

I’ve been reading for as long as I remember. My mother tells me I started when I was two which I’ll have to take her word for as my memory is vague when I attempt to push it that far back. I do know there has hardly been a time in my life when I haven’t had a book of some sort with me and one of the joys of adult life is being able to build my personal library. Only the ones I know I’ll read again earn a permanent spot on my shelves and I have books that have been my favorites for decades along side new favorites. I find it interesting to see how my taste in reading has changed throughout the years but then I look at my shelves and wonder if it has, really.

One of my favorite stories is The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson. I can’t remember how young I was when I first read it but the adventure and romance captured my imagination then and continues to do so now. I think I understand more of it as an adult than I did as a child. All I saw was adventure and romance then, I see politics and racism now-but still adventure and romance.

A Wrinkle in Time is one of my favorites. Over twenty years have passed since I first read it and I can still pick it up and become immersed in what is marketed as a children’s book. Island of the Blue Dolphins is the same. I was ten or eleven when I first read it and was amazed at Karana. I wondered if I would be able to survive the way she had and was fairly certain I would not. There are still times I pick up this book and spend an hour marveling at Karana’s strength and mourning her loss. Mary O’Hara’s books have stayed on my shelves for decades as well.

My shelves also have books I would never have considered reading when I was younger. I liked fiction. The worlds I read about were real to me so why did I need non-fiction. Thank God that, as an adult, I have found joy in non-fiction. Think of all I would have missed, like the history books written by Philip Matyszak. His books make me laugh until my face hurts. Oddly, Herodotus’ Histories also make me laugh, something I did not expect. I swear I can hear the tone of his writing change when he begins making stuff up. He fascinates me because I read that he was an oddity for choosing to travel so far from his home. I like oddities, being one myself, and I’d like to know more about Herodotus. Unfortunately-or fortunately, depending on your view-Herodotus disappears inside his Histories and I found very little of his character revealed in his writing.

I read Thucydides because I read somewhere he scorned Herodotus’ Histories and wanted to write a pure history of the Peloponnesian War. Just the facts, ma’am. Thucydides sits on my shelf between Tacitus and Xenophon: my shelves are sorted both by genre and then alphabetical. One of my joys is to reconsider my current sorting method and decide whether or not there’s a better one. Should my classic literature be separate from my modern literature? Does Mark Twain qualify as literature or should he be moved to my Children’s books section? I may need to get out more.

Anywho…when I’ve had my fill of history I turn to a Georgette Heyer romance or a Jacqueline Girdner mystery. Or Jack London. Or Mark Twain. Or Robert Louis Stevenson. Or Helen MacInnes.  Or Wilkie Collins. Or Jane Austen. You’ll find all of them on my shelves along with so many others.

As my collection has expanded, it has caused me to indulge in some deep introspection. All of these books must be dusted, cared for, and read. Which means, what do I really want to keep hold of? Am I keeping books because they make me look smart when I have no interest in reading them ever again? That answer was yes.

I’d read Gone With the Wind in the third grade sure I was going to be exposed to a great romance. Perhaps I was but I remember I liked Walter Farley and Anna Sewell much better. I read it again as an adult and still preferred Walter Farley and Anna Sewell. Gone With the Wind was traded for something I’ll treasure.

I had to admit I don’t care for Dickens. I felt like I could tell he was paid by the word. Not that I dislike his writing: I enjoyed his foray into banking in A Tale of Two Cities and could picture a young man being kept in a basement until he was old. My problem? I’d almost forgotten the plot by the time Dickens wended his way back to it. I much prefer Wilkie Collins. I dragged The Moonstone everywhere with me until I’d finished it. It took me a full two days and I don’t think I was of much use to anyone until I closed the covers for the last time but it was worth it. The Woman in White and No Name quickly found space on my shelves.

I’ve tried twice to read Anna Karenina and never finished it. I had a co-worker urge me to try again and it’s on my list: perhaps the third time will be a charm. However, I devoured Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons in one sitting. I haven’t purchased it as I don’t know I’d read it again but I remember how the words flowed so smoothly the rhythm of my read was never interrupted. Not a happy story but not sad either. It intrigued me.

So why the introspection now? I recently reached a point where I could not purchase another book unless I started stacking them on the floor or acquired another bookshelf. I had to take another hard look at what I was keeping and ask myself, are you really going to read these again? I found a few where that answer was no. I find I prefer reading Plutarch, Julius Caesar, Cicero, and Marcus Aurelius rather than fiction about Rome (unless it’s an incredible story) so a few of those could go. Akhenaten fascinates me and I found myself annoyed with a fictional account of his and Nefertiti’s building of Amarna so that went in the trade box. A ruthless and honest look at my taste in books made me pull The Works of H.G. Wells. This consisted of his lesser known writings: excellent writing but the stories are a tad depressing. Into the box it went.

