The Universe is clearly playing with me. In the past 2 weeks, the following things have freely come to me, which have all delighted my heart immensely:
Gerber daisies, randomly given, by the Trader Joe’s grocery man when I was purchasing bread, cheese, and pears. In an act of clairvoyance—or perhaps simple compassion—he intuited I needed vivid, fuchsia petals for my kitchen counter, so he put a free bouquet in with my groceries.
A year pass to the Seattle Art Museum to feed my creative soul from an extremely thoughtful student/friend.
Extremely inexpensive housing for 6 months! Oh my gosh. This is crazy. Someone wants to be my patron while I finish up my book. It will be hard to give up my adored, Queen Anne home…but how does one become a writer if not for the kindness of those who support her? I am so grateful.
2 free, yummy dinners already this week. (Sushi last night—thanks Tara and Daniel—and now homemade soup from my friend Phil who says he wants to cook for a “starving artist." Well, how nice.)
A random check in the mail from a beloved one who decided to “tithe” part of a gift to me.
And now, as I write this very blog, if you can believe it, the barista here has just offered me a free cup of coffee. (I mean, I had planned to pay for it...but I don't want to disrupt the generosity of the universe.)
Why this flood of gifts? I LOVE it. These little and large encouragements help me to keep writing..trusting that the Universe is conspiring with me as I risk the direction of my dreams. (Do you know that line in the Alchemist? You should go read it if you don't. Really, go find that book.) Trying to write has been harder than I ever could have imagined, but there is this sovereign, crazy, blessed journey to the whole thing.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
7 Things I Loved About Christmas
1. Nostalgic sledding at Manito Park on midnight of Christmas Eve. The snow was perfectly magical and the sky was glowing with the reflected lights of the city. It was like being a little kid again, except Laura's parents spiked our thermos of hot cocoa with peppermint Schnapps.
2. Christmas Eve service before the sledding. Little kids dressed up. Babies sleeping in their parents' arms. Remembering Incarnation.
3. Going downtown to my favorite bookstore—Auntie's—and seeing 4 people I knew. I still like small towns. I like that each face might be a familiar one. And I love that Spokane still supports a locally owned bookstore.
4. Having a very large family that is totally crazy but still loves to be together. Seeing my cousins all grown up. Doing our yearly family bowling "tournament." Laughing. Debating politics. Trying not to talk too much about politics. Realizing I am lucky to have this family.
5. Getting cozy gifts: slippers, hot pink and striped flannel pajamas, gift-cards for massages! Hooray. I feel spoiled. (And I want to wear my new slippers everywhere. My feet are so happy in them.)
6. Amazing food: crab manicotti, baklava, yummy drinks sprinkled with candy cane pieces, my sister's homemade bread and soup. Having my mom make me turkey bacon and eggs every morning. Just like when I used to come home from college. Rolling out of bed to a hot breakfast is such a treat.
7. Flying back into Seattle and still getting excited when I see the lights of the city. Remembering where I was last year... curious what this next year will hold for this wandering, wondering heart.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Mrs. Soderberg and 7-Million Dollar Frustrations
Mrs. Soderberg was simply not a very nice person. I wish I could say this all more kindly, but the truth must be told.
This ever-memorable and very mean woman was my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, and she would roam the aisles of her class, moving amongst our desks and looking over our shoulders as we labored to diagram sentence after sentence under her cruel gaze.
Rumor has it that Mrs. Soderberg was a beauty queen in her youth. I don't like beauty competitions of any sort, and I certainly don't think her crown was beneficial to her life as a whole. Once its luster faded, she turned to torturing 13-year-old boys and girls and making sure they felt very stupid if they forgot what a predicate nominative was (and oh dear...I believe I just typed a misplaced modifier at the beginning of this sentence). Her technique—hovering over frightened pubescents— was how she retained her power. I have never felt even a scintilla of appreciation for Mrs. Soderberg.
Until now.
I came across this sentence tonight:
Now, it is not so much the sentence that bothers me (though it is certainly a conundrum to diagram), but what really bothers me is that the owner of the wretched sentence is reported to be on the verge of a 7-million dollar book deal.
If you have been following the happenings at publishing houses this week, you would know that there have been terrible cuts and layoffs. Times are tough. Many very good writers have very little shot at getting book deals for a very long time. Books are not recession proof and the production of art suffers in difficult economic times.
However, the owner of that aforementioned sentence will have her book deal.
The other thing I did not tell you about Mrs. Soderberg is that rumor has it she passed away 5-years ago, which honestly makes me sad. However, I am not above praying that her ghost will forever haunt Ms. Sarah Palin and force her to diagram her own damn sentences. That is the only justice I can think of—the only fitting retribution.
(I told you this post wouldn't be terribly kind. And I didn't even get into Joe the Plumber's book deal. Sigh. If you want to read more lament on this matter, go to the New York Times.)
This ever-memorable and very mean woman was my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, and she would roam the aisles of her class, moving amongst our desks and looking over our shoulders as we labored to diagram sentence after sentence under her cruel gaze.
Rumor has it that Mrs. Soderberg was a beauty queen in her youth. I don't like beauty competitions of any sort, and I certainly don't think her crown was beneficial to her life as a whole. Once its luster faded, she turned to torturing 13-year-old boys and girls and making sure they felt very stupid if they forgot what a predicate nominative was (and oh dear...I believe I just typed a misplaced modifier at the beginning of this sentence). Her technique—hovering over frightened pubescents— was how she retained her power. I have never felt even a scintilla of appreciation for Mrs. Soderberg.
Until now.
I came across this sentence tonight:
“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”
Now, it is not so much the sentence that bothers me (though it is certainly a conundrum to diagram), but what really bothers me is that the owner of the wretched sentence is reported to be on the verge of a 7-million dollar book deal.
If you have been following the happenings at publishing houses this week, you would know that there have been terrible cuts and layoffs. Times are tough. Many very good writers have very little shot at getting book deals for a very long time. Books are not recession proof and the production of art suffers in difficult economic times.
However, the owner of that aforementioned sentence will have her book deal.
The other thing I did not tell you about Mrs. Soderberg is that rumor has it she passed away 5-years ago, which honestly makes me sad. However, I am not above praying that her ghost will forever haunt Ms. Sarah Palin and force her to diagram her own damn sentences. That is the only justice I can think of—the only fitting retribution.
(I told you this post wouldn't be terribly kind. And I didn't even get into Joe the Plumber's book deal. Sigh. If you want to read more lament on this matter, go to the New York Times.)
Monday, November 3, 2008
Final Look at Boston!
I am back in Seattle! Missing Boston, but happy to be back in another city that I find so charming. Seattle is dressed up in yellows this week...the view from my apartment is fantastic.
Here are a few pics from Boston: me kissing Thoreau at Walden pond, a few photos taken from the Old North Bridge (where the Revolutionary War started), and me touching the journal of Alice Paul (if you are a woman voting on Tuesday, you can thank her for the 19th amendment).
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Boston Update #4
Boston continues to be inspirational to me. I have had mini-revolutions in my mind and heart…new ways of seeing and understanding my book. I am, however, somewhat overwhelmed by how to translate my new ways of seeing into the book itself.
I was at an eccentric museum the other day and was so drawn to this small awkward sketch of a dancer on the wall. She was not perfect. But she took my gaze and invited me to see something, though I was not sure what I was being invited to see.
The curator there had already sort of befriended me. He was a kind, bearded old man with a passion for art and a thick accent. He saw me looking at the sketch. I asked him to tell me its story. He asked me if I had noticed the French writing at the top of the sketch…I hadn’t. He explained it translated, “Sorry for the imperfections…I had to draw her with my left hand.”
The artist of the sketch is Degas, the famous French impressionist. The curator explained to me that he drew the picture for a dear friend of his, but because Degas would spend sometimes 20 hours a day painting with his right hand, he was injured and had to sketch this one with his left.
So that explained the awkwardness. But it also explained to me why I was intrigued; why I found it so beautiful.
I am not comparing myself to genius…but I do feel like the act of translating my heart into words on a page is like trying to draw with my left hand. (And I can’t even draw with my right hand.) Words are so difficult, “a raid on the inarticulate” as Eliot says.
But, I love that awkward dancer, because I am reminded again that it is not perfection that is always the most compelling. Something important is worth doing, even if you cannot do it perfectly. The more I think on, dwell in, reflect, love (and yes hate!) my book project, and the more I see so much more about the topic I am writing on…the more my mind and heart expand…but can I communicate what I am seeing? Can I paint an impressionist painting with words…and can what is true and good overcome my awkwardness as a writer?
