still shining

Dear Sandra,

I always felt guilty when we joked about you being my Prince George/work mom, but all these years later yours was the first face I saw when asked to write a letter to my rescuer/mentor. 

I've been blessed with a lot of rescuers/mentors/teachers in my life. Parents who provided structure and guidance. Sisters who desperately wanted me to be less of a dork. School teachers who saw enough in me to pay attention. 

You, Sandra, are the person who reminded me to sparkle when all my sparkle was gone. That year after leaving my marriage, starting grad school, and finding myself single with two sons to support at the ripe old age of 30 was the worst hell I could imagine at the time (if only I'd known what was coming!). You watched and encouraged and hugged. You ran interference with our @sshole of a boss when necessary, and you scheduled my students so to minimise the number of idiots in my day. 

And you did so much more than that. Dinner. And listening. And telling me, as someone who had gone before, that the road would get easier. But what really stands out to me, more than a decade later, was one small thing you said when I thought no one had noticed. 

You sat down beside me, or maybe you stood with your hands on my shoulders so I couldn't look away, and you said "sweetie, you have to stop now. You've lost your sparkle." And we started making plans for how I could start living again. 

You pointed out that the boy who got tutoring from me probably didn't really NEED daily appointments, and that maybe if I smiled he'd get the nerve to ask me out. He did, and is to this day one of the most important people in my life. 

You reminded me to start taking care of myself. To have bubble baths. To go out with friends and leave the guilt behind. To create a future that would work for my sons and I rather than feeling guilt for the future I had denied them. 

It was a tough year. And now, looking back, with only the highlights visible in the distance of time, it was one of my favourite years. It was the year I learned to stand tall on my own. The year I learned the value of friendship. The year I learned that when I lose my sparkle, I'm the one who can find it again. And I learned that while mentors and teachers are a blessing, I don't really need rescuing. 

Thank you, Sandra. For warmth and humour and a good solid talking to. 

_______________________ 

Scintilla day 2 prompt:

No one does it alone. Write a letter to your rescuer or mentor (be it a person, book, film, record, anything). Share the way they lit up your path.

on containing multitudes

Sometimes people hit you with the big questions, and off you go down a rabbit hole. All day I've pondered this - who am I? 

Am I who I say I am? If I told you what I think of me, would that make it real? 

Or am I who you and the others around me say I am? Is the woman STG sees when he looks into my eyes any more or less real than the two-faced bitch someone else believes me to be? Am I determined by my status as a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a lover or an employee? 

Am I my thoughts? My choices? My actions?  

If you look closely, you will see I have my mom's nose. My dad's blue eyes. The unfortunate downturned mouth that so often gets mistaken - on my grandmother and me - for upset. 

Some might think I'm a hard-worker, and others think I'm lazy. I'm fatter than I should be, but not as fat as I once was. I'm tall, though just tall enough to need 'tall' pants and then wonder if I should get them hemmed. 

the author at age 12

I am a girl who dreams and a woman of action. 

I'm a small town girl who thrives in the city. I love gardening and hate getting my hands dirty. 

We are all so many things - as my favourite American poet so convivially said "I am large; I contain multitudes." There are as many things I am as those that I am not. 

I am not a fan of country music/horror movies/televised sports/cruelty. 

I am celiac. I am healthy. 

I cannot help smiling when sunlight dances on the water, when the cherry trees blossom in spring, and when I hear my sons laughing. 

It's fun, now and then, to stop and consider who we are. I say, I am love and adventure. And, in general, that is what shows up in my life. 

_________________________

This is my first response in the Scintilla Project, which I'll be participating in for the next 14 days: 

Day 1 - Prompt choices (either or both)

1. Who are you?
2. Life is a series of firsts. Talk about one of your most important firsts. What did you learn? Was it something you incorporated into your life as a result?

beginning again, again

“Don’t compare your beginning to someone else’s middle.” John Acuff *

Oh, that damn middle. Soft and fluffy like OREO filling, but so much less yummy. OH wait - we aren't talking about MY middle ... it's my middle that I so often compare to others and am found wanting.

And so I begin again. Another plan. Another hope. Another attempt to train my body to be what it seldom has been - strong, lean, satisfying.

