Words Are Things

Words are things.  I am convinced.

You must be careful about the words you use, or the words you allow to be used in your house.

In the Old Testament, we are told in Genesis that in the beginning was the Word. And the Word was God, and the Word was with God.

That's in Genesis.

Words are things.

We must be careful, careful about calling people out of their names, using racial perjoratives and sexual perjoratives and all that ignorance.  Don't do that.

Someday we will be able to measure the power of words.

I think they are things.
I think they get on the walls,
they get in your wallpaper,
they get in your rugs,
in your upholstery,
and finally into you.

~Maya Angelou

In This Room

When we first moved into this home, this room was the first one we changed.

When I was about two weeks pregnant, we redecorated in a soft blue and yellow theme.  I painted puffy clouds on the ceiling (with good ventilation so we wouldn't damage the baby's growing neurosystem).

It suited us well.  It was Tucker's room, and then it was Tyler's.  Until we sold the crib and bought bunkbeds.  Then they became roommates down the hall.

Then, what to do with this powdery blue and yellow room that suddenly was so whimsical it made me nauseous? 

It became The Office.  Earth tones, greens and browns.  I think the wall color is something akin to 'butternut toast'.  We transformed the room on a dime, borrowing tricks from Trading Spaces.  The monstrous oak desk  migrated in here.  The 'changing table' became a credenza.  We made it work.  A shared space for the two of us: the filer and the piler.

But now, though, what to do with this space, now? 
Now that it's all mine. 

I kept the earth tones.
I kept the credenza.
I added bookshelves.
I added a reading corner, complete with a small table, a cozy (red floral) chair, and a reading lamp.
I took out the monstrous desk,
and I replaced it with a streamlined work space
just big enough for my laptop,
a picture frame,
and a bud vase.

With a daisy.

I knelt to the floor tonight, my face to the carpet.
I pictured dozens of clips from the many scenes in this room.
I rocked my babies, when they were sick or well, sleepy or not.
I wrestled many a boy into a fresh diaper.
I worshipped in here,
silently or loudly,
most often late at night.
I have journaled a million words.
I have danced in here,
alone - in praise,
with my boys - in silliness,
with my husband - in love.
I received the call from the coroner's office in this room.
I slipped away to this room many times on the day I became a widow, just to say that word to myself again and again.

Tonight, I dedicated this room once again.
"God, may you fill this space.  I give this to you, along with every word and thought that will come through this room.  May words land on the page.  And may you receive the glory."

Before we changed anything at all when we first moved in, Robb splattered 'R loves T' on the biggest wall, in splashy blue paint.  Beneath all these earth tones, there's a love note written to me.

I believe I can work in this room. 
I believe I will write a book in this space.

Respect the Artist

This may come as a surprise, but the industry of words is as varied as any. 

There are people who pride in mass production, and there are those who specialize in the handmade tapestry. 

There is grape KoolAid, and there is fine wine.  There are apples, and there are oranges.

There are dozens of websites that offer a quick frantic look at your paper the night before it is due, making sure your capitalization, punctuation, and grammar meet the minimum standard.  You will pay minimally for these.

There are those who can critique your manuscript, think like a publisher, read your story, and guide you to market the words you've given life.  This is neither editing nor writing, but it is critiquing.  You will pay differently for this.

There are wordsmiths who practice the art of language, who will craft your message in the most effective, efficient verbiage without losing your personal voice in the writing.  You will pay more for those.

Proofreading is a practiced science. 
Critiquing is an expert opinion. 
Writing is a crafted art.

Respect the artist: the craft isn't cheap.

And So I Will Write

As I write this story, it can take days, weeks, months for me to verbally construct the most important scenes of my story, the moments before and after the hingepoint of my life.  A draft of a complete chapter is the product of dozens of hours of writing and - what's more - a thousand vivid revisits to my bedroom on the morning of December 23.

Let me tell you, this process can lay patterns and pictures in a girl's mind that can begin to shape her days.

And so, I've been counseled, advised, and requested to please put such writing on hold.  At least until I live this season.  Live it, then write about it.

Except in living it, I'm remembering, recalling it, putting words to it.  Every single day.

And if I'm remembering it, I can't let it go.  It's how artists work: the idea simmers and stirs until it twists and starts, bursting to breathe.

