Although this summer has been almost completely taken up with arts camp, we are involved in a few other things. For the second summer in a row, we're participating in the local Community Gardens project.
I love having a garden again. Having grown up with one (the big one my parents always planted in the backyard, and my own little garden space) I have spent the past nearly two decades yardless and so missing the chance to plant and grow things. We've got a good sized plot in a raised bed, and we're trying all sorts of things this year -- zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, cauliflower, beets, basil, a few flowers (the sweet girl loves to sprinkle flowers in amongst the veggies, and I'm happy to oblige with easy growing zinnias and cosmos). We attempted carrots -- twice, from seeds -- but they didn't come up either time. We failed with carrots last year too and I thought perhaps it was because we sowed too late in the season. But this year we were well within planting time, and from everything I can tell, we should have been able to get in more than one planting. Still nada. Apparently we are not destined to grow carrots.
The terrible heat wave we recently went through (along with much of the rest of the country) pretty much wiped out our largest zucchini plant, but then it had flourished early, threatening to take over the whole bed, and has already given us several large, delicious squashes. So it has served its purpose. We need to dig out the drying plant soon which will leave room to try something else.
I'm so utterly thankful for this little garden plot. Though I have tried hard to adapt to my urban transplanting and to root out ingratitude wherever it tries to take over the garden plot of my heart, there is just something in my genetic makeup that has made almost fifteen years surrounded by asphalt really hard. I can get physically worn down by the constancy of pavement, tar, and traffic -- the sights, smells, and sounds can make me feel so weary. And I am realizing anew lately how physical weariness can feed into spiritual weariness -- our bodies, minds, and spirits are so connected.
So having a small patch of green and soil I can head to whenever I need to is a true blessing.
The Garden glows
And 'gainst its walls the city's heart still beats.
And out from it each summer wind that blows
Carries some sweetness to the tired streets.
~Margarent Deland
Yes, and some sweetness to tired me.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Just Because...
Just because...
I needed some beauty in this day and thought you might too.
Just because...
I forgot to post my annual flower photos from my birthday trip to the conservatory back in March. (This is one of many I took that day...)
Just because...
I recently remembered how much I love cymbidium orchids.
Just because...
you can never have enough flowers.
Sunday, July 08, 2012
The Summer of Prydain
"And, in time, only the bards knew the truth of it."
I read this sentence last night a little before 10 pm. It's the last sentence of The High King, the last book in Lloyd Alexander's The Chronicles of Prydain.
The sweet girl was up that late because how could we stop a chapter short of the very end? Especially with so much still at stake? We've been journeying as a family through Prydain since the beginning of March, with only a brief break for another book or two near the beginning of the series. Once we hit The Black Cauldron, the sweet girl didn't want us to turn to the left or the right. She wanted to go straight through Prydain without looking back.
Not that there weren't moments of struggle. A nine (newly turned 10) year old is still on the early age edge for these books. But she struggled in totally appropriate ways, was challenged by what should have challenged her, and is there anything one can say better about a beloved book?
And she loved them. She really loved them. I know how she feels. I didn't find these books till a few years ago, but I instantly knew, my first time through, that I would have loved them when I was ten. And I knew I wanted to share them with my family.
We hit brief snags in both The Black Cauldron and Taran Wanderer. In the Black Cauldron, her intensity levels were running high -- both in real life and in the way she was identifying with the story (and somehow that's always connected for most of us). As I shared with a friend back in May: "She was desperately worried about the characters and what would happen, and was struggling because she wanted to see certain characters as "all bad" when Alexander gives at least one baddie a real shot at redemption (bless him). We kept telling her to trust the storyteller. She persevered, and BAM! those last chapters were just priceless. I felt like writing a love letter to Lloyd Alexander to thank him -- he anticipated everything she needed and he delivered."
Great story-tellers, I'm beginning to realize, are like that. They truly anticipate the questions that readers/listeners will ask, as though they are there in the room with you eavesdropping. And the narrative goes where it needs to go to answer those questions. The sweet girl could not believe that one of the characters, so sneering and mean, could ever do the right thing, the brave thing, the big thing, the one thing needed. His complexity startled her and wowed her. She knew a sacrifice was going to be required. She was terrified that it would be a character she loved. But she couldn't believe it was a character who had seemed so incapable of love. That's growth, I wanted to tell her, that's how it really works in life sometimes. But I didn't need to tell her. Alexander's story already had.
He's so very good at showing growth and change in characters. Nowhere is that more true than in the character of Taran himself. I marveled anew when we came to the end last night at just how far Taran had come: from a young boy who dreams of glory but doesn't understand it to a man who accepts a noble destiny -- deeply prepared and yet somewhat reluctant because he has learned not to scorn the beauties and blessedness of the daily, the ordinary. Taran himself is like the sword he forges in Taran Wanderer -- a little misshapen, thin, and bent, and yet true as steel, of powerfully strong mettle and worth, a worth that has been shaped at great cost and effort.
Taran Wanderer, the fourth book in the series, is so important to his inner growth and learning -- but I think that's what made it a particularly difficult book for a ten year old. It moved much more slowly, with much of the action taking place inside Taran. She also missed Eilonwy, who is absent for the entire narrative (except from Taran's thoughts). Since Eilonwy is the only major girl character (and the only sympathetic female character in the series) that felt like a big loss. I know I missed her too, especially her wit and sparkle!
These books feel important to me as an adult, perhaps because the lessons they teach so beautifully through story are lessons we all need to learn, re-learn, and remember no matter how old we grow. Lessons about love and courage and valor and faithfulness. This time through, reading them aloud as I worked on my own growing Four Princesses narrative, I also had a strange sense of being apprenticed to Lloyd Alexander. I think I've learned a lot from him about how to shape a narrative (especially relatively short chapters) for younger readers -- with exciting dialogue, plot, action that nevertheless never sacrifices the richness of symbol and theme.
I'll miss our Prydain summer.
I read this sentence last night a little before 10 pm. It's the last sentence of The High King, the last book in Lloyd Alexander's The Chronicles of Prydain.
The sweet girl was up that late because how could we stop a chapter short of the very end? Especially with so much still at stake? We've been journeying as a family through Prydain since the beginning of March, with only a brief break for another book or two near the beginning of the series. Once we hit The Black Cauldron, the sweet girl didn't want us to turn to the left or the right. She wanted to go straight through Prydain without looking back.
Not that there weren't moments of struggle. A nine (newly turned 10) year old is still on the early age edge for these books. But she struggled in totally appropriate ways, was challenged by what should have challenged her, and is there anything one can say better about a beloved book?
And she loved them. She really loved them. I know how she feels. I didn't find these books till a few years ago, but I instantly knew, my first time through, that I would have loved them when I was ten. And I knew I wanted to share them with my family.
