From the Family Room . . .

Of late I have been writing articles for a local magazine, and it's been a lot of fun.  Starting in June I will also have my own column in that magazine - even more fun.  The focus of my column will be family, since that is not only important to me, but also of great interest to my surrounding community.

So, today I was playing around with titles for my column (I'm open to suggestions, btw) and thought of "From the Family Room" which has an ironic twist to it.  I actually write these days in my family room.  If you've been reading my blog for awhile you will remember the many times I've referenced the library as my writing spot, and it was for a time.  But since we moved recently I have discovered my family room fills that role very well.  I still have a window beside me through which I can survey the world around me, and from which pours light on a regular basis.  I have a reasonably comfortable chair, and a fireplace for the really cold days.  All in all, it works well for me.

Come summertime, when the kids are around, I may have to go back to the library for enough peace to actually write, but I hope not.  I like having them around; I prefer it.  They are my muses (even if also my distractions).

So, even though a good location for writing has seemed important to me in the past, maybe it isn't as important as I thought.  Beyond the basics - a plug close by for when my laptop runs low, a chair, and some light - there really isn't much I require for being able to write.  My biggest strength when writing comes from inside not my outside surroundings.

Literally, my writing comes from the family room of my heart.  The furniture in that room is built from trees of love, both new growth and old.  And while there are broken pieces and ones that show the signs of wear, most are comfortable, most are just right.   Writing, for me, is intensely personal, and I don't think I would want it any other way.  Actually, I don't think I could write any other way.  And so... I sign off from the family room.

A View Not My Own

Have you ever tried to have a logical argument with a six-year-old?  If you haven't, let me give you a little heads up: it doesn't work, you will lose every time.

Here is a for instance:
Six-year-old: "It's not fair that my brother gets to stay up later than I do."
Mom: "Your brother is fifteen.  He's up doing homework."
Six-year-old: "It's not fair that my brother gets to stay up later than I do."
Mom: "He is fifteen.  When you're fifteen, you'll get to stay up late doing homework, too."
Six-year-old: "It's not fair that my brother gets to stay up later than I do."
Mom: "No, it's not fair. Now, go to bed."

It's sort of like reading a novel and not liking the ending.  It's not like you can reason with the author and have him or her change the ending.  All you can do is rage at the nonsense and stupidity of an author who couldn't read your mind and make things turn out the way you envisioned.

I just finished reading a novel last night.  It twisted in ways that I would not have twisted.  It ended in ways that I would not have picked, but also that I did not even foresee.  Is that so bad?   Sometimes, I'm sure I would say, "Yes, in fact it was terrible!"  But what a good thing that we are not all the same, that I can choose my stories endings just like someone else can choose theirs.  And maybe, just maybe, I might be able to see things in a different light.  "You're right, it's not fair," while I still add, "but you still need to go to bed."

Footprints in the Snow

Looking out my window this morning I could see the white covered ground, fresh and crisp from last night's snow fall.  As my six-year-old and I ventured outside to the car I could see footprints on the driveway, my husband and son leaving traces from their early morning travels.  My youngest son's prints were small by comparison, I noticed, as we both added our imprints.

When I returned from the school drop off, I took some remaining garbage to the curb and noticed where my husband had hauled the can to the driveway apron earlier - neat little lines with rectangular tread marks being left in the can's wake.

Only later in the morning did I look out the back window to the white blanketed grass.  It is alive with prints.  I had noticed the squirrels this morning, playfully running up trees and fences, and they have left their mark, but there is more.  Right next to the house I see other prints that must be rabbit prints or a very large squirrel.  And other tracks crisscross the yard, some close together, others feet apart (pardon the pun).

The world is teeming with life and stories.  Do we take time to notice?  It will go on happening whether we see it or not, but oh, what we miss when we don't stop for a moment to watch, to observe, to notice.  Our kids are the same way.  How much do we miss when we don't take a moment . . .

One Year Later

I must depart from my typical blogs.  Today is the one year anniversary of the shooting at Chardon High School here in Ohio.  I have been a casual observer of some of the students and the community at large.  What I have seen has been amazing and surprising.

A year ago, as a Project Linus coordinator (we give new, handmade blankets to children who are ill or traumatized), I took blankets to the students at Chardon High School.  Over a thousand teens received blankets, and they were thrilled and touched.  What happened next was more impressive.  We handed out blankets on a Friday, on Tuesday I received an email from a group of students and a teacher.  They wanted to make blankets to give to others.

Since that day they have made hundreds of blankets.  Students from the middle school and members of the surrounding communities have also made blankets for Project Linus.

Move forward to today.  To commemorate the anniversary the school is holding a service day.  Yes, to remember a most horrific day, they are not focusing on themselves but on others!  They are making leashes for the therapy dogs that have visited their school, they are writing and making art work.  And they have materials to make 600 blankets for Project Linus!!  600!!

