Blog prompt #3 week 2/8-2/14 (journal entry)

White Noise

Seventeen inches of snow quietly blanketed Pittsburgh last Friday night and paralyzed the city by morning. It stopped the roaring port authority buses. It muted rubber against pavement. Road conditions, weather updates, cancellations and closings dominated the local news until I silenced it as well.

Around early afternoon, as I was gazing out the window, still curled up on my couch and sipping a cup of coffee,  I watched people crawl out from their caves to slip and slide in the white ocean. A team of four emerged from my building. Armed with shovels, a broom and windshield scraper, they trudged to one of the mounds  marking the edge of a side street. Within 15 minutes, a gray compact car was resurrected. Later, a youth knocked on my door, shovel in hand, and made an offer to clear the walk way.

I was stunned, but not by the daunting task of scraping and shoveling my own car. Millions of crystallized flakes ushered in other possibilities. The absence of sound frequencies detected by my ears was startling. Silence screamed. Seventeen inches beneath the surface, I was aware of inhaling and exhaling. I was aware of my heartbeat. I could see the tiny vein in my thumb pulse. I could hear the Divine whisper. "Be still and know that I am God," it said. It continued.

I was so unaware. I was unaware of my emptiness and  deadened to my physical surroundings until I heard that voice.  The voice of the Divine awakened me. The cold, snow and ice around my soul was being scraped and shoveled. Perhaps this is why some of the religious devout take vows of silence. It's like fasting for the soul. They know that the silence will pave the way to the stillness they yearn for where the stillness will have the space to speak.

The stillness spoke the earth into existence. It will continue to speak long after the earth returns to dust. On the eve of the next snow fall, I do not despair or succumb to depression because I know that the stillness will speak to me again.

Place entry #3 (week of Feb.1-7)

Will you believe me when?

Will you believe me, dear child of mine, when I promise you that you will become pregnant once you are long past childbearing age and have a son, and through this son, I make the great nation of Israel? Will you believe me?

Will you believe me, dear child of mine, when I promise you that, buried beneath 17 inches of new snow, lies a small pond in this very spot, despite the fact that you've never seen it? 

Will you believe me, dear child of mine, when I promise you that the dove you sent out will return with an olive branch and these flood waters will subside. I'll even send you rainbow as an added bonus! You believed me enough to build the boat!

Will you believe me, dear child of mine, when I promise you that beneath this icy facade, water still flows and will continue to flow when the ice melts?

Will you believe me, dear child of mine, when I promise you that I am with you  in the midst of this frustrating chaos of super high wind and waves - and if you work to keep your energy focused on me - rather than the chaos,  that I will lift you up and help you navigate these troubled waters?

Will you believe me, dear child of mine, when I promise you that, all in due time, my warmth will melt away every single snow flake, even though you feel cold and hemmed in from every side right now?

Will you believe me, dear, precious child of mine, if I was to tell you that I am preparing a spouse who will be suited for you, and that I'll arrange the meeting in due time? Would you believe me?

Place entry #2 - week of 1/25-1/31

Anne Putnam Mallinson Pond, 1961; dedicated on Oct. 25, 2008, reads the plaque attached to a small boulder near an oblong shaped pond behind Mellon Building on Chatham campus. Due to fluctuating outdoor temperatures, the pond appears to have three different regions at the surface. A small artificial fountain where water flows in three thin prongs keeps the water liquified  at the southern edge. In the middle, a thin layer of ice persists, and transparent enough to reveal oat-colored leaves blanketing the bottom. At the north end, a few feet away, a thin layer of snow remains, concealing thicker ice and the bottom.

The sound of flowing, bubbling, cascading water always calls me home. If I listen carefully enough, it sings and laughs. A closer look into the water and a careful listen will reveal its story and my own.

Snow and ice silenced and immobilized me in my 20s. Frozen. Paralyzed. Blind. I was unable to see through people in order to assess their character and unable to see myself. Medicated on prozac, I was thrashing within a deep dark abyss, desperately trying to break through to the surface if not just for one gasp of air before feeling shoved back down again.  My hopes and dreams were frozen.  I was in hibernation. I was functioning, but not living. An invisible evil had seized my brain, partially distorting reality, and who I should trust. The person to whom I gave everything was destroying me one cell at a time.

Around the bend toward my 30s, the sun rose and miraculously shined into my soul, slowly melting away the darkness. An unhealthy relationship gradually came into focus. People could see through me. Some knew how to respond, others didn't. I wasn't yet ready to acknowledge and release the pain.