We hit brief snags in both The Black Cauldron and Taran Wanderer. In the Black Cauldron, her intensity levels were running high -- both in real life and in the way she was identifying with the story (and somehow that's always connected for most of us). As I shared with a friend back in May: "She was desperately worried about the characters and what would happen, and was struggling because she wanted to see certain characters as "all bad" when Alexander gives at least one baddie a real shot at redemption (bless him). We kept telling her to trust the storyteller. She persevered, and BAM! those last chapters were just priceless. I felt like writing a love letter to Lloyd Alexander to thank him -- he anticipated everything she needed and he delivered."
Great story-tellers, I'm beginning to realize, are like that. They truly anticipate the questions that readers/listeners will ask, as though they are there in the room with you eavesdropping. And the narrative goes where it needs to go to answer those questions. The sweet girl could not believe that one of the characters, so sneering and mean, could ever do the right thing, the brave thing, the big thing, the one thing needed. His complexity startled her and wowed her. She knew a sacrifice was going to be required. She was terrified that it would be a character she loved. But she couldn't believe it was a character who had seemed so incapable of love. That's growth, I wanted to tell her, that's how it really works in life sometimes. But I didn't need to tell her. Alexander's story already had.
He's so very good at showing growth and change in characters. Nowhere is that more true than in the character of Taran himself. I marveled anew when we came to the end last night at just how far Taran had come: from a young boy who dreams of glory but doesn't understand it to a man who accepts a noble destiny -- deeply prepared and yet somewhat reluctant because he has learned not to scorn the beauties and blessedness of the daily, the ordinary. Taran himself is like the sword he forges in Taran Wanderer -- a little misshapen, thin, and bent, and yet true as steel, of powerfully strong mettle and worth, a worth that has been shaped at great cost and effort.
Taran Wanderer, the fourth book in the series, is so important to his inner growth and learning -- but I think that's what made it a particularly difficult book for a ten year old. It moved much more slowly, with much of the action taking place inside Taran. She also missed Eilonwy, who is absent for the entire narrative (except from Taran's thoughts). Since Eilonwy is the only major girl character (and the only sympathetic female character in the series) that felt like a big loss. I know I missed her too, especially her wit and sparkle!
These books feel important to me as an adult, perhaps because the lessons they teach so beautifully through story are lessons we all need to learn, re-learn, and remember no matter how old we grow. Lessons about love and courage and valor and faithfulness. This time through, reading them aloud as I worked on my own growing Four Princesses narrative, I also had a strange sense of being apprenticed to Lloyd Alexander. I think I've learned a lot from him about how to shape a narrative (especially relatively short chapters) for younger readers -- with exciting dialogue, plot, action that nevertheless never sacrifices the richness of symbol and theme.
I'll miss our Prydain summer.
Monday, June 25, 2012
On the Way to Ten
We had an exhausting but wonderful weekend. The sweet girl is swiftly approaching the epic double-digit birthday, and we had her party yesterday, a few days early. We were blessed by a visit from my next-oldest sister and her two youngest girls (now 9 and 15) so it was a wonderful day filled with aunt and cousin love as well as regular birthday festivities. They even got to worship with us in church and meet some of our church family. It doesn't get much better than that!
My sister's visit was almost "coincidental" (if I believed in such a thing). They were traveling back from vacation time spent in Virginia and Maryland. It just happened that they could be in our neck of the woods in time for the tenth birthday party. How good of God to bless us in just that way! We have been famished for family. Hugging my sister yesterday was literally good for my soul...and so was laughing with her. I really cut loose and laugh with my siblings in a way I do with hardly anyone else. They are kindred spirits.
The whole weekend was filled with festivities. One of the sweet girl's very best friends, who happens to be exactly one week older than she is, had his birthday celebration on Friday evening. They always share in each other's celebrations in one way or another, and that's become a definite mark of another year passing. Then another friend (this one an adult friend) had a 40th birthday celebration on Saturday. I missed that one, home baking and cleaning for Sunday, but the sweet girl and her dad were there most of the afternoon. So they had three parties in three days!
Given the breathless, tiring pace of the rest of our summer, having a couple of days just to unwind and celebrate with friends and family felt very good -- and far more "summery" than anything else this season has held so far.
Although we've already had the party, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that S is turning 10. Perhaps it will hit me full-force on Wednesday. Should be a regular day of camp and busy-ness, but we've saved out a couple of presents, and we plan to go out to dinner. Chipotle. Her choice.
I wonder if the next ten years will go by as quickly as these ten have...
My sister's visit was almost "coincidental" (if I believed in such a thing). They were traveling back from vacation time spent in Virginia and Maryland. It just happened that they could be in our neck of the woods in time for the tenth birthday party. How good of God to bless us in just that way! We have been famished for family. Hugging my sister yesterday was literally good for my soul...and so was laughing with her. I really cut loose and laugh with my siblings in a way I do with hardly anyone else. They are kindred spirits.
The whole weekend was filled with festivities. One of the sweet girl's very best friends, who happens to be exactly one week older than she is, had his birthday celebration on Friday evening. They always share in each other's celebrations in one way or another, and that's become a definite mark of another year passing. Then another friend (this one an adult friend) had a 40th birthday celebration on Saturday. I missed that one, home baking and cleaning for Sunday, but the sweet girl and her dad were there most of the afternoon. So they had three parties in three days!
Given the breathless, tiring pace of the rest of our summer, having a couple of days just to unwind and celebrate with friends and family felt very good -- and far more "summery" than anything else this season has held so far.
Although we've already had the party, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that S is turning 10. Perhaps it will hit me full-force on Wednesday. Should be a regular day of camp and busy-ness, but we've saved out a couple of presents, and we plan to go out to dinner. Chipotle. Her choice.
I wonder if the next ten years will go by as quickly as these ten have...
Friday, June 15, 2012
Arts Camp, Week One
Well, we've reached the end of our first week of arts camp. You may have thought I'd fallen off the planet, but in truth, I have just been running up and down three flights of stairs in between doing art with fifteen-twenty 4-11 year olds.(Technically camp is for 6-14 year olds, but we've not been pulling in older kids, and we've been allowing a few younger siblings to come with older ones if the older ones are responsible and mature enough to help their younger sib out.)
My husband is the director of the camp for the third year, and while in previous years I have helped out occasionally (and mostly behind the scenes) this year a lack of volunteers has meant I am in the thick of things. That would be in the thick of excited, wiggling, yelling, laughing, joking, mostly fairly attentive kids who have varying degrees of interest in art, but who are mostly just happy to be there. It's been fun to welcome them -- a lot of them returnees -- and to watch their creativity blossom.
We've been doing art projects inspired by different world cultures each day. Turkey, Morocco, the Vikings, Mexico, and China were this week's cultures. We've done projects with paint, paper, yarn, clay, cardboard, beads, pen and ink. Some of the kids have produced some pretty cool things.
