Some Things Right

Last week, I read Open House, by Elizabeth Berg.  (And I'll tell you right now, I'm in for everything she's ever written.)  In the first chapter of the book, the heroine is trying to convince her husband to stay, and in the second chapter, we find her on the first morning of their separation.  Ultimately, the story tells how she finds herself on the other side of marriage.

Our marriages ended differently, this heroine's and mine, but I identified with her on many levels.  Especially when she couldn't set the table without crossing paths with yet another wedding gift from the life she had once lived.

Anyway, she doesn't like her mother.  (I assure you, non-lovers of books and therein book reviews, these paragraphs are going somewhere.)  Her mother is shallow and ridiculously happy always, never willing to go anywhere near real emotions, and keeps everything an inch deep at all times. 

In a fit of rage, the heroine asks her mother, "When did you ever let anyone get close to you?  I mean, really close.  To the real you."

And in a page of brilliant writing, we see a crack in the mother's facade of happiness, and we readers realize that she has chosen to appear happy all along, thinking it was best for her children to never see her life's pain.

I stare at my mother's carefully made-up face, and suddenly I see that same face many years ago, shortly after my father died, when she came out of the bathroom after having been in there for a very long time.

"Now!" she said.  I was sitting in the hall, spinning jacks, and I looked up at her.  "I think that style is much better, don't you?" She showed me some modification she'd made to her hairdo, and I nodded, then returned to my jacks.

What occurs to me now is that what my mother had been doing all that time was weeping.  With astonishing quiet.  And that when she was done, she'd washed her face, fixed her hair, put on lipstick, and then gone out to the kitchen.  She turned the radio on low and made dinner so that it would be ready when it always was.  And then she smiled and chatted empty-headedly or fussed at her daughters all during dinner, preempting any kind of real conversation, preempting any questions, and then she put her daughters to bed, still smiling, still dispensing random advice about this and that, and her daughters squirmed and rolled their eyes and felt their love lessen year by year, eroded by embarrassment, by a terrible, defeating kind of resignation that told them she would never be different.

But what did she do after she put us to bed?  I wonder now.

And I imagine a mother who took a mask off her face, then pushed hard into a pillow to weep for the loss of her husband, for the loss of the life she was supposed to have, for the only man she ever -- I gasp, thinking this now -- loved.

And it comes all at once to me, it comes at this instant, that my mother simply lost too much and repaired herself in the only way she was able; that, in fact, she is continuing to repair herself, hour by hour, the pendulum of the cuckoo clock swinging in the light and the dark of all the days that have passed since my father died at this same brown wooden table.

I found such comfort in these words, in the idea that I'm doing the right thing by looking this in the eye, by talking to my children about the canyon that could have swallowed us whole, that I'm not preempting their questions and mine, that I'm not hiding behind a mask of any kind -- lipstick or otherwise.

I don't show them everything.  Because they shouldn't have to see it all.  But there's nothing I'm afraid of, no question they could ask that I wouldn't be willing to wade into.  And they can mention his name as easily as anyone else's.  Because he is as real to us as anyone else is.

It's great to read something and realize I might be on the right track, doing some things right.  That my boys won't look back and wonder who I was all these years.  That maybe I'm giving them the chance to know me all along.

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.

A Wrinkle in Time

I am not a re-reader of books.  I am not a re-watcher of movies.  Once I know how it twists, turns, and lands, I don't often feel compelled to revisit.  I think there are so many good books and movies out there - I should see them all once before I begin a repeat tour.

But I am rereading A Wrinkle In Time.

Because (by now you must know) I love all things Madeleine.  But really because sometimes God places books in my hands, in one way or another.  I believe this is one of those.

I contend that this is one of the most brilliant books ever written, and the Newbery folks were inclined to agree. 

In this reread, I am nearly undone by the parallels.  Meg and Charles Wallace have lost their father so suddenly.  They don't know where he is or how to get to him, but they know they must.  And they have to fight 'the powers of darkness' to get there.  Their journey is long and scary, and although adults have equipped them with wisdom and tools, the adults can't do the living for them. 

And so they fight: for truth and goodness, for each other, and for their dad. 

The boys don't like that I'm reading this book.  It's an older print, the pages are yellowed, and the cover is frightening.  Tucker calls it 'the bad guy bible.' 

(He believes every book I read is some form of the bible.)

I was reading as they swam, and Tucker got out of the pool to sit by me.  "Can you read that out loud?"

"Why, buddy?"

"Because I want to know what his voice sounds like."  He pointed to the red-eyed moon face on the front cover.  How endearing that he believes that my read-aloud would be a perfect inflection of the characters' voices.

"Well, it's kind of a scary book, Tuck.  But I'll will read it to you someday, I promise.  Maybe when you're ten."

"How about when I'm seven?"

"No, I think ten will be better."  Or maybe twelve.

"It's too scary for me?"

"A little too scary for a boy who is in kindergarten."  But really, kiddo, that sentence is true of so much of this greater story we are living.

My answer sufficed, and he splashed into the water again.

The thing is, there's so much in this book that is true for him, so much that could equip and empower him.  Or, the tangible depiction of the 'powers of darkness' could make him feel even more like his life is spinning out of control.  I can't risk that.

So we'll evaluate again in a few years.  And for now, I'll read silently.  And find myself undone.

Philosophy v. Aesthetics

I have always said Cinderella is my favorite princess.  And I think she forever will be because I'll never in my life get over that ball gown of hers.

But I think I like Belle better. 

She is smart, she isn't distracted by the wooing antics of Gaston, and she loves books.  She has her head on straight. 

Perhaps Cinderella is aesthetically my favorite, but Belle is philosophically my favorite.

I think I'll start asking little girls to clarify. 

"Ah, yes, princess-shmincess.  Tell me your comparisons, aesthetically and philosophically." 

If we're going to do the whole princess route, I think I have a valid argument.

I say: Break the Rule.

Are you reading a bad book?  Then stop.  Life's too short.  Pick a new one.

Too many people buy into the 'rule' that you should finish any book you start.  I disagree. 

Sometimes you need to read just a bit further, sometimes you need to get to know the characters (or the author) better, and sometimes you can skim this part and settle into the next.  

Sometimes the season isn't right, sometimes the story is too long, sometimes you can't find the voice, and sometimes it's just not a good book. 

Not every book is for every reader. 

And it's possible that the great literary love of your life is the next one you'll read.  So if you don't love this one?  Pick a new one.

That's what I say.  And I teach reading, writing, and how to love both. 

You're off the hook. 

Two Sides of the Coin

"I'm from Oklahoma," she said. "That's where the real tornadoes are. In Colorado, a tornado warning usually means maybe somebody somewhere saw something that looks like a funnel cloud. In Oklahoma, the tornadoes come in the still of the night, and they sweep through an entire town."

All of this reminded me of a book I have read; almost everything reminds me of a book I have read. It's perhaps slightly annoying that I am forever quoting somebody, somewhere, something I read once.

"Sing Them Home. Stephanie Kallos. You should read that book," I offered. "You can borrow mine."

I loan books easily, given my stamp on the inside and the borrower's forgiveness of my handwriting, doodles, and notes throughout.

I pulled it off the shelf at home, and I flipped through the pages. A brief revisit before I send this book on a field trip. Sure enough, my handwriting was woven throughout.

I underline turns of phrases, metaphors, word pictures, and masterful language. I circle words worth repeating; I draw brackets around parts that seem especially applicable to something I've been thinking.

(This makes it nearly impossible for me to borrow books from the library: they believe I don't respect their pages, and I believe they don't understand my need to read with a pen in hand. Need.)

Anyway.

Aside from several occasions of tornadoes in the storyline, I had forgotten that one of the main characters loses her husband to death by lightning strike on the golf course in the opening scene of the novel.

(I give away no secrets. It's the opening scene, people.)

And suddenly, I realized that this book was less about tornadoes and primarily about enduring grief and loss.

