Posts
Wednesday afternoon, I drove back into town at the end of my 26-day book tour and vacation. A school bus approached from the opposite direction. Figuring Buddy Boy (grandson #1) would be on it, I slowed to let the bus make its right turn and then made my left turn, slipping in behind it. Sure enough, my first grade guy hopped off with a few other munchkins and pranced the short distance to his house. As he opened the side door to go in, I pulled into his driveway and tooted my horn. His excited dance at seeing me was the best welcome home imaginable. And then, my kids and other grandkids gathered for supper and a happy reunion that was oh! so excellent.
The welcome dance and fun of the evening mirrored my own joy at being home, but the trip itself was also part of the joy. Memories and reflections fly around my brain along with tasks and agenda items needing attention. Fatigue and disorganization keep me off balance a bit and measure out a gradual re-entry. As part of the process, I want to capture, nonetheless, the essence of this journey undertaken in conjunction with the release of Sunday by Sunday III.
To cover every detail would be not only impossible but also boring. So, blogging daily (at least that’s the plan), I will hit the highs—and maybe some lows, though there weren’t many of those. The following topics, which I jotted down with some notes on one of the last nights on the road, should provide a pretty good framework for documenting this momentous occasion in my writing adventures. And with a little luck, this document may be entertaining as well (at least that’s the hope).
• The team
• Itinerary
• Family
• Friends
• Drama
• Futility of quantifying
• Infrastructure accidents and incidents
• Serendipity
• Driving
• Weather
• Itinerary/Memory lane
• Re-entry
• Next
Friday, December 9, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
The joy of puttering
The joy of puttering around! Maybe I’ll write a book with that name to add to the library of The Joy of ... books—Gardening, Motherhood, Sex. Anyway, today is being a lovely, satisfying day of puttering, frittering, dawdling. Not inactive, high energy, actually, doing whatever I wish.
Worked out with Spike and the Bulldogs, my 35-minute, self-choreographed routine.
Had pancakes and eggs and read more in The Creed, What Christians Believe and Why It Matters for breakfast.
Communicated with friends and readers to try and get my Kickstarter campaign popping. Not looking good to reach my goal, but I’m not going down without a fight. Good to catch up with people I haven’t been in touch with for awhile. And, these contacts held encouragement, which is good because self-promotion and marketing require massive amounts of encouragement—and determination. There are days when I just can’t do it. But today—yes I can!
Listened to the inimitable Dorothea Benton Frank on the delightful Walter Edgar’s Journal. What a hoot that woman is, and she had so much inspiration for writers in their hour-long conversation. I’m going to listen again and take notes.
Cleaned my toaster oven while listening to Dottie and Walter. This is a household task I perform on a regular schedule—whenever the crumbs catch on fire.
Talked with precious daughter for a good while, professional to professional. Joy.
Hung out a load of wash. Another household task that needs doing is to take the dirty clothesline down, scrub it, and rehang it. I also rehang my clothesline on a regular schedule—whenever the sheets touch the ground. (I’m not that good at knots.)
Social networked for awhile and had fun doing it. Days off from the computer, nonetheless, are important, too.
Now, going to look for $5 summer shoes on the sale rack and get what I need to make a batch of oatmealers.
Then, PBS Newshour and Washington Week in Review, my typical wild Friday night—unless the news is so maddening and/or depressing I switch to reruns of Mash (the cleverest program on TV according to me) like I did the other night.
These are a few of my favorite things, and it’s a whole different deal to do them because I feel like it rather than because I must. Luxurious.
This free and easy schedule has a marvelous edge to it following the 12+ hours per day intensity of finishing the composition stage of the book, starting up the campaign, and scheduling events and book tour. I’m beginning to feel human again. Thank you, God, for all of this. All of it.
Worked out with Spike and the Bulldogs, my 35-minute, self-choreographed routine.
Had pancakes and eggs and read more in The Creed, What Christians Believe and Why It Matters for breakfast.
Communicated with friends and readers to try and get my Kickstarter campaign popping. Not looking good to reach my goal, but I’m not going down without a fight. Good to catch up with people I haven’t been in touch with for awhile. And, these contacts held encouragement, which is good because self-promotion and marketing require massive amounts of encouragement—and determination. There are days when I just can’t do it. But today—yes I can!