I was at an eccentric museum the other day and was so drawn to this small awkward sketch of a dancer on the wall. She was not perfect. But she took my gaze and invited me to see something, though I was not sure what I was being invited to see.
The curator there had already sort of befriended me. He was a kind, bearded old man with a passion for art and a thick accent. He saw me looking at the sketch. I asked him to tell me its story. He asked me if I had noticed the French writing at the top of the sketch…I hadn’t. He explained it translated, “Sorry for the imperfections…I had to draw her with my left hand.”
The artist of the sketch is Degas, the famous French impressionist. The curator explained to me that he drew the picture for a dear friend of his, but because Degas would spend sometimes 20 hours a day painting with his right hand, he was injured and had to sketch this one with his left.
So that explained the awkwardness. But it also explained to me why I was intrigued; why I found it so beautiful.
I am not comparing myself to genius…but I do feel like the act of translating my heart into words on a page is like trying to draw with my left hand. (And I can’t even draw with my right hand.) Words are so difficult, “a raid on the inarticulate” as Eliot says.
But, I love that awkward dancer, because I am reminded again that it is not perfection that is always the most compelling. Something important is worth doing, even if you cannot do it perfectly. The more I think on, dwell in, reflect, love (and yes hate!) my book project, and the more I see so much more about the topic I am writing on…the more my mind and heart expand…but can I communicate what I am seeing? Can I paint an impressionist painting with words…and can what is true and good overcome my awkwardness as a writer?
Friday, October 17, 2008
Boston Update #3
OK, people, sorry no pictures for you, but here's a quick update.
My day started at 12:30 a.m. with pandemonium outside my window, thanks to a fabulous come from behind win by the Boston Red Sox. I was wanting to be sleeping, but I can totally appreciate such fanfare!
I spent my morning writing, and I discovered that not even getting out of bed, but just rolling over and grabbing my computer and starting right away before I am very awake actually makes for some good "rough drafting." I am learning that I write best very late at night and just after waking in the morning. I guess I write best when I am hovering between consciousness and dreamland. I think that the more awake I am, the more my internal editor gets hyper-vigilant. But when I am relaxed, the words flow.
I am at almost 45,000 words! This is exciting.
I then spent the afternoon walking around Harvard Square again and trying to track down how to get medicine I left in Seattle transferred to a pharmacy in Boston. That took hours to make happen...and I was feeling sick and frustrated. But, it is finally taken care of. It is good for me to know that I feel crappy when I don't take my medication, because then I can't be in denial that I need it! Hooray for living in a place with access to medical care.
After that fiasco, I worked some more, not on my book, but on that 100-women event happening in Seattle that I am helping to plan. See my other blog for more of that project. I am so excited about it, and so thrilled to get to work with some pretty amazing women who are all planning the event together. Yah for organizing! Now we are starting to spread word to other women in other cities, so that on Nov. 1, just days before the election, women will be gathering together, watching Iron Jawed Angels, and remembering to vote on election day! If you want to come to the event in Seattle, we still have a few tickets left. (You can find out how to register by going to my other blog.)
My day started at 12:30 a.m. with pandemonium outside my window, thanks to a fabulous come from behind win by the Boston Red Sox. I was wanting to be sleeping, but I can totally appreciate such fanfare!
I spent my morning writing, and I discovered that not even getting out of bed, but just rolling over and grabbing my computer and starting right away before I am very awake actually makes for some good "rough drafting." I am learning that I write best very late at night and just after waking in the morning. I guess I write best when I am hovering between consciousness and dreamland. I think that the more awake I am, the more my internal editor gets hyper-vigilant. But when I am relaxed, the words flow.
I am at almost 45,000 words! This is exciting.
I then spent the afternoon walking around Harvard Square again and trying to track down how to get medicine I left in Seattle transferred to a pharmacy in Boston. That took hours to make happen...and I was feeling sick and frustrated. But, it is finally taken care of. It is good for me to know that I feel crappy when I don't take my medication, because then I can't be in denial that I need it! Hooray for living in a place with access to medical care.
After that fiasco, I worked some more, not on my book, but on that 100-women event happening in Seattle that I am helping to plan. See my other blog for more of that project. I am so excited about it, and so thrilled to get to work with some pretty amazing women who are all planning the event together. Yah for organizing! Now we are starting to spread word to other women in other cities, so that on Nov. 1, just days before the election, women will be gathering together, watching Iron Jawed Angels, and remembering to vote on election day! If you want to come to the event in Seattle, we still have a few tickets left. (You can find out how to register by going to my other blog.)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Boston: Update #2
Today was an excellent "settling in" sort of day. I found my first neighborhood book store (see pic) and found my first delightful coffee shop (see pic). The pictures of cool looking buildings were ones I took while visiting my friend Deb in Providence, Rhode Island on Monday.
I am discovering something slightly terrifying about Boston—crazy 7-way intersections. Now, if you know me very well at all, you know I hate crossing the street. I love that Seattle tickets jay walkers or people crossing against the light, because I have at least an excuse for my timidity. But, here in Boston, I would never get anywhere if I always waited for the light, and nobody else ever does, so I feel so silly standing on the corner...but I can't keep track of which direction all the traffic is coming from, so I stand there looking perplexed. I suppose I'll get used to it. I am just so thankful I am not driving around here (and the Bostonians should be thankful for that, too).
Other than that nuisance, Boston has been very kind to me. So much for the rumors that east coasters are rude. I seem to be meeting all sorts of friendly people. Someone yesterday even payed for my subway ticket when mine appeared to not be working. I am sure there are reasons for the rumors of rudeness...but I have up to this point enjoyed very nice Bostonians.
I am feeling settled in. Writing went well today; yesterday I think I was feeling overwhelmed with the amount of time available to me. I expected my muse to show up immediately, and that is not how she works. But, today was a good start. I skimmed over my already written chapters and started to sense the unfolding story....
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
"Living the dream, Kim George."
That’s what my friend Nick Vu says. He has been saying it for some time, and it has seeped into my imagination.
There are lovely moments when I feel like I really am "living the dream," like today when I was kicking leaves and meandering around Harvard Square. I then managed to navigate the 1.5 hour walk back to my home-away-from-home adorable Boston apartment, where I will be living and writing for the next several weeks. I could have taken the subway, but it was a perfect 70 degrees and there were too many things I wanted to notice along the way, like ivy-covered brick buildings and old bridges and, alas, cute men in sweater vests reading along the side of the river.
But tonight, my adrenaline for life has ceased and I just feel those lingering doubts and fears about what it will mean to attempt to get so much written these next few weeks. I have been given an amazing gift—several weeks of space to just plunge into the story of my book. I plan to write in the mornings until early afternoon, and then explore Boston into the late afternoon, looking for the types of beautiful places that make me come alive. But, whenever I go on these writing retreats (and up to this point, they have only been 4 days long), I must transition through all the frustration of self-doubt and loneliness that seem to enter whenever I try to find my voice and really risk on something.
(I will try to do frequent and short updates on my blog, not because anyone needs to care what I am thinking about on a daily basis, but because it feels like I am reaching out to home, and I like that feeling.)
There are lovely moments when I feel like I really am "living the dream," like today when I was kicking leaves and meandering around Harvard Square. I then managed to navigate the 1.5 hour walk back to my home-away-from-home adorable Boston apartment, where I will be living and writing for the next several weeks. I could have taken the subway, but it was a perfect 70 degrees and there were too many things I wanted to notice along the way, like ivy-covered brick buildings and old bridges and, alas, cute men in sweater vests reading along the side of the river.
But tonight, my adrenaline for life has ceased and I just feel those lingering doubts and fears about what it will mean to attempt to get so much written these next few weeks. I have been given an amazing gift—several weeks of space to just plunge into the story of my book. I plan to write in the mornings until early afternoon, and then explore Boston into the late afternoon, looking for the types of beautiful places that make me come alive. But, whenever I go on these writing retreats (and up to this point, they have only been 4 days long), I must transition through all the frustration of self-doubt and loneliness that seem to enter whenever I try to find my voice and really risk on something.
(I will try to do frequent and short updates on my blog, not because anyone needs to care what I am thinking about on a daily basis, but because it feels like I am reaching out to home, and I like that feeling.)
Friday, September 19, 2008
Miss Holly Hibbert
So, the girl who is in every one of these pictures (not including me) is Miss Holly Hibbert. Seattle recently had to surrender Holly back to the east coast. We are all very sad about this unfortunate fact. I spent most of the last half of my summer feeling positively glum about Holly's departure to her homeland (New York). Holly was the first person I met upon my return to Seattle 4 years ago, when my life felt turned upside down and I needed a kindred spirit. I really credit her with reintroducing me to so many good things in life.
