struggling

I've always had this struggle around my writing. My dream is to write. It's my number one passion. I'd give up just about anything to do it. Or at least that's what I tell myself. But I'm always finding reasons to not write. Lately, while I am super busy, I've learned that writing is about making time, not having or even finding time. NaNoWriMo taught me that you can always make time for writing; it's just a matter of priorities.

Throughout the month of November, if you're doing NaNoWriMo, you get pep talks by authors e-mailed to you. And they really do work; there were a few days where if I hadn't read a pep talk I wouldn't have written that day, mostly because they give you permission to write badly and encourage you that all published novels start out terribly (I'm not sure that's true, but I'll take it when I'm feeling insecure about my writing). The post event pep talk was from author Peter Carey (http://petercareybooks.com/). It hit home for me and I'd like to share some of it:

"...if you dream of making something original and beautiful and true, if you imagine seeing your book reviewed, or in the window of a book store, you're in the same position as the ambitious swimmer—you've got a lot of training to do, a lot of muscles to build, a lot of habits to start establishing right now, today.

...you have to write regularly, every day. You have to treat this as the single most important part of your life. You do not need anything as fancy as inspiration, just this steady habit of writing regularly even when you're sick or sad or dull. Nothing must stop you... If you wish to be a like the champion who swims for four hours every day of the year, you will need extraordinary will. You either have this or you don't, but you won't know unless you try .

...turn off your television. The television is your enemy. It will stop you doing what you wish to do. If you wish to watch TV, you do not want to be a serious writer, which is fine.

But if you do pull that plug you've just created time for that exercise which is going to build up your writing muscles like nothing else. It's called reading. Perhaps you are already reading good books for several hours a day, in which case you don't need me to preach at you. Forgive me. I only mention this because I have met an extraordinary number of beginners who don't think they need to read anything too much."

I feel like Peter Carey wrote this for me. I KNOW I have to write every day. I know that it doesn't matter whether I feel like it or not, whether I'm feeling inspired or not. I know that the TV robs me of precious and valuable time that I could be using to read or write. And yet I don't do anything about it. And I know it isn't because I can't. I just don't. So like Peter Carey says: I will need extraordinary will. And I need to stop with the excuses already. Yes, I'm tired, and stressed, and yes, my marking pile is a foot deep, and yes, my house is a disaster and yes, I was inspired to write something while sitting in church and now that inspiration is gone. SO WHAT?! None of those are good enough excuses. And I know it. I just have to do something about it.

Why is that so hard?!

A Glimpse into My NaNoWriMo Journey

For the past 24 days, I've been attempting to write a novel. The challenge to is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days, which works out to an average of 1667 words per day. The intent is quantity, not quality, which is my only saving grace. I'm currently just shy of 40,000 words, which is a pretty huge accomplishment for me, not because I've written that many words, but because I haven't given up on my ideas. The hardest thing for me as a writer is to believe in myself and in my abilities. I feel like anyone can write 50,000 words in a month if they put their mind to it. And honestly, most days I feel like "anyone" in that I think my so-called "novel" is crap and that I'm just wasting my time writing it because it's drivel and garbage and worse. I especially lose heart and belief in my abilities when I read exceptionally crafted words by other people I know who are also doing NaNoWriMo. I feel like I'm deluding myself into thinking I actually have anything worthwhile to say and that I actually have any talent with this whole writing thing. But I think a huge part of being a writer is fighting, and conquering, your inner critic. So if the only thing I accomplish over these 30 days is to tell the insecure, "i'm-not-good-enough" writer inside of me to shut up and I keep writing anyway, I've succeeded. At least, that's what I tell myself to comfort and appease the part of me that is terrified that I'll hate what I've produced when this is over.