A few observations I've made this week -- in no particular order.
Ministries need prayer. If we weren't steeped in prayer, things would probably have been a lot crazier than they have been, especially with not enough staff. We're on a real shoestring in all kinds of ways this year, and I've been enjoying seeing the ways God is at work -- sometimes before we ask. My favorite prayer instance this week came yesterday. We had just found out that the pizza place that normally donates free pizza for our park event with the campers and their families each week could not do that this year. They cut us a deal for half-off, which we appreciated, but we had no $ for pizza in the budget. We decided to announce the park event anyway, and before the end of the day, a local family/friends of the camp had donated what we needed to cover this week and next. When I got home and checked my email, I found a message my husband had sent me in the morning (but which I hadn't seen) informing me of the need and asking me to pray for God's provision. I found myself very grateful that God doesn't need to check his email (but even if he did, he'd stay on top of it).
Ministries need people. Heads, hearts, hands, and feet. There is a lot of work to be done in a ministry like this, most of it not glamorous. Carrying things up and down the stairs, setting up and cleaning up messy art stations, handing out snacks, making sure the kids wash their hands and don't poke each other in the eye or drive each other completely nuts with teasing (or screaming). Ministries with kids need people who can be really patient and who can encourage kids who are timid and nervous and think they can't do something as well as help calm down kids who feel a need to be running things and in other kids' faces. We've been blessed with the help of one family who is very good at all those things -- the unglamorous work that has to be done and the ministry of encouragement.
Ministries need money. I know, I know, it's obvious, but boy, is it true.
Kids need encouragement of different sorts (see above) depending on the situation and the kid. And wow, is it ever true that age makes a huge difference in how a child approaches a learning situation. One of the things that's fascinated me this week is watching the difference in the very youngest campers (the four, five, and six year olds) who tend to throw themselves into things with rather joyful abandon, heedless of the mess or the results. This versus the seven-eight-nines, who often want you to repeat instructions and who are more concerned about making mistakes, and even more differently are the ten-elevens who either a) work painstakingly and with great attention or b) give up quickly if they think they "can't" do something and ask if they can do something else instead. I know a lot depends on a child's temperament and learning style too, but age is still a very important factor as we contemplate how to teach.
I think one of my favorite moments this week was seeing the very youngest camper -- a four year old with sparkling eyes -- gamely hold up her wooden disk. The kids were making Viking shields, and some of them did rather intricate designs. This little girl had covered the whole thing in layers of paint, front and back, and her hands were covered in layers of paint too! But oh the delight on her face as she grinned in triumph! (And yes, I took her to wash her hands, though I first helped her out of her smock, an oversized shirt which was so long it looked like a floor-length dress.)
An exhausting week in many ways, but a good one...connecting kids with creativity and reminding them that creativity is a loving gift of their Creator.
One week down. Five to go.
My husband is the director of the camp for the third year, and while in previous years I have helped out occasionally (and mostly behind the scenes) this year a lack of volunteers has meant I am in the thick of things. That would be in the thick of excited, wiggling, yelling, laughing, joking, mostly fairly attentive kids who have varying degrees of interest in art, but who are mostly just happy to be there. It's been fun to welcome them -- a lot of them returnees -- and to watch their creativity blossom.
We've been doing art projects inspired by different world cultures each day. Turkey, Morocco, the Vikings, Mexico, and China were this week's cultures. We've done projects with paint, paper, yarn, clay, cardboard, beads, pen and ink. Some of the kids have produced some pretty cool things.
A few observations I've made this week -- in no particular order.
Ministries need prayer. If we weren't steeped in prayer, things would probably have been a lot crazier than they have been, especially with not enough staff. We're on a real shoestring in all kinds of ways this year, and I've been enjoying seeing the ways God is at work -- sometimes before we ask. My favorite prayer instance this week came yesterday. We had just found out that the pizza place that normally donates free pizza for our park event with the campers and their families each week could not do that this year. They cut us a deal for half-off, which we appreciated, but we had no $ for pizza in the budget. We decided to announce the park event anyway, and before the end of the day, a local family/friends of the camp had donated what we needed to cover this week and next. When I got home and checked my email, I found a message my husband had sent me in the morning (but which I hadn't seen) informing me of the need and asking me to pray for God's provision. I found myself very grateful that God doesn't need to check his email (but even if he did, he'd stay on top of it).
Ministries need people. Heads, hearts, hands, and feet. There is a lot of work to be done in a ministry like this, most of it not glamorous. Carrying things up and down the stairs, setting up and cleaning up messy art stations, handing out snacks, making sure the kids wash their hands and don't poke each other in the eye or drive each other completely nuts with teasing (or screaming). Ministries with kids need people who can be really patient and who can encourage kids who are timid and nervous and think they can't do something as well as help calm down kids who feel a need to be running things and in other kids' faces. We've been blessed with the help of one family who is very good at all those things -- the unglamorous work that has to be done and the ministry of encouragement.
Ministries need money. I know, I know, it's obvious, but boy, is it true.
Kids need encouragement of different sorts (see above) depending on the situation and the kid. And wow, is it ever true that age makes a huge difference in how a child approaches a learning situation. One of the things that's fascinated me this week is watching the difference in the very youngest campers (the four, five, and six year olds) who tend to throw themselves into things with rather joyful abandon, heedless of the mess or the results. This versus the seven-eight-nines, who often want you to repeat instructions and who are more concerned about making mistakes, and even more differently are the ten-elevens who either a) work painstakingly and with great attention or b) give up quickly if they think they "can't" do something and ask if they can do something else instead. I know a lot depends on a child's temperament and learning style too, but age is still a very important factor as we contemplate how to teach.
I think one of my favorite moments this week was seeing the very youngest camper -- a four year old with sparkling eyes -- gamely hold up her wooden disk. The kids were making Viking shields, and some of them did rather intricate designs. This little girl had covered the whole thing in layers of paint, front and back, and her hands were covered in layers of paint too! But oh the delight on her face as she grinned in triumph! (And yes, I took her to wash her hands, though I first helped her out of her smock, an oversized shirt which was so long it looked like a floor-length dress.)
An exhausting week in many ways, but a good one...connecting kids with creativity and reminding them that creativity is a loving gift of their Creator.
One week down. Five to go.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Summer Recipes: Spaghetti Primavera With Basil (Or "Green Saute")
The other day I got my taste up for a pasta primavera. I had one in mind that I ate at a restaurant years ago, but when I went looking for recipes online, I decided I'd better try to find something simple, family-friendly, and with ingredients I could easily have on hand. What I found was this recipe for "Spaghetti Primavera with Basil" at realsimple.com.
You can click on the link if interested in proportions and cooking directions, but it basically calls for sauteing a number of green vegetables in olive oil and garlic and tossing them with spaghetti and a bit of salt and pepper. The recipe called for broccoli florets, bell pepper, zucchini, and fresh basil. Alas, I had no fresh basil -- we didn't get our windowsill pot started in the spring as we usually do, and our garden basil is still a recently planted seedling from the farmer's market. I substituted with dry basil (because I love the flavor of basil) but there is no doubt in my mind this recipe would be ten times better with fresh. I make a zucchini/fresh basil pesto in the summer that our whole family loves.
I cook with green bell peppers often, but I wasn't sure they were the very best complement for this dish. The zucchini and broccoli might go better with asparagus, green beans, or sugar snap peas (a few of the "optional" additions listed at the bottom, which I didn't see when I first found the recipe).
I also was out of spaghetti -- believe it or not! -- and had to substitute angel hair, which always seems to get a bit clumpy/sticky. Spaghetti would definitely be a better choice, or perhaps rotini, which would soak up the olive oil/garlic nicely in all its curly pasta crevices.
What I did like was the lovely green color that permeated the meal. The bright greens of the veggies looked lovely stirred into the pasta and I served it on the table in a clear glass bowl.
It didn't satisfy my craving for the pasta primavera I remembered (which I think had a cream based sauce) but it was a nice, light summer dish -- one I wouldn't mind tweaking and trying again. My family seemed to enjoy it, and my nine year old ate it well.
You can click on the link if interested in proportions and cooking directions, but it basically calls for sauteing a number of green vegetables in olive oil and garlic and tossing them with spaghetti and a bit of salt and pepper. The recipe called for broccoli florets, bell pepper, zucchini, and fresh basil. Alas, I had no fresh basil -- we didn't get our windowsill pot started in the spring as we usually do, and our garden basil is still a recently planted seedling from the farmer's market. I substituted with dry basil (because I love the flavor of basil) but there is no doubt in my mind this recipe would be ten times better with fresh. I make a zucchini/fresh basil pesto in the summer that our whole family loves.
I cook with green bell peppers often, but I wasn't sure they were the very best complement for this dish. The zucchini and broccoli might go better with asparagus, green beans, or sugar snap peas (a few of the "optional" additions listed at the bottom, which I didn't see when I first found the recipe).
I also was out of spaghetti -- believe it or not! -- and had to substitute angel hair, which always seems to get a bit clumpy/sticky. Spaghetti would definitely be a better choice, or perhaps rotini, which would soak up the olive oil/garlic nicely in all its curly pasta crevices.
What I did like was the lovely green color that permeated the meal. The bright greens of the veggies looked lovely stirred into the pasta and I served it on the table in a clear glass bowl.
It didn't satisfy my craving for the pasta primavera I remembered (which I think had a cream based sauce) but it was a nice, light summer dish -- one I wouldn't mind tweaking and trying again. My family seemed to enjoy it, and my nine year old ate it well.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
Visual Book (for my Work-in-Progress)
I read a wonderful idea the other day that has me very inspired. The suggestion I spotted online, from a fellow writer, was to create a "visual book" on the fictional world of your current work-in-progress.
Now the fun thing about this idea is that I've been doing it for ages without really realizing I was doing it. And not just with the current WIP. I remember many, many years ago now (about 25 of them) working on a novel and finding myself drawn to the look of a girl whose photograph I saw in a catalog. She looked the way I imagined my main character looked, so I cut the picture out and tucked it inside my writing folder.
It seems even more crucial when you're creating a fictional world and characters that look noticeably different than your own. My current story, a mid-grade fairy-tale, is set in a fictional land and in a setting I call "roughly medieval." I have some mental time guidelines I'm seeking to follow, in terms of what centuries I'm drawing inspiration from, but since it is a fictional place and I'm not setting it in a very specific year, I'm not sweating tiny inconsistencies regarding language and fashion. Still, I have some very decided opinions about what my characters look like and what kind of landscape they're adventuring in.
A few months ago, when I was in a sort of writing fever on this particular story, I spent about a week working my way through an enormous library book I got on hold. It was a book of castles and it was almost big enough to be one. I could have happily crawled inside and lived there anyway! I went through pages and pages of photographs before I finally found "my" castle. And when I found it, I knew I'd found it. That simply was it -- where my four princesses and their mother lived.
The terrific thing about the world wide web is how easy it is to find other photos once you've got a baseline one to work with. Armed with the name and location of the castle, I was able to find more photographs of it -- in different seasons, from different angles. It is still a castle one can visit today and I found a site with pictures of some of the inner rooms. I got a feel for the spiral stairway and the stonework. It has truly helped me to understand how the characters would walk through these spaces and how living in such a place might make you feel.
I've also collected a photo of a dress that I'm sure Princess Serenity wears to an important event in the story. And I've drawn Queen Harmony -- partly based on a figure in The Chronicles of Western Fashion (a book that has helped me think through clothes).
So I've been playing with this idea for months really -- saving photos to individual computer files within the larger file folder that contains my actual story drafts (and back story matter, lists of names, etc.) What had never occurred to me is the wonderfully simple idea that I could pull it all together into a "visual book." That's what I'm planning to do now -- print these things out and put them in a binder, one I can flip through when I need visual inspiration or just a reminder of the physical spaces my characters are walking through or the weight and drape and color of their clothing.
And now that I've cottoned onto the whole idea, I just can't stop. I've started looking for other images related to my story. Una, Princess Winifred's white horse, is important -- and I've had a real sense in my mind of what she would look like. So I've begun hunting down images of white horses online.
It's a delightful exercise -- and I suspect will be a very helpful one.
Now the fun thing about this idea is that I've been doing it for ages without really realizing I was doing it. And not just with the current WIP. I remember many, many years ago now (about 25 of them) working on a novel and finding myself drawn to the look of a girl whose photograph I saw in a catalog. She looked the way I imagined my main character looked, so I cut the picture out and tucked it inside my writing folder.
It seems even more crucial when you're creating a fictional world and characters that look noticeably different than your own. My current story, a mid-grade fairy-tale, is set in a fictional land and in a setting I call "roughly medieval." I have some mental time guidelines I'm seeking to follow, in terms of what centuries I'm drawing inspiration from, but since it is a fictional place and I'm not setting it in a very specific year, I'm not sweating tiny inconsistencies regarding language and fashion. Still, I have some very decided opinions about what my characters look like and what kind of landscape they're adventuring in.
A few months ago, when I was in a sort of writing fever on this particular story, I spent about a week working my way through an enormous library book I got on hold. It was a book of castles and it was almost big enough to be one. I could have happily crawled inside and lived there anyway! I went through pages and pages of photographs before I finally found "my" castle. And when I found it, I knew I'd found it. That simply was it -- where my four princesses and their mother lived.
The terrific thing about the world wide web is how easy it is to find other photos once you've got a baseline one to work with. Armed with the name and location of the castle, I was able to find more photographs of it -- in different seasons, from different angles. It is still a castle one can visit today and I found a site with pictures of some of the inner rooms. I got a feel for the spiral stairway and the stonework. It has truly helped me to understand how the characters would walk through these spaces and how living in such a place might make you feel.
I've also collected a photo of a dress that I'm sure Princess Serenity wears to an important event in the story. And I've drawn Queen Harmony -- partly based on a figure in The Chronicles of Western Fashion (a book that has helped me think through clothes).
So I've been playing with this idea for months really -- saving photos to individual computer files within the larger file folder that contains my actual story drafts (and back story matter, lists of names, etc.) What had never occurred to me is the wonderfully simple idea that I could pull it all together into a "visual book." That's what I'm planning to do now -- print these things out and put them in a binder, one I can flip through when I need visual inspiration or just a reminder of the physical spaces my characters are walking through or the weight and drape and color of their clothing.
And now that I've cottoned onto the whole idea, I just can't stop. I've started looking for other images related to my story. Una, Princess Winifred's white horse, is important -- and I've had a real sense in my mind of what she would look like. So I've begun hunting down images of white horses online.
It's a delightful exercise -- and I suspect will be a very helpful one.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Out of Sorts
So I was up really, really late last night reading and marking a student paper (just a couple more to go). In between reading and marking, I was trying to advance my way, slowly, through the Pottermore site. It's a beautiful, creative site, but my ancient computer, which has connectivity/page load problems, was not happy. I would often have to begin loading things, skip off the site, work for a while, then go back when the page had fully loaded.
With one thing and another, I didn't hit the "sorting ceremony" until 1:30 am.
A word to the wise. Do not let yourself be sorted in your Hogwarts house at 1:30 am.
Another word to the wise. Go with your first gut instinct on responses. Do not second-guess yourself and try to be whimsical (which relates to "do not do this at 1:30 in the morning").
And a final word to the wise: don't take the sorting hat quiz when you've been reading Martin Luther. I know, I know, I'm probably the only person on the planet who would mix these two activities...but still. I mean, Luther was wonderful, but he did have that "sin boldly" thing going on, which may account for the fact that the darn website put me into...
Slytherin!
Are you through laughing?
Me neither.
This is just such a riot. I am so not Slytherin. And I don't say it just because all the baddies came from there. There is nothing about the Slytherin temperament, even its stronger, more positive aspects, that feels remotely like me.
I am not ambitious.
I view power very cautiously (believing that in the human realm, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely...and loving that in the kingdom realm, God the all powerful shows us his power by being freely willing to give it up).
I do not feel tempted by the dark arts. They make me angry. They repel me. When I am feeling especially full of spiritual health and vigor, I am most tempted to laugh at them because I recognize how pitiful and derivative they are.
And my view of "greatness" (since Slytherin is all about seeing "greatness" in its students)? Well, my favorite picture of greatness is Jesus picking up the basin and towel.
So tell me...how did I end up being chosen for Slytherin? Perhaps it's my deep love for the colors green and silver (for real...I do love those colors...but of course colors weren't part of the quiz, so I don't think that could really be it).
Or maybe it's all that poetry I wrote about Snape seeping back through my consciousness.Or perhaps it's that answering irrevocable questions at 1:30 in the morning thing.
If you've not been sorted into Pottermore yet, take my advice -- go into it fresh as a daisy and answer with your first instincts. Because now I'll never know if I'm really a Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor, and I know I'm one of the three. I've always suspected Hufflepuff (not intelligent enough for R, not brave enough for G, and deeply, truly prize faithfuless and behind the scenes perseverance).
With one thing and another, I didn't hit the "sorting ceremony" until 1:30 am.
A word to the wise. Do not let yourself be sorted in your Hogwarts house at 1:30 am.
Another word to the wise. Go with your first gut instinct on responses. Do not second-guess yourself and try to be whimsical (which relates to "do not do this at 1:30 in the morning").
And a final word to the wise: don't take the sorting hat quiz when you've been reading Martin Luther. I know, I know, I'm probably the only person on the planet who would mix these two activities...but still. I mean, Luther was wonderful, but he did have that "sin boldly" thing going on, which may account for the fact that the darn website put me into...
Slytherin!
Are you through laughing?
Me neither.
This is just such a riot. I am so not Slytherin. And I don't say it just because all the baddies came from there. There is nothing about the Slytherin temperament, even its stronger, more positive aspects, that feels remotely like me.
I am not ambitious.
I view power very cautiously (believing that in the human realm, power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely...and loving that in the kingdom realm, God the all powerful shows us his power by being freely willing to give it up).
I do not feel tempted by the dark arts. They make me angry. They repel me. When I am feeling especially full of spiritual health and vigor, I am most tempted to laugh at them because I recognize how pitiful and derivative they are.
And my view of "greatness" (since Slytherin is all about seeing "greatness" in its students)? Well, my favorite picture of greatness is Jesus picking up the basin and towel.
So tell me...how did I end up being chosen for Slytherin? Perhaps it's my deep love for the colors green and silver (for real...I do love those colors...but of course colors weren't part of the quiz, so I don't think that could really be it).
Or maybe it's all that poetry I wrote about Snape seeping back through my consciousness.Or perhaps it's that answering irrevocable questions at 1:30 in the morning thing.
If you've not been sorted into Pottermore yet, take my advice -- go into it fresh as a daisy and answer with your first instincts. Because now I'll never know if I'm really a Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor, and I know I'm one of the three. I've always suspected Hufflepuff (not intelligent enough for R, not brave enough for G, and deeply, truly prize faithfuless and behind the scenes perseverance).
Monday, June 04, 2012
Summer Recipes: Peach Vanilla Smoothie
I love seasonal cooking. Summer and autumn are my favorite times of year to cook, mostly because they both yield such wonderful vegetables and fruits. As much as I love autumn/winter veggies though, I must say that summer reigns as produce queen. There's such a plethora of inexpensive fresh fruits and veggies at the grocery and farmer's market right now, it's almost an embarrassment of riches.
I'm determined to experiment more with meals and snacks this summer, to use more fresh fruits and veggies in a variety of different, simple ways. I say simple partly because my family (perhaps especially my nine year old, but me too) has simple tastes in food, and also because I love simple cooking. You don't have to add tons of things to fresh produce to make it taste good or look good -- it already does.
I'm going to try to keep track of some of my recipe experiments here on the blog, even the very simplest ones. In that spirit, I kick things off with the Peach Vanilla Smoothie that the sweet girl and I have had at breakfast twice in the past week. It's a keeper.
I based this on a recipe I found in a cereal box a couple of years ago -- admittedly not the place where I usually get my recipes! But I'm always on the lookout for tasty looking smoothie recipes, no matter where I happen to find them. I tweaked this one a bit and I think it could be tweaked still further if you wanted to "health it up" more.
But here's what we've been doing:
Orange Juice (a cup and a half or so)
Fresh peaches (about two, peeled and chunked)
About six dollops of french vanilla yogurt
Ice Cubes (about four)
The original recipe called for frozen peaches, which would be a fine substitute in the off-season, but with peaches fresh, cheap and plentiful at market right now, why do anything else? The fresh peach juice really comes through when you blend this.
I do like smoothies ice cold, which is why we added the ice (since we weren't doing frozen fruit). The recipe called for more yogurt too, but we've found a half dozen spoonfuls sufficient -- it adds a creamy texture and a nice hint of vanilla without overpowering the peach/orange. The whole thing has a bit of a creamsicle taste.
We've been using Yoplait french vanilla yogurt, which is sweetened. You could health this up by using plain yogurt (a good kind like Stonyfield Farms) or plain greek yogurt and then adding honey or agave nectar if you wanted a more natural sweetener.
I suspect this would also be good (though different) with other flavored yogurts like raspberry.
I'm determined to experiment more with meals and snacks this summer, to use more fresh fruits and veggies in a variety of different, simple ways. I say simple partly because my family (perhaps especially my nine year old, but me too) has simple tastes in food, and also because I love simple cooking. You don't have to add tons of things to fresh produce to make it taste good or look good -- it already does.
I'm going to try to keep track of some of my recipe experiments here on the blog, even the very simplest ones. In that spirit, I kick things off with the Peach Vanilla Smoothie that the sweet girl and I have had at breakfast twice in the past week. It's a keeper.
I based this on a recipe I found in a cereal box a couple of years ago -- admittedly not the place where I usually get my recipes! But I'm always on the lookout for tasty looking smoothie recipes, no matter where I happen to find them. I tweaked this one a bit and I think it could be tweaked still further if you wanted to "health it up" more.
But here's what we've been doing:
Orange Juice (a cup and a half or so)
Fresh peaches (about two, peeled and chunked)
About six dollops of french vanilla yogurt
Ice Cubes (about four)
The original recipe called for frozen peaches, which would be a fine substitute in the off-season, but with peaches fresh, cheap and plentiful at market right now, why do anything else? The fresh peach juice really comes through when you blend this.
I do like smoothies ice cold, which is why we added the ice (since we weren't doing frozen fruit). The recipe called for more yogurt too, but we've found a half dozen spoonfuls sufficient -- it adds a creamy texture and a nice hint of vanilla without overpowering the peach/orange. The whole thing has a bit of a creamsicle taste.
We've been using Yoplait french vanilla yogurt, which is sweetened. You could health this up by using plain yogurt (a good kind like Stonyfield Farms) or plain greek yogurt and then adding honey or agave nectar if you wanted a more natural sweetener.
I suspect this would also be good (though different) with other flavored yogurts like raspberry.
Saturday, June 02, 2012
"I'm a Doctor, Not a..."
It's been Trek time at our house lately, and it's been so much fun. I've been a Star Trek fan for as long as I can remember, but this is the first time we've ever shown episodes to the sweet girl. We're starting with the original series for her -- geeky purists that we are -- and she's fallen in love with them all, especially Mr. Spock.
She's also cracking up over some of the corny lines. They're there in spades, spouted by many of the characters, but I'd almost forgotten just how wonderfully funny DeForest Kelly is as Dr. McCoy. His crusty, curmudgeonly personality is set off brilliantly in the trio of Kirk/Spock/McCoy. I also love the way the writers gave him standard lines. Is there an episode where he doesn't announce: "he's dead..." in dramatic tones? And then, of course, the iconic, "I'm a doctor, not a..." lines, which always make the sweet girl giggle madly. Our favorite so far came in the second season episode "Friday's Child," when McCoy is trying to pull a struggling pregnant woman up a hill (they're being chased by baddies, of course). Spock tries to help and the woman resists, only wanting the doctor's help, whereupon McCoy snaps: "I'm a doctor, not an escalator!"
Which begs the question, what will escalators be like in the 23rd century anyway?
She's also cracking up over some of the corny lines. They're there in spades, spouted by many of the characters, but I'd almost forgotten just how wonderfully funny DeForest Kelly is as Dr. McCoy. His crusty, curmudgeonly personality is set off brilliantly in the trio of Kirk/Spock/McCoy. I also love the way the writers gave him standard lines. Is there an episode where he doesn't announce: "he's dead..." in dramatic tones? And then, of course, the iconic, "I'm a doctor, not a..." lines, which always make the sweet girl giggle madly. Our favorite so far came in the second season episode "Friday's Child," when McCoy is trying to pull a struggling pregnant woman up a hill (they're being chased by baddies, of course). Spock tries to help and the woman resists, only wanting the doctor's help, whereupon McCoy snaps: "I'm a doctor, not an escalator!"
Which begs the question, what will escalators be like in the 23rd century anyway?
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Dear Madeleine
I've been wanting to do more of my Wrinkle in Time re-read posts, but alas, life keeps getting in the way. But I thought I would go on and post this journal entry I wrote the other day, in the form of a letter to Madeleine L'Engle. I had a very rare quiet morning to read when my family was out of town, and I found myself drawn to the final chapters of Wrinkle. Then I just needed to thank Madeleine one more time for this lovely book that has meant so much to me through the years.
*******
Today it felt almost new. I had been re-reading my way at a leisurely pace, and suddenly I was in the final few chapters and couldn’t put them down. Again, a odd quirk of my life (an out of town funeral that my husband and daughter are attending, while I stayed here with work deadlines) enabled me to read with more attention and time than I can usually give these days. I was not rushing to get breakfast on the table or needing to dive into errands or starting my daughter’s school day. I was able to just fall head first into the story and keep reading. I took the book back to bed, curled up with my soft comforter, and kept reading…much as I would have…could have…did…read when I was eleven. By the time I finished the story, and finish it I did, I was crying.
*******
Dear Madeleine,
I missed you today.
Despite your passing on to greater life almost five years
ago, I often still have a sense of your presence. After all, your books have
graced my life for decades. And they grace my shelves…two shelves, in fact,
full of almost every book you ever wrote, all crowded together, sandwiched
right in between Harper Lee and C.S. Lewis (who then crowds the next two
shelves…I guess you can tell who the writers of my heart are).
But I both felt your presence more deeply than usual, and
missed you more, while reading today. I’m having an extremely rare day alone,
all to myself, and found myself picking up the 50th anniversary copy
of A Wrinkle in Time that my sister
bought for my recent birthday. Its lovely red jacket, an homage to the original
cover, feels smooth in my hands. It’s a hardback, and I’m not used to holding
such weight when I read Wrinkle –
since for years the only copy I’ve ever read was my read-to-literal-tatters
paperback, the same paperback copy I first read at the age of eleven.
I don’t know if it was reading a brand new copy (one with
lovely pictures of you in the back, along with that draft chapter that shows
your edits that just delight me to see) or because I was all alone with more
space and time than usual to intently focus, but I fell into Wrinkle in ways I hadn’t in years. Oh,
I’ve read it numerous times in the thirty-three years (wow, is that really
possible?) since I first discovered it. But you know, perhaps, how it feels to
read a well-loved and much-read story. It’s like visiting with an old friend,
knowing the stories she delights in repeating, being able to finish her
sentences for her. That’s usually how I feel when I go back to Wrinkle, and it’s a lovely, comforting
thing.
Today it felt almost new. I had been re-reading my way at a leisurely pace, and suddenly I was in the final few chapters and couldn’t put them down. Again, a odd quirk of my life (an out of town funeral that my husband and daughter are attending, while I stayed here with work deadlines) enabled me to read with more attention and time than I can usually give these days. I was not rushing to get breakfast on the table or needing to dive into errands or starting my daughter’s school day. I was able to just fall head first into the story and keep reading. I took the book back to bed, curled up with my soft comforter, and kept reading…much as I would have…could have…did…read when I was eleven. By the time I finished the story, and finish it I did, I was crying.
To read with that young-girl intensity, and yet to read with
this middle-aged woman’s heart – well, it was a powerful combination. I
remember you saying once that we are all the ages we have ever been, and that’s
so profoundly true. So I read with little girl freshness and grown-up eyes
together – a little bit like wearing Mrs. Who’s glasses, I suppose, and
marveling as I see the atoms re-arrange.
I found myself resonating with parts of the story I never
had so fully before. Mr. Murry’s character – you did so much with him in such a
little amount of space and time – especially spoke to my heart. My own almost
ten year old is several states away today, experiencing her first funeral, and
all her struggles and seasons lately – with anxieties and insecurities, hopes
and dreams, independence and dependence – seemed to play into every scene I
read between Mr. Murry and Meg. I understood Meg’s anger at her father for not
being perfect and not taking care of everything in one heroic sweep. I
understood Mr. Murry’s frustrations and helplessness as he realized that, as
much as he would like to, he couldn’t do everything, couldn’t be the strong,
perfect parent she wanted him to be. I had always thought, when I was a child,
than nothing was more powerful than that final scene when Meg loves Charles
Wallace out of the clutches of IT – and yet where does Meg learn to love like
that? I found myself in awe of her father’s love for her. I love how you showed
him as limited and flawed and yet willing to have a child-like trust in a love
and power greater than his own. I love how he was willing to put his daughter
in greater hands than his and let his daughter do what needed to be done. The
last part of the story – it’s not just about Meg growing up and choosing the
hard but right way. It’s about a father (who himself needed rescuing by a trio
of young people) learning to let go of control, learning to trust. I suspect
that lesson was a hard-won lesson for Mr. Murry, trapped in his dark column,
his cloven pine.
And oh, Calvin. How I loved those small moments of
potentially blooming romance between Calvin and Meg when I was closer to their
age, and I still do. But it’s not just about a boy and a girl meeting and
finding one another attractive. It’s about two young people shaped by the same
call and helping each other find courage to do what needs to be done. That kiss
Calvin gives Meg? The one that brightens her eyes? It’s not a prince waking up
a princess kiss, or a kiss of adolescent ardor. It’s a let me kiss you before
you go into battle kiss, a kiss of encouragement and strength.
I don’t think I’d ever realized how beautifully steeped in
Pauline theology those final chapters were either. Yes, I recognized all the
scriptural quotes, but they are so carefully chosen, so integrated into the
story you’re telling. I love the way that all those gospel steeped elements are
spoken by various characters – not just the three Mrs. Ws (who clearly stand in
as angelic messengers) but by Aunt Beast. The God who shapes us for his
purposes, who makes all things work together for good, who makes the foolish
things of the world shame the wise – is the God of the universe. And so it’s so
utterly right that the translation of the song of the winged creatures on Uriel
comes through as a Psalm of praise.
And the disembodied brain – not just an homage to Lewis’ That Hideous Strength, not just a “heart
defeats brain” moment. It’s disembodied. As in non-incarnate. And
only incarnated love – love willing to do what needs to be done to rescue the
one in thrall to the darkness – only incarnated love can triumph. Meg’s act
here is a Christ-like act, from the moment she pushes through the cold and
darkness to the moment she catches Charles up in a tear-soaked embrace.
Oh Madeleine, I missed you today. And yet I also found myself
feeling as though you’d come to visit. I’m so glad you did.
Blessings.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Girl With a Watering Can (Diamante Poem)
As an end of the year treat, since she finished her grammar text early this year, the sweet girl is getting extra language arts time to work on poems and stories. We've been working with some terrific poem starters from Joyce Sidman -- ideas and forms that are really inspiring us.
Today we worked with the diamante form. You're supposed to start and end with a noun, but I gave us some leeway -- sometimes we went with an adjective. The line format is built on number of words. The form is 1,2,3,5,3,2,1 ~ sounds like a waltz, doesn't it? So the lines get successively longer at first, it's all balanced by a long beam of a line (like a rafter) in the middle, and then the lines decrease in the back half.
Sidman suggested using a picture to inspire the diamante. The sweet girl has been enjoying the gorgeous Child's Book of Art by Lucy Micklethwait again. She looked through and chose several pictures to work with. I was really tickled with all the results, but I especially liked this one she wrote based on Renoir's Girl With a Watering Can.
Girl:
watering plants,
picking white daisies.
She's just watered the garden.
Buttons on dress,
red bow,
peaceful.
(SBP, 5/28/12)
She really liked this way of poeming and I must say I do too. Setting word limits helped her to really focus on what she was seeing and what she wanted to say. That's an exercise that's good for all writers ~ no matter what our ages!
Today we worked with the diamante form. You're supposed to start and end with a noun, but I gave us some leeway -- sometimes we went with an adjective. The line format is built on number of words. The form is 1,2,3,5,3,2,1 ~ sounds like a waltz, doesn't it? So the lines get successively longer at first, it's all balanced by a long beam of a line (like a rafter) in the middle, and then the lines decrease in the back half.
Sidman suggested using a picture to inspire the diamante. The sweet girl has been enjoying the gorgeous Child's Book of Art by Lucy Micklethwait again. She looked through and chose several pictures to work with. I was really tickled with all the results, but I especially liked this one she wrote based on Renoir's Girl With a Watering Can.
Girl:
watering plants,
picking white daisies.
She's just watered the garden.
Buttons on dress,
red bow,
peaceful.
