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Real Freelancers Don’t Wear Flannel: ADD and Other Time-sucking Distractions

24 Apr

I’m learning some valuable lessons about working from home.

First and foremost, it’s nothing like the pictures in the brochures.

You know what I mean, all those things we imagined back when we were thinking about quitting that Day Job to start our own business—hanging out in pjs and slippers, tossing down the bon-bons and sipping from a glass of Chateau Morrisette’s Sweet Mountain Laurel while somehow creating reams upon reams of productivity every day.

Well I’m here today to tell you, that’s all rather bunk-ish.

Thinking of taking the leap? It’s not for the faint-hearted, my friends. And by faint-hearted I mean people who like to eat…anything other than Ramen noodles. Right off the bat I can tell you that bon-bons and Sweet Mountain Laurel are NOT in the budget. Nor are they conducive to prolific prose (although I do believe that some of my greatest work was—no, never mind…I just re-read it).

Sadly, I realized almost from Day One that the pajamas would have to go. It’s difficult to take work seriously when dressed in flannel strawberries. Also, there seems to be some strange subliminal connection between pajamas and sleeping that makes it impossible to stay awake for any great length of time. In fact, the first reams of production that this writer produced consisted of 24 forehead-induced pages of the letter “h,” in seemingly endless rows. When I awoke and tried to read it, my first thought was, “How cool, church pews!”

And, of course, to keep you from breaking away to type a bunch of “h” rows on your computer, I shall provide:

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

And then, of course, I had to type 25 other letter rows to be sure the “h” has the coolest character. I decided the “m” is rather intriguing as well, because it looked like something I could fall asleep on…

mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

…which brings me to the second giant oak tree of a barrier that has fallen across the road ahead of me: Attention Deficit Disorder.

I’m learning that I will break for anything.

  • I break to watch the cat bathe. It’s mesmerizing how he can move his leg like that. I can verify that it’s not a feat humans should attempt to replicate because I gave it a shot (ADD at its finest moment) and nearly had to call 911. Fortunately, I was in my pajamas so I just slept it off until my limbs unfolded.
  • I break to check my blog traffic…every fifteen minutes. (By the way, whoever you are in Brazil, boa tarde and thanks for noticing me. Your visits make me feel like an international star!) Watching blog stats can be addicting if you aren’t careful. Every time someone views my pages, I know it. Sadly, that’s all I know: someone was there. I just wish the data could tell me if you read it all, if you liked it, if you hated it, if I made you giggle at least once, and if right now you ‘re lifting my words for some motivational poster that’s going to come to me on the next social media mass-mailing, or worse, to be used in a class on how NOT to write. For the most part, checking stats makes me smile. Plus, I’m still so new at this blog thing that every time someone “shares” a post rather than just “like” it, I do a grateful little happy dance, which, for someone with ADD, could also lead to a 911 call.
  • Even the food mocks me

    You Rack Diciprine!

    I break for food. Sometimes when I’m not at all hungry. The fridge has a telepathic ability to serenade me from the kitchen, and, as with any other earworm, I cannot get its song out of my head. The avocado will go bad in three minutes if you don’t eat it! …Chicken, I got some chicken heah! And the worst: Ahh, sweet, velvety chocolate; Easter is over, you can’t leave this stuff lying around!

  • I break for email. Even e-mail from stranded Sudanese princes who need to put millions in my bank account to protect it from Somali pirates.

OK, that last isn’t true. Everyone knows even the Somali pirates have my account numbers.

My point is, I still haven’t mastered the art of what I’ve heard writer (and probably quip-lifter) Alton Gansky call “butt-in-seat” focus. I’m averaging about five hours of real writing each day.

On the helpful side, I’m fortunate in that my current project, Joe’s story, still fascinates me, and that some days he’s my greatest distraction—I really want to see how this book is going to end. I keep the pages open on my computer so whenever I DO untangle myself and sit down, I’m immediately drawn into them and start typing.

So,

  • Get dressed: check.
  • Turn off the computer sound, so the email ding doesn’t: check.
  • Keep sitting back down: check.

I’m sure there are many other words of wisdom my fellow ADD freelancers can share that will help us all up our game. Care to share? We’re all ears…what are your tricks for keeping at it?

(Ha! I just realized how mean that question is. I’ll understand if you don’t answer…but you can’t not, can you?)

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There’s a Cure for That, but Can You Handle it?

10 Apr

The kitchen looks like a war zone—plates and pot lids strewn about, towels on the floor, a blade from the overhead fan dangling precariously. Blood is seeping out from my husband’s sleeve, dripping onto the kitchen island. Our foreheads are drenched in sweat and we’re panting with exhaustion. The cat’s ears are flattened back, and his eyes seem to be spinning wildly.