Listened to the inimitable Dorothea Benton Frank on the delightful Walter Edgar’s Journal. What a hoot that woman is, and she had so much inspiration for writers in their hour-long conversation. I’m going to listen again and take notes.
Cleaned my toaster oven while listening to Dottie and Walter. This is a household task I perform on a regular schedule—whenever the crumbs catch on fire.
Talked with precious daughter for a good while, professional to professional. Joy.
Hung out a load of wash. Another household task that needs doing is to take the dirty clothesline down, scrub it, and rehang it. I also rehang my clothesline on a regular schedule—whenever the sheets touch the ground. (I’m not that good at knots.)
Social networked for awhile and had fun doing it. Days off from the computer, nonetheless, are important, too.
Now, going to look for $5 summer shoes on the sale rack and get what I need to make a batch of oatmealers.
Then, PBS Newshour and Washington Week in Review, my typical wild Friday night—unless the news is so maddening and/or depressing I switch to reruns of Mash (the cleverest program on TV according to me) like I did the other night.
These are a few of my favorite things, and it’s a whole different deal to do them because I feel like it rather than because I must. Luxurious.
This free and easy schedule has a marvelous edge to it following the 12+ hours per day intensity of finishing the composition stage of the book, starting up the campaign, and scheduling events and book tour. I’m beginning to feel human again. Thank you, God, for all of this. All of it.
Friday, September 9, 2011
I just finished my book
I just finished my latest book, Sunday by Sunday III, a little past midnight. I had set last Friday as my deadline. And I take deadlines very seriously, not like Douglas Adams (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), who claims to “love deadlines…the whooshing sound they make when they fly by.” But, alas, Friday whooshed by, and I wasn’t done. Then, Monday, for absolutely sure. Nope. On Wednesday I wrote to a friend, “I’m finishing III today. I struggled all day yesterday for the exact right ending. Finally, this morning as I boiled my oatmeal, it came.” Discovering how to end it was about being still and knowing that God is God. About “getting out of the way,” as Madeleine L’Engle, and many others, put it. “Art is collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.” ~André Gide
Anyway, yee-haw! God and I are done. Tomorrow I’ll send the manuscript to my main editor and several other readers for final feedback Most of the characters will survive revision, I think, and most of the story lines are pretty well set, and yet, there is more work. (“A book is never finished, you just finally have to abandon it.”) But the hardest part, making it all up, is over. Thank God.
Composition is like taming a lion. Revising is like playing with a kitten. That’s how it is for me. I relish the fine tuning. Tightening is in order, striving to cut out every word that isn’t necessary. Making sure that the action builds on itself convincingly is important, and there will be some backtracking to make that happen. Consistency of facts is obviously important, too—and tricky. As I’ve delved back into the first two books in the series, I’ve discovered three major errors regarding consistency of factual information. I hope no reader ever discovers them, but if someone does, s/he will receive a free book (if s/he keeps her/his mouth shut).
Seriously, typos can occur even with a spell checker and half a dozen proofreaders. Inconsistencies arise even with the search function and diligent editors. A book is a big document, and the writing process complex. I guess for that reason, I don’t get upset or (too) embarrassed when my mistakes are caught. Oops. Darn. Sorry. I re-e-eally wanted it to be perfect, but… Do I sound lame, as though I have low standards? Maybe self-published works like mine typically do have more errors. But I’ll say this: I recently read a hard cover novel by a best-selling, very prominent author published, of course, by a huge publishing house, that had a lot more typos than any of my books. What’s my point here? Maybe I should omit this paragraph.
Anyway, whew. Annie Dillard told authors in The Writing Life, “Your one necessity: …to dangle from it limp, wherever it takes you…” I am definitely limp, so maybe I’ve done something write. Oops, I mean right.
Anyway, yee-haw! God and I are done. Tomorrow I’ll send the manuscript to my main editor and several other readers for final feedback Most of the characters will survive revision, I think, and most of the story lines are pretty well set, and yet, there is more work. (“A book is never finished, you just finally have to abandon it.”) But the hardest part, making it all up, is over. Thank God.
