Peter (my guru) Elbow: On Writing

Writers are more apt to understand writing as giving: "Here. Take it. Enjoy it. Thank me. (Pay me, if possible.) But I'm not interested right now in evaluation or criticism." English teachers, on the other hand, usually can't think of anything to do with a set of words except to formulate criticism of one sort or another—high criticism for works of student writing. I suspect this is why English teachers so seldom write." (Writing with Power 21)

One of the things I love about blogs is the generosity of the bloggers. It's such a joy to read writing that is given as a gift. Even "bad" writing has this sense of expansive sharing that just bouys my spirits when I read it. Where else can you find such an eager outpouring of self into the marketplace of ideas than on the Internet? I feel rich all the way down to the corners of my soul when I scroll through blogs and read posts to email lists and forums.

Thank God that we've recovered the joy of writing—stolen it back from the red pens and English teachers of our pasts.

In the last three months, I've done more writing than I have in years. I run two daily blogs, I've completed my second book, I've written seven papers for grad school and completed one research length paper for the Society of Biblical Literature. I can't even begin to quantify how many posts I've made all over the Internet.

The thing of it is that my writing is more joyful now than it's ever been. I have found the perfect balance for me—places to express myself in writing that aren't being scrutinized for publication but also aren't merely hidden in a private journal.

Here's to the brave writer in all of us.

And by the way, thanks for reading my writing. Tell me where you are and I'll return the compliment by reading yours. :)

Slap me—it's sunny!

It was 81 degrees today and so beautiful that someone in my Black Theology class actually had the nerve to assert that it felt like California. Yes, indeedy, it did.

I walked onto Xavier's campus before dusk and witnessed a virtual explosion of testosterone in white tee-shirts—frisbees, footballs, baseballs, soccer balls (you get the idea... all kinds of balls) going in every which way direction. This campus isn't that big. So I had to dodge said balls just to stake out a table in the sunshine for dozing (why study?). Dudes were everywhere and all were in shorts.

Girls were showing their midrifs (blinding white, here in the midwest, and a bit on the fleshy side too, I might add). I'm always a bit alarmed by skin after months of winter coats, and it appears the boys were too.

"Oh you show off!" said one midrif baring female as she jumped for the frisbee.

"Ah I knew you could stretch for it." (I'm sure he did... and Score! The top scooched up for a moment revealing all that ghostly white flesh, quivering over her low cut pants.)

So I sat down to re-read my paper (on how Eve and I are like soul mates separated at birth) that I am submitting to the EGLSBL (alphabet soup for a Bible conference where I present a paper, like I said) and basked in music blaring from a boom box ("Dust in the Wind" by Kansas), found places to expand my paper and enjoyed being around skin-baring co-eds until seven o'clock when the sun set and class began.

It was almost as good as going to the beach... I said almost.

Vertigo—They've begun!

Read about it.

They ended with "Yahweh" and "40." Yes, this will be like 52 weeks x 4 years of church. Still my beating heart....

May 9, 2005 Chicago—five weeks and counting...

Catharsis: I hate...

I hate water seeping through the basement floors so that I have to bail it multiple times a day when it rains.
I hate it that the dog won't pee outside at night in the rain.
I hate it that I'm the one who is neurotic about said dog and so I actually get up at 4 a.m., chase him downstairs and then stand in the rain tossing him off the deck so that he will go under the deck and PEE (which took four tries last night).
I hate that I have yet to eradicate the smell of pee in my living room and art room, my favorite lime green room in the house where my theology, art and Laura Ingalls Wilder books are all housed.
I hate that the week we have off from school, it is raining.
I hate the rain.
I hate that I hate the rain since I used to love, love, love it.
I hate the fact that spirituality is so nebulous and that faith is riddled with superstition.
I hate that when you call something in the faith 'superstitious' people get their backs up and try to prove to you that what they believe isn't superstitious.
I hate that Christianity is so hard to figure out, yet has a hold over me at the same time.
I hate that attempts to reconstruct Christianity are met with resistance and complexity that makes the ideas non-transferable.
I hate that holidays like Easter and Christmas are supposed to be meaningful only to those of the "born-again" literal variety of faith so that if a person celebrates them without that version of the story, that person is seen as a hypocrite, or worse, 'not saved'.
I hate being the impotent mother of teens with angst.
I hate regrets.
I hate it that I can't apologize to someone whose life I deeply hurt and who never wants to hear from me again.
I hate being cyber stalked. (You know who you are.)
I hate shopping.
I hate untimely death.
I hate not having a best friend in town.
I hate being so far from the ocean.
I hate caring so much about stuff.

I hate nostalgia and home videos and photographs and idealism and war and missions and the fact that some people worry about the state of my soul.

I love my family... especially Jon.