I look at my husband for support. We nod in agreement—break time is over. We’re going back in, this time with even more determination.

We’ll get this medicine into him if it’s the last thing we do…

 

OK, it wasn’t that bad, but it felt that way. Aslan, our sweet kitty from the Twilight zone, fought like a wild tiger for about ten minutes before we gave up, and we had to give up, to keep him from hurting himself.

The most disheartening part was that we were fighting over pain medicine. He was in great pain from a bladder infection. We were struggling so hard because we love him and don’t want him to be in pain. But he was afraid.

Cat in a box

You can’t hide in a box. There’s pain in there too.

You cat owners out there would agree, the veterinarian’s instructions were almost laughable (and by laughable I’m talking about that hideous, fear-based, strait-jacket laugh):

“Just measure out 3 milliliters with this plunger and squirt it under his tongue twice a day,” she said. “Do not squirt it down his throat.”

Under his tongue. Riiight.

So we all know how that train derailed, don’t we?

When Aslan wouldn’t open his mouth voluntarily (I hear you snickering), hubby tried the grip & pry method, which instantly brought out the claws.

Then we tried wrapping him, cajoling him, and bribing him with treats, all to no avail.

Then we tried brute persistence (“the heck with under the tongue; this is going down the throat!”) Naturally, more medicine went into my own mouth than his. Tastes as nasty as you’d expect, but my neck doesn’t ache anymore, thank you very much.

We even tried putting it in his food, but apparently the odor is easily detectable, and thereby initiated a hunger strike.

And after all this struggling, we still hadn’t even touched the antibiotic—a rather large purple pill that he needed to ingest in order to cure the infection.

So finally, we gave in. Setting aside the pain medicine, we managed to get him to take the antibiotic by disguising it in a bit of tuna. After about a week of only antibiotic medicine, he is back to his old self. The pain medicine is still in the vial. It makes me sad to think he was in pain much longer than he had to be…if he had only let us help him.

When I think of how hard Aslan fought us and the stress he put himself through, I wonder if that’s what it’s like from God’s perspective as He directs our paths. Does He feel frustrated, or does He watch in amusement when we fight Him? Does He try to force us, or does He give in and let us stay hurt just a bit longer than we might have been?

We’re such goofy kids. We turn away, hide, make deals—anything to avoid THAT, because it’s painful, or different, or scary. How sad to think that all along we’re not only making things worse, but we’re missing out on wonderful gifts He wants to bestow upon us. Because we think we know better. Because we’re afraid. Because we’re mad at Him.

I struggle with the irony that I only want to curl up on His lap and purr when all is well. However, it’s when all is NOT well that He wants most to hold me. For more than ten years I was particularly angry at Him because I lost many loved ones before what I thought was their time, despite knowing that as long as I’m on Earth I never will understand why. By not trusting that God knew what He was doing, I spent years wallowing in anger and hurt before I came back to Him, exhausted from the struggle. He wanted to hold me but I wouldn’t let Him.

I can assure you that whatever pain you’re going though, God is certainly aware of it, and He knows the reason for it, and He knows what will come of it. Trust that He doesn’t want you to be in pain. Why would He, who loves you more than anyone could possibly love a cat, want anything but good for you?

Don’t fight the arms that hold you. His touch can heal. Sit still, already! The best is yet to come.

 

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Survey Says: What the heck was I thinking?

27 Mar

It took me a long time to decide to write this because I thought displaying my lack of faith would discredit the amazing things God has done for me thus far. After all, I’ve been saying all along that the one constant on my journey to become a full-time writer has been my conviction that it’s exactly what God wants me to do.

So, of course He’s going to take care of me, right?

Compass

To find your direction…

Well, he did for a while. It’s been two months since I left my paying job, and we’ve been successfully balancing atop a financially precarious fence by relying on predictability. I mean, absolutely NO surprises.

Then yesterday I noticed the cat behaving as if he has another infection (something he usually conveys by “marking” the floor). Setting that issue on the back burner, I took my youngest to his dentist appointment, where I learned his wisdom teeth need to be pulled, like, now. Also, the dentist says, his lower teeth are turning—he needs to go back to the orthodontist. Finally, as I drove home I noticed with dismay that the “check engine” light on my dashboard is flashing.

I can’t afford all of these crises, and certainly not all at once.

Despair washed over me in an avalanche of self-doubt:

What the heck was I thinking, leaving a perfectly good job? If I were “working,” these issues could have been easily resolved!

My knee-jerk reaction should have jerked me to my knees. But I sped right past that and settled for just being a jerk.

I have to make some income, I thought, turning to the internet in a panic. Somehow all my wild clicking landed me on some “pay-for-survey” sites, where companies “pay you handsomely for ten minutes of your time.”