Composition is like taming a lion. Revising is like playing with a kitten. That’s how it is for me. I relish the fine tuning. Tightening is in order, striving to cut out every word that isn’t necessary. Making sure that the action builds on itself convincingly is important, and there will be some backtracking to make that happen. Consistency of facts is obviously important, too—and tricky. As I’ve delved back into the first two books in the series, I’ve discovered three major errors regarding consistency of factual information. I hope no reader ever discovers them, but if someone does, s/he will receive a free book (if s/he keeps her/his mouth shut).
Seriously, typos can occur even with a spell checker and half a dozen proofreaders. Inconsistencies arise even with the search function and diligent editors. A book is a big document, and the writing process complex. I guess for that reason, I don’t get upset or (too) embarrassed when my mistakes are caught. Oops. Darn. Sorry. I re-e-eally wanted it to be perfect, but… Do I sound lame, as though I have low standards? Maybe self-published works like mine typically do have more errors. But I’ll say this: I recently read a hard cover novel by a best-selling, very prominent author published, of course, by a huge publishing house, that had a lot more typos than any of my books. What’s my point here? Maybe I should omit this paragraph.
Anyway, whew. Annie Dillard told authors in The Writing Life, “Your one necessity: …to dangle from it limp, wherever it takes you…” I am definitely limp, so maybe I’ve done something write. Oops, I mean right.
Friday, August 19, 2011
My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me
My neighborhood meeting last night disturbed me, and I sat on my front step this morning and prayed a lot and cried a little over it. Crime is up in our neighborhood and city. One man has had his house broken into twice in the last year, his car broken into twice, too. Wrong. Bad. Air conditioning units are being destroyed left and right for the copper. Four houses/buildings (all vacant) across from me have had their units destroyed. The church fellowship hall in which we sat was uncomfortably warm because they were hit by the copper thieves the other day.
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Police were on hand to exchange information, defend and explain their work, listen sympathetically. Anger escalated with each account of being victimized and afraid and pretty soon, the question that always gets asked at this moment was asked of the officers:
“What’s the law about me protecting my property? Can I shoot someone?” and we began to smile and laugh in our discomfort, in our relief at the thought of taking control, fighting back. Some murmured “shoot to disable,” others “shoot to kill.”
We talked of absentee landlords, too, a problem on my block that leads to bigger problems from vandalism to falling property values to rats (the worst of the three in my mind!). And how landlords rent to convicted sex offenders and other felons. Not good. But I asked myself, for Christ’s sake, where is mercy for these offenders? Are they to be denied a place to lay their heads? Denied a fresh start? Do I want to live next door to a sex offender? Not particularly. But I ask, for Christ’s sake…
In broad daylight in Chicago c. 1967 I was attacked, rape was attempted, and my purse stolen. The perpetrator had my address and the keys to my apartment. I’m pretty sure he tried to get in before the locks were changed but was stopped by the safety chain. Which is to say I know fear and violation and outrage. But still I ask, what is the best response, for Christ’s sake? WWJD? Seriously, what would he do? What did he do? What has he told us, time and again in the Scriptures, to do? Be not afraid. Trust in God. Show mercy.
Like Renee Splichal Larson said in her sermon just now at the churchwide assembly of my denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America /ELCA (I attended the closing communion service virtually), “I just can’t get my mind around how different the world’s idea of justice is from God’s justice.” She said something close to that, and my head was spinning with that same confusion in the meeting last night, when we were laughing about killing someone. We are good, decent people, not killers, and yet we laughed at the prospect, even the satisfaction, of ending another human life. Pastor Larson’s passionate sermon was precisely relevant to our community meeting and to living out God’s justice even when it’s hard and risky. But last night, I felt alone sitting on my molded plastic chair in that hall, and I felt weak that I could not speak for mercy and a reasoned approach to the problem, couldn’t seem to live out my convictions at that exact moment, even when I was pretty sure that there would be others who would share my perspective.
In my prayers this morning, I heard words of grace: 1) Stop bemoaning your presumed guilt for not being a super-hero of faith in a complicated situation; you’re not the point, and, more importantly, you’re baptized. Live in grace, for crying out loud. 2) There are always more chances to behold God’s light in the world and witness to it. “Don’t worry what you have to say; don’t worry because on that day, God’s Spirit will speak in your heart…” 3) Call Margaret. So I called my friend Margaret, steeped in the African-American church and that style of preaching so that sanctified, encouraging Bible verses and faith slogans roll off her tongue like honey. She talked me down—or up, actually, as in lifted my spirits, reminded me of what we believe and what God promises. Sweet words, sweet as honey.