NaNoWriMo: Take Two

Well, right about now, another official month of novel writing kicks into gear and I'm really excited. I wasn't sure I was going to try it again this year, since I quit partway through last year, but I think I have a really good idea that has a ton of potential, so we'll see what happens. You can check out my progress here: http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/406730

two poems: same topic, different approach

I wanted to write about the idea that sometimes, when we're treated by someone as if we don't matter, when someone who's supposed to care about us starts ignoring us, then sometimes it's easier to turn that indifference into our own and use it to deaden the pain of being treated badly. These poems began as one poem, but I soon realized that I had two distinct images going on and while I could link them, perhaps even well, it seemed like the poem should be separated into two. I like the first poem - "Narcotic" - better because I think that for some of us, emotion of any kind is like a drug and we often treat it that way... we allow our emotions to control us or we abuse them rather than learn how to process and own our emotions. The second poem - "Frozen Pyre" - actually encapsulates my original idea of countering anger by freezing oneself from the inside out to deaden the pain. I didn't spend as much time on it and I think it needs more work, but I still like the imagery. I hope you enjoy.

Narcotic

Your callous detachment cuts
so profoundly deep
the pain licks my bones.

So:

I compress my despair
into a capsule of disregard
and swallow it.

I willingly pierce my skin with your aloofness,
shoot your indifference into my veins.
Morphine for the agony.
Anaesthetic for the misery.

I wrap the tourniquet of your disinterest
around my heart so that,
although hardened crystals of insensitivity
sluggishly ride my thickening blood
and cut me open like broken glass,
the lacerations fail to revive.


I’ve distilled your cruelty into an opiate of apathy.

Frozen Pyre

How dare you ignore me?
Your impassivity is ignorant,
pitiless and malicious.

The fire of resentment
fuels my righteous indignation,
and burns me with rage.

Such intensity of emotion cannot be maintained
without permanent damage.

It’s a matter of survival:
I must cool the passionate embers
until dispassion takes their place.
I must allow your cold-bloodedness
to chill my heated blood.

I pack my heart in dry ice.
The permafrost is abysmal.
I become so brittle,
the flesh cracks off my bones.

I am freezing from the inside out.

And I am finally immune:
a senseless skeleton.

notes on creativity

I was doing some research while developing an ELA 30 unit plan and I came across this excerpt from the intro to a university course:

Creativity is a quality that is highly valued, but not always well understood. Those who have studied and written about it stress the importance of a kind of flexibility of mind. Studies have shown that creative individuals are more spontaeous, expressive, and less controlled or inhibited. They also tend to trust their own judgement and ideas-- they are not afraid of trying something new.

A common misunderstanding equates creativity with originality. In point of fact, there are very few absolutely original ideas. Most of what seems to be new is simply a bringing together of previously existing concepts in a new way. Psychologist and author Arthur Koestler referred to this merging of apparently unrelated ideas as bissociation. The fact that creative thinking is based on a knowledge of previous work in one's field is the justification for teaching the history and foundations of a given field as a resource for future research and creative work. It is possible to develop ones ability to think intuitively and creatively.

Thus creativity is the ability to see connections and relationships where others have not.

http://char.txa.cornell.edu/
[Red text my emphasis.]

I love this because it's my own understanding of creativity. Ecclesiastes asserts that "What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there anything of which one can say, 'Look! This is something new'? It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time" (1:9-10). All creativity on earth originates and flows from the ultimate Creator; since we are all made in His image, we are all creative. Yet that also means that we cannot make something new: only God can make something from nothing. So, as creative beings, we are compelled to find fresh ways to work with what we have already been given.

Creativity especially interests me in the field of writing. I spend a lot of time reading and the stuff that fascinates me the most and draws me in the most deeply is created by writers who have figured out a new way to say something. They've painted an image in words or found a way to weave words together that is entirely unique and forces the reader to experience something from a new perspective. As an aspiring writer, I am constantly striving for a distinct way to present a known concept and thereby force my reader into a new experience with words and images and ideas.

Creativity is the ability to make the old new. Which is what Christ does for us: he transforms our old selves into renewed beings. Coincidence? I think not.

antidotes for a bad day

• reruns of favourite TV programs while curled up on the couch
• a hot bath with a glass of wine and a good book
• dinner with a good friend
• running in perfect fall weather
• msn chats with a long-distance friend
• quality time with a significant other
• going to bed early

a poem in progress

I posted my first draft of a poem I recently wrote here but I want to spend more time on it, revise it, and submit it for a competition, so it's off the blog for now...

autumn’s melancholy

with the season’s subtle shift
death crawls in
without protest or complaint
to impede its advancement

leaves lose suppleness
drifting to the ground with a sigh of inevitability
decay’s cloying scent taints the breeze
and assaults the senses with a pungent musty sweetness
vibrant colours fade with resignation
the landscape transforms
into a dull dun monochrome
the brittle shifting of the dry grass
becomes the rattling of bones and the whispers of ghosts

life is retreating for hibernation
blanketed by listless and unresponsive iciness
pristinely beautiful but numbing to the bone
a pledge that even the deepest parts of ourselves
are not immune

death
tiptoes on the cooler currents of change
slinks in with the blackened dimness of the longer nights

amidst the pervading chill and shadows
hope wavers
emotions harden
belief becomes shifty and illusive

but

beneath the melancholy exterior
life is regenerating
determined to defy those icy fingers of fatality
intent on thrusting through the shallow surface
and emerging with the pure green fragrance of full colour blooms

missing out

This weather is making it hard for me to enjoy my work. I feel like I'm missing out. My classroom is in the basement with no windows and I miss the sunshine. This morning I was driving to school at 8:00 a.m. The sun was shining and it was 12 degrees and climbing; I saw a runner and I felt cheated. It was perfect running weather and I was on my way to my little box in the basement. Obviously there's so much more to my job than that, and I really do enjoy it (most days anyhow), but all I wanted to do was turn the Jeep around, go back home, change into my running gear, and enjoy the morning while hearing my feet pound the pavement. I think I just miss summer.

My Publication

My little publication arrived in the mail today (well, I picked it up today) and it's pretty cool to see my writing in an actual booklet. It's nothing fancy, but it looks like a poetry/writing magazine that was professionally printed. I'm impressed with the finished product. I'm going to order a bunch more copies and sell them to friends and family, so if you're interested, let me know. I think I'll charge $10 per booklet, just to cover my printing and shipping costs. If you want to preview it, click on the title of this post to view it on the Lulu website, where I published it.

filling the space

Sometimes I wonder how much of my life is simply "filling the space"...

A common mantra of our generation sounds something like this: "There's never enough time!" or "I need more time!" or "There are not enough hours in a day!". And yet the practice of our generation is to fill the space with the almightly electronic device: television or video games or iPods or computers or cell phones. Or perhaps "and" would fit better in that sentence than "or". We make excuses for it, say: "It's my way of connecting with people" or "I'm working" or "I can't help it; I'm addicted". [Whatever happened to real CONTACT, where we actually make the effort to see people face-to-face, talk on the phone, actually wrap our arms around someone rather than send an emoticon?] We fill the space around us with so much noise and activity that we really don't have any spare time. But what is spare time? And how much of the lack of it can we blame on work? society? addiction? habit? Really, we're the reason we have no time. We make our choices about how to fill the space. I know that if I'd just turn off the t.v., get off the couch, off this computer, away from the hum of electronics, I might actually have time for that book, a friend, creating clean space, writing with a pen on paper. We don't need more time. We need to reevaluate how we fill up the spaces in the time we have. Really, in the time we're given. We act like it's our time to spend, but we're actually living within the gift of time and we're expected to do something worthwhile and valuable with it, not just fill up the space.

a long time coming

In the whirlwind that this week has been, I haven't had much time for me or the things that ground me. I haven't had time to run (and I'm running a race in a week and a half!), I've done very little reading, and that I have done is work-related, not enough gardening (I hope it's still alive), no cooking, and of course, very little writing. I actually did write something pretty cool while sitting in Turtle Hill Park with my Creative Writing class on Tuesday, but it's not here in front of me, so I'll have to post it another day. Originally, I wanted to write something for this blog every day, even if it was just a few words, but I'm glad I didn't put pressure on myself to do that. I've been learning that most of my stress is self-induced by setting my standards and my expectations for myself too high. I'm trying to learn to celebrate what I'm able to accomplish, rather than regret or belittle myself for what I don't do. I feel that I'm making progress in this area, but still have a long way to go. Thank the Lord for my husband, who's constantly helping me see when I'm too hard on myself and reminding me of all the good and amazing things I've managed to accomplish. I know this is going to be a busy year, but I'm hoping it's not as stressful. Here's a silly little poem I just came up with. Perhaps it should be my motto this year:

Fresh stress:
Mess.
Less stress?
Yes!

I did it!