I’m well known at a few of the used bookstores in town and all I need to do now is clear some time when I can do some trading. The problem with used bookstores is I recognize my old books on the shelf and feel a tug towards them. Did I really want to weed that from the shelf? Won’t I read that again? Should I consider buying it back? I’ve yet to actually buy one of my trades back but who knows…I’ve cleared some space on my shelves…

These will never be traded. My Argonautica is simultaneously English and Greek. I might learn Greek one day and read it in the original...

These will never be traded. My Argonautica is simultaneously English and Greek. I might learn Greek one day and read it in the original…

So What Do You Want Me To Do About It?

31 Wednesday Dec 2014

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I admit it.  I’m an activist.  I never thought I’d become one as the very word always elicited rather negative mental pictures.  But then I made some lifestyle changes and, the more I educated myself, the more of an activist I became.  I can’t label myself ‘activist’ for one particular cause: there are so many things I’m passionate about it would take more space than WordPress allots me to list them all.

One thing I am not passionate about are articles and documentaries that show me an injustice, get me riled up about it, and then neglect to offer me any action I can take to try and improve the situation.  I hold a deep belief that stirring up anger in someone without showing that person a constructive way of expressing/handling that anger is irresponsible.  If I read an article that gets me angry and leaves me that way, what do I do with that anger?  Stomp around my house?  Track down the people mentioned in the article and leave mean things on their Facebook pages?  Spend my afternoon with an anger that steadily morphs into depression and despair because there’s just nothing I can do about any of it so what’s the point in trying at all?

Ephesians 4:26 tells me to “Be angry yet sin not”.  To me, this tells me anger is a good thing.  I should be angry that fellow human beings are starving in refugee camps.  The systematic poisoning of our air and water should make me angry.  But, that anger should not become destructive.  Rather, the heat of it should make me get up off my duff, give money-or time since I’m short on money-and do something to change the situation. At the very least, I ought to take it to God in prayer.  (I’m joking!  Prayer should always be my first resort!)  Easiest of all, anger should make me look at my life and see how my choices affect this world I’m a tiny part of.

And I do mean tiny.  It’s difficult to believe anything I do or choice I make can have any sort of impact in the world.  The problems of the world are so vast: what can one limited (not disabled!) woman do, especially when I’m up against corporations who have billions of dollars and all the power that money buys at their backs?  To quote one of my favorite authors; A single drop can’t make even a puddle, but together, all our little drops and God’s planning can make not only a mighty ocean but a mighty difference.  (And It Was Good Madeleine L’Engle, 1983)

Quotes like this help me.  Maybe I am a tiny drop but there are others striving to make a difference.  They may not look like me, talk like me, or believe the same things I do but they are striving to better their part of the world the same way I seek to better mine.  My drop joins to theirs and, as more and more of us join together, we become a force at work in the world.  I find joy as well as hope in that thought.

So, thank you to all who write articles intended to make me angry but who add two or three actions I can implement in my life.  Thank you for your bravery in addressing issues that aren’t popular.  I have read your articles.  They have touched my life and my life is changing.

 

 

Living Beyond Interpretation

22 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by in Walking in the Way, Writing

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I attended a dinner party with some of my co-workers two weeks ago. One asked me about the book I was writing and I told her: it’s a series of seven fantasy novels using imagery drawn from The Bible. She asked me if I was religious and I said no. She then expressed surprise at the difficulty at the research involved with such an undertaking when I wasn’t religious. I tried to express that, while I have no religious label I can apply to my beliefs, I have a vibrant spiritual life.  But, it wasn’t something I could put into words and then the conversation shifted. The opportunity for explanations and clarifications was over.  That conversation got me thinking about our desire to understand our fellow human beings and how labels help or hinder that process.

In my opinion, labels hinder the process. I can say “I’m a Christian” but that word carries with it so many different belief systems and countless examples of mistreatment and hatred, old and new. Not that I wish to say that because some Christians have not positively represented Jesus’ character that all fail to do so nor do I wish to infer I am somehow ashamed to be labeled a Christian.  It is just that I understand that word means different things to different people and “Christian”, while accurate, doesn’t describe all I am and all I believe. “Christian” is broken down into different denominations like Methodist, Lutheran, Charismatic, Pentecostal, Catholic, etc: perhaps to negate confusion, perhaps to increase understanding.  I feel such labels have the opposite affect. I never belonged to a denomination whenever I attended a church building so none of those labels have ever applied to me. The dinner party made me ask myself; how do I describe what I believe when someone asks me?  I suppose I could use the term “Spiritual but not Religious”. What does that mean? What does it really say?