It's not that different from my writing. Or anything else I undertake. I start great guns. I study and gather intel and hope and plan. I leap in headfirst. Then I swim to the edge. Sit awhile. Find my towel. Wander off to a quiet corner to read.

There isn't 'a time' - there is a habit. Yet another mental habit that doesn't serve me. I can hardly be in a room and not rank myself against the others there - fatter than those 5, younger than those 2, more intelligent than him for sure. More talented than that other one by half.

It's tiresome, and only serves to keep me separate and disconnected.

Speaking of middles, whenever I think of mine, I also think of this happy song ... and at least that makes me smile, if my middle doesn't. ;-) Enjoy:


_____________________________
* Prompt from Write on Edge, RemembeRED meme:


At home, our writing is crisp and emotional and slightly witty.

At home, we have lost at least two of those last five pounds and can make it through a workout without gasping for air.

But when we look around, mentally judging ourselves against better writers, faster runners, and people better at us at our passions, it can be difficult to measure our successes against our own goals.

Jon Acuff recently urged a room of writers, photographers, and entreupreneurs: “Don’t compare your beginning to someone else’s middle.”

This week we’d like you to write about a time you found yourself comparing yourself, unfavorably, with someone else.  Focus on how the comparison affected you, negatively or positively.

grace

Let's call her Grace. The woman struggling to support herself on our cast offs. Pushing her stolen shopping cart, her sorting system a series of bags tied to the outside. Her load uneven and wobbling on the broken pavement of King Street. I want to pat myself on the back for pulling over. I want congratulations and adulation for popping my trunk, pulling out the bag of returnables I've been driving around with and asking, like a fool, if she could use them. Let's call her Grace because she was gracious. Thankful without being effusive. Smiling. Bright-eyed. Focused on her work. 

Twice already this week the abstract concept of grace - grace with a lower-case G - has come up in my life. First Erika at RedHead Writing wrote about grace and crying and acting as if. It reminded me of an important lesson I'd learned last week from MissC - that you can't expect grace from people you don't trust with the whole story. And that when I show them the grace of sharing, the grace they show in return is ten-fold. 

And then yesterday at the most engaging and interesting networking lunch I've ever attended (if you're a business person of faith in Victoria and interested in networking with other business people of faith, shoot me a comment and I'll give you the details) we were reminded, before the discussion part of the afternoon, of the 4 rules of the group:

1. Don't be a jerk
2. Don't be a wuss
3. Have fun
4. Have grace

I love that combination. In fact, they seem somewhat repetitive, but perhaps they are the inner and out manifestations of each other - someone who has grace is unlikely to be a jerk. If you're having fun, you're less likely to wimp out. But what really struck me was the opportunity to have fun and grace simultaneously. 

I haven't been having - or been - a lot of fun lately. Despite all of STG's best efforts, I just haven't seemed to have the energy. He has shown me grace in this. As have friends like SC2 who invited me away for a weekend and didn't require any entertainment from me. People have shown me abundant grace. 

And now I'm ready to try to have some fun. I returned to my choir last night, at STG's prodding, and while it took an hour to get into it, I eventually remember that I love the music, to sing, to feel the words, to let myself move and be moved.

This fun thing is a weak muscle for me. I might look like I'm faking it at first, but I'm sure I'll remember how it works soon enough. 

mockingjay: review

Click to view on Amazon

Phew! It's over. In fact, it's been a few days since I finished reading the third and final book in The Hunger Games trilogy - Mockingjay. Perhaps if I'd remembered to blog about it immediately I'd have more access to the complete degree of mind-blowing-ness that is this book. 

Character development and depth is back. Mystery and surprise are back. Perfectly crafted sentences plunked down in the midst of action and mayhem are back. 

I am thrilled I read this trilogy. It is not something I would normally have read, and I thoroughly enjoyed Collins' skill at spinning and populating a world. In books 1 and 3 the characters are rich, engaging, growing, human. The plot is taut, and the setting a balance of recognizable and creative. 

Part of me wishes there could be a book 4, but the borderline trite ending basically precludes that, and it may be for the best. I am, however, very much looking forward to the film adaptations. I have a theory that young adult novels lend themselves more readily to film because they tend to be somewhat simpler than adult novels. We'll see in a month if that holds true for The Hunger Games trilogy.