So I spent most of the day yesterday finally putting together a little poetry/reflections compilation of my writing on Lulu.com and I actually ordered a copy to be published! I'm pretty excited. I mostly did it as a trial run for my Creative Writing class this year, but also because I thought it would be cool to have an actual book of my writing. You can check it out by clicking on the title of this post, which will link you to the Lulu website but I don't advise buying a copy yet (if you were even thinking of it), since I want to get my copy first to proof it, and see if I want/need to make any changes. Anyhow, I'm pretty proud of myself for actually doing this, so I wanted to share. :)

the murky miasma of the dream-world

I am trekking across a floor of glass that stretches over a dark abyss that has the sensation of no bottom. I can’t clarify how I know that the vastest sprawl of nothingness spreads beneath my feet, but I have never been more certain of anything. The journey is treacherous because the glass is polished to a slippery sheen and dangerously thin. One false move, one wrong step, and the glass will shatter and I’ll begin tumbling through the dark void. If that happens, I know I’ll panic and desperately claw at the edge, but the broken glass will cut me open and my blood will colour the glass slick and ominous. I’ll plummet into oblivion, and the shards will cut me up along the way until there’s nothing left of me, until I’ve bled out and my pale shell continues wafting through the nothingness, eternally searching for peace and wholeness. Such a fate terrifies me and I seek to avoid it at all costs. So I continually struggle, tiptoeing across my existence, the only one I know, maintaining some kind of tenuous hold on the oily glass surface and pray that the foundation will hold. Pray that my sanity will keep me on this side of the abyss. I am Prometheus, eternally struggling against my fate, dreading it, avoiding it, yet realizing the resistance may be a worse fate than giving in to the inevitable engulfing by the thick black abyss. Suddenly, in my desperation, I fall and I hear the glass crack, feel the sharp glass penetrate my skin and I’m sinking. But it’s water beneath me, not air. It’s still dark, thick almost, like oil, but I’m still sinking and I can see and taste and smell my blood staining the water red. This can’t be happening. I have to get out; I have to find the glass floor...

turning text into poetry

Last November, I attempted NaNoWriMo, which is a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in one month. I didn't manage to finish it, but I wrote a few sections of text that I am proud of. One of the main characters in this attempted novel is a woman in an abusive relationship and as she stands in front of the mirror one morning, she makes some observations about the signs of her abuse. I turned that piece of text into the following poem:


Magic Eye

My skin is smooth,
the skin of a mango,
discoloured that way too.

The bruise is beautiful –
numerous shades of blue and purple.
Its design could draw me in,
like an exceptionally striking piece of abstract art
or one of those magic eye pieces,
where the picture behind the shapes slowly swims into focus
as you stare past the surface.

I’ve always loved magic eyes;
it’s as if they are sages offering some wisdom
with trembling outstretched arms.
Their gift waves in and out of focus,
as it slowly solidifies into something tangible.
But if you haven’t learned the secret
to grabbing that wisdom
before it slips out of their shaking fingers,
you won’t find it.
That kind of wisdom
is only available for a select few.

I gaze at my bruise,
get drawn into its dark beauty
against the pale creaminess of the flesh
that stretches across my chin.

I will the story behind it to tell itself
to those around me,
to reveal the story that I cannot.
However, as I stare at it, or past it,
trying to make the truth swim to the surface,
I realize that the real story isn’t even visible to me
and I will mask it with the magic eye
of makeup and a new story.

So how can I hope for someone else
to interpret the map of my bruised body
and tell me what I need to hear?

slipping away

soon
they'll be gone
these lazy, serene, whatever-I-whim
summer days

soon
they'll be back
those crazy, insane, I'm-never-done
school days

summer
is slipping away
while
school
is nipping at my heels

let it slip
let it nip

an
I-can-make-a-difference
and
busyness-as-a-blessing
year
is about to begin

bring it on

pieces from the past

When I feel uninspired and as if my current writing lacks substance, it helps to go back and read some of the things I've written in the past that I actually like and am proud of. Here are some of my older pieces that inspire me to keep trying because something like them might come out of me again.

