(Redemptive narrative is a lot like falling in love)

Dreaming about this. 

An Ode to Story

Sometimes you are here with me, and I dream you up out of my conscious mind, as if the gears are turning to put together old bones. Nothing makes sense until it does, and then we're flying, together, promising never to leave anything behind. And sometimes you return slowly, seamlessly making yourself known beyond the sleep and hum of everyday life. 

I meet you in other worlds, in other people, in the eyes of my dog and I can't quite place you until I'm in this closed off space — alone. You steal what's left but it doesn't feel like stealing; it feels sweet and worthy because you remember the good with the hurt. You weave together what's forgotten and moments that make us hollow or whole. 

You are a time traveler who revisits our dying days and our vibrant ones, and you make it easier to sleep when we don't know the difference. Sometimes you are stubborn and I cannot recall your words. But you always forgive and you always tell the truth. You are resilient. You make it all worth living even when it's not or even when it feels too far away to tell, because that's how narrative begins and that's how it will always end. 

You spin together splendor behind what our eyes can see, and it points to one rich truth, one ruthlessly magnificent detail in which planets and atoms revolve around. You are the sound of the bells I follow that lead to redemption. With eyes open or closed, you unfold it all.

Stories We Claim

A snapshot: part of my family tree. The Anholt family, 1891. 

Stories we claim + stories that claim us. I love when nostalgic moments kind of bump into you and then you realize it's more than a little love tap. I read inspiring words about family stories right after I discovered a pile of old poems and papers from my college days. This old poem I wrote went hand-in-hand with Christina's words, sprouting an interest in story telling and how family history unravels. 

I have always been intrigued by the passing of memories and how they can change shape, even for those who did not live them. Christina expounds on this craving for family stories in a fierce and lovely way, writing that, perhaps, it is "proof that artists live some part of their lives circling the secret of their calling before their way." She is also bewildered by the stories her mother tells, "like lost stitches in the tapestry of her lineage." Her words were sweet to me today, and they inspired me to reflect on one of my old wrinkled-paper poems: little vignettes and family stitches. I hope -- like Christina's stories -- they inspire you to reflect on your own family's memoir-moments. 

++++

Family History (And Words Sometimes Told)

I want to be there,
Where the weeds grow long
and the fields are gray;
listening to you teaching
to the cattle, driving through the Badlands, 
where the grasshoppers don't stop growing. 
I want to be there,
when she bought that teapot in Vienna; 
once not so rusted and
beautiful in its time

like she was when she fed the hobos
chicken dumplings on fourth of July
on that front step.
I want to be there, 
when you cut off all of your hair 
to remind yourself it did not matter
and then spent 20 years alone 
on an airplane with napkin notes
and old phone numbers. 

I want to be there, 
when you sold what you had
to pump gas in Wisconsin --
living with that Jewish girl, Mutta, 
who always looked pretty in pictures. 
Or when you hitchhiked through wherever 
or when your father fell asleep
under that bridge; 

when you learned to paint in jail;
when you heard we landed on the moon in some bar
in Milwaukee.
I want to be there, 
Where ancient past weaves through your veins
and names make up your DNA 
and memories are more than ripped pages, 
cassette tapes and
faces you don't remember.

Dear Houston: One Last Time

via // Southern Living

For the Old Shack on 7 1/2 Street [And All My Other Riches]

Sometimes goodbyes slip through the cracks.

And sometimes they are long, like a deep breath in

the middle of the night and a red light in Texas.

But more than that, they are richer moments;

They are Mexican coffee beans in the morning and

chairs around a folding table,

Tightly held hands while we pray - just to be sure of the other.

I need the goodbye, but perhaps you do too

and I never realized it until now -

when I miss the house on the corner with the dolls in the window

and ceiling-long bookshelves;

The bald man skating along Allen Park Way who never stopped dancing

and little girls under blanket forts made for telling stories.

I take a deep breath and it's gone in two minutes:

Floods of rain storms and fogged windows

Sewing machines, cement roads, apricot orange teapots

Dusty boots, scruffy dogs like

Egypt the puppy and

Nervous conversations. Hands I never shook.

High School Ministry

8tracks

I close my eyes and it all slips past me. I'm convinced the words won't surface, that a new day will come and go and I won't really listen. But then I get a letter in the mail and it reminds me of who I am and the skin I live in. I run around my car at a red light in the dark with three laughing high school girls because they make me feel young and forgiven. They are so much more than they pretend to be. I want to tell them not to hold onto burdens because there are more red lights to dance at and they won't be red forever. And when I come home, I listen to a story about broken bottle eyes and humming live wires. She's got wrath and cutting beauty - and it's never enough.