I'm now swimming closer and closer toward the water of life. At times I may appear to simply tread water, and when I move, my strokes are far from perfect, but I am definitely flowing and bubbling above water. I'm learning to breathe. I'm learning to float and find rest. I'm allowing the healing to wash over me. When the tears come, I freely release them.

Life lessons are learned in phases and sometimes resemble the different phases of water. We have all endured challenges during the ice phase and a melting of some sort. We are at our healthiest and most productive when we feel free to be who we are and allow the healing waters to wash over us.

Place entry 1: week of Jan. 18-24

THE SON REIGNS

I study the clouds as they roll and tumble across the sky and shiver in the blustery wind. I gaze at their dim reflections in the small pond. Birds soar up above and complain in the small cluster of trees west of the pond. I'd like to sqawk myself, or at least shift to their perspective. I'd like to scramble higher to catch a glimpse of the big picture as well. If I had wings, I could climb as high as the clouds.

These are the same clouds my ancestors studied to predict  weather conditions as they cultivated their land and tended their animals. Did they find their answers in these clouds? Did they find purpose and meaning in these dancing patterns? Did the clouds pour when it was needed and reveal the sky when sun was needed? Not always. Clouds were as unpredictable as life. My ancestors didn't often find answers they wanted when looking up, but they learned to accept whatever rained down.

Today the skies are their usual dull, slate gray, reflecting some grayness of my soul. Answers I seek  from up above are not raining, or ever dripping. Instead, circumstances that I don't want pelt down, stinging my eyes and bluring my vision. Like Noah, I am safe and protected in my boat, but I need to wait for the waters to recede before emerging onto dry land. Like Noah, I long for the sun to break through and truth to shine.

Rain quenches dry land and sustains life. Without it, I would not be mindful to cherish the sun. Let the rain drip, pitter patter and splash. Let the thunder roar. Someone, somewhere is grateful. Someone is receiving answers. We are not ignored.

The same Hand of Providence who sustained my ancestors a century ago continues in me. They knew knew that when the sun smiled through their teardrops, a rainbow would appear.  Just as they learned to immerse themselves in the goodness of those promises, I too, must learn to get a little wet.

Miracle on University Avenue, Des Moines

Imagine, for a moment, that you had just stepped into your car in the grocery store parking lot, and then feel a pistol pressed to your head and an order to get out of the car. Would you cooperate, or defend yourself? What if the perpetrator then whacks you on the head, shoves you onto the asphalt and peels away.

What Des Moines man Fred Bobenhouse did was stumble back into the store, bleeding and trembling, and ask an employee to call 911. Authorities tracked down the stolen car within minutes. Unfortunately, the carjacker put the pistol to his own head just before police confronted him.

This is only the beginning of the drama slowly unfolding in The Des Moines Register from the time the story first broke on December 22 to the follow up article published December 24. The carjacker was not your typical offender. In fact, Richard Brown had no criminal record. He was a law-abiding citizen according to family members, and was a car salesman until given the pink slip. The lousy economy hit him below the belt. He couldn't support his wife and young daughter.  His despair was mounting. The day he assaulted Bobenhouse, he was on his way to apply for food stamps. Tragically, despair won.

But here's the miracle:

According to The Des Moines Register, Bobenhouse said that he has forgiven Brown and that it's a shame the family has had to live through this. Bobenhouse's church, University Ave., has established a memorial fund. Bobenhouse has pledged more than $500. When Tiffany Brown, Richard's widow, heard about the church's gesture, she was overwhelmed.  "We believe this is the true meaning of a Christian," a relative added.

I don't know Bobenhouse or the Browns. I'm not a member of the church. All I know is the version published in the paper. Yet this story has so gripped my heart that I am compelled to share it. It teaches me to pray for compassion, and shed cynicism and bitterness. It teaches me to pray for gratitude, and shed discontent and fear - if only for today. It reminds me to shift from self-pity to awareness of what's within my control to help others. If an 84-year old man can practice forgiveness and mercy, then so can I.

My prayers also go to Tiffany Brown and her five-year-old daughter. How does a mother explain suicide to a little girl who apparently adored her father? May God have mercy on them now.

Thank you, Bobenhouse, for showing me that miracles still shine like a warm June sun in the midst of a bleak winter. And for opening my eyes to my blessings in the present moment.

Elizabeth Gilbert: Living a Life Uncommon and Unashamed

I had the privilege of attending Elizabeth Gilbert's debut reading of her new book  September 21 at  Carnegie Music Hall. The exact title of it now escapes me, but it's something like "Committed: Making Peace with Marriage" where she explores the mysteries of just what marriage is and isn't. It's due in the bookstores in December . . . or is that when the film version of "Eat, Pray, Love," starring Julia Roberts is released?

My memory fails me. I should have written this down. The new book continues where she ended in
"EPL," in which  she chronicles her quest for spiritual healing and renewal through Italy, India and Indonesia after a divorce.

A woman whom I'd met through DivorceCare in Manhattan Kansas shortly after I moved there three years ago told me about "EPL." We didn't have a clue who Elizabeth Gilbert was, but nevertheless, I was persuaded, and the earth stopped in its rotation for almost five days as I cried, laughed and underlined and dogeared pages all the way through. I can't speak for any other readers, but it inspired me to rethink and form a new paradigm about God in my previously unsuccessful attempts at "finding Him."

Although it wasn't a full house, her first words expressed genuine surprise and sincere gratitude to an audience of 98 percent women for showing up. She told a story of someone very excited to meet a certain author. Gilbert assumed this reader meant herself. No, this reader was much more interested in Barbara Kingsolver. Gilbert then went on to tell a story about how she missed a flight to another speaking engagement even though she had arrived at the airport five hours early. She may not consider herself a stand-up comic, but she definitely had us roaring with laughter at her scatterbrained and disorganized state of mind on that particular day at the airport.

Not only is she a beautiful strawberry blonde who can make you feel like you're her best friend on the page, she's also a wonderfully eloquent reader and speaker. Even when she's got a head cold and apologetically popping cough drops  every few minutes, you just want to give her a hug. 

During the question portion, someone asked her if it was difficult to get so personal in "EPL."  Gilbert puzzled over this for a moment and then said,

"There's not one unspoken thought in my  head. If I ran into you at the drugstore, I'd tell you whatever medication I may be taking." As if it had never occurred to Gilbert to not write every detail and that's part of what makes her so endearing and likeable. She's an open book.

When asked to give advice on writing, Gilbert said, "Personalize an experience and then universalize it." Interesting. That's more or less exactly what my creative nonfiction professor was teaching us last week.

I couldn't wait in line for hours behind other fans for your autograph and to thank you, so I'll do it here. Thank you, Elizabeth, for offering me hope in the midst of my despair. Thank you for not missing your flight to Pittsburgh last night. Thank you for coming, despite your cold.

Defining Success: how and for whom?

I've spent the last few weeks trying to decide what I want to do with this blog to make it more interesting, and even profitable. I've made some changes to the layout. Eventually I'll post a photo and update my profile. But the puzzling question of how to make this blog different and unique from all the other thousands of blogs readers could spend 10 minutes reading is related to a major dilemma all writers face: how to find the balance between writing what I think is important and relevant and writing what I think will please readers.

What can I write about that hasn't already been done in other arenas by much more talented writers?  Originally I was going to focus on spiritual issues and issues of faith. That's hardly fresh or original. What my creative non-fiction professor would say is that the challenge is  not in coming up with an original idea, but in how you present it. That's why all 15 of us show up for three-hour creative non-fiction class every Monday night - because no of us knows the answer to that question yet.

Perhaps teachers struggle with similar issues. It's most often not what they are teaching, but in how they  present what they are teaching to make it engaging for all students, that is most challenging.  Both teachers and writers have an audience. Every student walks into the classroom with a different background and level of experience and expectation, much like the average reader.

Aren't teaching and writing both artforms? And aren't all artforms subjective? So just how does a writer and a teacher define success? What one reader hates another loves. What one student loves another hates. Unfortunately, our culture always defines success  by the Almighty Dollar and test scores. Assessing student progress using only test scores is like measuring the talent of a writer based only on book sales.

A teacher might define success as a student approaching them and telling them how much he or she learned in the class, even if test scores were consistently low. I would consider myself a successful writer if a reader approached me to tell me they felt less alone or more understood or made different choices in their value system after reading my work, even if I never made any money with the material. 

Perhaps the real question I struggle with is not so much the what and the how, but rather in harnessing the power.  Being bold about what I think is important, without worrying about being offensive. I've been given a love for words and a desire to use them, but how and for whom? Is writing about God uninteresting and irrelevant at the dawn of the 21st century compared to David Letterman's latest top ten list, the Emmy Awards or health care reform?  What should intelligent, inquiring minds be focusing on?