I’m not alone at all, I realize once again. Seems strange, now, how often I forget that.
I took communion in front of my computer with the ELCA crowd in assembly. And I prayed for Earlewood, my neighborhood; and for all victims of crime, including crimes of oppression and economic injustice; and for those who would shoot to kill and those who would shoot to disable and those who would rather die than shoot; and for sex offenders and law-breaking citizens, that they might find enough mercy to repent and heal; and for irresponsible landlords, that the same might happen to them.
Whew. I’m better now. Thank you, God.
“Kyrie eleison, on our world and on our way, kryie elieson everyday…”
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Rainbows
Last week I mentioned on Facebook a little rainbow hunting excursion that ended rather precipitously. I put the account in the form of a (lengthy) sentence poem (I’m getting quite a collection of those). Here it is: I woke from a lazy Saturday afternoon nap to find a gentle rain falling as the sun shone and put on flip-flops so my good sandals wouldn’t get wet and headed out the front door and carefully down the slippery steps but fell on my keister anyway, and there was, unaccountably, no rainbow, so I just went and took down the wet clothes from the line.
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Today was quite a different story. I hit the jackpot with a double! The sun was blinding me as I neared home at the end of a Sunday evening walk. To my right was the community garden, 20 or so beds of lush plants in an expanse of very green grass. When a steady rain started up, I stopped and paused before turning around, thinking, “There just has to be a rainbow out of this; it’s purely a law of physics—light shining into water.” Sure enough, as I gazed into the heavens I saw pale colors taking shape on the left, and second by second—absolutely as if by magic (yeah, and physics)—the arc of pastels appeared, perfectly spanning the gardens. Each end of the rainbow disappeared into tree tops.
By now, the curved stripes were as vivid in color as any I’ve ever seen. Roy G Biv, I began, starting at the top and identifying distinct red, orange, yellow, and green stripes. I was trying to break down Biv—the blue, indigo and violet were pretty indistinguishable —when something above it all caught my eye. Another pale, multicolored patch! As I watched in amazement, the process repeated itself exactly, the same celestial magic, faint colors deepening and shaping into another perfect curve in the dome of heaven, two of them hanging over my community and the verdant vegetation in silent blessing. God, it was gorgeous.
The gentle shower waned and the fading began, but I didn’t want to leave them hanging there in the sky without me, so I determined to stay until they disappeared. How gracefully the process reversed itself. First, the higher one dulled but was still fully visible. Then, sections began to get so light that I wondered if I was still seeing color or just seeing where it been a moment before. I could still see parts of it, barely, and it naturally came to the point that when I looked away and looked back it was gone, utterly gone.
The lower won was still quite sharp. In fact, it outlasted me. Some clouds covered part of it and gradually, only a faint half was still visible. Turning my back on it, I walked the half block to my street and looked around one last time before I hung a hard right for home. Still there, still magical.
What privileged moments for me, and I have no profound reflections to add to what the Creator has already reflected in these and all rainbows!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
After the family reunion...
After the family reunion, my head and heart are busy with fresh memories—like of the oldest and the youngest arriving together, the 87-year-old matriarch (Generation 1) and her 9-month-old great-grandchild (Generation 4). Very cool moment. We gather on the shores of beautiful Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The family is large, ten Gen 2ers, my siblings and myself. Grand total of the Fossum generations who made the trip this year was 47—and we sorely missed the other 16. With one exception, we’ve come together every other summer since 1987. There was an important reason that year: the desire of our mother to see all of her children and grandchildren upon her return from two years of Peace Corps service in the Philippines. The 11 reunions since then have happened on the general familial principles of staying in touch and having lots and lots of fun.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
One of the funnest aspects for me is KP duty. We do our own cooking and each meal crew is headed by a Gen 2 and staffed by in-laws, nieces, nephews, and grandchildren. The littlest team members take pride in rolling silverware, decorating napkins, and fixing plates of cookies. Kitchen conversation is lively and informative—and you never know when there might be a rubber mouse in the sink to send a certain aunt into conniptions!