Over the years, Holly and I were in numerous "groups" together. The top pic is West Wing (that's where we meet every 2 weeks to review our big picture life goals). The second pic is the dance group that Holly led for 3 years. Holly opened up to me my world of dance; I cannot imagine my life without my love of dance. We also partnered together to work at the homeless shelter at our church, our task being simply to pray for the women who sleep on the floor in our church basement. Holly has also been one of the crazy people who meet at my house every Wednesday at 7 a.m. to read aloud straight through the Bible (yes, we are reading it through from cover to cover, trying to experience the text as oral tradition). Holly also introduced me to Mars Hill Graduate School, a school I attended for 2 years. This list could really just keep going...I cannot think of a more influential friend—a friend whose life has been so interwoven with mine.
Holly taught me so much: interdependence (like how to ask your friends to take you to the airport at 5 a.m), how to dance with freedom, cook with more precision (still working on that), stop and cry when I need to cry; unabashedly delight in my own gifts; be honest about my own pain; enter the pain of others; pray from a place more true; and love with just a bit more courage.
She is too far away and I have moments of panic when I remember the distance between Seattle and New York. But, I have been absolutely wealthy with her presence in my life, and I am happy to learn to share...I am sure her family and friends in New York are so happy to have her back. Holly, I miss you!
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Rafter Boy, and Other Happenings to Report From the Dance Floor
He would later sheepishly tell me he was just trying out a dance move.
But when I initially looked up and saw Andy was upside down, swinging from the rafters, I momentarily wondered if I should help him to his feet. But I quickly decided that somehow Andy can get away with such ape-like maneuvers.
He and I, and a lovely batch of dear old high school friends, helped our friends Ryan and Sarah celebrate their nuptials this Sunday night. The dancing after the ceremony was on a boat on the Puget Sound, with the Seattle skyline glittering in the distance. I was in heaven. I twirled with abandon and felt the joy of old friendships rekindled. I did not, like Andy, take the liberty to somersault, but I felt just as high on life. And I have to say, that when I looked out onto that dance floor and saw the life stories in front of me, I realized this was not just a group of people who knew how to celebrate, but this also was a group of people who had accomplished some pretty beautiful things in the last decade. So many of these individuals are intent on bringing hope and change to this world, but they have not forgotten how to occupy a dance floor, either.
I woke up the next morning with that sweet sadness that comes when beautiful moments have too soon slipped into memories. The community and celebration of the night awakened something in me—I realized again I have gotten too serious. I need more dance parties. I need to take the time to be in touch with old friends. I need to be committed to the daily practice of living (as Andy pens it!) which means taking seriously the things I love. And I love the moments of my life when I step away from thinking, writing, laboring, planning, trying to change the world with my grandiose notions, and otherwise working hard…and I just let myself play and love and feel and twirl and be.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Guess Who is Turning 100?
For those who get excited about such things, you might want to know that Anne of Green Gables is turning one-hundred this summer. Lucy Maud Montgomery first published her much-loved story in 1908, and a century later, generations of us still dote on her.
Like many teenage girls, at thirteen I discovered a heroine who had red hair and a fondness for breaking slates over boys’ heads. The adventures of Anne Shirley– all 8 books and 7 hours of VHS footage– became my master narrative of early teenage existence. I dreamed of going to a ball in the world’s puffiest sleeves. I wanted my own Lake of Shining Waters and a gaggle of girls to recite Tennyson with while I sailed away in a broken dory. And of course, I wanted to be rescued by Gilbert Blythe in a fishing hat, while I positioned my nose high in the air. (I am a feminist now, so I do question those “boy rescues damsel in distress” fantasies…but I still LOVE that scene.)
I guess I secretly wanted permission to be that spunky, that romantic, and that incorrigible. Anne Shirley did not edit herself or hold back her adventures, and everyone loved her– except when they thought she was a perfect heathen. It sounded like a fun life. I think for all of us Anne fans, her spirit is really just a portal to feel and love and walk our “ridge-poles” boldly.
This summer in Prince Edward Island a commemorative festival is being held in her honor. (Oh, if I could only go! One day that dream will come true.)
Like many teenage girls, at thirteen I discovered a heroine who had red hair and a fondness for breaking slates over boys’ heads. The adventures of Anne Shirley– all 8 books and 7 hours of VHS footage– became my master narrative of early teenage existence. I dreamed of going to a ball in the world’s puffiest sleeves. I wanted my own Lake of Shining Waters and a gaggle of girls to recite Tennyson with while I sailed away in a broken dory. And of course, I wanted to be rescued by Gilbert Blythe in a fishing hat, while I positioned my nose high in the air. (I am a feminist now, so I do question those “boy rescues damsel in distress” fantasies…but I still LOVE that scene.)
I guess I secretly wanted permission to be that spunky, that romantic, and that incorrigible. Anne Shirley did not edit herself or hold back her adventures, and everyone loved her– except when they thought she was a perfect heathen. It sounded like a fun life. I think for all of us Anne fans, her spirit is really just a portal to feel and love and walk our “ridge-poles” boldly.
This summer in Prince Edward Island a commemorative festival is being held in her honor. (Oh, if I could only go! One day that dream will come true.)
Monday, July 28, 2008
More on Reality, Dreams, and the Space In-Between
I am going to dream for a moment without edits. I am going to pretend I have a full pallete of paint available. I am going to get rather messy with it and cover my hands and fingers, so I can fling it on the canvass rather un-carefully and watch the colors collide. There is something in me that wants to learn to create without reserve, to see what happens when I let go of controlling the substance. I feel that way about words on a page and I feel that way about life and my dreams. Where is the balance of technique and freedom to all of this? How much of a story, a relationship, a dance, a life’s dream ought to be crafted and planned, and how much of it must come by surprise?
This morning, I find myself in the midst of planning the future of my dreams, or at least trying to connect with the dreams gestating in me. With the fall approaching, there are so many decisions to be made about school applications and what I am going to do with my business and where I could potentially see myself living if school takes me away from Seattle.
As I think about my next steps in life and where I might possibly be a year from now, I am stuck between several thoughts: the practicalities (money, primarily), how much I appreciate my life here in Seattle and the people with whom I am journeying, and the need to allow myself to enter the expanse of my heart’s desires. There is so much to consider as I come to these next steps. I can’t throw out either practical needs or the depth of my connection to Seattle, but I also can’t shut out the quickening of desires.
I think that when we speak the words that are true of our desires, we help actualize those desires. So what do I want? It has been nearly two years since I quite a job that actually gave me health benefits, a regular schedule, and a good-sized salary. I journeyed through a grad program that gave me invaluable gifts, but ultimately was not a program I wanted to finish. I started writing a book, which is leading me deeper into the practice and struggles of the craft of writing. I find myself in the midst of this demanding book project, but I am also realizing I am in the midst of something quite larger than a book: I am trying to figure out what my writing will mean to me. How has it become the rhythm of my days? Sometimes, I have to check in with myself. Am I just obsessed and that is why I work so hard and prioritize so much of my life around writing? Or have a found a path that is truly part of my life’s most significant work, and I need to allow myself the freedom to keep plunging into it?
This morning, I have been researching MFA programs, which is a rather significant shift in thought from pursuing PhD programs in interdisciplinary studies. I am torn between the two, but for a time this morning I let myself skip around in MFA websites. I don’t have conclusions, but I did experience a clarity of desire:
I want a program with diverse faculty and staff. I want to talk with writers from other cultures and parts of the world.
I want a program where I get to travel. I want to be able to write in settings that inspire rest, contemplation, and risk-taking. I miss England and quaint cottages and ivy-laced buildings.
I want a program where I get to study and learn and practice teaching. Apart from writing, my other truest passion is teaching, and I want to be in a place with freedom to explore different approaches to pedagogy.
Whatever my degree ends up being, I don’t want to be locked up in academia. One day, I want to walk into a jail or a room of unruly adolescents or a retirement home and work with people on telling their stories and finding their voice. I want to teach at a college, too, but I need to be able to work outside of typical classrooms.
This morning, I find myself in the midst of planning the future of my dreams, or at least trying to connect with the dreams gestating in me. With the fall approaching, there are so many decisions to be made about school applications and what I am going to do with my business and where I could potentially see myself living if school takes me away from Seattle.
As I think about my next steps in life and where I might possibly be a year from now, I am stuck between several thoughts: the practicalities (money, primarily), how much I appreciate my life here in Seattle and the people with whom I am journeying, and the need to allow myself to enter the expanse of my heart’s desires. There is so much to consider as I come to these next steps. I can’t throw out either practical needs or the depth of my connection to Seattle, but I also can’t shut out the quickening of desires.
I think that when we speak the words that are true of our desires, we help actualize those desires. So what do I want? It has been nearly two years since I quite a job that actually gave me health benefits, a regular schedule, and a good-sized salary. I journeyed through a grad program that gave me invaluable gifts, but ultimately was not a program I wanted to finish. I started writing a book, which is leading me deeper into the practice and struggles of the craft of writing. I find myself in the midst of this demanding book project, but I am also realizing I am in the midst of something quite larger than a book: I am trying to figure out what my writing will mean to me. How has it become the rhythm of my days? Sometimes, I have to check in with myself. Am I just obsessed and that is why I work so hard and prioritize so much of my life around writing? Or have a found a path that is truly part of my life’s most significant work, and I need to allow myself the freedom to keep plunging into it?
This morning, I have been researching MFA programs, which is a rather significant shift in thought from pursuing PhD programs in interdisciplinary studies. I am torn between the two, but for a time this morning I let myself skip around in MFA websites. I don’t have conclusions, but I did experience a clarity of desire:
I want a program with diverse faculty and staff. I want to talk with writers from other cultures and parts of the world.
I want a program where I get to travel. I want to be able to write in settings that inspire rest, contemplation, and risk-taking. I miss England and quaint cottages and ivy-laced buildings.
I want a program where I get to study and learn and practice teaching. Apart from writing, my other truest passion is teaching, and I want to be in a place with freedom to explore different approaches to pedagogy.
Whatever my degree ends up being, I don’t want to be locked up in academia. One day, I want to walk into a jail or a room of unruly adolescents or a retirement home and work with people on telling their stories and finding their voice. I want to teach at a college, too, but I need to be able to work outside of typical classrooms.
(If you happen to be of the praying type, I would love your prayers and thoughts for these decisions about school and life that seem to be waiting these days on my doorstep.)
Monday, July 14, 2008
Thoughts on Reality
I have been doing a lot of thinking the past year about reality versus dreams. Here’s the problem, the best I can deduce it: if a person just submits to the harsh facts of reality, she does not try to re-create that reality. And yet, if she is always looking at her dreams, she is naïve. When I consider the reality of what I want to accomplish with my writing career, it is rather a dismal picture. Writers need platform and influence these days; publishers want important names. At this point in my 27 years, I have neither. I just have a passionate heart and a devotion to the craft. I also have gumption, says my friend Letha.
When I was 14, I remember my best friend Debbie and I deciding we wanted to live on Lopez Island for part of our summer break. We had fallen in love with this little gem of an island just off the coast of Washington. It is small and quaint and the friendliest island in the San Juans. After having taken a short weekend camping trip there with my mother, we were smitten with its charm: Everyone who passes you on the road waves, even if they just lift two fingers off the steering wheel. I noticed a cat bite actually made the news in the crime section of the Lopez newspaper. The dandelions that line the island roads have the look of dainty wildflowers. The island “dump” has all the hand me down books, furniture, clothes, and old appliances stacked and ordered and available to anyone in need. The bakery is the gathering place in the tiny village and home to the most amazing, fresh baked goods you will find.
After my first trip to Lopez one summer, I was determined to return and stay longer. So as 8th graders, Debbie and I went downtown to the Spokane library and asked the lady at the reference desk for the phone book to the San Juan Islands, which is a book the thickness of my thumb. We proceeded to look up the names of all the businesses on Lopez (I think there were 40) and sent letters in the mail offering our services in exchange for room and board. We eventually heard back from the lady who owns the Lopez Bakery. She did not want us to work; she wanted us to come and play and delight in the island. Which is exactly what we did. The summer before I started high school, my mother drove Debbie and I the 7 hours across the state and then we all took a ferry to the island. After meeting Holly B. (our hostess), my mom confirmed we had indeed found a kindred spirit. My mom left the next day, feeling good about my adventures.
Debbie and I had our own little cabin on Holly’s property. We dug potatoes in the garden, enjoyed her outdoor solar powered shower, ate strawberry scones and cinnamon rolls, rode bikes around the island, made friends with her 3 sons, and learned the pace of island life. It was a dream–the re-creation of reality. We infused reality with our desires and were able to live what we had imagined. And yet, we needed others to help us create it. We needed our mothers to believe in our adventures and we needed Holly’s exuberant hospitality to two strange girls.
I have been thinking that any one person’s dream requires many midwives. I am happy to carry my writing dream, nurture it, and let it gestate. I am grateful for the many people in my life who have offered love and grace to my journey– who have, if even for moments– been midwives to the life inside of me. But I am aware that reality is very stubborn. So, today, I find myself telling reality that I am more patient, more creative, and more persistent than it. I want to discover many “Lopez Islands” in my life– those places where reality gets to participate in my dreams.
When I was 14, I remember my best friend Debbie and I deciding we wanted to live on Lopez Island for part of our summer break. We had fallen in love with this little gem of an island just off the coast of Washington. It is small and quaint and the friendliest island in the San Juans. After having taken a short weekend camping trip there with my mother, we were smitten with its charm: Everyone who passes you on the road waves, even if they just lift two fingers off the steering wheel. I noticed a cat bite actually made the news in the crime section of the Lopez newspaper. The dandelions that line the island roads have the look of dainty wildflowers. The island “dump” has all the hand me down books, furniture, clothes, and old appliances stacked and ordered and available to anyone in need. The bakery is the gathering place in the tiny village and home to the most amazing, fresh baked goods you will find.
After my first trip to Lopez one summer, I was determined to return and stay longer. So as 8th graders, Debbie and I went downtown to the Spokane library and asked the lady at the reference desk for the phone book to the San Juan Islands, which is a book the thickness of my thumb. We proceeded to look up the names of all the businesses on Lopez (I think there were 40) and sent letters in the mail offering our services in exchange for room and board. We eventually heard back from the lady who owns the Lopez Bakery. She did not want us to work; she wanted us to come and play and delight in the island. Which is exactly what we did. The summer before I started high school, my mother drove Debbie and I the 7 hours across the state and then we all took a ferry to the island. After meeting Holly B. (our hostess), my mom confirmed we had indeed found a kindred spirit. My mom left the next day, feeling good about my adventures.
Debbie and I had our own little cabin on Holly’s property. We dug potatoes in the garden, enjoyed her outdoor solar powered shower, ate strawberry scones and cinnamon rolls, rode bikes around the island, made friends with her 3 sons, and learned the pace of island life. It was a dream–the re-creation of reality. We infused reality with our desires and were able to live what we had imagined. And yet, we needed others to help us create it. We needed our mothers to believe in our adventures and we needed Holly’s exuberant hospitality to two strange girls.
I have been thinking that any one person’s dream requires many midwives. I am happy to carry my writing dream, nurture it, and let it gestate. I am grateful for the many people in my life who have offered love and grace to my journey– who have, if even for moments– been midwives to the life inside of me. But I am aware that reality is very stubborn. So, today, I find myself telling reality that I am more patient, more creative, and more persistent than it. I want to discover many “Lopez Islands” in my life– those places where reality gets to participate in my dreams.
Monday, July 7, 2008
A Celebration of Dancing Feet
I am captivated by this 4-minute video.
An ordinary guy from Seattle started traveling around the world doing this silly dance and videotaping himself in different countries. He puts the clips on the internet. He gets semi-famous. A gum company (Strident) then hears about him and decides to pay for him to keep traveling all over the world and videotaping his silly dance, with others joining in. What he created is hard to put to words. It is a stunning piece of art. Trust me. You need to stop whatever you are doing and watch this.
May I recommend that you watch this video in the largest version you can on your computer screen. You'll need to see the human faces from all over the world.
You can get more information about this guy and his travels here.
On an annoyingly comical note, I read on his blog this story of someone who wrote into him (thousands of people write to him) who had this profound insight to share about his adventures:
"My question is what's the point? Has nothing to do with gum except raising the price because they're sending Matt all over the world for no particular reason. What's it have to do with gum? Are you doing anything on these trips? How about spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ and saving some souls."
My question is do some people try to be this annoying or does it come naturally?
Geesh.
Can you really watch this video and miss the beauty of God and humanity that is utterly on display here? I think there is more wonder and worship and joy in life here than in many church pews....
An ordinary guy from Seattle started traveling around the world doing this silly dance and videotaping himself in different countries. He puts the clips on the internet. He gets semi-famous. A gum company (Strident) then hears about him and decides to pay for him to keep traveling all over the world and videotaping his silly dance, with others joining in. What he created is hard to put to words. It is a stunning piece of art. Trust me. You need to stop whatever you are doing and watch this.