I read it in February, 2010. Ten months before my own test of endurance would begin.

I find this page dog-eared.

"If there is anything I have learned in my life, it's that so very little is within our control. Our passions arise to surprise us. Our loves jump out at us like boogeymen as we round a dark corner or open the closet. We try and we try to make things fit, to steer the events of our lives a certain way, to create boundaries of experience and feeling, to wall ourselves off from one another, to stop love - which should never be stopped, ever - and my dears, it simply cannot be done.

Heartbreak has a counterpart. Turn it over, and you will know that that which tells you I am gone can tell you just as convincingly that I am here.

Turn the coin over. After I am gone, find me on the other side of heartbreak. Look and see and know that you are my best beloved..."

Underlined. Starred. Bracketed.

Ten months before my own journey of endurance, my own funnel cloud.

It leaves me thinking about another coin with two sides:

things I might subconsciously anticipate,
things I would never want to know before it happens.

Perhaps I should read the book again.

An Heirloom

It seems to me that every girl with a happy childhood has a favorite aunt. Lucky me: I had two.

There's just nothing like a mom who isn't yours but who loves you like she is. She can be all the best things: the one who says yes, the one who gives more, the one who laughs loudest, the one who makes everything more fun for a child, more enticing to a teenager, and more classy to an adult.

My aunts set the standard high, and they defined the essence of being a favorite aunt.

My mom and her sisters (these blessed aunts of mine) had their own favorite aunt: Aunt Ruth. Our generation of the family tree is rooted in the stories of Aunt Ruth from New York City. She flew into town once a year with gifts for everyone. She smoked cigarettes when that's what only the most elegant women chose to do. She sent the best birthday cards but never signed her name, because of course everyone knew who sent them. She nicknamed my mom 'Miss Jones,' which I think is perhaps the most charming nickname a little girl can have. She dressed in a business suit for her airline flights, she told fascinating stories that held the family spellbound, and she captured their hearts with her elusive grandeur.

I only have a handful of my own memories of her, as she was very old and small by the time I was born. I remember her white hair in a bun and her cigarette in her hand, but more than anything, I remember that she bought me books.



Even in her later years, when she was too frail to present them herself, she sent them on her behalf. She gave me classics: The Pied Piper. Heidi. Little Women. A Children's Garden of Favorites.



I didn't know her well, but I captured a bit of her in my heart: after all, she gave me books.



Well, just this week, my mom happened onto a hidden treasure in her basement. I am a die-hard lover of used books. Dog-eared, tattered, and loved - all the better. Look what she found...

It's Aunt Ruth's copy of Gone With the Wind. Dog-eared, tattered, and loved.

And the hand-written date on the inside: 1938.

On the inside cover, she pasted newspaper clippings from the movie that swept the nation, when her beloved characters took on real life on the silver screen.

Aunt Ruth received this book when she was nearly 31.

Interestingly, so have I.

Thank you, Aunt Ruth, for giving me books.

I Try.

A visit to the bookstore.

Pick a good one, buddy.

And now Mommy will read aloud, right here next to the blocks.

And now Mommy will read aloud to herself, while little boys play with said blocks.

Forget it.

Enjoy the blocks.

I Shall Not Correct.

Tucker and Tyler refer to every thick book as "Mommy's Bible." Our home is seemingly full of them, with the books I collect and borrow from the library. All titled in their minds: Mommy's Bible.

And I do not correct them. Deceptive, I know. But it has a nice ring to it.

We're just so spiritual at our house. Mommy has so many Bibles. They're on every bookshelf. Oh, how she reads that Bible. In fact, it's the only book she reads.

Always, always.

(This may only come back to bite me when they point to a fiction novel in the Best Seller display at the grocery store and announce, "Look! It's Mommy's Bible!")

Nine Years Later

Today, I finished a book that I started nine years ago.

It even boasts my maiden name in the front cover.

Tonight? Finished. Check.

The odd thing: I loved every page. Every single one. From cover to cover. I fully immersed myself in it, but I just didn't want it to end too soon. I agree: nine years is a bit much.