I suppose that, for lack of a better word, I did spend most of my life trying to discover which religious label would suit me.  Or lack of religious label in the case of the interdenominational and nondenominational services I attended.  It ought to have worked.  I was doing everything right, I thought. I was heavily involved in Church. I attended at least two services a week, I adopted the proper worship postures during the half hour or so devoted to worship before the sermon, I listened to the sermon attentively, took notes, studied, and served the church in whatever capacity I could. Why then was I so miserable? I constantly felt like I was falling short of the Glory of God, that there was some deep character flaw the kept me from living the successful Christian life like all those around me.

I’m simplifying, I know. I’m sure no one’s life was as perfect as it looked but I can’t deny Church seemed to work for them in a way it didn’t for me. I was desperate to stop feeling despondent and, in an attempt to drum up the joy I was supposed to be experiencing, I listened to as many teaching tapes I could get my hands on. Good old Joyce Meyer: I was listening to one of her teachings-so long ago I can’t remember which one-and she said something that caught my attention. She was describing everything I felt and then she said; “if God is telling you to leave your Church, listen.” Could that be it? Was it okay to leave my Church?

Everything I’d been taught said it wasn’t. If I didn’t belong to a Church I was forsaking the assembly, a big no no. No Church meant I didn’t tithe and was thus robbing God, another big no no. Maybe I could leave my current Church but find another one. I was sure that was what God was telling me. I began attending another Church and met wonderful people whom I liked and enjoyed being around, attended home bible studies where I did learn a few new things, and started auditioning for the choir. In less then three months the uncomfortable, depressed feeling returned. I hung on for a year and then one day couldn’t take it anymore. I walked out of the Church (as a building) and never returned.

It is not a popular decision. Some wonderful, loving Christians I’ve spoken with since then have been genuinely concerned for my spiritual well-being. I can see ‘backslider’ flash through their eyes and then they invite me to their Church. I appreciate the concern because I know it comes from a place of love but it also comes from a place of fear. I know because leaving a formal Church terrified me. What if I was backsliding? My life was not mistake free and full of struggles.  Didn’t that prove leaving Church was the first and biggest mistake? What if I was one of those falling away in the latter days? So what, I asked myself. Anything is better than constantly feeling beat down and miserable. Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? I prayed a prayer. It went like this.

Father, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing but I need something new. I put my life in your hands and trust that, no matter what, you have a hold of me. Whatever happens to me from this moment on is your concern.

I have trusted Him to keep me ever since and He has never failed to do so.  I have not been joined to the Church as a building but have a beautiful awareness of being a member of the Ecclesia.  There have been moments of magnificent fellowship with my fellow called-out ones and moments of tremendous isolation where I feel alone in the wilderness with no one but Jesus.  How then do I define myself?  Is there a label that defines me as following the Lamb wherever he goes? (Revelation 14:4b) I suppose my answer would be Relationship not Religion.

What makes me so sure my co-worker was interested anyway?

More than likely, she was not.  However, it’s never a bad thing to take a look at my life and ask myself questions.  And, it’s never a bad thing to ask myself if, in an attempt to understand my fellow human beings, do I seek to do so with labels.  I hope not. I hope I look at others and see that they are all unique and that I can have no true understanding of them as long as I continue to label them. I must give them the freedom to live beyond such interpretation as I demand that right for myself.

End note: I borrowed the title of this post from “Lay My Love” by Brian Eno and John Cale

For anyone interested on two excellent studies on “Forsaking the Assembly”:

Forsake Not The Assembly-J Preston Eby

Forsake Not The Assembling-Elwin Roach

The Resilience of Dreams

08 Monday Dec 2014

Posted by in Writing

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Alaska Photo

There were only two things I wanted to do when I was a child.  One, I wanted to write books that touched others the way some of the books I was reading touched me.  Two, I wanted to study whales.  The whale bug, if there is such a thing, bit me in the 5th grade.  That was when I discovered Pacific Blue; a cassette tape combining music and whale song.  I listened to that tape over and over, dreaming of one day being on the ocean and hearing whale song for myself.  I only applied to one university when the time came: the University of Alaska Southeast where I knew the Humpback whales’ migratory path would take them.  Fortunately, I was accepted.  Unfortunately, I was only able to complete one year of school before a car accident ended that particular chapter of my life.