My Kingdom for an Egg

Every year our family dyes eggs together and we use the little clear crayon supplied by Paas to write clever quotations making use of the "egg" motif as creatively as we can.




Here's Jacob intently dying his egg

This year's eggs have the following terrific quotes:

Shakespeare
Two eggs, both alike in dignity.

My egg! My egg! My kingdom for an egg.

Music
Some eggs can't make it on their own. (U2)

It's been a hard egg's night. (Beatles)

Movie line
E-G-G egg ("You've Got Mail")

Egg puns
Egg-straordinary

Five star egg

Two eggs don't make a right but three eggs make an omlette.

The last egg standing.

Egg-stra, egg-stra

Perennial favorite:
"Hey dude, where's my egg?"

It finally caught up with me

Last night, Caitch (Jon's name for Caitrin when he isn't calling her "Caitronic" or "Caitron the neutron bomb") spent the evening paging through the family photo albums (of which there are a paltry four) that are the result of being roped into Creative Memories parties with women in long skirts who submit to their husbands (there was a time...). Said albums are all on the lowest shelf of our bookcase (underneath poetry books, Sister Wendy videos, and my E.M. Forster collection). I tried to hide them from view by situating the rocking chair in front of that shelf (to prevent the dog from peeing on them in the middle of the night... like he did my Shakespeare and art books in the other room... where's that arsenic again? Here, puppy, puppy, puppy...)

The dog is still muddled (my master plan is working) but Caitrin, the youngest child of five (to whom photo albums mean the world) is like a heat-seeking missile for all things nostalgia. She locked on the cache and made the tragic discovery that she is hardly in any of the photos. Oh yes, her tossled head of curly brown hair appears toward the back end of the most recent album, but all the other pages were filled with California life, a life she doesn't remember.

We moved to Ohio when she was only two. When we stayed for eight weeks in an apartment building and then moved to our new house, she thought our references to California must mean those airless, humid, drug-dealing apartments up the street. She dubbed them "The California Apartments" and to this day, when we drive by, someone calls out "Hey, it's the California apartments."

Well, now that she's a big eight, the truth is out—California turns out to be heaven short of the cherubim, filled with sunshine and smiles, outdoor picnics in winter and extended family at all celebrations. Who switched up the domiciles? What the heck are we doing here, in the country of God and guns and very little family?

She cried on my shoulder. I almost cried on hers.

How was I to know that I'd spend the best years of my adult youth working on photo albums for kids who couldn't care less while the youngest has nothing to page through for the necessary development of an intact ego and self-image?

Think I'll post two deposits to the therapy fund this week. We don't pay for college. As good Californians, we offer a full treatment plan for adult children who had less than four pages of photos in the family albums. I think she'll be cashing in.

Emily Dickinson

Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency!

My Messiahs

I've found what I'm looking for...

The Boss's induction of U2 into the Hall of Fame was everything a great speech ought to be—funny, endearing, articulate, descriptive, long and genuinely affectionate. Bruce reminded us that both he and Bono share an embarassingly naked Messiah complex... which is precisely why we heart them.

Bruuuuuuce's speech

The following photos show how cute these two rockers really are:







I heard Bruce has a new CD coming out! Could the year get any better?

Woo-hoo times four!!!

We're ALL going to U2 in Cleveland.
Doing our part for corporate musicians everywhere.....



Sometimes your kids can't make it on their own...

And so, Jon and I have the fun of taking Johannah and Jacob to see U2 in Cleveland, December 10. Tickets were purchased with relatively little trauma to the family (and my sleep patterns).

We'll also take in the Rock 'n Roll Museum up there too. Should be just the mid-life pick-me-up Jon and I need (well, he doesn't need it since he's uber relevant and sexy besides... but I am always looking for ways to return to my petulant, edgy youth).

Kids are thrilled. How often do parents and teens find music they are equally crazy about? Leave it to Bono and the lads.

Wooooooo-hooooooooooo!

Liam

On the way to lacrosse practice last night, Liam said, "When I retire, I'm going to have a freakin' lot of money. I'm going to use all my money to visit every single family member wherever they live. I'm going to use up all my money doing that. Then I'll just do the retirement kinds of things for awhile... until the next family member is born. And then I'll be sure to visit that family member right away, and keep doing that no matter how many more family members are born."

Every muscle in his face worked to get that point across. I got it.

We swung the car into an unmarked spot at the field. As I helped Liam strap on his pads, he launched into a little story about his last practice. His eyes lit up as big as saucers, the way they always did when he was three—swallowing his entire face. His mouth opened wide, getting all those words out and his obvious pride of achievement made him move his arms as he swayed back and forth. He got the ball after his coach challenged him to get it from in the middle of the pack. "It was freakin' awesome!"

Before he trotted off to run through the mud and swing his stick, he gave me a big hug. "It's so great having you as my mom."

But I knew the truth. It's great having him as my kid.