And the games are fun. One year a cutthroat Sungka tournament went on day and night, through blistered knuckles, until there was a winner. My one sister and I treated our match-up like afternoon tea, totally non-competitive, just to calm things down a little. The spectator crowd soon dissipated. Water balloon volleyball is a staple and always a hoot. Refreshing, too. Email me if you want instructions. The last few years, Apples to Apples, an adjective game, is a strong draw and sometimes continues into the wee hours of the morning. Favorite quotes from one of those sessions: “Taking from my own life, ‘Going to the gym’ is nerdy.” “Chimpanzees are so idiotic. I hate them.” Another hit this year was Minute to Win It. All ages participated and the older we were the bigger fools we made of ourselves; fools for fun. Then, there’s the Fossum trivia game. “Whose favorite food is potato chips?” “Which Fossum has lived on three continents?” We’re ready for an updated version of that. The talent show seems to have gone steadily downhill since the astonishing tap dance of our 60-something mother a couple decades ago. But we’ve got talent; we definitely need to revive that event.
Family is dynamic by nature and many changes always occur in the intervening two years. For starters, everybody’s two years older and now the kids we used to take to the candy store on the lake trail are taking littler ones. At any given gathering people are making geographical moves or changing jobs or starting kindergarten or graduating from college. We’ve lost several participants to divorce, something I didn’t expect in my family, but now we Gen 2s are at the national average in that regard. (I’ve had to come to terms with being typical; I don’t know why being above average used to seem so important.) There are always babies on the way or recently born as well as significant others we’re meeting for the first time. Shockingly, one of us is mobile in a wheelchair since the last get-together, and we rally round in sorrow and caring, marveling at that one’s determination and courage. Other changes, too, cause pain and confusion, but Don Henley got it right. It’s about forgiveness. Fortunately, we seem to be blessed with plenty of that.
Time always runs out too soon. People begin arriving on Thursday afternoon, everybody’s present by Friday night, and then we gradually leave after Sunday breakfast, out by 11am to make room for the next guests. And whoever sits down next to me is just who I want to be near. But the gala was over before I found out about that nephew’s job search or caught up very well with brothers-in-law or had enough time with little ones or swam or remembered to give Mom the book I brought along which I’ll now have to mail or...
But even though our brief time together seems incomplete in some ways, the reunion is a privileged, precious piece of life, a time of roots and wings. “Roots hold me close; wings set me free…” (from Spirit of Life by Carolyn McDade)
Thank you, gracious Creator, for life and for the gift of family.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Taming the urban jungle some more
By 8 o’clock this morning, I had cut down two trees. Real trees with trunks over two inches in diameter. I got outside early before the h and h (heat and humidity) were insufferable. A lovely breeze was breezing and I was totally up for continuing my crusade against an overgrown, unsightly yard. Plenty of elbow grease was required to make the cuts with my modest hand saw (an electric knife might have made the job easier!), and as my physical strength reached its height, I became keenly aware of power surging through me. Power. Over trees, over nature.
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
Was I using my power well? We are charged by almighty God with caring for the creation. Aren’t we supposed to be saving trees? I didn’t get into serious reflection or self-recrimination, for my action was intended exactly as good stewardship. These trees—I don’t even know what kind they are—come up volunteer and there are now 11 of them along the fence in about a 12-foot stretch. Too many to grow well and be manageable. Even so, as I sawed through that young trunk, there was a keen sense of ending a beautiful, miraculous life.
And as I cleared the space behind my tool house of invasive vines and shrubs and a big pile of yard garbage accumulated for the last couple months, a foot-long skink slithered out. Undoubtedly, the creature was every bit as startled as I, but only one of us yelped. So, predictably, I thought of vanishing habitats for our animal co-habitors and how I was taking away hers. But it’s my place, space, yard, house—property.
Which made me think of native Americans who, I’ve heard, had no concept of private property. How can anyone own the ground, the sky, the water?! I really like their outlook. How many less problems would there be in the world, how many fewer wars and conflicts if everyone ascribed to that notion and held the land as a sacred gift from the Creator to be managed and shared and handled for the common good? BTW, I am not a communist. And I am a homeowner, so I speak confessionally as well as judgmentally on this topic.
Quite a morning of reflection in my back yard on this holiday! Thank you, great God, for all of it—the trees, the saw, the strength, the skink, the property, the reflective spirit. On this Fourth of July when we celebrate freedom, may you guide me to exercise the great gift of it in accordance with your good purposes and in the knowledge of your sweet and amazing grace. Amen!
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