If this is what our rising generation is all about, I have no worries for the future.  Unfortunately, not all teens are of this caliber or are as "other" focused.  I am an observer of that group of teens as well.

I am truly sorry this tragedy occurred.  I would not wish it on anyone or anyone's children or anyone's friends, neighbors, or even mild acquaintances.  But since it did happen, I am so grateful for these teens, and I'm sure their families who taught them to be this way.  I am grateful for the example they set for all of us, for the message that rings forth: Do not focus on yourself and your own troubles; reach out to lift and serve others.  In this way you will lift yourself.

May our country learn this lesson.

Foggy Morning

Who doesn't love a sunny, clear morning in the middle of February?  That's exactly the way our morning started.  There is such hope and clarity in that type of morning.  It holds the promise of a fruitful day, inviting us to embrace the day and move forward with power and purpose.

But unexpectedly, when we turned around, fog had moved in and the morning was shrouded in mist.  Much as I welcomed the sunny day, the foggy one intrigued me.  What's out there?  What is just out of sight, but lurking all the same?  Will I feel safe?  Add to these thoughts the knowledge that when I venture out all my thoughts and emotions will feel palpable as moisture licks my exposed skin.

Sometimes I am tempted when writing to write the "sunny day" - I like the bright and cheerful in the world.  But I am realizing that the foggy days are much more interesting, and then the eventual sunny day will be that much more appreciated when it does come.

Life Experiences

There is no substitute for experience.  This is not a new concept, but one that has illustrated itself to me lately.  I was recently teaching a class and the discussion went in an unexpected, but good, direction.  As I led the discussion I was able to draw from my life experiences to illustrate points and focus the energy in the room.

As I have thought of experience in terms of being a writer I have first realized that some of the interesting challenges I have experienced in my life give me good material to work with.  It is easy to write about what you understand, what you have lived.

The second thing that has come to mind regarding this is actually the opposite.  How do you write about something you haven't experienced?  I am always surprised when an author writes a character in first person that is the opposite sex of him or herself.  How can a man write a woman? How could I as a woman write a man?  Or how do you write about the death of a spouse when your spouse is alive and well?  The questions could go on and on.

I suppose there are many possible answers - you research, you draw on similar emotions and elaborate, you read, etc.  There may be several different roads that will lead you to the same place. I guess in the end this is the  mark of a good writer, one who can transform you and make you feel like you could be this person, you can see what they see and feel what they feel, even if you have never felt that way before.

There are popular, best selling books that are not viewed as great literature.  But why then do they make so much money?  I believe it is this transformation, making you feel and live through or for the characters that brings you back for more.  I know I for one would be content to have my books  panned if I could make others feel.

Time

Time is an interesting thing.  We live in an age of time saving devices all the way from cars to computers to email.  Yet we seem to be more pressed for time than any generation before.  Even our movies are fast paced compared to 50 years ago.  Are there really more demands on our time, or have we just decided that we should fit more into our day?

I have neglected this blog for the last week because I was moving and didn't have "time."  Maybe that is a true statement and maybe it isn't.  Although I can't think of too much wasted effort, there was still the several hour trip to Wal-Mart (twice) to find some kind of window coverings.  I wanted to go cheap, but I was picky too.  What color?  What rod?  And we won't even discuss picking out a new mop or plastic containers for the cupboards.

I could argue that these were necessary items and that the trip to the store was important.  I would, however, have a hard time defending the length of time I took to get it just right.  Does all that really matter?  Our society these days often says it is.  And these demands take time.

Despite my busy schedule this last week, I found some things that take up my time are actually unneeded.  How often a day do you check email, for instance?  I know I usually check it several times a day.  But with getting settled and waiting until the internet could be hooked up, I only checked it, at best, once a day.  It was not a problem, except once.  Therein lies the rub, that "once."  I was sent an email from my editor with a final version of an article for my review.  It was being sent off to the presses the next morning.  I didn't look at that email until mid-morning the next day.  Luckily, I got it to her in time, but it could have easily gone the other way.

So, what would I conclude about how busy our lives have become?  I guess I buy into it . . . in part.  Where others are involved, a mutual understanding needs to exist about time constraints and commitments.  Where the choice is really mine, like with my window coverings, I can choose the allotment of time I want to spend.  In that sense it is a matter priorities.

Given all of this, in the end, I would have to revise my statement that I didn't blog last week because I had no time to I didn't blog because I didn't make it a priority, I chose to put others things first.  If I had it to do over again, I would still make those same choices, but I would recognize that they were conscious choices, just like the choice I am making now - to blog amid piles of unpacked boxes.