Perfect! I have opinions…they want to pay me for them? How cool is that?

So I spent hours clicking boxes, typing in preferences, and disclosing the darkest secrets about the potions and lotions lurking in my medicine cabinet. My clicking finger became sore, my shoulders ached, my eyes started burning from staring so intently, but I kept on. Finally, when I could no longer focus, I quit for the night. I made $6.50, which, apparently, I now have to report to the IRS.

After a fretful night’s sleep, I started this morning stumbling blindly in a cloud of defeat, but this time I did turn to God, praying my oft-recited, “I believe Lord; help me in my unbelief.”

Instead of finding an answer, I found my mind wandering through an uncharted outline of an intriguing story idea, one with many layers, and action, and joy, and discovery, and—wait! I already have a writing project; I don’t need another!

Frustrated, I left my time of prayer (and I jotted down a few notes about the story idea, because it really is cool…)

compass and cross

…you first have to know where you’re going.

Then, on my way back from my son’s bus stop, I heard a one-minute radio spot that brought me back to solid ground. I was reminded that, much like a pilot navigating through a fog, I know where I’m going and I can trust the navigation tools I’m relying on to get me there.

I had to admonish myself for perhaps the millionth time: You’re exactly where God wants you to be. He never said it would be easy, but He did say, “Trust me.”

So I went into the house and got to work, beginning my day as usual by reading a psalm. Today it was Psalm 142. I got no further than verse 3: “When my spirit grows faint within me, it is you who knows my way.”

With a bit of a jolt I thought back to the cool story outline. Criminy! That was His promise! He’s telling me there’s something next. And there will be something after that, and after that. The bills will get paid, and we will be fine. He knows the way; I don’t have to.

So I write about my momentary lack of faith because it shows I’m human, but it also demonstrates how our faith can actually grow through moments like this. I’m more certain about what I’m doing than ever. Besides, as my friend Liz reminded me this morning, with some whiskey and a good pair of pliers, I can handle that ol’ wisdom teeth issue…

By the way, my inbox was flooded this morning with survey opportunities screaming at me: Tell us about your car! What’s the best soft drink? Do you have insurance? Click here, Click HERE, CLICK HERE!

I not only deleted the emails, but took the extra two minutes to hit the “unsubscribe,” which is the “morning-after” click for irrational internet panic.

Now I shall return to Joe’s story, my friend and current project, knowing I’m right where I’m supposed to be, and that He knows the way to where we’re going.

I hope He has pliers.

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Gasping at the deep end

19 Mar

In my defense, I was nearly finished with my swim. By the time he showed up I had completed either 17 or 28 laps (I sometimes lose count because I’m an English major).

So I was tired. Let’s get that straight.

I like to swim in the center lane because most folks take the outsides so they can climb out more easily. I’d rather duck under three floating lane dividers and dodge Butterfly-stroke Man on my way to the side than swim next to someone. Nothing against other swimmers, but I’m a tad competitive and I have an attention deficit, which means I can’t ignore people.

Of course, he chose the lane next to mine.

At first I felt no threat. He was easily in his 90s, sitting at the pool’s edge, dangling his feet in the water while he donned his goggles. I sized him up as I approached: scrawny arms, boney knees. I could take him.

He still hadn’t entered the water when I reached the end of my lane. I didn’t stop, but made a quick U-turn and sped away. (No, not like the Olympic athletes who gracefully sink at exactly the right point, flip around, and magically jettison across the pool like a bullet; I tend to meet the wall, take a gasping breath, yank my too-small cap back down over my ears, empty the water from my goggles, and then splash out about a whole foot before I level off).

I was surprised, therefore, when I turned around at the opposite end of the pool and there he was right beside me. He kicked off the wall and was already gliding effortlessly away, leaving me panting at the wall, collecting chlorine in my gaping mouth.

Oh, heck no. This wasn’t going to happen. I may not be a spring chicken. Ok, I’m not even a summer chicken anymore, but I could take him.

I vaulted off the wall and stretched out fully. (For you non-swimmers, it’s like when you run past someone you know and somehow get taller and start breathing the way you should have been all along. The difference is that at the pool, the only one to notice is the lifeguard, and let’s just say ours wasn’t a Baywatch lifeguard candidate and leave it at that.)

Determined to catch my nonagenarian, I put every ounce of energy I could muster into that lap. I spread open my fingers for maximum water displacement, grabbed at the water the way a hole-digging dog tosses back dirt, and started kicking my feet as fast as I could. In my mind I looked like an electric mixer on high speed, but I could tell when I passed the lifeguard that I probably looked somewhat less efficient.