I can't very easily put a lid on this pot.

After and throughout such a tragic crisis, many people have said, "I just needed to get back to work.  I needed to do my job, engage the routines of my mind, and do the familiar."

Writing is my work.  I am writing this story.  

In the early days of this year, people, kindly and wisely, said to me, "You should wait 3-6 months before you see a counselor, before you begin therapy."  I guess there is a theory that one's mind should recover from the trauma before healing can truly take place.

And yet I thought, and said to them, "But what do I do until then?"  Do I just sit in this until somebody sets me free to start putting the pieces together?

No.  I began therapy right away.  This has been one of my best decisions this year.

And here I am, faced with the questions: to write or not to write?  To revisit the trauma with words or only in my mind?  To get through this month or to write through it?

But how do I get through it if I don't write through it?

The final verdict, from the therapist who holds my deepest respect and all of my story: 

"Tricia, get writing.  Trust that need like you trust your appetites.  Just like you eat when you're hungry, please write when you're stirring.  When you feel like you've written enough, or if you feel like you're writing too much and pushing too hard, then give yourself a break.  If it's helping you, lean into it.  Get writing, girl."

And so I will write.  

Through sunshine and rain, 

Christmas lights and Christmas carols, 

silver bells and jingle bells, 

holding on and letting go,

I will write.  And this is how I will live.

And They are The Greats.

Ann Tyler says, "If I waited until I felt like writing, I'd never write at all."

Margaret Atwood says, "If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word."

And so I raise my glass: here's to untimely imperfection.

5280 Magazine

When I posted this a few weeks ago, I made a publication faux paus by jumping the gun before the professionals had made their debut.  With my sincere apologies to the writers and editors of 5280 magazine, I took down the post.  Today, the story hits the shelves.


5280 has been Denver's magazine since 1993.  They are a classic Denver read with all the best angles on anything happening in the Mile High.

I spoke at an event last fall, and one of the women in attendance is married to the Senior Staff Writer at 5280.  Kristen began following my blog, and when my world ruptured, she shared my story with her husband, Robert Sanchez.  Robert contacted me last summer to ask if he could tell our story in the magazine.  We have met many times over the last six months, he has studied our family with discretion and integrity, and the December issue of the magazine will feature his words.  This has been a 100% positive experience from beginning to end, and I have been honored to work with Robert and his team.  They give journalism a great name.

I met this week with 5280's photographer, Jeff Panis.  We met at Starbucks for our first impressions, and we talked over coffee and a banana.  He said I was a brave woman.  He said he had read my story.  He said I have a radiant smile.  He said the photos would be easy and fun.  He raised his coffee cup to life for the living, a mom who gets out of bed because she loves her kids, and a husband who would be proud to see the three of them moving forward, one step at a time.

He diffused my every apprehension.

He asked if I felt comfortable to offer my home as the site for the photo shoot. 

My first thought: The sink is filled with dishes, there is a layer of dust on virtually everything, and I haven't run the vacuum since June.

My second thought: If I'm going to tell this story, I'm going to tell the truth.  I don't have my act together.  My house is loved and lived in. 

"Let's do it."

We reconvened in my living room ten minutes later, and I made a quick sweep of the toys and string cheese wrappers from the living room floor before I opened the front door. 

Jeff chatted with me as he filled my living room with contraptions and equipment similar to Richard Haney's flight of the balloon boy.  He tested the lighting, the angles, the exposure.  He said photography is 90% preparation and 10% execution, so he had much to do before he really needed me at all. 

He asked if he could slip upstairs into the loft to add the lighting that would shine into the stairwell where I would sit for the photos.  (Sure, if you don't mind stepping over the piles of yesterday's unfinished laundry.)  While he was upstairs, I gathered the flip-flops, wayward socks, magazines, and washcloths that were strewn on the stairs; I piled them all on the coffee table. 

(It's a good thing I never claimed to win any Good Housekeeping Awards.  Otherwise I might have been nervous.  The good news is when you live the truth, you have no lies to remember.)

When he gave me the thumbs up, I took my place in the setting he had in mind: a casual posture on the carpeted steps, my elbows on my knees, my hands relaxed, and my face looking straight into the lens.

Here's the thing.  In family portraits, you want to present your best color scheme and keep everyone still long enough for the shutter to click. 