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I wrote this nearly two years ago, and while it is less true for me now, I still love the way the imagery (ironically) "came alive" in this piece:

Just Let Go

One of my biggest weaknesses is not being able to let go of things; specifically I can’t seem to separate myself from relational situations that are unhealthy for me. I have this masochistic tendency to hold on to things long after they’re dead, as if strangling the life out of something isn’t enough. I have to see evidence of decay and taste the rot in the back of my mouth before I am finally able to pry my fingers out of the corpse, and only then because I can no longer stomach the stench. The problem, of course, is the sickness and infection I contract while I’m clinging so desperately to that corpse.

The idea of letting someone or something go to see if it comes back to you, thereby proving its love for you, is a helpful sentiment for some, I suppose, but I need to let things go to actually be free of them; I fear that if I leave room for hope, I will become acclimatized to rotting flesh. Perhaps the truth is that only when the shackles are completely broken can anything healthy be nurtured. The corpse must be left alone to decompose completely and become fertilizer for new growth.

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This was written around the same time, after a close friendship ended in silence, on bad terms:

Muted Colorscape

Without you life is duller,
more muted.
There’s colour yet; it’s just not as bright
(perhaps because it’s been washed with my tears).
Splashes of vividness still occur
but the colour seeps out again
when I remember that you’re not here,
that you're gone along with your life and colour
along with the paintbrush of your personality
that made my red a blazing vermilion
my blue a piercing azure
and my yellow a rival for the sun.
Without you
my primary colors lack lustre,
their combinations appear less luminous.
I miss your hue on the canvas of my existence.

Mine remains an enjoyable existence.
This is not a tragedy.
But it’s not my first choice;
it’s not the picture I imagined.

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I wrote this nearly 10 years ago as part of a final project for a university course that asked us to consider how to fight injustice. I still like its recognition of my own responsibility in injustice and my desire to ignore that reality because it is more comfortable. It is worth noting that the ME at the end is capitalized for two reasons - one to emphasize my responsibility and two to represent me on another level since the letters are the initials of my first and second names (Margaret Elizabeth). Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to format it properly on the post. The indents don't work, so the visual aspect of the poem is gone, but at least the words are here.

blood-free hands (?)

i want to wrap up my
smashedtornslashed heart
without getting blood on my hands
i want to cover it with
plain brown paper, tie it with ordinary string
(so as to render it insignificant)
i want to freeze it, immoblize it, or best:
carve it out from deep within me
(it will be an excavation or a dissection –
but there will be no exploration or discovery)
leave the mangled mess to die alienated, cleaved from i
(this will be much less bloody than allowing it to stay)

i cannot let it stain me


if only i do not let myself examine
incessant throbbingjabbingshaking
if only i can submerge the nausea that clutches the gut –
the stomach could be inundated with perfume and honey
(its voracious appetite would consume it all)

satisfaction: inevitable


i want…if only…
i will not know the (i cannot call it my) heart is alive
i will not acknowledge vital statistics
i will not hear the accusing rhythm of its exhibitionism
nor its knocking, rattling rasp that gasps out truth
(it will destroy me)
how i am:
that one over there
over here
this one
this one
this one
this one too

I do not want to see this bloody finger pointing – deviation-free – into ME.

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I often find music as an inspiration for reflection. I wrote this piece a couple summers ago when I was obsessed with Death Cab for Cutie:

Comfort in the Sound

"sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole / Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound" - "Marching Bands of Manhattan" by Death Cab for Cutie

I wonder at the human nature to shy away from happiness. I realize I can't speak for everyone, but I know so many people, myself included, who, when it comes right down to it, are afraid to be happy and actually sabotage chances for happiness. And I'm not talking about temporary happiness, but real, deeply rooted, content no matter what happiness. Genuine joy: the kind of happiness that can't be shaken by the harshness and tedium in life.

This idea of sorrow (heartache and heartbreak) dripping into my heart and there being an element of comfort in it fascinates me. That pinhole is the little tiny part of me that seeks to destroy the happiness in my life. It's just a pinhole, miniscule and seemingly harmless, yet it allows this drip of heartache to consistently disturb my joy. And that drip is familiar. Sorrow is a reality of life on this earth and as a result I know it and am familiar with it. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt; it breeds safety and security. There's solace in the familiar. Yet when that familiarity worms its way into my heart with the same persistence and annoyance of a leaky faucet it has an antithetical nature because it troubles my peace of mind with its repeated vexations. So sorrow becomes a crutch for me; it's safe and familiar, but it holds me back from experiencing the freedom of genuine joy and happiness. When the crutch becomes unsteady or even clatters to ground for a short period of time, I find reasons to pick it up again. I create heartache because it's familiar and "safe". I keep that pinhole open just to hear the sound of the sorrow dripping through and slowly drenching my heart.