Goggles full of water

Are the goggles half full or half empty?

To show him I was ok, I made my concentration face—drawing my eyebrows close together in a serious frown. Unfortunately, doing anything eye-related while wearing swimming goggles breaks the seal. Water poured in, half-filling the left lens. I closed my left eye and with the other I looked at the lifeguard, giving a small smile to show that he needn’t worry but swallowing some serious pool water in the process. He stood up, staring at me intently. Ol’ Motorboat Legs was reaching the far side again, a full three lengths ahead of me. He was hardly trying at all and yet I couldn’t keep up! I was amazed and ashamed.

I hit the wall and paused, pretending to adjust my cap so he could take off solo. If I let him get far enough ahead, perhaps my competitive spirit would lay off. But it didn’t. I exhausted myself trying to catch him again.

He swam only three or ten more laps or so, which was fortunate for me because I was spent, and the lifeguard was still in alarm mode. Gramps then bobbed under the lane lines, dodged Butterfly-stroke Man, and climbed the ladder.

That’s when I saw his feet for the first time. Flippers. The man was wearing flippers. Big. Long. Superpower flippers.

I drove home feeling foolish, and perhaps a bit wiser. I know I shouldn’t compare myself to others. I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be, and my only goal should be to improve upon my own abilities.

I notice that in my writing life too. I catch myself whining because I’m not making money yet, like those writers who have been at it for longer than two months. There are no writing flippers, although I wish there were. It’s just going to take time.

Still, I’m not done with Mr. Frog Feet. Same time tomorrow morning, buddy, but this time I’ll catch you. I’ll carb up tonight and enter the water with my goggles cinched so tight my ears will flatten. Best of all, I’ve got a fancy high-power backstroke that will blow you out of the water…if the lifeguard doesn’t pull me out first.

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Gerunds, Appositives, and Participles, Oh My!

4 Mar

I knew it would happen today. I’m experiencing my first day of epic post-resignation homesickness. Or is that worksickness?

Sure, I’ve looked back wistfully on occasion over the past month, like the day I overdosed on Oreo cookies and realized that this would never have happened at my old job because they would have helped me eat them, or the night my reading lamp became possessed and provided me with an awesome story to tell to…nobody. Snif. (Possible blog topic for Supernatural Day, whenever that is).

Today, however, I miss my editing friends in the basement of Hochmuth Hall more than ever, because I know what I’d be doing right now if I were there: poking fun at people who correct me and say, “no, no, you mean if I was there.”

Well, to be honest, we poked fun every day. In fact, for an editor, the only thing that can evoke a more hearty guffaw than coming across a sentence like “Venezuela is a major consumer of Cuban, health, intelligence, and security professionals” is reading it aloud to other editors.

We’re wired like that.

Egg's and Chicken's

Thanks Albert, for risking life and limb to capture this exquisite specimen.

We risk causing vehicle accidents to take pictures of awful road signs.

We are puppets to our pesky little internal budinskis who cannot let a conversation continue unchecked after someone says, “This is for Sue and I” or, “If you have any questions, bring them to Pete or myself.”

We’ve lost friends over this compulsion—both Pete and Himself. Still, we auto-correct.

Today, however, we have license to parade our predicate prowess, and to shout boldly from the hill tops:

That and which are not the same!

Or,

Pardon me, but your modifiers are squinting.

Or my favorite:

Semi-colons are more than just winky-face emoticons!

So, what’s the big occasion? Only the most important day in the evolution of syntax…it’s Grammar Day of course! The only national observance identified by an imperative: March Fourth!

National Grammar Day was established in 2008 by Martha Brockenbrough, founder of the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar (SPOGG) and author of Things That Make Us [Sic].

Over the years the observation has grown in popularity, particularly among the editing crowd.

This is a day for editors to sit back, nosh on grammar crackers and cereal commas, and reminisce about the ones that didn’t get away…like, “the damn formed when the mountain collapsed during the earthquake,” or, “the ship-to-shore landing vessels were being acquired to compliment the rest of the fleet.” (Grammar, word choice, whatever you call it, it’s funny).

This is a day to go out to the hallway and stare appreciatively at the colorful and seductive Comma Chameleon, which was posted to lure passersby into accidently learning about comma use and abuse.  (I guess you could consider it the cheesy-broccoli of grammardom; some folks get through six or seven rules before they catch on that they’re reading about proper punctuation.)

It is also a day of recognition. Writers, I’m guessing you all have someone to thank for ensuring your last missive didn’t go out proclaiming, “Ships are used when floods and tsunamis produce disaster situations that require their ability to arrive by sea instead of by destroyed or water-submerged roads.” (Actual submission, you’re welcome very much).

If you haven’t been saved yet, it’s only because you still aren’t published.