Creative Living

As a writer, I have to deal with writer's block and try my best to cut out pieces of my life that stifle creativity. In high school and college I discovered my love for words and creative moments -- those slivers of your memory where you are absolutely certain you are alive and creating something nourishing in some way --  even if it's just journal writing late at night. I began to understand how delightful it is to create something solely for the pleasure of creating. There is joy in the process of it all; especially when the pressure of deadlines and criticism are taken out of the equation. 

In college, I cultivated a deeper sense of admiration for creating, specifically through writing, and I was able to experience those short, innovative moments on a larger scale. Even though I was maturing and nurturing my creative side, I still viewed that almost sacred flash of originality as some sort of electricity that came and went as it pleased -- as if inspiration strikes and there's not much we can do to leverage or extend the spark. 

Since then, I practice taking the mystery out of it, because it only seems to stunt my work and increase writer's block. This doesn't mean I no longer believe in the magic of it all, it just means I've learned to tap into the idea that there are creative flashes in the every day, ordinary moments. The more habitual we are in reaching for that inspiration, the more it seems to draw near. I've noticed that the more intentional I am about developing a routine or some measure of productivity, the more I am able to pump out lingering creative energy rather than spurts of inspiration. 

Artistic Engagement + Dull Routines

I've found that when I implement something that engages me intellectually and artistically into my everyday dull routines, the creative juices start to flow easier. For example, if you walk your dog every morning, listen to music you connect with and try to really hear. If you have to unstack the dishwasher, listen to a great storytelling podcast, like The Moth or This American Life. 

I am by myself a lot since I work from home, so listening to someone's personal story helps me feel more connected and inspired throughout the day. 

Morning Pages

I wrote more about this idea in my 750 words posts. The idea (from Julia Cameron's The Artist) is that you write stream of consciousness, 3 pages longhand first thing in the morning. Not only are you making time to write that you didn't think you had, but you are preparing for your day creatively. You're also learning to fight against self-editing while you write. If you're a writer, this is an invaluable skill to develop. 

This practice has been proven by several different kinds of people to bring creative energy and enhance inspiration throughout the day -- even if you're not a writer!

Learn a New Skill - Even if You're Not Good!

A is really good at this one. He seriously values continual learning the way we all should. The boy is learning another language and teaching himself html coding... just because. What? Who does that? Anyway, I've found that learning a new skill, particularly using your hands, is helpful in developing a more creative life. As I learn sewing (so, so slowly), I am surprised at how even when I am frustrated and messing up projects, the simple step of diving into the learning process can bring inspiration. Engaging yourself with creative thinking and teaching sets the rest of your day up for motivation. 

Unplug. Get Some Air!

I think perhaps one of the best ways to evoke creative energy is to shut down the cell phone, laptop, and anything with a screen. Our minds are constantly taking in images and words from the internet that are likely to inspire, but also able to discourage. Searching Pinterest and blogs we enjoy may draw inspiration, but more often than not, it's easier to learn about the results of another person's creative endeavors and not embark on our own. 

Always checking our email or staring at a computer screen, hunched over all day long is draining. If you set aside some time -- even 30 minutes a day -- to walk around the block or take a nap at the park does wonders for the artist inside. I can't tell you how refreshed I felt after a get away camping weekend. Sometimes new surroundings simply do the trick. Beautiful inspirations found in nature always trump what you find on the screen. Am I right? ;)

What have you found increases your day to day creativity? I'd love to hear what works for you in the comments! xo

On Vulnerability

I watch them as they climb on top of the washing machine to find dog bones in higher cabinets, their socks slipping and then tiny legs dangling as they throw treats to Lola. "We like you because you believe in magical things," Sophia says. I am startled by this, because these eight and five year old girls have known me for only  an hour and yet they are as candid as children can be. I had forgotten what this is like, looking into the imaginative eyes of children while they work something out in their heads. They proceed to tell me that they are story-tellers, and under-appreciated at that. Elena tells me I am like them, that they can be who they are and she knows I will be who I am, too, and that they like who I am. I begin to think how profound this conversation is and I feel accepted. They present me with a crown and I tell them we can be ruling queens together. I see their eyes widen when I pose silly for a portrait, because I play in their world. It never ceases to amaze me how genuine this world is, how children can invent games and stories, how they see the things around them come to life. I begin to remember it in slivers of crayons and glitter. I consider the ways we grow into new skin, leaving the keys to childhood behind. Sometimes the most harrowing moments are those when we discover we have become strangers to the child we were, and sincerity or candid moments grow heavy and hard to grasp. There is an opaqueness that develops over time, like old film that becomes low in color saturation and high in noise and grain. We forget how to be raw in our interactions with people. We grow isolated with our online shopping and self-check outs. We are self-conscious and demand validation in all things, and we try to impress.