In personal portraits, you want your best smile, your chin up, your eyes engaged, and your best you.

In this article, they seek to capture the authentic me, the genuine posture and heart of a girl whose husband died ten months ago.  I'm not down for the count, but neither am I ready to lead a parade.

It took me a while to find my groove, to find myself.

Jeff snapped a dozen pictures, and then he sat down next to me to show me the digital thumbnails.

The lighting was excellent, the angle was smart, and he somehow avoided the smudgy fingerprints on the railing and the crumbs on the carpet.  But as I looked at my face on his screen, I was distracted by what he captured.

My eyes were overwhelmingly sad.  I've never seen that girl in a picture before.

He said, "I don't think I've found you yet."

"No, I don't think that's really me."  And yet, I don't know how to change the spirit of my eyes any more than I know how to change the length of my nose.

"Let's keep trying, Tricia.  We'll find you."

Round two.  I kept smiling too much or not enough.  I wasn't real. I wasn't me.

He looked at me over the camera. "Where is the confident girl?  I know she's in there."

Interesting you should ask. I've been looking for her for months.

He was patient.  My heart cannot be rushed.

"Look at me," he said.  Click.

"Now show me the smile I saw when I walked into Starbucks." Click.

"Now ease it back a bit."  Click.

"Now give me that small smile."  Click.

"Yes.  That's it.  That girl right there."  Click, click, click.  Click.

Two dozen shots later, he sat down next to me again.  "Look, Tricia.  Look at this one.  See?"  He beamed with the contentment of sought out discovery.

Photo by Jeff Panis

It was me.  Quiet, reserved, casual.  Gentle smile with a subtle light in my eyes.

I contend that the algorithm of photography is 90% science and 10% art.  But that 10% holds the heart.  Without that, it's only a snapshot.

~ ~

If you're near a newsstand, please pick up a copy of 5280 magazine. It's a tremendous publication, from start to finish.

A Real Event

At times, writing becomes a real event.

It is a remarkable sensation to see ideas and words flowing so easily, as if they had always been there but had not been allowed expression.

Meanwhile, I become more and more aware that for me writing is a very powerful way of concentrating and of clarifying for myself many thoughts and feelings.  Once I put my pen on paper and write for an hour or two, a real sense of peace and harmony comes to me. 

Consequently, I feel much more willing and able to do little routine jobs.  After a day without any writing and filled with only reading and manual work, I often have a general feeling of mental constipation and go to bed with the sense that I did not do what I should have done that day.

It is good to become aware of all this.  This seems to help me to understand quite a few of my bad moods . . . during the past few years.

~ Henri Nouwen

State of Preparedness

The question is not, "Do I have time to prepare?"
but "Do I live in a state of preparedness?"
When God is my only concern,
when God is the center of my interest,
when all my prayers,
my reading,
my studying,
my speaking,
and writing
serve only to know God better
and to make him known better,
then there is no basis for anxiety or stage fright. 
Then I can live
in such a state of preparedness and trust
that speaking from the heart
is also speaking to the heart.

~ H. Nouwen

An Artist's Degree

It seems as though nearly everyone in education believes a teacher should pursue graduate work in education. But as I explored and talked with principals, mentors, and professors, I gathered that there are only two routes on that highway: curriculum or administration.

I wanted to go to grad school, I wanted to further my degrees, but I didn't want either of those specialties. While perhaps prestigious and money-making, these paths didn't interest me in the least.  So as Robb and I ebbed and flowed in our conversations about grad school, I held off.  It didn't seem smart to begin a degree I really didn't want. 

(There were a few other factors in place: Robb was nearly finished with his MBA, we couldn't afford simultaneous tuitions for two, and a couple little boys came along to offer an education of their own.  Oh, and Robb didn't love being in school, but he also didn't want his leapfrog wife to jump the gun.  He often teased, "No, our address labels will not read Dr. and Mr.)

Then I read Love Walked In.

On the back cover, I found this bio:

"An award-winning poet with a Ph.D. in literature and creative writing, Marisa de los Santos lives in Wilmington, Delaware with her husband and two children.  Love Walked In is her first novel."

Okay, first of all, when a book says "New York Times Bestseller" on the front and "This is her first novel" on the back, I am instantly intrigued.  This is someone I want to know better.