May I recommend that you watch this video in the largest version you can on your computer screen. You'll need to see the human faces from all over the world.
You can get more information about this guy and his travels here.
On an annoyingly comical note, I read on his blog this story of someone who wrote into him (thousands of people write to him) who had this profound insight to share about his adventures:
"My question is what's the point? Has nothing to do with gum except raising the price because they're sending Matt all over the world for no particular reason. What's it have to do with gum? Are you doing anything on these trips? How about spreading the gospel of Jesus Christ and saving some souls."
My question is do some people try to be this annoying or does it come naturally?
Geesh.
Can you really watch this video and miss the beauty of God and humanity that is utterly on display here? I think there is more wonder and worship and joy in life here than in many church pews....
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Pilgrimming
I look out my window at Seattle and reaffirm my love for her…
even as something in my wise gut tells me she probably doesn’t have me for keeps. So much of me just wants to hunker down in this city and end my twenties here and build my thirties here. I adore her; she was the first city I really ever fell for. Before that, I never considered myself a city girl. I liked wide-open spaces. Too much pavement made my soul feel claustrophobic.
This weekend I traveled to Yakima, Washington for a wedding, and I remembered again how restful I feel with wide-open landscape, crickets in the evening, and the conspicuous absence of sirens. My friends and I built a fort and slept outside on the porch; somehow, it felt like being a kid again, and I loved it. Who knew little old Yakima, Washington could sweep me off my feet? I wish I could rent a cabin and have a writing retreat there. I want to hear crickets, drink evening tea, and write stories.
This next weekend I am traveling again, but this time to a city– Indianapolis. This will be my second trip back to the Mid-west in 3 months to attend a conference. I love exploring a new place and I so admire the women who are putting on the conference, so I am pretty thrilled at the chance to go. The conference is on Christian Feminism (and you thought that was an oxymoron.) It is run by the Evangelical and Ecumenical Women’s Caucus; I found out in early June that a full scholarship (including my airfare and hotel) was being provided for me. Incredible!
I will be meeting some wonderful writers (including Letha Dawson Scanzoni, a new friend of mine), as well as hopefully talking with some professors of Women’s Studies and Literature. I noticed several of the speakers at the conference have backgrounds in the academic disciplines in which I am interested.
It is time for me to get serious about graduate school applications in the fall. I am currently looking at programs in Literature and Cultural Studies, which would let me look at books as cultural artifacts, and then I could bring in studies of psychology, religion and feminism. My heart starts to flutter when I imagine being back in a classroom. It is hard for me to stay out for too long…but the process of being accepted in somewhere won’t be easy. And the process of being open to moving will take some time in my heart, too.
even as something in my wise gut tells me she probably doesn’t have me for keeps. So much of me just wants to hunker down in this city and end my twenties here and build my thirties here. I adore her; she was the first city I really ever fell for. Before that, I never considered myself a city girl. I liked wide-open spaces. Too much pavement made my soul feel claustrophobic.
This weekend I traveled to Yakima, Washington for a wedding, and I remembered again how restful I feel with wide-open landscape, crickets in the evening, and the conspicuous absence of sirens. My friends and I built a fort and slept outside on the porch; somehow, it felt like being a kid again, and I loved it. Who knew little old Yakima, Washington could sweep me off my feet? I wish I could rent a cabin and have a writing retreat there. I want to hear crickets, drink evening tea, and write stories.
This next weekend I am traveling again, but this time to a city– Indianapolis. This will be my second trip back to the Mid-west in 3 months to attend a conference. I love exploring a new place and I so admire the women who are putting on the conference, so I am pretty thrilled at the chance to go. The conference is on Christian Feminism (and you thought that was an oxymoron.) It is run by the Evangelical and Ecumenical Women’s Caucus; I found out in early June that a full scholarship (including my airfare and hotel) was being provided for me. Incredible!
I will be meeting some wonderful writers (including Letha Dawson Scanzoni, a new friend of mine), as well as hopefully talking with some professors of Women’s Studies and Literature. I noticed several of the speakers at the conference have backgrounds in the academic disciplines in which I am interested.
It is time for me to get serious about graduate school applications in the fall. I am currently looking at programs in Literature and Cultural Studies, which would let me look at books as cultural artifacts, and then I could bring in studies of psychology, religion and feminism. My heart starts to flutter when I imagine being back in a classroom. It is hard for me to stay out for too long…but the process of being accepted in somewhere won’t be easy. And the process of being open to moving will take some time in my heart, too.
Friday, June 6, 2008
For Your Viewing Pleasure
So, I think this 3-minute youtube clip is hilarious.
Maybe you have to be an aspiring writer to think it's so funny. I am not sure. But every time I want to distract myself from writing, I am tempted to watch this...again.
Maybe you have to be an aspiring writer to think it's so funny. I am not sure. But every time I want to distract myself from writing, I am tempted to watch this...again.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Ted.com
Have you discovered this web site? You need to.
There are fabulous 20 minute talks by some of the world's most interesting people. Who doesn't have 20 minutes to be inspired?
I recommend the talk by Malcom Gladwell on how to be happy. You can click here to listen.
Oh gosh, I still have such a writer-crush on this guy. His great hair, his high-anxiety body language, his New York Times bestselling books...so adorable. I thought I had transferred my crush to Yann Martel, but I am smitten all over again by Malcolm.
Sigh.
There are fabulous 20 minute talks by some of the world's most interesting people. Who doesn't have 20 minutes to be inspired?
I recommend the talk by Malcom Gladwell on how to be happy. You can click here to listen.
Oh gosh, I still have such a writer-crush on this guy. His great hair, his high-anxiety body language, his New York Times bestselling books...so adorable. I thought I had transferred my crush to Yann Martel, but I am smitten all over again by Malcolm.
Sigh.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Words on Words
What I have learned about words is that they don’t respond well to control. They prefer surrender and freedom. They ask that I trust them a bit more. As Anne Lamott says, they wouldn’t mind if I would just learn that it is ok to make a mess. It is perfectly alright to splatter them over the page and trust…because the subconscious force of writing, that force which makes all the surprise and the energy, gets locked up when I am afraid of coloring outside the lines.
If words are my paint, and the page is my canvass, than I am invited to stand before the easel quite differently– than, say, if my words were little controlled specimens in a lab experiment. Last summer, when I finger painted for the first time since I was 7, I tasted something of this messy, colorful process that I would like to try with my words on a page.
But, as far as I can tell, there are two reasons I don’t trust making a mess. Very basically, I don’t trust I can clean it up. I am just learning to believe that in the disorder something will emerge that guides the telling of the story, and that I can trust the story. And the second reason I fear messes, is that I feel out of control and I simply hate looking at incompletion. I get anxious when I have to look down on the “shitty first draft” as Anne Lamott dubs it. I like to be in control (I know that will shock most of you.) And so, it is fascinating that I, at the moment, seem to be choosing words for my life vocation.
I spend most of my days wrestling with them; they are quite devilish.
If words are my paint, and the page is my canvass, than I am invited to stand before the easel quite differently– than, say, if my words were little controlled specimens in a lab experiment. Last summer, when I finger painted for the first time since I was 7, I tasted something of this messy, colorful process that I would like to try with my words on a page.
But, as far as I can tell, there are two reasons I don’t trust making a mess. Very basically, I don’t trust I can clean it up. I am just learning to believe that in the disorder something will emerge that guides the telling of the story, and that I can trust the story. And the second reason I fear messes, is that I feel out of control and I simply hate looking at incompletion. I get anxious when I have to look down on the “shitty first draft” as Anne Lamott dubs it. I like to be in control (I know that will shock most of you.) And so, it is fascinating that I, at the moment, seem to be choosing words for my life vocation.
I spend most of my days wrestling with them; they are quite devilish.
Monday, May 19, 2008
My Writing Retreat
It was a lovely weekend by the sea.
I took another writing retreat (these are getting more common in my life), but this one was much more restful and rejuvenating. I admit, I was rather proud of myself, because I think I am getting much better at cultivating a creative process that is actually enjoyable, and not just obsessive and exhausting. Last time I went to the cabin to write, I took one sorry little excursion away from my computer. This time, I allowed myself ample time to roam around the cliffs overlooking the sea, read poetry, lay in the sunshine, and make delicious food. I usually gave myself three writing sessions a day that were about 1-2 hours long; I discovered that having limits for my work time and giving myself rewards was a much happier and even more efficient way to go.
I had such a delightful time, AND I wrote some decent stuff. I think writing is getting easier for me…slowly.
The illustrious Mr. Rigsby joined me for a day, as well, and my stomach muscles are still sore from laughing so much. He wins the award for the person most likely to crack me up. He did a good job of letting me work, and he did a good job of encouraging me to go lay by the pool, too. Mr. Rigsby is very skilled at loafing–among his other talents, of course– so he is teaching me how also to loaf. The first hot sunshine of the summer was an excellent invitation to leave the cabin, abandon my words, and just go play outside. As usual, I have beaten Mr. Rigsby at acquiring the first summer tan (don’t worry, I even use sunscreen), and I am still as vain as ever about this 13 year competition between us.
All in all, it was very hard to come back from the weekend. When I got home last night, I bought dinner and sat out on the grass at 10 p.m., just sort of picnicking on a beautiful summer evening and refusing to go inside. These summer days are glorious, but the summer nights might be even more exquisite. Last evening, there was that warm, refreshing breeze that I haven’t felt since last August.
I took another writing retreat (these are getting more common in my life), but this one was much more restful and rejuvenating. I admit, I was rather proud of myself, because I think I am getting much better at cultivating a creative process that is actually enjoyable, and not just obsessive and exhausting. Last time I went to the cabin to write, I took one sorry little excursion away from my computer. This time, I allowed myself ample time to roam around the cliffs overlooking the sea, read poetry, lay in the sunshine, and make delicious food. I usually gave myself three writing sessions a day that were about 1-2 hours long; I discovered that having limits for my work time and giving myself rewards was a much happier and even more efficient way to go.
I had such a delightful time, AND I wrote some decent stuff. I think writing is getting easier for me…slowly.
The illustrious Mr. Rigsby joined me for a day, as well, and my stomach muscles are still sore from laughing so much. He wins the award for the person most likely to crack me up. He did a good job of letting me work, and he did a good job of encouraging me to go lay by the pool, too. Mr. Rigsby is very skilled at loafing–among his other talents, of course– so he is teaching me how also to loaf. The first hot sunshine of the summer was an excellent invitation to leave the cabin, abandon my words, and just go play outside. As usual, I have beaten Mr. Rigsby at acquiring the first summer tan (don’t worry, I even use sunscreen), and I am still as vain as ever about this 13 year competition between us.
All in all, it was very hard to come back from the weekend. When I got home last night, I bought dinner and sat out on the grass at 10 p.m., just sort of picnicking on a beautiful summer evening and refusing to go inside. These summer days are glorious, but the summer nights might be even more exquisite. Last evening, there was that warm, refreshing breeze that I haven’t felt since last August.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Introducing Nick Vu
I have been meaning to introduce Nick Vu to you for quite a while, because he is going to be famous, and it will be extraordinarily fun for me that you first heard about him on my blog. Nick Vu is one of those people who is destined to catalyze large-scale social trends, like the tech genius who started Facebook or the unknown mastermind who got legions of men to sport the faux hawk in cities across America. Nick Vu is currently working on a top-secret project, and you can go to http://waxartistic.com/ to find out more.
Nick Vu is also one of the founding members of West Wing, a group of 4 of us who meet twice a month to provide support to each other as we envision and create what we want in our lives. (This group has been absolutely necessary for me as I write my book.) Each of us is taking risks towards our goals, and we check in on our fears, our desires, our dreams, our roadblocks, and our sleeping strategies. (Some of us are a wee bit obsessive compulsive, so we need to be reminded to sleep.)
Nick Vu is trained in cognitive behavioral psychology. He likes data and charts, and so he is good for the rest of us. All the other members of West Wing are trained in interpersonal therapy, so we like to talk at great length about the deep treasure trove of our unconscious and how it's effecting our style of relating, but Nick Vu wants to make Excel spreadsheets of whether we met our goals for the week. He balances us out, and we balance him out, so it’s very good.
You should also know that Nick Vu also raids the public libraries more than anyone I know. He averages about 50 books a year, which he listens to on CDs or his IPod. The man has brilliant ideas churning in his head.
And finally, you should know that Nick Vu comes over to my house every Monday morning for a 2.5-hour study hall and then a lunch break. We set our timers and we work; he works on his top-secret project, and I work on my book. We are very studious and there is very little talking. At 11:45, we break for lunch. He brings random ingredients, we look through my cupboards for more random ingredients, and we create culinary masterpieces. Nick Vu actually enjoys eating as much as I do. One day, I think he and I should write a cookbook together.
(And yes, for some reason it has become fashionable for us to refer always to one other with our surnames included. He calls me KimGeorge, like it's one word.)
Saturday, May 3, 2008
New Article
I have a new article up at theooze.com for those interested. It is on domestic violence, so not exactly happy reading. I think I need my next article to be about the happier sides of life...but for those interested in DV, here it is.
I didn't exactly get rave reviews on the last article I wrote for them (one reader pretty much condemned me to hell), so things can only get better, right? Here goes....
I didn't exactly get rave reviews on the last article I wrote for them (one reader pretty much condemned me to hell), so things can only get better, right? Here goes....
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Holy Matrimony
My sister Shannon’s wedding this weekend was a blast. Highlights included:
1. Riding the famous Spokane carousal right before the wedding. The whole wedding party participated in the frivolity, inspired by Shannon of course, who is always up for having a good time and making a public spectacle.
2. Seeing my sister and her new husband tango dance. They are incredible. My mom and I were doing a pretty good job not crying until we saw them dance together. That’s when the Kleenex was especially needed.
3. Hearing the toasts and giving the toasts. Heather’s was amazing– a good mix of serious and funny from the older sister. I think Marcie (Shanny’s best friend) and I did a good job with ours too; it was pretty much all humor, and we had lots of props. The basic idea was providing Jason with a marriage survival kit (it included items like Chemistry for Dummies so he could communicate with my scientist sister and a few other items…some of them ever so slightly scandalous :).
4. Busting a move with my younger cousins on the dance floor, even if they don’t know who Madonna is! (What!) Also, turns out my long-time neighbor Matt (who I haven’t really hung out with since we played basketball in the driveway when we were 8) is a terrific dancer, because he was happy to be as silly as me. I also made my uncles dance with me. All in all, I got in the necessarily twirling and dipping, even without a proper date.
5. Staying in a fancy hotel. Yep, the night before the wedding I somehow got very lucky and got to stay at a quaint old downtown hotel. “Mom,” I said, “I feel like a princess.” “Kimberly, dear, you always feel that way,” says my mother. Ok, that’s maybe true. But, when I have fluffy down comforters and fancy cucumber shampoo I especially feel like a princess.
6. Being with my family. We had 200 plus people at the wedding. It is so wonderful to be part of a family where people come from all over the country to celebrate. I felt very rich.
7. Having approximately 47 people at the wedding ask me when I was getting married (ok, so my feelings on this last item are entirely sarcastic–such is the plight of being the last unmarried daughter).
All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. Between Michigan and the wedding, I am having trouble transitioning to everyday life. I have one more trip planned home again this weekend for Bloomsday festivities (that’s the race my family runs every year). Then, I will settle back into Seattle.
1. Riding the famous Spokane carousal right before the wedding. The whole wedding party participated in the frivolity, inspired by Shannon of course, who is always up for having a good time and making a public spectacle.
2. Seeing my sister and her new husband tango dance. They are incredible. My mom and I were doing a pretty good job not crying until we saw them dance together. That’s when the Kleenex was especially needed.
3. Hearing the toasts and giving the toasts. Heather’s was amazing– a good mix of serious and funny from the older sister. I think Marcie (Shanny’s best friend) and I did a good job with ours too; it was pretty much all humor, and we had lots of props. The basic idea was providing Jason with a marriage survival kit (it included items like Chemistry for Dummies so he could communicate with my scientist sister and a few other items…some of them ever so slightly scandalous :).
4. Busting a move with my younger cousins on the dance floor, even if they don’t know who Madonna is! (What!) Also, turns out my long-time neighbor Matt (who I haven’t really hung out with since we played basketball in the driveway when we were 8) is a terrific dancer, because he was happy to be as silly as me. I also made my uncles dance with me. All in all, I got in the necessarily twirling and dipping, even without a proper date.
5. Staying in a fancy hotel. Yep, the night before the wedding I somehow got very lucky and got to stay at a quaint old downtown hotel. “Mom,” I said, “I feel like a princess.” “Kimberly, dear, you always feel that way,” says my mother. Ok, that’s maybe true. But, when I have fluffy down comforters and fancy cucumber shampoo I especially feel like a princess.
6. Being with my family. We had 200 plus people at the wedding. It is so wonderful to be part of a family where people come from all over the country to celebrate. I felt very rich.