I didn’t give up right away.  One of my favorite classes was my Microbiology class and I thought I’d keep my dream but change it up a little by switching majors from Cetacean Biology to Marine Micrology.  That’s a field I made up but the symbiotic relationship between Right whales and the parasites that clean their skin fascinated me.  Maybe my new brain injury meant I couldn’t do the diving and ocean work I’d intended but the dream wasn’t completely lost and I liked looking through microscopes and conducting tests.

I underestimated the devastation of the car accident.  I completed a second year of school before I had to call it quits, admit that the car accident had wrecked my life, and I wasn’t physically or emotionally up to completing my degree.  I went home to recover.

Almost 15 years later, I am still recovering.  It took 5 years after leaving university to give up the scientist dream.  I applied to and was accepted in the Microbiology program at DU but wasn’t able to move forward.  When that door closed, I was devastated.  What was I if I wasn’t a scientist?

In the early months after my car accident, I had a neurologist tell me having a TBI (traumatic brain injury) was a little like PMSing all the time.  She prescribed antidepressants and I hated them.  I don’t know if I can put into words how antidepressants made me feel.  Separated: from myself as well as the world around me is as close as I can come.  I made the decision to stop taking them-without any doctor’s knowledge-and have been antidepressant free for 13 years.

A side note: if you are on an antidepressant and want to quit taking it, DO NOT do so without your doctor’s knowledge.  If I’d known then what I know now about the effect an antidepressant has on the brain, I’d never have stopped cold turkey.  Fortunately, I had no serious side effects from quitting the way I did.

I tell you all of that to tell you that journaling is what saved me once I quit taking mood stabilizers.  My brain injury does cause some emotional difficulties but getting everything down in print helps me to see what I’m experiencing and put it in perspective.  I’ve always written: I wrote my first novel in the seventh grade.  It’s not bad though I say it myself.  I did change the name of my villain halfway through the manuscript but it’s a handwritten manuscript: such a change would be noted and corrected in a second draft. 😉 I’ve consistently journaled since my family gave me my first one for Christmas when I was 9 and I’ve indulged myself over the years by writing poetry.  With the death of my scientist dream, a second began to stir.  What if I could be a writer?  I had at least 20 books I’d started over the years but hadn’t been able to finish: all of them were interesting but none of them were the story my heart wanted to write.  What if I had a story to write?  What if people wanted to read it?  I’d had a paper published while at university: it was one I’d written for my English class where I’d had the audacity to compare/contrast one of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnets with one of my own poems.  My teacher had told me I had talent and offered to help me switch majors if I wanted but writing was just something I did for fun: I was a scientist.

That being my belief, what now?  I’ve never been one to quit on anything but this scientist dream of mine did seem thoroughly dead.  What did I have to lose?  My mother helped me get started.  She smiled when I told her what I was feeling, opened a dictionary, and read me the definition of science.  Definition 2 states “a systematized knowledge derived from observation, study, and experimentation carried on in order to determine the nature or principles of what is being studied”.  That struck me.  My ultimate dream was to discover something I didn’t know about the world and share it with others.  Did I need a microscope for that?  Could I use a pen and paper instead?  I opened a fresh notebook (college ruled-wide ruled has never inspired me to write.  I don’t know why) and started with an idea.

That was years ago.  So many I’m not even sure.  I’ve completed a 612 page manuscript since then.  When people would ask me how my book was going I would reply; “slowly, but I am writing a series of seven and the first one needs to be a solid foundation”.  It’s true, I do have a series of seven planned but re-reading my giant manuscript made me realize I was writing all seven at once.  I’ve narrowed my focus to Book One, laying a foundation I can build on later.

My sense of regret and loss has disappeared as I’ve written, researched, deleted, and written some more.  Writing fulfills me the same way watching a bacterial culture blossom and grow used to.  So, all the old adages are true.  No dream dies but another is born.  No door closes but a window is opened.  And, thinking back, I wonder if a dream ever really dies.  I don’t think they do: they are much too resilient to die.  I think the same dream manifests itself in a different way.  Life today looks nothing like I planned but my dream of making discoveries is alive and well.  I have to work on the sharing with others bit.  It’s not easy for someone as naturally introverted as I am, a personality quirk my brain injury has seemed to make worse.  However, the brain injury does not define me and I am striving to expand the borders of my comfort zone.

In an attempt to stretch them to the breaking point, here’s a  poem I wrote when I discovered writing could fulfill me and my life wasn’t a wreck because of one accident.