I remember running my fingers over those words, as if I were reading braille.  I thought, "I could write! I could get a masters and doctorate in creative writing, and I could write forever. I wonder if I could really do that. Do people really do that? Look at that -- Marisa did."

(Sidenote: If I fall in love with your writing, you'll work your way into my head, and that means I'll take the liberty to call you by your first name.  It's a natural progression for me, since we've had many coffee dates together, even if you perhaps don't recall being there.)

I began to think that this path was really quite noble, that it thumbs the nose at a culture that says a degree must pay for itself, that you've got to be sure you can succeed before you make the investment, and that learning is only valuable if it promises a salary.

An artist's degree says to the naysayers, "Well, yes, I could have a more linear path if I choose what you say I should do.  And if my gifts matched that professional path, then I hope I wouldn't hesitate. But my heart loves something else, and I only get one go at this. I choose what I love. A Ph.D. in creating."

So I am taking the plunge. 

January 2012.  Grad School: Here I come.

Seat 23 B. In the Middle.

Dallas to Denver.  Seat 23B.  It's in the middle.  I sat between two men, one young, one old. 

(Young = high school.  Old = retired.) 
(At least in this story.)

The young man looked out his window, looking back at the airport.  "It's depressing to leave my family."

(I don't talk much to strangers anymore, but this was a sentence I could acknowledge.)  "Oh, I'm sorry.  Yes, I bet it is." 

"My family lives in Texas, but I go to school in Colorado.  Are you from Texas?"

"No, I'm from Denver."

"Oh.  'Cause you sound like you're from Texas."

(I had handed him 12 words.  And in them, he found a Texan accent.)

I raised my eyebrows in response, not really sure what else to say.   In another season, I might have fluttered with paragraphs about where I'm originally from, how interesting accents are, the Salad Bowl of the United States - really, any number of topics.

I simply raised my eyebrows.  Nodded slightly.  The unspoken, "No kidding?  Texas.  Huh."

But he was finished with his observation anyway.  Back to his longing looks out the window.

Once we had reached prime elevation, I broke out the laptop.  Type, type, type.  Click, click, click.

"So, is that like some summary or something you're writing for a class?" asks the young man.

He had been reading over my shoulder.  (I can't say I haven't done the same thing.  There isn't much privacy in the forced intimacy of plane flights.)

"Oh, no, I'm working on a manuscript."

He looked at me squarely.  "Dude.  You're a writer?"

"I am."

"Oh.  That's weird."

I raised my eyebrows.  Nodded slightly.  The unspoken, "Weird.  Well, huh.  Nobody has actually ever responded that way."

He looked out the window.  I typed and clicked.  I'm sure he kept reading.  Over my shoulder.

"We'll need you to power down now, ma'am," says the airline attendant, gathering one last round of trash.

I shut down the laptop and exchange it for my current paperback, another from the collections of Madeleine L'Engle.  Man, I love her. 

The older man speaks from the other side, "So, as a writer, don't you worry about reading other people's stuff?  Like you might plaigiarize it or something?"

This was our opening dialogue, at the end of the flight.  We hadn't exchanged words yet, although I had retrieved several things for him from the floor between our seats, since he didn't have a left arm and kept dropping things.

"Well, I'm pretty careful."

"My goodness, if I were a writer, I'd never read anybody else's book ever again.  All I'd do is write.  So I could make sure it was my own stuff.  I mean, don't you ever write something and then think, wait, did I think of that, or did it come from somebody else, something else I read?"

In another season, I may have launched into a diatribe about the benefits of a writer's reading, about building one's thoughts on the inspiration of others, about the truth that good writers are good readers. 

Instead, I said, "Well, I've always got a few books going at once, so I guess there are always a few voices speaking into my writing."

"So, do you write for children?"

"No, mostly adults."

"What do you write about?"

I should have said, "A public journal of the perils of dog walking."  But I wasn't quick enough on the draw.  I was honest instead.

"I am recently widowed.  I'm writing about this first year without my husband."

"Ah.  And what did your husband do?"  (Not typically the first response, but I'll roll with it.)

"He was a corporate trainer for Farmers Insurance."

"Oh, so he probably knows that actor who does the Farmers commercials about their specialized training."