It's time to patch that pinhole, kick this crutch out from underneath me and experience enduring joy...

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And that's all for now... hopefully something new and original worth sharing will flow from my pen soon.

the fragility of life

At times, it strikes me all over again how fragile life really is. Someone can go to work, go on a road trip, plan a future, only to turn around and have it all snatched away by death. A facebook update of "I'm going shopping" becomes the last thing a person writes. In the face of certain death at an uncertain time, our plans mean little and should never be taken for granted.

Last night, I attempted to jot down a series of unpredictable, transient images that (hopefully) leave an impression about the nature of life. Today I strung them together to create a poem of sorts. Not my best work, but it's heartfelt.

Life

It will slide across your eyes like film.
It will brush past your arm like wind.
It will sweeten your tongue like wine.
It will pass like a storm on the move.

It will escape your desire to control.
It will shift beneath you like sand.
It will shatter like a pot of dropped clay.
It will slip through your fingers like water.

You will expect it to bend to your will
But it cannot be compelled or cajoled.
You will spend your days grasping for it
But in the moment of reckoning you cannot make it stay.

Parts of it will slip away
Like water through your fingertips.
It’s breath snatched by the wind.
It’s life.

pithy poems

I love poetry of all kinds, but some of my favourites are the short, succinct ones that "pack a punch" in a few simple words. For example, one of my all-time favourite poems is this one by Margaret Atwood:

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye


Here are a couple of my own, written over the past few years:

a moment of clarity

I witnessed a thing of intense beauty
and wanted to share it with you.

Then I realized
that the thing was no less beautiful
without you there.


Spent

She has nothing left
to say
to think
to feel.

She lays panting
gasping for words:

a fish out of water

slapping uselessly
on the cold cement of indifference.


And here's one I just wrote today, although the idea for it has been floating around in my head for awhile. I'm not that crazy about it, because I don't think it fully captures the intensity of my feeling in the moment of inspiration. But it's a beginning.

heartbeat

the susurration of your blood
can be minimized to something clinical,
identified as your pulse

but lying here with you,
it's your heartbeat inside my ear
that sets the rhythm of my breathing
and echoes my contentment

inside out

The story's inside me.
I can feel it:
a heartbeat,
breath.

I know it's there
but it's shifty:
wind.

Yet there's a solidity to it;
a form that's too immense
to comprehend,
to grasp.
I can't get my arms around it,
underneath it.

My story is a wind-blown boulder,
it's most illusive facet:
I can't get inside it.

I won't be able to
coax the story out
until I decipher the maze,
become Theseus
or even better Daedalus:
redesign the labyrinth.

The difficulty:
how to birth the story.

Revelation:
It cannot be told until,
rather than the story being inside me,
I'm inside the story:
living it
breathing it
stamping it on the page.

time to read

I love having time to read again... in the past few days, I read two books:
A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah and Helpless by Barbara Gowdy. Both were disturbing in their own way and yet both taught me some important things.

A Long Way Gone is primarily disturbing due to the fact that it's a true account of a young boy's experience as a child soldier in Sierra Leone. The things he does are truly horrifying and the way he describes them is both mesmerizing and apalling. Several times I had to skim passages because they were too graphic. Yet I am glad I read it, not only because it's been sitting on my shelf for well over a year, but also because it opened my eyes to the reality of civil war in many parts of the world. I often feel so sheltered from so much of what goes on in the world. No matter how hard I try, there is no way I can even begin to imagine this reality: "...soon enough, people began going about their daily business of searching for food, even though stray bullets were likely to kill them" (p.207). We are so incredibly blessed in North America, yet so stubbornly blind to the peace and freedom we have. (Which, on a side note, is part of what frustrates me so much about people complaining about us having troops in Afghanistan. If Canada were the war-torn, Taliban-controlled country, wouldn't we want and need any outside help we could get? But I'm getting distracted...) While there is much to take away from this memoir, the thing that stood out to me was Beal's question, asked several times throughout the book, of why he was the one in his family to survive. I think this memoir answers that question very poignantly.