 

Phoenix Dreams

My dreams lay about me

Broken, Shattered

Shards of once vivid scenes

I stand among them

Staring about me

Hoping to find even one

One piece large enough

To remind me again

Of all that I dreamed

For Oh, how I dreamed

But now there is nothing

Devastation only

Not a spark of the life that once was

As I stare about me

Hopeless, Desperate

Finality comes like a fire

Incinerating all

Leaving nothing but ashes

That listlessly swirl at my feet

But wait! A glimmer

Of light and another

I stand watching amazed

As Phoenix Dreams rise

From the pyre of the past

Taking wing they ascend from the ash

I step forward to follow

Forgetting what’s gone

For, in me, new dreams have been born

 

Colorful Colorado

22 Monday Sep 2014

Posted by in RW Out and About

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Enjoying the Scenery

 

My family and I took a day trip to Cottonwood Lake, Buena Vista, CO over the weekend.  It’s a beautiful time to be a Coloradan: the leaves are turning and everywhere I look there is such beauty it takes my breath away.  I was excited to take this trip for two reasons.  1, getting out into the mountains is always a thrill and 2, this would no doubt be an inspirational time.  What plot ideas may come?  What journal entries?   I packed my camera, notebook, and pens and climbed into the back of the van.

The trip up was breathtaking.  I’m grateful that my stepfather drives and all I have to do is gape at the extraordinary colors around me and make notes about my book as they pop into my mind.  I’m always afraid he doesn’t enjoy the trips like my mother and I do but he says he does and never complains.  Still, I owe him dinner.  We stopped along the way at a small lake (pictured above), carving out a place for ourselves along the roadside and joining the other gawkers in gasping, pointing, and snapping pics.  By the time we needed a restroom break, we’d reached Southpark, CO; a place nothing like the cartoon.

The facilities available in Southpark were a tad rustic: port-a-potties arranged at the back of The Jefferson Market.  A sign on the door stated the port-a-potty was for use of paying customers only and I’m sure that’s why there wasn’t any hand sanitizer available until you stepped inside the door of the market.  I didn’t mind buying something: I am always on the hunt for what healthy snacks might be found in a gas station.  This hunt uncovered Clif bars that were not, surprisingly, out of date and fresh fruit in the cooler at the back of the store.  The store itself generated waves of nostalgia.  When I was young, my father was a foreman on a ranch in northern Nebraska.  The closest bit of civilization was a small town named Mills which consisted of a feed store, a church, and a general store that doubled as the post office.  The Jefferson Market reminded me of that old Mills general store.  The plank flooring creaked under my feet as I traversed the store and there was a little of everything and not much of anything.  I purchased my Clif bar, a bottle of water, a purse size container of hand sanitizer, and snapped some pics of Southpark before we headed deeper into the mountains.

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The Jefferson Market

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I thought the moose a whimsical touch

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Don’t blink or you’ll miss Southpark

 

We continued on our way to Cottonwood Lake and my head swiveled from one window to the other, trying to take it all in.  One thing I will say for Colorado, there wasn’t a feed lot to be found.  All cows we saw were in pasture which brought on more waves of nostalgia.  I kept remembering my life on the ranch.  I remember my brother and I being entirely alone.  My father was out working and my mother had a job at the rest home in Stuart, NE.  The family my father worked for were supposed to keep an eye on us but…well…they were older.  My brother and I had complete and utter freedom to do whatever we wanted, as long as our chores were complete.  Few days went by when we weren’t racing out to the fields to call to the horses, play in the hayloft (which we were forbidden to do) or climb trees.  One thing we never did was enter the field where the bulls were kept.  I remember three of them; Herefords, and their white faces never struck me as being anything but placid.  But, my dad had explained how dangerous they were and put the fear of God into us about climbing over that particular fence.  The hayloft rule we broke often but we never came within more of a few feet of that fence.

I remember how much I loved the horses.  They would come to us when we called and allow us to scratch between their ears and stroke their smooth necks.  I think my love for animals started with the horses; Queenie, Wendy, and King.  I never thought about what happened to the cows my father cared for and we didn’t stay on the ranch long.  My father sold up, I can’t remember why, and we moved into town.  As we drive passed these beautiful, isolated homes surrounded by fields, I find I miss aspects of that life.  The ranch we lived on didn’t have the wild beauty of the ones we passed and I saw several For Sale signs that gave me a deep longing.  Maybe, one day, I can move here and live in this beautiful place, perhaps open a farm animal sanctuary, perhaps just write.

That longing only intensified as we reached Cottonwood Lake.  The beauty that surrounded me made my heart ache.  I took pictures but there isn’t any way a picture captures the feeling of peace and enjoyment being in nature gives.  It began to rain so I didn’t get in the hiking I’d hoped for.  I wrapped up in my rain coat and slipped into the trees for a while but returned to the car when the thunder and lightening started.  Despite the lack in hiking, it was a beautiful, perfect day.

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A beautiful day

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One more picture of the glorious scenery