(Wow.  Um, just, wow.)

"Well, no, he doesn't know the actor, but he was on the team that wrote that curriculum."  (And he traveled 20,000 airmiles that year, as I recall.)

He elbowed me with his half-arm.

"I'm just kiddin' with ya'.  Just joshin'.  You know, that actor?  He used to play the psychologist on one of those law and order shows, and he has always played such a smart guy until he played that one role in a movie with Tom Hanks.  I'll tell ya, in that movie he played such an idiot, a real know-it-all.  Blew off his own dog's face."

Oh.  My word.  I open my book.  Madeleine is so much safer than this.  (Robb would say, "Tricia, this is what you get for talking to the person next to you.  Just keep your headphones in. That's what I always did.")

He paid no attention to my nonverbal cues.  He plodded ahead.

"You know, the bottom line is whether they sell more insurance."

(That's really the bottom line.  Really?)

"You know, I'm old enough to remember the old beer commercials with sophisticated humor, and those commercials were a really big hit.  But the problem is that the people with sophisticated humor weren't the ones buying all the beer, so really their ad campaign didn't work at all.  The bottom line is whether they sell more of their product."

"Yes, I guess it is."

I opened my book.  I put in my headphones, even though the FAA denies the use of all electronics during take-off and landing. 

Madeleine and I cruised together to a safe landing, between these two oddballs. 

I'm taking her with me everywhere.

Famously Labeled

I walked out to my car, burdened with all my belongings.  I travel nowhere light; Robb was always the first to say so.  Each trip to Starbucks includes three bags.  I need them all, and all the pens therein.

(Anne Lamott says she carries one 3x5 card in her back pocket, folded in half, no less, lest she appear bulky as she gathers her writing ideas.  I have some paring down to do before I may begin to look light on my feet.)

Anyway, I was traipsing to the car, with an unwieldy girth of bulk on my shoulders.

"Tricia!  Tricia!  Tricia!"  I heard frantic calling behind me. I took a quick mental inventory of my many bags, since such frenzied shouting could only mean I had left something behind.

I turned to see 'my barista.'  She was frantically waving a beautiful red, famously labeled, salt shaker in her hand.

"Tricia!  I just had to tell you: we got the salt today!  On Monday we can make you your salted caramel mocha!"

Now this is service, I tell you.

I asked her to please write my name on one shaker.  I mean, they have six of them.  That way when the season comes to an end and I must somehow come to terms with this change that is inevitable, they can bridge the gap for me with a special stash that has been mine all along.

Salted Caramel Goodness, you're only three days away.  Okay, four.

Reading the Greats

I read.
And read.
And read.

The greats,
the contemporaries,
the literary pillars,
the light recommendations.

And instead of feeling the pressure
of my words
that may not matter at all
in their shadow,

I just want to sit and write.

I want to join their singing chorus.
The ones in print,
the ones who captured what can't be said.

Their beauty cries out for a response.

The Sonnet and Free Will

"How can I explain it to you? Oh, I know, in your language, you have a form of poetry called the sonnet."

"Yes, yes," Calvin said impatiently. "What's that got to do with the Happy Medium?"

"Kindly pay me the courtesy of listening to me. Mrs. Whatsit's voice was stern, and for a moment, Calvin stopped pawing the ground like a nervous colt. "It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not?"

"Yes."

"There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That's a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?"

"Yes." Calvin nodded.

"And each line has to end with a precise rhythm pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?"

"No."

"But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn't he?"

"Yes." Calvin nodded again.

"So," Mrs. Whatsit said.

"So what?"

"Oh, do not be stupid, boy!" Mrs. Whatsit scolded. "You know perfectly well what I am driving at!"

"You mean you're comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?"

"Yes," Mrs. Whatsit said. "You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you."

***

"To speak analogously is to admit that you can't say it directly; you really can't say it at all; it's outside the realm of provable fact. But it is not a coincidence that some of the greatest poetry in the English language is in the form of the sonnet. The haiku is one of the most popular forms of poetry today: what could be more structured?"

***

"Without our structure, we would be an imprisoned, amorphous blob of flesh, incapable of response. The amoeba has a minimum of structure, but I doubt if it has much fun."