Helpless is a fictional novel, written from several points of view, about the abduction of Rachel, an exceptionally beautiful nine-year-old girl, by a struggling pedophile. Ron, the abductor, believes himself to be in love with Rachel, and also believes she is being abused. When he snatches Rachel, he believes he is rescuing her. Throughout the novel, Ron struggles with his desire for Rachel and his determination to provide a better life for her. As I said, there is much disturbing content in this novel, but ultimately it is a novel that forces the reader to reconsider preconceived notions about many different types of people. I highly recommend it.

I've now moved on to reading Payback: Debt and the Shadow Side of Wealth by Margaret Atwood. So far it is fascinating. More to come on this series of essay/lectures.

how water reflects relationships

friendships and relationships have always been extremely important to me and one of the things that I have had a difficult time adjusting to is the fact that, by their very nature, relationships change. friendships are hard work, and as soon as one person begins to lessen the amount of effort he or she puts into the relationship, it becomes off-balance. sometimes I'm the one who backs off, often it's the other person... sometimes, ironically, you're so in sync you both begin stepping back at the same time; those are easier to adjust to, because it's easier to accept that the friendship was only intended for a certain time and space. I've come to a certain peace about the knowledge that most relationships in our lives will only be for a limited period of time and that we should be thankful for the blessing they are when we are in the midst of them. it seems that most friendships won't last a lifetime; they will end, whether they are cut off suddenly or gradually fade away. here's a (as yet unedited) poetic musing that tries to capture the sense of this idea, as well as reflect my feelings about some of the friendships I have had in my life:

Our friendship is under water.
It used to be that the surface was still as glass...
when I looked at you it mirrored me
and it felt familiar, true, and real.
A breeze of contention would ripple the surface now and then...
things would be blurred,
perhaps a little cloudy from the disturbance,
but soon the smooth reflection reappeared to reassure me... us.

Now the wind of resignation has picked up
and the surface is marred so badly
I only catch glimpses of what once was.
Many of those glimpses are unrecognizable,
distorted as they are by the swells of dissention.
On the odd occasion a pocket of water is distilled into a reminder
of the way things used to be.
It happens less and less often...
I can't quiet or calm the storm...
I can hope it will blow over,
but I know we will never recover.

We're drowning in the waves
that hide us from each other.

for my sisters

I am intensely proud of both of you, yet there are shades of jealousy in each feeling of pride.

One, for your ability to weave words in a way that I have always dreamed of doing. It's not so much that I am envious of your greater talent, although I believe yours is greater than my own; it's more that you have taken the plunge and immersed yourself in the writing life. You've dedicated yourself to the craft and you've learned how to open yourself to the muse and to stay faithful to her, regardless of the risks - including judgment - that such an opening entails. You inspire the creative artist in me.

One, for your dedication to the craft of motherhood. It's not so much that I am envious of your sons, although I want my own children; it's more that you consistently strive to be a homemaker in the true sense of the word. You refuse to listen to the seductive voice of convenience in our society and you strive to create a high-quality, simple home life for your boys. Your courage and commitment to try all things "handmade" inspires the ambitious domestic in me.

You are both incredibly strong women who have achieved something in each of your lives that I desire for my own life; hence the smidgen of jealously. However flawed my admiration, I am honoured to call myself your sister. I can only hope to emulate each of you at some point in my life.

first steps

here I go, entering the world of blogging. it's a bit of an adventure for me, although I'm unsure why... I guess because it makes me semi-accountable for writing every day, which is my goal for July and August.

here are my unedited thoughts for today:

I've been trying to tell you how it is with me
how I hold this truth, no this TRUTH, inside of me
how I want to push it past my tongue
and share what I know

but I cannot tell you

it gets caught in my throat
I choke on the hardness of it, the sharpness
there's no way to clarify what I know
without you facing the facade of judgment
that the Truth seems to present

my explanation stumbles
therefore you stumble
and the reflection I hope to be
becomes smoke and mirrors
rather than a glimpse into the Soul of Truth