7. Having approximately 47 people at the wedding ask me when I was getting married (ok, so my feelings on this last item are entirely sarcastic–such is the plight of being the last unmarried daughter).
All in all, it was a fantastic weekend. Between Michigan and the wedding, I am having trouble transitioning to everyday life. I have one more trip planned home again this weekend for Bloomsday festivities (that’s the race my family runs every year). Then, I will settle back into Seattle.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Michigan Joys
Thank you to those of you sending me thoughts and prayers while I was in Michigan! I had a rich time at the writers’ conference this past week. I felt surrounded by brilliance and creativity– the conference organizers had brought in amazing speakers and writers. Here are some highlights:
1. Listening to Yann Martel, author of Life of Pi: He was one of the most eloquent, humble, and imaginative speakers I can remember hearing in a long time. I still get chills! He also has a witty and pointed sense of humor. He has a blog at whatisstephenharperreading.ca, which keeps a record of a series of books that he sends every 2 weeks to his prime minister. The prime minister of Canada, says Martel, has a very low view of the arts, so Martel thought he would help him out by sending him good literature, enclosed with a letter to describe to Stephen Harper the gifts found in that particular book. The most recent April package for the prime minister had a copy of Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Martel might just be my new famous–and–forty–something author crush. You should read his blog. His mind and imagination are just fabulous.
2. Hearing Katherine Patterson read from her children’s literature: She brought me to tears. She is a regal woman, and hearing her read from the books I read as a child brought me right back to being 11 years old and turning the pages of Bridge to Terabithia. She brings children rich, full, and imaginative stories. When she spoke, she had such a high sense of the nature of play involved in the creative process. Her final words, which were also the ending words of the conference as she was the last speaker, invoked us all as writers to “go play.” It was divine for me. (For those of you know how obsessed I am with working–and how much I need to learn to play again as a writer–you will see the glorious message for me.)
3. Meeting with an editor from HarperCollins: This was truly a little thrill for me along the way in my writing process. I had sent in a book proposal to the conference a few months back, and mine had been seen by an editor at HarperOne, the spiritual division of HarperCollins, and she had contacted me for a meeting to discuss the project.
4. Being on a college campus in the Midwest: I really liked the green, wide–open spaces of Calvin’s campus. I loved just being on a college campus and walking around discovering the paths, bridges, and little ponds. Calvin is so charming and Michigan is beautiful. The sun was out and spring was in full bloom.
5. Listening to Davis Bunn teach writing: I was so inspired by this man as he taught the elements of good storytelling, because I realized I needed to just not work harder but “work smarter.” He has so much to say, and I wanted to run home and start revising my 100 pages of drafts. He lives in England, but I hope to find other conferences he teaches at in the States. Good writing teachers are like gold!
1. Listening to Yann Martel, author of Life of Pi: He was one of the most eloquent, humble, and imaginative speakers I can remember hearing in a long time. I still get chills! He also has a witty and pointed sense of humor. He has a blog at whatisstephenharperreading.ca, which keeps a record of a series of books that he sends every 2 weeks to his prime minister. The prime minister of Canada, says Martel, has a very low view of the arts, so Martel thought he would help him out by sending him good literature, enclosed with a letter to describe to Stephen Harper the gifts found in that particular book. The most recent April package for the prime minister had a copy of Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Martel might just be my new famous–and–forty–something author crush. You should read his blog. His mind and imagination are just fabulous.
2. Hearing Katherine Patterson read from her children’s literature: She brought me to tears. She is a regal woman, and hearing her read from the books I read as a child brought me right back to being 11 years old and turning the pages of Bridge to Terabithia. She brings children rich, full, and imaginative stories. When she spoke, she had such a high sense of the nature of play involved in the creative process. Her final words, which were also the ending words of the conference as she was the last speaker, invoked us all as writers to “go play.” It was divine for me. (For those of you know how obsessed I am with working–and how much I need to learn to play again as a writer–you will see the glorious message for me.)
3. Meeting with an editor from HarperCollins: This was truly a little thrill for me along the way in my writing process. I had sent in a book proposal to the conference a few months back, and mine had been seen by an editor at HarperOne, the spiritual division of HarperCollins, and she had contacted me for a meeting to discuss the project.
4. Being on a college campus in the Midwest: I really liked the green, wide–open spaces of Calvin’s campus. I loved just being on a college campus and walking around discovering the paths, bridges, and little ponds. Calvin is so charming and Michigan is beautiful. The sun was out and spring was in full bloom.
5. Listening to Davis Bunn teach writing: I was so inspired by this man as he taught the elements of good storytelling, because I realized I needed to just not work harder but “work smarter.” He has so much to say, and I wanted to run home and start revising my 100 pages of drafts. He lives in England, but I hope to find other conferences he teaches at in the States. Good writing teachers are like gold!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
If It Ain't Got That Swing...
I am trying to go to bed, but I just went out swing dancing and my being is too excited to sleep. It has been so long since I have been on the dance floor and I almost forget the thrill of it all. Swing is so playful, creative, mutual, and spontaneous. I spent a whole evening not thinking¬¬– just being in the moment, and it was so good for my heart.
I love how you can never tell by first judgment what kind of dance you will create with a stranger. Sometimes I am so surprised! You can find this connection on the dance floor you would never think if you were off the dance floor. I love the guys who lead with so much openness to responding to the woman; who provide structure, but give up control of the dance and let it be a co–created, organic process. So amazing. My favorite dance partner tonight was probably 50 years old. I had absolutely no anxiety, even though he was an incredible dancer (I usually get nervous with the really good ones). But in these dances, all my creativity came out, and we both just delighted in this graceful and energetic mix of improv and traditional steps. One observer told me she thought the dance looked so intuitive that we must have been dancing together for a long time. Off the dance floor, I would never have supposed connection with this stranger.
I was in heaven all night. I must do this more; but then, not every night on the dance floor is always this magical. I think those dances were sent just for my weary heart.
I love how you can never tell by first judgment what kind of dance you will create with a stranger. Sometimes I am so surprised! You can find this connection on the dance floor you would never think if you were off the dance floor. I love the guys who lead with so much openness to responding to the woman; who provide structure, but give up control of the dance and let it be a co–created, organic process. So amazing. My favorite dance partner tonight was probably 50 years old. I had absolutely no anxiety, even though he was an incredible dancer (I usually get nervous with the really good ones). But in these dances, all my creativity came out, and we both just delighted in this graceful and energetic mix of improv and traditional steps. One observer told me she thought the dance looked so intuitive that we must have been dancing together for a long time. Off the dance floor, I would never have supposed connection with this stranger.
I was in heaven all night. I must do this more; but then, not every night on the dance floor is always this magical. I think those dances were sent just for my weary heart.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Almost Springtime Thoughts
Today there were fat snowflakes falling on the cherry blossoms. I sat at my table at Pete’s Coffee with my usual Friday writing group, enjoying my view of Green Lake. Quite contentedly, I watched Seattle’s version of a blizzard. The other day I just had had a moment of panic when I realized that winter is very nearly gone and I needed to start savoring the limited time left to wear scarves. But, I don’t think it is quite time yet to panic over such things.
This afternoon at 5:00 when the sun came out, I walked to the post office and put my first book proposal in the mail. It is the culmination of 7 months of focused work, and still it feels like only a little seed. I have written about 100 pages of this book (rough draft, mind you!) and it all feels like seeds. Ok, maybe it’s more like the little Spring flowers just barely peeking above ground. It is amazing that something that could take so much work, heart, angst, and emotional resources, is still so young in its lifespan. I long for summer with this project– when I have the completed rough draft of the manuscript and I can more fully see the story it wants to be.
I gotta go! I am off to a bridal shower for my sister.
This afternoon at 5:00 when the sun came out, I walked to the post office and put my first book proposal in the mail. It is the culmination of 7 months of focused work, and still it feels like only a little seed. I have written about 100 pages of this book (rough draft, mind you!) and it all feels like seeds. Ok, maybe it’s more like the little Spring flowers just barely peeking above ground. It is amazing that something that could take so much work, heart, angst, and emotional resources, is still so young in its lifespan. I long for summer with this project– when I have the completed rough draft of the manuscript and I can more fully see the story it wants to be.