~ Madeleine L'Engle

The Birth of an Idea

I have sprung out of bed this morning,
breathing fast,
my mind spinning with ideas.

Perhaps a book was born in my head overnight?

I really and truly feel like I cannot think fast enough to contain or capture these ideas.

Like they may flit away on a breeze
before I have had the chance
to explore,
look at them from every angle,
unfold every wing,
underneath my mind's microscope.

Lord, this comes from you.

The flow of ideas,
the connecting of dots,
the lines of parallels,

Holy Spirit,
Creator,
these come from You.
Breath of creativity, breath of life.

Perhaps this is a glimpse of my springtime.
A warm day in my winter.

Father of ideas,
let these not pass me by.
May my mind be big enough to hold them all,
yet present enough to look each one in the eye.

Help me to slow down and engage.
May my moments meet my thoughts.

Soli Deo Gloria.

Journals, Questions, and Four Small Degrees

Perhaps this might typically be called a Madeleine L'Engle binge, this insatiable desire I have to read her every thought, scribble and line.

I'm like an addict, making sure I have another book of hers on my shelf before I finish the current read. Addicted.

The one I'm currently reading has been as deeply invaded as a journal - with writing, tabs, thoughts, me.

And, get this: I am four degrees of separation from Madeleine L'Engle.

I just learned this.

My friend Elizabeth, the brilliantly gifted Anglican priest - who simultaneously cusses like a sailor and makes me think deeply - sat in the audience of Luci Shaw during her college years. Lucy is a thinker, writer, speaker, theologian, and - not least on the list - Madeleine L'Engle's best friend.

Elizabeth stood in line to meet her after Lucy spoke, and their brief conversation was the spark of an intimate friendship.

Elizabeth has eaten dinner in Luci Shaw's home.

(I just had to take a break from typing to clench my hands together in delight. Just needed to say that.)

One evening, at Lucy's home, Elizabeth saw a stack of 8 1/2 x 11 pages, all marked in red and sitting on a shelf.

"What's that over there, Luci?"

"Oh, that's Madeleine's newest manuscript. I'm taking a look at it for her."

(Insert my clenched, delighted hands once more.)

Perhaps you can hear the angelic chorus singing in my head.

Madeleine L'Engle is best friends with Luci Shaw who mentored my friend Elizabeth who met me for coffee yesterday.

One, two, three, four. It's like I know Madeleine, really.

~~~

I say all of that to say this, the real meat of this monologue. (Although that last deluge of thoughts was certainly not without profundity, I'm sure you agree.)

When she met Luci Shaw, Elizabeth was face-to-face with a personal, spiritual crisis. A Christian Education major, she churned with questions about all that she was learning, questions about how any of this could really, truly be real.

Lucy spoke on the art of journaling, about a recent pilgrimage to Israel and the pages she filled with questions, responses, thoughts, and reflections.

When Elizabeth spoke to her, with tears and raw humility, she asked, "But what if all I have are questions?"

And with beauty, dignity, and raw response, Luci Shaw said:

"Then you write down the questions."

I have a new journal and a stack of pens: To write down the questions.

Compliments of Elizabeth.

(And Luci and Madeleine. Sort of.)

Why Write?

Who do I write for?

Is it for you? The invisible you, who might read it?

Is it for me? The tangible me that spills and wants the page to catch me?

Is it for the therapy of sorting the words, stringing them together, emptying my mind, pouring out my heart?

Is it about the writing? Is it about the posting? Is it about the reading?

Writers write to be read.

Do not painters paint so their work may encourage and inspire?

Do not inventors create to solve a problem, perhaps not just their own?

Writers write to be read.

Is that okay? Is it permissible? Is it humble?

It's messy.

Life is happening around me. I do not write to suspend it; I write to experience it.

If I write in a stagnant place, pre-December 2010, my heart will grow weary. My writing will grow stale. I cannot pretend it is as it was. And yet I long to remember.

If I write only in the future, in the happiness of what I hope for, if I pretend I have arrived there and found purpose in this mess, then I'm not honest. And yet I long to hope.

Dishonesty benefits nobody. Questions are real.

If I write today with a sprinkling of my yesterday and my tomorrow, perhaps I've found the beginning of balance.

And so I write.


***

"Don't look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance." ~ Anne Lamott

Yes, I Read Them. :)

At least once a day, I receive an email, blog response, Facebook post that begins with these words:

"I'm not sure if you'll read this..."

I will. I read them all. Every single one.

My invisible community, I read your every word.

And I thank you.

Pleased To Meet You

"Hi, Tricia? I hope you don't think I'm stalking you... I know you don't know me. I just wanted to say..."

"Excuse me, ma'am, I just need to introduce myself. I recognized you from across the restaurant. I read your blog. I'm an oncology nurse; all the patients on my floor read your blog, too."

"Hi... are you Tricia? Oh, I knew it. I just wanted to say..."

I am truly honored by these conversations. People who are reading, listening, thinking, feeling, and praying for us. People who feel compelled to say so.

It's a humbling honor. Truly.

In case you see me, and in case you'd like to say hello, please do.

I'd love to meet you.

Life, Art. Art, Life.

The most authentic art is affected by life; the most authentic life is affected by art.

But sometimes, life and art are believed to be mutually exclusive. Separate from one another. I've certainly been known to separate the two.

"I'll write after I've finished my to-do list, the practical things that I need to do today."

Or, the converse, "I need an escape from my life for a while. I need to stop thinking about all of this. It's time to create."

Mutually exclusive, they can be.

Still, if you ask a group of artists, most will say that their lives influence their art. Their deepest creativitiy is born out of an experience of grand proportion, on either end of an emotional spectrum. Strong emotion can evoke a creative response: a song, a painting, a poem, a photo - even a movie, a novel, or another major depiction. We encounter a profound experience, and we wish to portray it in a tangible form. Show this answer to someone else - or to the world.

But what happens when the opposite is true, when art influences life?

When Robb died, so little made sense to me. So much became so murky, so quickly. So much was unclear. My heart was broken, and my path was divided. Dreams fell shattered.

I could have chosen not to write. And I did take a bit of a break. I didn't know what to say; words eluded me.

But I'm a writer. I needed to write. If I were a painter, I would have gone to the canvas. If I were a song writer, I would have sat down at my piano. I am a writer, and I quickly found my keyboard.

Strong emotions sent me to create. To sort out. To depict something, anything.

And it has become a pillar of this journey, something I do every day: the discipline of creating. Through the intentional choice of sitting down, claiming the words, acknowledging the questions, and allowing room for no answers, my art has begun to influence my life.

Some have said to me, "The uniqueness of your writing is that you're in the middle of this. We're not reading about it many years later, after so many questions are answered, more benchmarks are clear, when we can see that you found what God had in mind all along. No, we're reading each day, through the gray and unclear. We're walking with you, even as you don't know where you're going."

I could have waited to chronicle this journey after it stops hurting, when the answers become clear, when it all makes sense. But without the discipline of my writing, perhaps it never would have.

Something is coming of this, something I may not have otherwise found.

I can't name it yet, by the way. I simply feel its roots digging deep. Perhaps this work will earn its title at the end.

I love the book of Psalms, largely written by David. Now, there was a man with a full plate: king, military leader, father, and husband to many, many, many. But he was also an artist: a poet, a wordsmith, a song writer. And through it all, he kept writing.

Sometimes his writing depicts answers and praise, and sometimes it shows a melodramatic, polarized heart. Some would venture to say that his writing that exists in the Bible is a small portion of what he actually wrote; perhaps he wrote volumes we never got to read. But he kept writing, even when his heart was wounded. Perhaps it was a discipline. And through the sorting of his heart, with the pen to the paper, something was born of that man after God's own heart.

Art. Life. Perhaps the two are so interwoven that they cannot be extricated.

The most authentic art is affected by life; the most authentic life is affected by art.

Sacred Pages

I bought a new journal.

Hand-crafted leather, made in Italy.

A bit of a splurge. Not over the top, but more than I have normally spent on a new journal.

But, if a book is to hold my very life,

my every written thought,

if someday this book will tell my children about this journey,

how God met me here,

how he carried me,

how he turned my mourning into joy,

and my wailing into dancing,

then perhaps it is worth more than ten dollars.

A beautiful investment.

"Because the picking up of a pen isn't painful and can be cheap medicine. And I just might live."

~ a. voskamp

~~~

Lord, please meet me in these pages.

Show me who you are.

May I become like you.