(I'm such a weirdo.)

Because you are my faithful reader, I'll confess. The book is... The Life You've Always Wanted.

It would appear that I didn't want The Life enough to read any faster, but o' contraire. I was sure, years ago, that I wouldn't find another book nearly as powerful to my transformation. So I read slowly, embracing the potency. (I even gave the blasted book away once, just sure a friend of mine would enjoy it just as much. So I gave it to her without finishing it myself. She read and returned. And I took another six years before I finished it myself.)

(I'm such a weirdo.)

So now, since I have finished the book, since the margins are filled with my notes, doodles, highlights, and tabs, I can place it on the shelf of my most favorite books I've ever loved.

I suppose it's possible that another title on spiritual formation has been published, you know, in the last decade.

I'll find it.

The Rule of Fifty

“If you’re fifty years old or younger,

give every book about fifty pages before you decide

to commit yourself to reading it,

or give it up.

If you’re over fifty,

which is when time gets even shorter,

subtract your age from 100—

the result is the number of pages you should read before deciding.”

~Nancy Pearl, Book Lust

***

Now, that's just a great rule right there. Freedom in literacy. There are too many good books out there to waste time on one you don't love. That's why I have abandoned a book I was 143 pages into; I was dreading my every opportunity to read. (And who on earth wants that?) So I set it aside. I may return another day, when all other books seem even less appealing. (Highly unlikely.) For now, I have replaced it with a brilliant read that I simply cannot put down. And that's just a better plan, in my book.

(No pun intended.)

The Pages: To Turn, or Not To Turn.

I closed a book last week that I simply could not wait to finish. Blech. I lost interest halfway through. It was a chore.

It's not that I feel a moral obligation or personal ownership to finish every single book I start; a gifted teacher once told me, "There are so many wonderful books in the world. Don't waste your time on one you don't like." So I don't. I have several strategies for collecting good recommendations, and I always have a pile on my shelf, on my waiting list at the library, or in an open document on my desktop: Titles I Cannot Wait To Get My Hands On.

And that's where I went wrong: I picked this one up on a whim. Nobody told me to read it; I took a risk on my own judgment. Indeed, I judged a book by its cover. There's a reason for the proverbial adage: a cover artist can lead you terribly astray, in either direction.

I finally resorted to reading only the dialogue. I skipped all the fluff. Let's wrap this up. Blech.

When I finished, it took me a while to determine why I had so not-enjoyed this one. The storyline was... fine. The characters were... okay. Just enough flaws to keep me interested. It had all the right components, but it bored me to tears. Why??

And then I discovered the missing component: throughout the hundreds of pages, I was never prompted to pick up my pen. I never wanted to circle a great metaphor, underline impressive dialogue, write down quirky word choices, or jot anything in the margin. Never. I never thought to myself, "Brilliant!" Not once.

Clearly, this partnership with the pen is a very important part of my literary experience.

But there's a happy ending to this sad story of a poor choice: I am into a really good one now. In fact, four pages in, I wrote in the margin: I'm on page four. And I love this book. The storyline could go either way, but the author's voice has me hooked, line and sinker. I am laughing out loud, I am underlining, scribbling, and doodling all over the margins and anywhere else to remind myself later of what I loved most.

And the best part? This is a retired library book that I bought online. I am writing in a library book. I haven't yet gotten over that thrill. (Yes, I realize the inherent dorkiness of that statement. I cannot deny it.)

And for you fellow book worms who are dying to know, it's Love Walked In, by Marisa de los Santos. I think I will need to read everything she has ever written.

Maybe even her grocery lists.

The Perils of a Teacher in the Family

My poor husband. He hates to read. He is not illiterate. He is nonliterate. He is capable; he chooses not to.

Sadly for him, he married a girl who can't get enough. I have a different book in my hands every time he returns home from the current business trip, and I have them stacked up on my bookshelf: my personal lineup for an endless literary feast.

When we were newlyweds, I read to him before we fell asleep at night. And then I would quiz him the next day, with comprehension questions to make sure he was listening and not dozing off at the sound of my voice. Isn't that such a Teacher thing to do? Listen carefully, young student. There will be a quiz. And not tonight, but in the morning. I'm looking for retention here, mister.

(There are many things about this paragraph that are clearly unique to early marriage. The greatest of all is the fact that he participated at all. He still loves me, even more so than our early days, but he doesn't feel quite so compelled to follow my every whim and great idea.)

Poor guy.

My brother can relate. I forced him to play school even before he was old enough to attend, even before he had formulated his own opinions about the routines of the classroom. His strong opinions consisted of three words: No Thank You.

And now, my children fall prey to my love for teaching. But for them, there is no way out. They can neither outgrow me nor shut me down, for a very long time. They're stuck.

They got a teacher for a mommy. And a mommy for a teacher.

(It could be worse, little men of mine.)

Finished.

I finished a book today. Well, mostly I finished it last night. But I have a few rituals I follow when I'm finishing a book... and I've only just discovered them, but I've done them for maybe forever.

When I see the end coming, I slow down. And I speed up. Sometimes simultaneously. I skip ahead, and then I jump back to pore over every word that I skipped. It's like I want to get to the very last scene, and yet I don't want this to end before I have absorbed it all.

And then it ends. And then I read the last few paragraphs again, because it feels like the end of a conversation and I want to finish it well. I want her to know I was really listening.

And then I add it to my list of books I have read, and I feel a little sad to be done with it but also a little proud of myself for fitting yet another book title into my life.

And then I get excited to start the next one. Right now.

That's what I do.

Now That's an Analogy I Understand.

"Your work as a writer, when you are giving everything you have to your characters and your readers, will periodically make you feel like a single parent of a three-year-old, who is, by turns, wonderful, willful, terrible, crazed, and adoring.

"Toddlers can make you feel as if you have violated some archaic law in their personal Koran and you should die, infidel. Other times, they'll reach out and touch you like adoring grandparents on their deathbeds, trying to memorize your face with their hands.

"But they are always yours, your books as well as your children. You helped bring your work into being, and every day you have to feed it, help it stay well, give it advice and love it when it ignores you.

"Your three-year-old and your work in progress teach you to give. They teach you to get out of yourself and become a person for someone else. This is probably the secret to happiness. So that's one reason to write.

"Your child and your work hold you hostage, suck you dry, ruin your sleep, mess with your head, treat you like dirt, and then you discover they've given you that gold nugget you were looking for all along."

~ Anne Lamott

(You guessed it. It's her again.)

I read books for lots of reasons... sometimes I choose it because I liked the cover. Other books come recommended. Some are a fun, fictional getaway. Others are so deep I have to read in small chunks and soak it in. But still others, like this one, are such a parallel to the life I am living (or pursuing) that I could not have chosen a better season to dive in.

I'm almost done with this book...so I'm trying to read more slowly.

Members Only

"There should be a special club

for those of us who've read

Good Night, Moon

twice each night for over a year."

~ Overheard Mom

Sleepyhead

No Shoes For You.

I did it.

I sent my manuscript to a publisher. It's off. No turning back now... it's theirs for the judging. And all I can do is wait (six weeks to four months) to see what they think.

There are a million critics inside my head, all of whom are insistent that those envelopes are a waste of postage and you faithful few are the only ones interested in what I have to say in print. But thankfully, I tuned them out long enough to print and seal the envelopes.

Those voices have kept me silent for three years now, which is how long it has been since I wrote that story. Today, they didn't win. I did. Even if nothing else happens, from this day forward, I did what so many writers never, ever do. I sent it off.

And so, if you belong to the select few to whom I promised shoes and a bag if I turn 30 without doing what I just did, then I'm sorry to say, you'll have to buy your own shoes. I followed through.

Three copies, to three publishers. You heard it here first.

And someday, maybe you'll hear it somewhere else, too.

Light Reading

Good Morning.

Now that's a great way to start the day.