Thirty paces across the parched earth, 
Wood beams squared, dirt filled—
I approach the small plot of raised ground.
This quiet patch smells of pepper basil,
Over-ripe tomatoes bursting—
I breathe in summer’s perfume.
Bucket filled, water sloshed
Over the tender leaves—
I hear the whispers of thanks.
Thirty paces across the parched earth,
Roots cling to life and death—
I leave my soul there to watch.
Monday jolts me out of bed with whining dogs, an empty house, and coffee to make.
Yes, Mondays are not my favorite day. Never have been. EVER. Of course, I really have no reason
to despise Monday since I work from home. But my three doggie alarm clocks rarely let me sleep in. Today, I’m dragging a bit more since staying up late to see the newest Harry Potter movie took precedence over a good night’s sleep. But the movie was so worth it! Now, I’m struggling to think coherently, to write sentences.
I’m worn out.
And whenever I’m exhausted whether physically or emotionally, I enter survival mode. Just move through the day’s tasks, just get through the day, just get through. Some days, I need my survival mode. A shelter from the emotional onslaught from disappointments, unfilled expectations, and general shit—routine calms the frayed, wracked nerves. The getting up, the coffee making, dog walking, all ease a bit of the emotional tension like a balm for the soul.
But even everydayness can’t soothe all hurts.
Sometimes, the emotional mess bruises too deeply, cuts off the balm of the everyday. I can’t always stay calm and composed after rejection letters, emails, all telling me that I wasn’t selected. Too often, I dissolve into a fit of hidden tears, hidden hurts. Survival mode means I hide the emotional wreck because no one wants to see beyond the happy, I’m fine mode.
Today, I try again.
I wake up; I make coffee; I write. For while, I drown out the voices of self-doubt lingering in the dark corners. In fact, I hope they choke on some dust bunnies. Despite all of this emotional shit, I’m still here, still writing, still living, still kicking ass.
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Filed under Musings
1- 
Banned from Christian homes,
I read without care in the
Restricted section.
2-
First impressions can
Be wrong, dear Mister Potter,
Exercise with care.
3-
Ever envious
Was I of the shocking red
Hair of the Weasley’s.
4-
Being a book nerd
Was cool again, Hermione
Could out search Google.
5-
Being misunderstood
Comes with being a leader,
Harry, friends remain.
6-
Harry taught me well.
Of magic, owls, and friendship
But mostly friendship.
7-
Seven books, all good
Read and savored with great glee
Ended much too soon.
We all have a story.
Written not always with words but daily breathes—a story alive is simply a work in progress. Until our final breathe, our story is in a constant editing and revision stage. We have some control over the ebb and flow of our stories. True, we cannot see the end product, or the grand interweaving of stories as God can. But we can see how the colorful, mismatched threads of individual stories loop around, intersect our story. While we may not be able to guide our story exactly where we want, we can choose to write our life story into the stories of others. This is our we truly learn to write a better story for ourselves. But the dark underside of interweaving stories is this:we cannot control is the reactions to the framework of our stories.
At some point, someone insensitive will piss all over your and my story.
Our story narrative will not invite others to interweave their stories with ours. In fact, our story may even chase some away. But then there are the few who stand their ground, gang up, and piss all over our story. What may even be worse is that story pisser will invite others to join in, to revel in the glory of our shame. Each new insult piss on the common thread of shared experiences, thoughts so that the story pisser will have edited out the offending details of your story. Before you know it, threads hang tattered and soaked—our story marred by others.
Too often, we have seen this played out.
We see Mark Driscoll’s Facebook post incite outrage over the nature of effeminate worship leaders. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories. We see the blogosphere squabbles and insults and troll-like comments. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories. We see the condemning debate over working mothers and stay at home mothers. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories. We see the ongoing claims to have a more accurate, more perfect interpretation of the Bible. An invitation to piss on other people’s stories.
What does that leave us?
A bunch of sopping wet stories, lives embittered and shamed. Worse still, many of these pissing parties are held under the auspices of the church, in the name of Christ. This should not be. We don’t have the authority to piss on others stories, but we do have the authority to practice grace.
Filed under Christianity, Faith
If I could live in the world of Pride and Prejudice, I would. No questions asked, but of course, I am assuming that I would be in the roll of Elizabeth Bennet. Why? Two words…Mr. Darcy. Large house I don’t have to clean, elegant manners, and at the end of the book, incredibly eloquent.
But this does make me wonder:
Does Mr. Darcy offer an impossible standard for guys to live up to?
What do you think? I’m working on a new series of posts and your answer will greatly help guide the discussion.
Filed under Books
Since those radical second wave feminists
escaped the kitchen, chivalry has been a dying out. 
I didn’t always hate chivalry or plotted its untimely demise. Growing up in a conservative Baptist church, we equated chivalry with respect not the medieval courtly version. Respect always manifested itself in men opening doors, pulling out chairs for women. This was chivalry. From childhood through youth group, we ladies were exhorted, brainwashed that if a man didn’t open doors or perform menial acts of kindness, then he wasn’t for us. As women, we should want to be treasured, honored by the acts of chivalry performed by men. Subliminally, I learned that I was only being shown kindness because of my gender. And this is why chivalry needed to die.
Here’s where chivalry and I parted ways.
As a medievalist, I see this gendering of chivalry beginning with the knights. Beautiful damsel needs knight to save her. Knight saves damsel. In the end, chivalry is just an act of power over another. Perhaps, we can also look at the Victorian notion of the angel in the house. Women’s delicate constitutions pampered in the highest social circles by the gentlemanly courtiers. Chivalry, in its truest form, shows where power is located. What is worse, chivalry places women in the position of the other, powerless, voiceless while convincing women this is kindness. We men will show you kindness because you are a woman—the ultimate display of hegemonic hierarchy.
Now, I’m not advocating that men should slam doors in my face, push me out of the way—that’s just rudeness. What I am questioning is the basis for chivalric actions—are you applying chivalric code because it is the right thing to do or because I’m a woman?Chivalry, in the conservative evangelical world, is always gendered. Men “help” women because women are the weaker vessel according to the Apostle Peter. I can’t begin to count the number of sermons that proclaim women are weaker, more delicate. A constant barrage of gender bias wrapped up in sermon form.
Chivalry should reach beyond gender roles.
But what if we de-gendered chivalry? Rather than focusing on men showing women kindness because women are “weaker vessels,” what if we practiced kindness based upon our common humanity. Not gender, not power hierarchies—just showing love because we are all equal. We all deserve kindness because we are human.
Question: What do you think should chivalry die?
Some days, I stare.
White page, blinking line like a writer’s heartbeat monitor. Beep, beep…flat lined, alarms sound. Nothing but the whirling thoughts, chaotic messes racing around and up and down, but nothing appears on the screen. Just the blinking line checking for the writer’s pulse. As the forward progress of the line does not move, a cold sweat bead on my forehead. The lingering thoughts creep inside my head, maybe I ran out of ideas, maybe that last great piece was all I have left, what if there is nothing else.
Perhaps, this is you. I know this is me.
I know this is how some days go. Routine trampling all over inspiration. Cluttered countertops block out all creative energy, zapping my strength. I’m empty. During these empty periods, my writing life slowly takes on the appearances of my junk dominated desk, paper piles, and unswept floors. Rather than putting the mess away, I wallow in the self-loathing, the writer’s block for the majority of the day. Books sit upon the shelf unread, but the television blares some snarky travel host. I barely listen. This isn’t soul stirring enough for me. I placate my soul with pretty pictures and dogs and trifling games. But my writing muse sits waiting.
Maybe, my muse is just waiting for me to sit my ass down and write.
Not daydream about writing, not sit in front of the television watching travel writers, food bloggers talk about the exotic. But to push the black keys till they click rapidly. Letters mar and jolt the blinking writer’s heartbeat into a quick life giving pulse. Ideas swirl to fast to be contained. And I write. And I write because no matter what this is part of the writing life. The cycles of creative energy, the lull of creative despondency, but if I don’t write, I see my day as wasted mess. So, I write on.
How do you stay inspired each day? Does your muse require you to begin the work and inspiration follows?
Filed under Writing
Today, I’m hitting the road, crossing the Mason Dixon line for some Skyline Chili, Reds game, and one long wooden roller coaster. One of the extra benefits of being a stepmom are the slightly more frequent trips alone with the Redneck Romeo. Adventures to be had, the big city to explore, and the necessity of eating large bowls of chili with neon yellow cheese. You may need to pity my digestive system of this trip.
Long trips usually mean that I have overpacked the suitcase with more clothes than I will ever wear and my shoes will be numerous. Do I need to take 3 pairs of flip-flops? Of course, I do. I need a brown pair, a black pair, and a pair to wear to and from the hot tub.
Not to mention, the Wal-Mart snack run, the choosing of the bubble gum, and the all important question: to take the laptop or not to take the laptop? Right now, I’m waffling back and forth.
While I’m heading up the road, how about you tell me about your favorite road trip gear, plans, or dreams? Okay?
Filed under Humor
Summer evenings, warm muggy and bug filled.
I walked outside to sit on the porch to a swarm of sunset colored flies dancing in the fading light. A quick retreat to the comfort of my desk, laptop, and margarita is the only acceptable choice. Why? I get anxious, nervous, hyper-tense with the thought of being stung, bitten, or worse. Really, I just can’t deal with the incessant itching, the desire to scratch the bites, and fully knowing how counter-productive this is(I’m a mom, and I have this conversation about bug bites on auto-play for my kids in the summer).
A quiet evening of writing sounds like the perfect idea.
Here I am, fingers pecking away at the keys, eyes gazing at the beauty of Pinterest, so amazingly uninspired. Damn, you muse. The evening when my Redneck Romeo takes the kids to visit grandma, when the dogs aren’t barking at the deer in the yard, when I have just enough alcohol in my system to say something daring—you don’t show up? Seriously, what gives?
And this is the point when I tell my muse who is number 1.
Somehow, it strikes me that my entire life could be read on my desk. Everywhere, I have project to do lists, books, but my Post-It notes are truly the most fascinating. Because no one could ever figure out what the hell I mean by some of the scrawled ink on the super sticky neon colored paper. Now, some are obvious—blogging ideas for maybe one of the many blogs I write. Sure, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be challenged with that one except for maybe the bit about religious dogs. Yes, I’m quite sure I am the only person in possession of a Pentecostal Springer. Then the notes to call old friends, good ideas for baking all jumbled together like Medieval nativity painting.
In the end, I want to be more than just my Post-it notes.
Or the lists, I checked off or the new projects begun but never finished. But if my Post-It life is any indication of my real life, I will say that it should be an interesting ride. Well, I guess as long as my Pentecostal puppy keeps praying for me.
Guess my muse didn’t really skip town after all….
So, what do you think of….insert something you’re passionate about, for, etc?
For me, it is my writing or my blog or my dazzling critical extrapolation of a literary text. Every time, I punctuate my remarks with a –so what do you think? A tricky, cumbersome question since I don’t really give damn what you think honestly—I care more about what I think your answer should be. In my interior dialogue, I can only hear the utmost praises from you, dear reader. Tell me honestly, but only with words like “WOW, that was so moving, you are the most intelligent, it moved me”…”Why, thank you, I gladly accept your half-hearted lies.” Far better to just lie because it will save us a whole heap of trouble and feelings and awkward shit.
Yes, I would rather you lie and bolster my feelings. Somehow, I don’t think I am the only one.
As a parent, I disdain lying and any form of dishonesty from my children. But I’m perfectly happy when others aren’t completely honest with me, and I brush off my small white lies under the auspices of feelings, ministries, whatever would be damaged by my truthfulness. I’m not comfortable with such a double standard. On the one hand, I so desperately want praise for doing something well at the expense of the truth, but I also know deep down that the truth is far more important. Truly, it is a war of double standards.
What is worse I learned this double standard in church.
Now, this has not been preached from any pulpit, nor written in any Sunday School curriculum, but it’s taught. We learn these lies through the whispers of others. These murmuring hushed over Sunday dinner or spoken quietly during church fellowships. The disagreements over the church music as we loudly proclaim how much we loved the worship songs. We bemoan another plea for Sunday School workers, but we politely say we will think about helping. The list could continue. We know all too well how to live this double standard.
Again, we prefers lies in the church to the truth.
But can we break this cycle? How do we unlearn the lying to cover up hurt feelings and still protect those around? The simple answer is to learn a standard of grace, but how can we learn a standard of grace if there is no teacher? Or worse, the loudest lessons favor lying and drown out grace.
Filed under Christianity, Faith
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