I gotta go! I am off to a bridal shower for my sister.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Taxes and Tulips and Sadness
Today I went to a tax accountant for the first time. As I was driving home in the dismal rain and reflecting on the thousands of dollars I owe the government (yikes), I remembered a Bible verse I think I learned when I was 13– “the peace of God will guard your heart.” I repeated it to myself and felt a mini soul exhale. Sometimes I surprise myself in my moments of rare equanimity, but my hunch is that when I get the most super–duper stressed out is just when all my mechanisms of denial operate at their best. So driving home and reflecting calmly on the 2493 dollars I don’t have that Mr. Sam is waiting for, I was either practicing a measure of surprising faith or just deciding I didn’t really feel like dealing too much with reality today.
Then, since it was such a rainy day, I went to the supermarket for soup. As I always do, I hung out in the flower section for a while perusing all the bouquets. I am usually just a window shopper when it comes to flowers, since they don’t make the budget of necessities. But, today the yellow and orange tipped tulips tempted me too much. And I bought them. I felt terribly guilty for spending 7 dollars on a bouquet of flowers and every step of the way home I vacillated on the foolishness of my splurge. But, I wanted to protest, it is such a dreary day and…I want to remember Spring is on its way…and who else was going to give me flowers…and isn’t this soul care to attend to beauty and invest in tulips for your kitchen counter? My pep talk didn’t work very well, though, because by the time I got home, I think I felt more stressed out and had more knots and fears in my stomach over a bouquet of tulips than thousands of dollars in taxes. Such is the brilliance of my system of worrying, in that I can project all fear onto 7 dollars just to forget 2, 493 dollars.
When I got home, I got a phone call. A friend of a friend– a thirty something woman– had gotten a headache this afternoon. She suffered a brain aneurysm and is now at Harborview with a prognosis without much hope.
So, now I am sitting here, aching and looking at tulips and praying. I am feeling how much of our lives get sold to moments of worries and fears and worries and fears that are such a foolish waste, because every day– every morning and afternoon and evening and friendship and birthday party and dance and song and loved one and flower bouquet and raindrop is always, always a gift. Life is so ridiculously precious. Why does it take tragedy to jolt that into me? I don't get this. Why do I pretend life is about so many things when it might just be about noticing we are alive and are receiving something so fragile and mysterious and exquisite that most of the time we just glimpse the gift we are living and breathing in?
Then, since it was such a rainy day, I went to the supermarket for soup. As I always do, I hung out in the flower section for a while perusing all the bouquets. I am usually just a window shopper when it comes to flowers, since they don’t make the budget of necessities. But, today the yellow and orange tipped tulips tempted me too much. And I bought them. I felt terribly guilty for spending 7 dollars on a bouquet of flowers and every step of the way home I vacillated on the foolishness of my splurge. But, I wanted to protest, it is such a dreary day and…I want to remember Spring is on its way…and who else was going to give me flowers…and isn’t this soul care to attend to beauty and invest in tulips for your kitchen counter? My pep talk didn’t work very well, though, because by the time I got home, I think I felt more stressed out and had more knots and fears in my stomach over a bouquet of tulips than thousands of dollars in taxes. Such is the brilliance of my system of worrying, in that I can project all fear onto 7 dollars just to forget 2, 493 dollars.
When I got home, I got a phone call. A friend of a friend– a thirty something woman– had gotten a headache this afternoon. She suffered a brain aneurysm and is now at Harborview with a prognosis without much hope.
So, now I am sitting here, aching and looking at tulips and praying. I am feeling how much of our lives get sold to moments of worries and fears and worries and fears that are such a foolish waste, because every day– every morning and afternoon and evening and friendship and birthday party and dance and song and loved one and flower bouquet and raindrop is always, always a gift. Life is so ridiculously precious. Why does it take tragedy to jolt that into me? I don't get this. Why do I pretend life is about so many things when it might just be about noticing we are alive and are receiving something so fragile and mysterious and exquisite that most of the time we just glimpse the gift we are living and breathing in?
Saturday, February 23, 2008
My Writing Life
This week I have the first article of a two part series being published at theooze.com entitled Rethinking the Sin of Sodom: What We Missed and Why It Matters.
I am curious to see the feedback I get, as I am essentially arguing this particular story of the Bible has pretty much nothing to do with modern notions of same–sex relationships (how it is almost always interpreted by evangelical churches). I did the research for this article last summer when I took a class on the Old Testament: I changed its original tone and format to try to make it more palatable for a larger audience.
On another writing note, for those who remember me mentioning last fall the article I was writing with Andy on homosexuality and Christianity, we heard back last week that it is being considered for Relief Journal.
(Its not a guarantee of acceptance, just some encouragement that the article made it to a good stage in their rounds of review. We shall see, but it brought a very large smile to our faces to hear from them.)
And as a final note, I just purchased a plane ticket to go to Michigan this April for the Festival of Faith and Writing. I am so thrilled for the opportunity to go, and encouraged that not being in school this semester is allowing me to focus so much on writing dreams...though I could not have imagined before how difficult it is to spend so many hours of the day (and night) creating words. It is a tremendous privilege to get to live into this part of my heart (I do love it), but the joy of it is rarely on the surface these days.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
An Excerpt from Chapter 1
"When I was a little girl, I used to lie down in the prickly grass of my front yard, sprawled snow-angel style. Looking up at the sky, I would watch puffs of lazy clouds while hoping, with all my heart, to feel the earth spinning through the universe. My 1st grade teacher had said that the planet was being hurled around a star, while spinning like a top, and I couldn’t believe the news. Laying in the grass, feeling the weight of my small body on the ground, I was determined to discover the tilt of the earth and the whirl of the ride. I could only imagine it would be something like the grown up rollers coasters I had pined for at Disneyland but hadn’t been allowed to go on, because the top of my head hadn’t quite met the marker on the Mickey Mouse sign. But, I was sure that if I just paid enough attention, I didn’t need Magic Mountain anyways, because I was already on the most sensational ride in the galaxy.
I have never felt the ride quite like I had hoped, but I think I might have gotten close. There were moments of soft sunshine on my face and cloud puffs in my eyes and hope in my heart where I would experience a subtle rush and wondered if it could have been…the wind of the twirling planet...."
I have never felt the ride quite like I had hoped, but I think I might have gotten close. There were moments of soft sunshine on my face and cloud puffs in my eyes and hope in my heart where I would experience a subtle rush and wondered if it could have been…the wind of the twirling planet...."
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Ending and Beginnings
With the New Year here, much seems like it has shifted in my little world. I finally made the rather illogical decision to withdraw from a grad program I am half–way through, in an effort to focus more of my mind, heart, and resources on getting into a PhD program where I can study the intersection of literature and psychology. I have loved my time at Mars Hill, but more and more I am realizing I don’t have the academic support to do the writing/projects/research I had hoped to do when I started. So, I won’t be in school this spring, but knowing my obsessive tendencies, I will be studying/researching many hours away in libraries around Seattle, hoping to prepare for getting into another program.
Not being in school will afford me the time to focus even more on my current book project, too. I just spent 4 days in the woods, Thoreau-like, trying to put together a book proposal. I think I left the cabin twice. I spent my time by a fire, drinking tea, and staring at my computer screen while I painfully typed away. Writing can be so blissful and it can be agony. This time, it was agony. I have a picture of the ocean as my background on my computer and the one time I did escape the cabin and walk to the beach, I was sort of aghast. So, this is what the real ocean looks like? Why hadn’t it crossed my mind to see the real thing, a five–minute walk from the heartache of my writers’ block?
I am just going to have to find balance. Working harder and harder is not going to get this book written, because I just go mad after about 4 days of staring at a screen. I need more fresh air and ocean breezes. Withdrawing from school only feeds my fears, which then feeds my obsessive impulses, which then effectively cramps the love which needs to be the fuel of this project. Aaack. Holly says this is just a season. I hope so, because I would like emerge from these anxieties and remember why I used to love playing with words.
Not being in school will afford me the time to focus even more on my current book project, too. I just spent 4 days in the woods, Thoreau-like, trying to put together a book proposal. I think I left the cabin twice. I spent my time by a fire, drinking tea, and staring at my computer screen while I painfully typed away. Writing can be so blissful and it can be agony. This time, it was agony. I have a picture of the ocean as my background on my computer and the one time I did escape the cabin and walk to the beach, I was sort of aghast. So, this is what the real ocean looks like? Why hadn’t it crossed my mind to see the real thing, a five–minute walk from the heartache of my writers’ block?
I am just going to have to find balance. Working harder and harder is not going to get this book written, because I just go mad after about 4 days of staring at a screen. I need more fresh air and ocean breezes. Withdrawing from school only feeds my fears, which then feeds my obsessive impulses, which then effectively cramps the love which needs to be the fuel of this project. Aaack. Holly says this is just a season. I hope so, because I would like emerge from these anxieties and remember why I used to love playing with words.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