So spread the word. Kiss an editor. Rescue a dangling modifier. Try it, it’s fun.

And correct your children. They’ll thank you for it one day. My reward came Saturday night, when I caught my son trying to rub the apostrophe off a white board announcing “CD’s for sale.”

I was so proud.

I miss you, editors. March fourth!

  😉

For more information about Grammar Day, visit the following website: http://www.quickanddirtytips.com/national-grammar-day?utm_source=GG20140304&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=grammargirl#sthash.g5Q70k7y.dpuf

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Velcro, Whiskers, and other Writing Woes

11 Feb

At last, the dream is a reality: I’m working from home!

Alas, it’s not at all the way it looked in the advertisement.

In the weeks leading up to my transition, I’d envisioned the perfect work environment: cozy chair, sticky notes everywhere, and long days of nothing but me and the computer and the quiet tapping sound of flowing brilliance.

I hadn’t reckoned on the cat.

He’s a 3-year-old lap kitty, mistakenly named Aslan. I use the term “lap kitty” rather loosely here…if I’d known then what I’m learning this week, his name would be Velcro. Or Klingon.

Clearly, Aslan is more excited about my being home all day than I am, and he expresses his excitement by never leaving my side.

Ever.

In my desperation, I’ve taken to sneaking upstairs in the morning. From his cat tower at the front window, Aslan watches me gather my things, per our previous-life routine. I jingle the keys on the peg and walk loudly to the front door, which I open and then close with a clang. Then I drop to my knees and start crawling up the stairs with sniper-like stealth, fighting the urge to exhale as I inch my way upward. At the top, I turn and crawl down the hall to my office, freezing like a thief on the prowl whenever the floorboards protest. I wait until I think the coast is clear, then creep forward another inch. This is not an easy thing to do while carrying a mug of coffee. It takes at least ten minutes to reach my desk. I do believe this technically constitutes a commute.

Regrettably, my daily ordeal usually buys me only about an hour of typing time. Inevitably, the phone rings or my chair creaks and Aslan must come investigate.

“Hey,” he purrs, leaping onto my lap to deposit a matted, soggy toy. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at work! Look, I brought you Mousie so we can all cuddle!”

For the rest of the day I’m just a giant corduroy flophouse.

Who needs opposable thumbs when all you need to write is "zzzzzzzzzzzzz"?

Who needs opposable thumbs when all you need to write is “zzzzzzzzzzzzz”?

At first, it’s merely annoying. He sits upright, staring at the computer screen while I work, pretending he knows how to read. Craning to see around his giant radar-dish ears, I type with my elbows out so he has plenty of space. If I let down my guard and actually TOUCH him, I trigger the “game on” alert and he goes into overdrive. Engine on motorboat purr, he offers his chin for a rub (aaahhh, more please) and then starts searching about for something to bat, nip, or climb. Of course, the only thing to climb is me, which is fine by him.

He works is way up to my shoulders and stops for a snooze—his front half draped over my back like a Salvador Dali clock; his butt is just about level with my nose. This somewhat hampers my ability to type and tends to stifle creativity.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking. And yes, he has a bed. Right in the window. A FOOT away. A soft piece of art that serves no functional purpose. Should I be so bold as to actually set him there, he immediately leaps onto the desk and disappears down behind my laptop into a cluttered, cat-sized space that is lined with sticky notes.

Cat behind the scene

If you need anything, I’m right here. Hey, do you need anything?

Every few minutes, his big ol’ head rises up behind the screen like a corny mechanical road sign and he lets me know he’s still there.

I really shouldn’t complain. After all, I am working from home, and to his credit, he did give me a blog topic today. I suppose he can stay. Eventually though, we’re going to have to come to an understanding. Either he starts contributing to the word count or the Mousie gets it.

A Charleston Portrait

4 Feb

To celebrate our 30th anniversary (and to mark my leap from steady paycheck to struggling writer status), my husband and I spent last week in the Lowcountry of South Carolina. We chose Charleston because we wanted to go somewhere we’d never been, that was near enough to drive to but far enough away that we could escape the cold Virginia winter.

Naturally, we spent three of our five days practically snowed in.

“First storm like this we’ve had this decade,” said all the locals.

Ravenel Bridge

Beautiful, but quite useless in a snowstorm, Ravenel Bridge

It wasn’t much by Virginia standards, but it was enough to shut down the city. Even the elegant Ravenel Bridge, the main route to the downtown area, was closed throughout most of our visit. It was opened briefly when temperatures warmed, but quickly closed again when ice falling from the rigging began crashing onto crossing vehicles, apparently annoying drivers in them.

Because we were staying at Mount Pleasant, this meant either taking the alternate route with hundreds of cranky re-routed commuters or staying on the island and seeing the sights there.Initially, I was quite disappointed. I wanted to experience the Charleston I’d been hearing about for so many years, its lovely markets and restaurants, and that legendary Southern charm.

We instead went out to Isle of Palms, and explored Fort Moultrie on Sullivan’s Island. It was all quite nice, but cold, and I’d hardly say charming.

Then we met Mazie Brown, a sweetgrass basket weaver with a small stand on Highway 17. Sweetgrass weaving, South Carolina’s official handcraft, is an art only found in this region, and the baskets are sold only in the downtown markets and along this highway. Mazie was one of only a few weavers brave enough to set up shop that day, when cold was warding off potential customers.

From the moment we entered her tiny hut we were charmed. Mazie flashed us a wide and welcoming grin, and commenced to chatting as if we were old friends.

“You’re lucky you come by when you did,” she said. “Soon the only place you’ll see baskets like this is in the museums.”

Mazie talked about her art, which she’d been practicing since she was 6, and this stand, which her Mama had established 29 years ago and which Mazie had taken over after retiring from her nursing career. While I listened, I pulled down some of her creations, running my fingers along the intricate patterns woven from grasses and palms.

“Those dark parts is pine and bullrush,” she said, pride emanating from her deep brown eyes. “And that’s palmetto, holdin’ it all together.”

Her weathered hands stayed busy, braiding a stalk of sweetgrass into a circle, the way her Mama had taught her: in the Gullah tradition maintained more than 300 years by Africans brought to America in slavery.

“It’s dyin’ though,” she said. “My children want nothin’ to do with it. They don’t have the patience…rather play on their textin’ machines.”

My husband held up a serving platter that she said took about two and a half days of weaving to complete. What a shame this art might disappear. We’ve since learned that not only is the coming generation losing interest, but regional development is depleting the sweetgrass supply. Access to the grasslands is limited; harvesters travel nearly 90 miles to find grass, or they buy it like Mazie does.

“When I was a girl, I used to go with my Daddy to pull it up,” she said. “Wouldn’t do that today. There’s so many snakes in the grasses now.”

We purchased the platter and asked her to sign the back. Her face lit up afresh and she pulled a sharpie of her pocket; our request wasn’t original.

“Some folks don’t want ‘em signed, but I’m always happy to do it,” she said.

As she carefully spelled out her name on the evenly spaced palmetto coils, Mazie continued to talk about her family, being alone despite two marriages, surviving cancer seven years now, and about her love for the weaving craft. We could have listened for hours; she had such a sweet storytelling gift.

Mazie Brown

Mazie Brown, artist and storyteller, Charleston personified

So enchanted was I by Miss Mazie, I did something I rarely do, as anyone who knows me will attest. I wanted to have my picture taken with her. I could tell when I asked that she shared my loathing for the camera, but she obliged (albeit, never looking into the lens). Jerry and I both felt compelled to hug her goodbye.

We eventually got to the city, to a few good restaurants (shout out to Page’s Okra Grill!) and to the market where baskets similar to Maize’s were triple the price and stalls were just business establishments. After Mazie, it was a bit anticlimactic.

I’m not sure we would have met Maize if not for the weather; I’m so glad we did. To me, she is now family. To me, she is Charleston. And a lovely, charming place it is.

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Leaping into the Light

12 Jan

I believe this earth is just one big battlefield for good and evil.

I believe that every one of us, whether we want to be or not, is part of the battle, and that during our short time on this earth we each do three very important things:

  • Chose a side
  • Find our role in the war
  • Help equip others to do the same

All roles in warfare are vital. We need soldiers on the front lines to shield us from the fire, factory workers to produce equipment, scientists to develop tactics and technology, doctors and nurses to keep us in fighting shape, listeners to keep us sane, and teachers; oh boy, do we need good teachers to prepare our children for the fight ahead and teach them to seek truth.

For the past 12 years, I’ve been an editor with an Intelligence organization. I serve with a fine group of warriors who stand at the edge of darkness, peering into the vast unknown for signs of the enemy. After they’ve sifted through evidence, trends, and potential implications, I help them articulate their findings effectively. It’s a good job. I’ve learned a lot about the world, made many friends, and enjoyed a steady paycheck. If I stick with it three more years, I’ll qualify for some good benefits for my retirement years.

Two years ago, I participated in a leadership training course that included an exercise designed to help us identify our strengths and passions and figure out what to do with them. After culling through a lengthy list of phrases beginning with the words, “I most like to ____,” we each created lists of 40 possibilities, then culled that to 20, then 10, then 4, then circled the one that we thought best captured who we are. We posted our discoveries on the walls around us, and I read with awe the passions of my coworkers:

  • “I most like leading a team.”
  • “I most like solving difficult problems.”
  • “I most like to collaborate on tough assignments.”

These were some focused individuals; I could see the Intelligence field was a perfect fit for them.

I, on the other hand, culled my list down to, “I most like to create art and beauty.” Hardly a warrior’s creedo.

Over the past two years since that course, I’ve been mulling my discovery; there’s no place on the battlefield for art and beauty, I thought. But lately, I’m not so sure. Perhaps that’s exactly what the world needs more of. Still, I cannot shake the notion that, although I am good at what I do in the Intelligence arena, I don’t belong there. My battle is elsewhere.

Where there is light, there can be no darkness

Where there is light, there can be no darkness

My role, I think, is to fight evil with light; to help those who may know which side to fight for, but have yet to make a formal pledge. I think I’m also supposed to encourage those who are fighting in the darkest corners and who think evil might be gaining the advantage. We can’t lose, of course, because the battle has already been won, but sometimes it can feel like we’re losing.Where there is light, there is hope. When I pick up a pen, light emerges through art and beauty.

That is why I made my decision; I’ve given notice at my work that as of January 24, I will no longer be an editor serving the U.S. government. On that day I will become an ordinary writer, serving in the Army of God. The pay will be horrible, particularly at the start, but I know the Lord will provide for our needs.

My first order of business, of course, will be to finish writing Joe’s story. He’s been more than a little patient with me since last summer, and I hope he will find the story worth the wait.

After that? Who knows? The Portrait Writer will be open for business; after that, anything can happen.

“The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.”  1 John 1:5

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The Early Bird Knows the Secret

4 Jan

I awoke to four sweet, staccato chirps, and smiled as I listened to the persistent warbler outside my bedroom window. Again and again he beckoned to me with the same four-note aria, paying no heed to the drawn shade that separated us. I knew he was calling to me, but I didn’t want to stir from my warm bed. Tossled, twitching branches on the tree outside cast a quivery shadow against the shade, and a blustering gust of wind buffeted the house’s siding, confirming my suspicions: It was a cold, windy day out there.

I think I’ll stay put, thank you very much.

Still he sang. His notes were melodious and clear; I was content to just lie there and listen. So much joy from such a tiny creature! I couldn’t imagine what this bird might have to be joyful about. Surely if he knew the snug coziness of an electric blanket he might be singing a different tune out there on that naked tree limb.

Eventually though, his song (and the thought of a hot cup of coffee) got to me. I extricated my lazy self from the soft covers, covered my flannel jams with my warmest robe, and crossed over to raise the shade, mentally prepared for a bleak January scene.

How wrong I was.

Instead of bleakness, the world outside had transformed overnight into a pristine wonderland. Two inches of pure white blanketed everything around me, and a rather spectacular sunrise was radiating its golden orange light across the snow-covered trees and rooftops, glistening majestically as far as I could see.

And there was my soloist: a tiny brown wren with his beak pointed up to heaven, singing for all he was worth. How could he not? He cocked his head to look at me, as if to say, “See? Didn’t I tell you?” and resumed his joyful twittering.

I watched for quite some time, mesmerized. All too soon, the golden hue dissipated as the sun rose higher; leaving a scene that was still beautiful, but slightly less enchanting.

To think I would have missed that just to stay comfortable.

Then I went downstairs, where the morning had more delight in store for me. Entering the kitchen, I noticed a particularly large shadow cross the window as something flew to the birdhouse in the back yard.

Probably those darned crows, I muttered to myself. Such bullies they are.

I headed over to the sliding-glass door to thump the window pane (like that ever works). To my amazement, it wasn’t crows, but the return of our favorite winter visitors, the Pileated Woodpeckers.

Pileated Woodpecker

This is Dactyl. Don’t be fooled; that’s a relatively small birdhouse he’s perched upon.

Now, these guys aren’t your average woodpeckers. In fact, we’ve named them Terry and Dactyl, if that tells you anything. They are so large, even the crows give them wide berth. According to our bird manual, the Pileated Woodpecker can grow to about 17-inches long. They also have a deep red crest. I could watch one for hours.

The thing is, they never stick around long, and they’re early risers so we don’t catch a glimpse of them often. If I’d stayed in bed, I would have missed this as well.

How many of us live our lives like that? Chosing comfortable, safe, and familiar over the unknown, wondering what’s “out there” but not curious or brave enough to go look for ourselves? What do you suppose we’re missing?

At my office, I work with quite a few brilliant people who sit in their familiar cubicles day after day performing mundane tasks, all the while saying there must be a better way and purposefully ignoring the “I wonder ifs” hovering overhead:

  • I wonder if I could make it as a professional photographer.
  • I wonder what it would take to start my own brewery.
  • I wonder if I’ll ever go to law school.
  • I wonder if I should homeschool my child.

I know this, because they do occasionally talk about their dreams, and because I do the same thing. For the past ten years, I’ve been talking about leaving my job to write full-time, but the office paycheck is steady and my coworkers are great people. It’s comfortable.

But change is waiting for me, like the wren outside my window, singing, beckoning.

The time has come to throw off the cozy blankets. Can I do it this time?

…I’ll let you know next Saturday.

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Nobody’s Squashing My Christmas!

5 Dec

Why do people go out of their way trying to squash Christmas? Is it a coincidence that the people who want to douse our joy tend to be angry when they do it? What do you suppose is the source of their unhappiness? Could it be our happiness? Here are just some of the things I’ve already heard, in just the first week of December:

  • “Decorating a tree is a pagan custom, and even Jeremiah 10 says Christmas trees are evil.”
  • “Christ wasn’t born on Dec 25. He wasn’t even born in December! How foolish can you be?”
  • “Gifts only take the emphasis off Christ by making people anticipate what they’re getting.”
  • “We shouldn’t lie to children about Santa. That sets them up for disappointment.”

If these are your views, you are welcome to them. In my house, there’s a party going on. My heart nearly bursts with joy every year as I prepare my home for the season. It’s a happiness I’m not willing to give up to appease some angry people.

Jesus My Savior

Peace on Earth


Those verses people cite in Jeremiah to stomp on our tree tradition, in context, describe the futility of chopping down a tree to whittle an idol, such as the golden calf, which is painted gold or silver, nailed in place, and then worshiped. Jeremiah says they are only wood, and cannot speak, move, do good or do harm.

In my home, we have not made our tree an idol. We do not bow at the tree, because it is only a decoration—one of many we use to transform our ordinary rooms into a tangible expression of the joy in our hearts. We also have candles, ribbons, bells, and snowmen. It’s ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL! None of these are the center of our attention. In fact, we don’t bow down to worship the manger scene either, although it has a place of honor in our home throughout the season—and yes, we put the baby in the manger on Day One.

Nobody knows what date Christ was born. Sure, it was likely late fall, or maybe even earlier. We don’t care about that. I have a friend who was adopted from another country and doesn’t really know his birth date for certain, because clear records were not kept. Guess what? He celebrates anyway. December 25th was chosen (and I don’t care what pagan influence went into the decision, I really don’t) to celebrate the birth of Christ, and so I celebrate.And gifts? They’ve never been the reason for our season, but we all love to give them. If you ask my boys what they want for Christmas, they will shrug and give some vague answer, because they honestly haven’t given it much thought. They were raised not to expect or ask for gifts. Instead, we make a big deal of giving—providing for those in need by participating in community outreach efforts, presenting small gifts to our friends and neighbors to say we appreciate them, and keeping secrets from one another in anticipation of the smiles we will see on Christmas morning. There’s no rummaging through each other’s closets—that would crush someone’s joy. We give because Jesus gave, although our gifts pale in comparison to everlasting life.

As for Santa, I think my oldest explained it best when he sat me down (I think he was about 9 or so) to tell me he’d figured it out. “Santa is all of us,” he said. “It’s us being good to each other.”

What joy I felt when he said that. It stays with me today, nearly 20 years later. My youngest, who is 14 now, is excited about giving, and has already sent me a link for “the perfect gift for Dad,” for which he will willingly sacrifice a few weeks of allowance. Santa is not a lie; he’s an ideal. He may have been created through myths; he may have been the Dutch Bishop Sinterclaas, known in the United States as Saint Nicholas; or he may have been a wild maniac pulled from the closet of some paranoid pagan dwarf. All that matters is that, in my family, today, he represents love. I AM Santa, and so are you.

I close this writing with perhaps the saddest Christmas misconception I know of, most often expressed by the phrase, “Peace on Earth! What a load of garbage. There is no peace here.”

To that I must say, oh, yes there is. When Luke wrote of the angels visiting the shepherds in the fields on the night Christ was born, he did not record them saying the entire world will be at peace; instead they said, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.” This means, now that Christ has come to us as one who glorifies God, we never need to worry about what’s happening on earth because we’re here temporarily and there’s a lot more to come when we move on. If you love the Lord, and welcome him into your life, you can find peace—even in the darkest times. And nobody can squash that.

So tell your nay-sayers to take a hike, but pray joy will open their hearts. Perhaps one day they’ll get it: If God knows our hearts, He can see our joy. We needn’t be hesitant to anticipate, decorate, or celebrate as we rejoice and praise God for sending His son to us.

Have a Merry, Merry Christmas.

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