It's a recycled notion. Everyone understands "childlike innocence." But watching these girls turn ideas over in their heads allowed me to see more clearly, and I feel I have scratched the surface of something monumental in my life - something buried deep below the dull, messy places of my heart. I feel as though I have discovered an old clock buried in a junk yard, one that when exposed reveals much more than it's mechanical pieces. Later on, I read a chapter in a beloved writing book about the old maxim write what you know. I am relieved as I keep reading that the author believes that while the advice has merit, it's not the whole truth. He continues on about how we must write what ignites our interests, how the fictional version of you does not have to be the whole story or any part of the story. We can observe the things outside ourselves to be story-tellers, and there is something entirely voyeuristic and thrilling about "guessing the unseen from the seen" as Henry James puts it. There is an art to taking secret peeks into the lives of others, in writing about your passions, and when presented with the question "what do you love most and what do you hate most" I am hit over the head with something quite alarming.

What I love and hate are both largely encompassed by vulnerability. It is the fuel and the block, it both paralyzes and inspires me. The books and movies and conversations I tuck away and hold dear are those that involve raw, honest, human interactions. I love to read about them and love to cherish them in my own life. Vulnerable conversations are magnetic, and I truly hunger for those moments that are redemptive or stripped of socially awkward reactions because we are in sync with some aspect of the shared human condition. At the same time, I've developed a sort of paralysis when given the opportunity to be vulnerable and often real with people (strangers) and I shy away from them, dodging conversation because, well, it's easier. I want to avoid an awkward question about my political beliefs, what I 'do,' what books I like to read, or anything that would suggest I'm an expert in my own life because, point blank? I'm afraid of what you'll think. I never believed I could be "this" sort of person. I was always that kid who didn't care what people thought about me - so unaware of any type of social ladder... but moving to a new place strips you of who you thought you were, and that is the truth. These interactions suddenly feel like an interview and my palms are sweaty. I don't trust myself, perhaps, to be interesting or passionate enough for you or your question, and even if I am, I fear you won't see it the way it needs to be seen so I better leave myself to myself. I'd also love to know you and the life stories you carry, but I'm too afraid to make you feel uncomfortable or set up any type of situation that is awkward. It's like even a hint of vulnerability demands an answer and it is too much pressure. I honestly feel like a Sims character with two large, red minus signs plastered on my head, meaning one of us made a social faux pas, and if we're ever in a coffee shop don't ask me what I'm writing about in my journal. Why do I act this way? Why do I prefer to be left alone when I truly believe real relationships are to be sought after and held close? I know the answer has to do with fear, pride, identity issues, an unhealthy idolizing of approval, and a self-consciousness I caught like the flu that is so awkward I honestly don't know what to do with it. Regardless, I am encouraged to have realized this about myself and have decided to finally take action by the obvious and truly transforming solution of prayer. I have also decided to write until this paralysis is exposed and cornered. I will talk about this with y'all some more later, but there is a plan in the mix involving letters to strangers and ending a neglect of vulnerable potential. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this, especially if you are anything like me and don't want to be an ant anymore (see clip below).


clip from the movie Waking Life

Are you thirsty?

"Are you thirsty?" said the Lion.
"I'm dying of thirst," said Jill.
"Then drink," said the Lion.
"May I - could I - would you mind going away while I do?" said Jill. 
The Lion answered this only by a look and a very low growl. And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience. The delicious rippling noise of the stream was driving her nearly frantic. 
"Will you promise not to - do anything to me, if I do come?" said Jill.
"I make no promise," said the Lion.
Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step closer. 
"Do you eat little girls?" she said.
"I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms," said the Lion. It didn't say this as if it were boasting, nor as if it were sorry, nor as if it were angry. It just said it.
"I darest come and drink," said Jill.
"Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion.
"Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer. "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then."
"There is no other stream," said the Lion.

The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis