California Roll

Writing and Sleeping

Like biking in a fog thick as pea-soup, that's how writing has felt to me lately. And getting on that bicycle may lead me to crash into a tree and split my head.

I think it's because I've been diligently reading Sol Stein's book, Growing Your Novel and revising my novel. Doing the two in tandem has made me very aware of how blemished my writing is. When I revisit portions of my novel that have been edited twice, I see them through new eyes after considering Stein's words. Yesterday I labored two hours just to reread what I revised the day before and to revise another eight pages.

Also putting the time into writing a blog post when I still have 160 pages left to revise in my novel seems frivolous. But here I am again - why?

Yesterday I read in Stein's book, a writer is someone who cannot not write. The writer feels hollow an d incomplete if they don't create. (not exact quotes)

Revising is not writing. I do have a hunger to create. And what I put on my blog doesn't have to be perfect for people to want to read it. (Please, if you've enjoyed this blog, let me know! It's been so long since anyone commented.)

And why the pea soup feeling in my brain? Since February I've seldom had 7.5 hours of sleep without interruption. I just got that fact explained through a sleep study - apnea.

When I was diagnosed eight years ago with the same, the doctor lableled it "light." An operation removing my tonsils and uvula remedied it. So I was shocked to hear two weeks ago that I'm waking 22 times in an hour and my apnea is moderate.

No wonder I'm exhausted all the time, and fall asleep even when hearing an outstanding speaker! The other reason for my weariness is this awful virus that keeps hanging on (is it a light case of swine flu?). And apnea increases reflux, which I've also struggled with.

Okay, I did it. I wrote, imperfect as it was. It's only 5:30 am - I'll try to catch a few zzz's beside my husband. Just another thirty minutes could help me feel better.

Dogs Carry It Too

Our apricot-colored adorable mini-poodle has habits that are hard to break. Popcorn has had only four weeks with us, but five years with some other owner building up her internal sense of the way things are and will be.

When walking her on leash, nowadays she'll usually rememberthe proper place to pee and poop. But then she'll suddenly squat on the concrete and eliminate before we notice and pull her to the proper place.

Progress is the fact that now she'll eagerly walk on the sidewalk dirt or grass strip--before she loathed it. She's even acting like a proper dog and sniffing trees and grass for places other dogs have marked and adding her own.

What in her past experience made her so undog-like, urinating on concrete, afraid of grass, fearful of us and what we offer? We know little of her history, only that the Humane Society found her on the streets, but we infer much from her behavior.

She's been afraid to come to us sometimes even when we're squatting down and offering a bit of sausage. She'll run enthusiastically towards us, then suddenly stop dead, quivering.

We'll coax her with high pleading voices and she'll elongate her body, stretching out low to get her head near us and then turn tail and run away without the treat.

As she's learned that we are gentle owners who stroke not strike, she shrinks from us much less.

And I'll admit I myself, am like Popcorn with my present Owner. I too carry baggage. I too run away from God when he calls me and offers me delicious food.

I avoid admitting to him or trustworthy friends my anxiety, confusion and need. It's as if I'm pooping on the sidewalk. My neediness is okay when I deposit it in the right place. Put in the wrong place my neediness becomes lazy procrastination, ugly judgment of others, and hated and despair regarding myself.

I want to see my Master for who He really is--not what my past experiences would make me see him to be--gentle and loving, patient and understanding who holds good, good things in his hand for me.

What's Popping at the Parks

Last Tuesday I said a prayer and drove twenty minutes to the San Mateo Humane Society. I'd searched on-line to no avail these past few weeks for a mature dog that wouldn't drop hair all over my home and wouldn't need thirty minutes of brisk exercise a day and wouldn't rip my house or my car apart, as my last rescue dog did.

To my astonishment not just one, but two mini-poodles stood behind the steel bars. I liked them both, but ended up with the older one - five to six years old, if the teeth tell well. After numerous family discussions, we've named her "Popcorn."

Poppy's unorthodox behaviors have lead us to sometimes sigh and say, Or, "What a strange dog." One family member, whose name I won't reveal, has even said, "She's not a real dog."

What shocks us is her refusal to eat and drink. Or, that she sometimes resists going on a walk or, once walking, wants to be carried after one block. Or, when on a walk she doesn't pee. And she doesn't seem to know where to put it when she does have the urge. On the sidewalk--heavens!

But we do love her. She is as adorable and cuddly as she looks in the photo. And she has started to eat some - if we add broth to her kibble. Today, she made her second do-doo in eight days! And--true to form--right on the path in our backyard. Oh, well--at least things are moving along. (Please excuse the mommy talk.)

I love the way she accepts pats from strangers and doesn't demand constant attention from me. She's done a lot of circling up on the couch and snoozing. She's coming when we call now and even following me around.

I suppose the time it's taken for her to start doing the normal dog stuff stems from being exhausted and traumatized. After all, she lived on the streets and then within a cage with three other dogs at the shelter. It takes time to recover and to trust that we're hers for good.

Writing Regardless

On Monday morning I listed five writing tasks I wanted to do. Now, five days later, I haven't looked once at that list.

Instead I've taught English to four Japanese women, wrote blurbs for our church information booklet and made plum jelly. But I know those aren't real reasons.

Despite vowing to write, my core resists it. This resistance is particularly strong after I receive criticism. The child in me whispers, "If I'm not going to get the praise I want, why bother?" So it is that other obligations appear more attractive.

In Breath for the Bones by poet and speaker Luci Shaw, I find a reason to write regardless. When I start writing, I discover things I didn't know, both about myself and God. Writing is a way I connect with God. It doesn't have to be good enough for others--it's just good for me.

Tent Rocks National Monument

These amazing rocks are an hours drive from Santa Fe, New Mexico. After the conference ended (see post below) , a friend drove me to this place of strange, other-worldly beauty. It's about equidistant from Albuquerque and Santa Fe, off of highway 22.

My twenty-year-old daughter has come unwired, for six whole weeks! We said good by to Jenny at SF Airport and she jets off to Quito, Ecuador with stops at LAX and Panama City on the way. She's taking part in a five week ISV (International Student Volunteers program) and then taking a week to visit Wycliffe Bible Translators working with a remote people group. She left behind her cell phone and her lap top. Yikes!

Jenny doesn't know Spanish, but with Latin and French under her belt and her keep aptitude for languages, she should learn fast. Her first week will be spent in language school and living with an Ecuadorian family.

When she was just nine, Jenny traveled to Japan without her parents, accompanied by her seven-year-old sisterm to visit dear Japanese friends. Jenny also traveled alone to France when she was 15 for a three-month stay with a family and studies public high school. She had studied French for only one and half semester at that time. That was a challenge too.

But this is scarier. She's much more on her own, especially for her added on one week to visit the Wycliffe staff.

Today she was nervous about that and whether her luggage will arrive in Quito. (She's had it delayed when she's traveled to college in New York). And from this end it certainly appears daunting that she'll have to figure out by herself how to get on the right bus and get off at the right place and deal with the three hour bus-ride.

So many unknowns, such as how difficult it will be to communicate with bus personnel people or to find the missionary folks once she gets off the bus--nervous-making for her and me. I spent a long time praying for her and yielding her up to God's care this morning and through that had faith to try to strengthen her courage today as well as sympathize.

Just before taking her to the airport, I typed and printed out for her some Bible verses that have helped me in times of combating fear. I assured her I will be asking many people to pray for her. Will you?

Going No-where So Fast

Upon returning to my high-tech, urban area after a trip to Oklhahoma, I mentioned it to few people. Several implied that there's nothing there.

Not true. Oklahoma City is a huge city with the largest exhibit of Chihuly's glass sculptures and many more fascinating or beautiful options. We so easily and unconsciously entertain stereotyped ideas of other places. We have much to learn from other places, including Oklahoma.

Also few days after returning, on a visit to a grocery store, I pulled a cart out of its line-up and started turning around. A man, targeted like a missile, just missed me as he flew out of the store with his grocery treasures at 8 AM. An older man come out behind him drawled, "Why you all set on going nowhere so fast for nothing?"

Oklahoma's relaxed pace was a balm. People aren't in a rush. They speak slower and I love the drawl. A waitress where I bought a full but cheap breakfast (eggs, meat, biscuit and gravy) took time to smile and chat with me.

I've been back three weeks and I'm striving to no lapsing into the California rush. I remind myself often that accomplishing my list isn't what gives me worth, security or joy. I gaze at long-stemmed Easter lilies in my garden or the six feet tall shrub ablaze with crimson-pink blossoms. And I smell the roses.

The Best GIft

Mothers Day is already upon us! Just last Sunday I realized that this coming Sunday was it. I had to cancel a ministry team meeting that we'd arranged for that day. Five people and a host had agreed to that meeting and all had forgotten that the first Sunday of May is Mother's Day.

This week commercial outlets have repeatedly reminded anyone else who might have forgotten. Restaurants offer brunches and stores suggest jewelry at reduced prices. In the adverts gift ideas abound, but for this special day I want something cheaper and more expensive.

I crave time and connection with my loved ones.

Just being in someone's presence doesn't ensure we will tune into each other's needs and emotions and communicate respect and care. And with our busy schedule and ambitious hopes to impact this world, we don't always do this. And there's other reasons besides busyness.

Just this week I realized that my pulling away emotionally from a close friend had happened not because of just time and scheduling issues but partly from some unconscious ones: hurt and feeling like when I had spoken my hurt to her she didn't care, didn't change.

That happens in families too. Collin and I have been working on that--on overcoming the tendency to just withdraw in hurt. I think of a mother and daughter pair I know where the young-adult daughter hardly ever emotionally engages with her mother. How much that hurts my dear friend. She'd rather have that emotional engagement than any gift a million dollar could buy.

So on Mother's Day my best gift would not be a gold and black earrings to match my lovely gold with black etched pendant from Japan, though I'd like that.

It's not a brunch with delicious food or seafood at the restaurant overlooking the ocean where Collin and I had our first date. Crowds will make those places full and slow on M-Day. I prefer something more restorative, more close to the needs of my heart.

On Saturday Collin and I will enjoy the predicted balmy weather by hiking amid the wildflowers at Henry Coe State Park. Walking together gives us plenty of opportunities to talk and link our hearts and minds.

On Sunday I'm hoping my 18 year old daughter Sheri will join forces with Collin and cook me one of my favorite meals, a dish that I usually requested for my birthday dinner in my growing up years: Swiss Steak, with potatoes.

Those will be my best gifts.

Taping up the Critic

Despite the awe in some people's eyes when I tell them I have 500 pages of a novel written, being a writer is not glamorous or thrilling--at least most of the time. And right now it's heartbreaking and confusing, as I'm reading the new draft through.

I've written these 500 pages over seven years time and my writing style has changed markedly. I think for the better. So that means I have a hundred or two hundred pages of writing that needs severe editing. Yuch. Makes my tendonitis starts to act up just thinking about all the mouse clicks.

I do actually enjoy the editing process sometimes, it's just that there SO much to do and it looks to take SO long.

I've got a self-imposed deadline of having this ready to go to an agent by June 1. I'm going to have to be single-minded to make it.

The good news is that it's not so hard to read it as the first time through. Oh, what dread and fear filled me the first time--the doubt and worry that I'd poured tons of time and pounds of money into a waste. The critical voice shouting in my head over every single sentence.

At least this time I know some parts of it, perhaps most of it, is good, maybe very good. I've had that affirmed by other established writers so I repeat their compliments to the critical judge in my head.

The hard part is deciding where to cut whole sections and plot turns, for the sake of brevity. Five hundred pages it long for a first novel and for this generation that steers clear of War and Peace and goes for Jodi Picoult novels and two hour movies.

Moving Beyond Anxiety into Community

Yesterday our pastor, John Ortberg, preached a great sermon, "Life Beyond Anxiety." You can hear it on-line if you go to the link below. (Eventually, a written version will appear there.) Life beyond anxiety: http://data.mppc.org/sermon/mp3/090208_jortberg.mp3

Other sermons here:
http://www.mppcfamily.org/app/w_page.php?id=49&type=section

Grace and faith do not come easily to me; anxiety does, and I've often felt ashamed about being so anxious. So I much appreciated the pastor anticipating this kind of reaction in I and others.

Since John has a PhD in psychology, he often brings pertinent information from that realm. He told us that 15-20% babies have hearts that beat faster in new situations. In other words, they are born with a pre-disposition to anxiety and unhealthy levels of guilt and self-reproach.

That's me. And it's a relief to find out that it's not my fault!

He told us not to waste time feeling guilty about our worry, but to take worry as a cue--not for guilt, but to invite the Spirit to give us power, love and self-control. (II Timothy 1:7)

Last weekend at the women's retreat I wrestled with anxiety and guilt in regards to my roommate. I'd signed up to be with an unknown woman the San Mateo campus which I attend. I wanted to be with someone who I could later see at rather than friends who attend to the Menlo Park campus of my church.

When this young woman heard my age during our first conversation, she said, "You're as old as my mother."

Yikes! And it didn't help that she had nothing good to say about her mother.

When she didn't find me and sit with me at breakfast as I had offered, my thoughts went on a worry tour - revisiting all our conversation from the night before and possible "mistake" and "putting off" things I'd said.

Confessing my anxiety at a small prayer meeting and hearing their prayers and concern helped. They received my feelings - rather than telling me how to fix the problem or not to worry -- and that helps me get unstuck.

During the conference I received lots of smiles and hugs and conversations that gave me the gift of feeling cared for and connected. Yes, there were times when I felt again social stings: a woman not looking at me or talking to me but focusing on just her friend be my side. or my roommate standing me up for dinner.

But I spoke up about it, rather than just be quiet and withdraw and the feelings of rejection dissipated. I told my roommate that I was disappointed that she didn't come sit with me at dinner and that I had been thinking about her remark that I was as old as her mother and wondered if that was why she didn't want to hang around me. Her explanation was convincing: nauseated; had skipped dinner and gone to town to buy crackers.

With having spoken about some of my perceived slights, I came away feeling happy that I'd gone, even euphoric with the joy of deeply connecting to other women.

So many of the women I know say they wouldn't/couldn't go to a women's conference. I wonder if it's because they are the 15-20% of the population born naturally timid, prone to anxiety and self-reproach.

Our speaker urged us to become valiant woman. Yes, that's our call.

So next year when I'm inviting people to this retreat I want to keep in mind that many struggle with the same feelings I have - but are to ashamed to admit them. I will pray and aim to speak so as to give courage to step past those fears towards community.