(SBP, 5/28/12)
She really liked this way of poeming and I must say I do too. Setting word limits helped her to really focus on what she was seeing and what she wanted to say. That's an exercise that's good for all writers ~ no matter what our ages!
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Between Alrighty and Almighty
I had one of those funny skim reading slips the other day. A friend had posted a prayer on facebook (where I often tend to be in skim read mode) and it began with the words "Almighty God." But my hurrying glance took the phrase in too quickly and I read it as "Alrighty God..." which sounded like the beginning of a much more casual conversation.
The slip made me chuckle, but it's also caused me to reflect on the fact that many of my prayers, depending on their time and place, could probably be characterized either as "almighty" or "alrighty" prayers.
The prayers I read from others, particularly in the prayer book, help me to center in on the powerful reality of who God is. Those prayers carefully name the Triune God, reminding me of who he is -- awesome in power and majesty, full of strength and loving kindness. He is indeed Almighty God, and I need to remember that and to address him, head and heart bowed, as such....and often. Whether I am reading a prayer, joining my voice to other faithful pray-ers now and across the years, or letting my personal prayers and petitions be shaped by that kind of language, I need a lot of time steeped in "almighty" kinds of prayers.
But there is perhaps a time and a place for "alrighty" prayers too...the kinds of prayer I often find myself uttering in the midst of a busy and stressed day, or in the midst of a daily repeated chore that feels like sheer drudgery -- the kind of prayer that begins in a more casual way, as befits one friend just speaking from her heart to a friend who knows and loves her and wants to listen, even if all she has to say is something akin to "Alrighty God, I know I need to get through this next few minutes...please help me!"
Of course the beauty of it all is that it's because the Friend we address is the Almighty King of the universe (able to do all that needed to be done to bridge the chasm and bring us from the far off kingdom of darkness to the near to his heart kingdom of light) we can enter into real and intimately loving conversation with him -- conversation sometimes as casual and simple as any ordinary conversation can be. It is because he is mighty to save that we are rescued, and because we rescued that we are given access -- real and amazing access -- to his presence. Where often we bow, face down to the ground, in humble worship, but where we also sometimes find ourselves drawn to sit right next to the king on his throne, snuggled under his arm, just because we love to have him hold us -- and because he delights to do so.
The slip made me chuckle, but it's also caused me to reflect on the fact that many of my prayers, depending on their time and place, could probably be characterized either as "almighty" or "alrighty" prayers.
The prayers I read from others, particularly in the prayer book, help me to center in on the powerful reality of who God is. Those prayers carefully name the Triune God, reminding me of who he is -- awesome in power and majesty, full of strength and loving kindness. He is indeed Almighty God, and I need to remember that and to address him, head and heart bowed, as such....and often. Whether I am reading a prayer, joining my voice to other faithful pray-ers now and across the years, or letting my personal prayers and petitions be shaped by that kind of language, I need a lot of time steeped in "almighty" kinds of prayers.
But there is perhaps a time and a place for "alrighty" prayers too...the kinds of prayer I often find myself uttering in the midst of a busy and stressed day, or in the midst of a daily repeated chore that feels like sheer drudgery -- the kind of prayer that begins in a more casual way, as befits one friend just speaking from her heart to a friend who knows and loves her and wants to listen, even if all she has to say is something akin to "Alrighty God, I know I need to get through this next few minutes...please help me!"
Of course the beauty of it all is that it's because the Friend we address is the Almighty King of the universe (able to do all that needed to be done to bridge the chasm and bring us from the far off kingdom of darkness to the near to his heart kingdom of light) we can enter into real and intimately loving conversation with him -- conversation sometimes as casual and simple as any ordinary conversation can be. It is because he is mighty to save that we are rescued, and because we rescued that we are given access -- real and amazing access -- to his presence. Where often we bow, face down to the ground, in humble worship, but where we also sometimes find ourselves drawn to sit right next to the king on his throne, snuggled under his arm, just because we love to have him hold us -- and because he delights to do so.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Raising a Reader
“She is too fond of books, and it has turned her brain.”
That quote from Louisa May Alcott has always made me chuckle. The wonderful
thing about books, of course, is that they do literally “turn our brains” – in new
directions.
In addition to all the books I want to read, or in some
cases feel I need to read, my ever growing TBR pile is expanding in a new way.
The sweet girl (fast heading for her tenth birthday) has begun to recommend
books to me.
It happened just the other day, and not for the first time.
She and her dad were out of town last week for her step-grandad’s funeral. She
took along her big pink backpack filled with books and art supplies for the
car. On Sunday, unpacking the bag, she kept bringing out books and telling me
what she’d read while they were gone. One of them was a book called Funny Frank by the delightful Dick
King-Smith. I had pointed her in the direction of the King-Smith shelf at the
library (we do love his books) but this isn’t one I’ve read before. “It’s
hilarious,” she told me. “You need to read it.”
Yes, I have a new recommending reading friend – my daughter.
I find this both delicious and a little strange. How did this happen so fast?
Wasn’t she just chewing on her copy of The
Very Hungry Caterpillar last week?
Yes, we’ve raised a reader – in both conscious and
unconscious ways. We’ve read books to
this child from day one – okay, actually from well before day one, if you count
all the reading aloud we did when she was in utero.
There have been so many good reading memories since. I recall
D. reading to her from the book of Genesis
when she was about a week old. I remember the beauty of watching her lie on her
little gymani playmat, when she was perhaps four or five months old, and seeing
her eyes trail over to the tiny little “Baby Einstein” board books she loved so
much her first year – their chunky square size a perfect fit for her hands,
their cardboard so good to chew, and all those great photographs to stare at!
Then there were the accompanying sound effects stage…oh, how we all loved Moo, Baa, La La La.
I remember countless repeated readings of beloved bedtime
stories (Everywhere Babies, Goodnight Me,
Goodnight You, Guess How Much I Love You) and later on, reading myself
hoarse on repeat requests of longer favorites – Flopsy Bunnies, Make Way for Ducklings, The Seven Silly Eaters, the chapter in
Winnie the Pooh where Piglet gets a bath. (Oh, and anything by Jane Hissey. The above picture, taken almost five years ago, was a path the sweet girl made in our kitchen...a path of Jane Hissey books. I called it the Jane Hissey path to success!) And poetry, poetry, poetry. Later on
came read-aloud upon read-aloud of longer books…snuggled on the couch or on the
bed, shoulder to shoulder on park benches in town, read by flashlight on the
car on long trips as we wended our way through Heidi, A Little Princess, the Ramona
and Henry books, the Narnia books, the Hobbit, and so many other wonderful books. (We still do this and
always will…we were a read-aloud family before we became parents! Check my
sidebar for our family’s current read-aloud books.)
In recent years, since the sweet girl became an independent
reader, there has also been the joy of seeing her curled up with a good book.
From the first halting attempts to get through Hop on Pop to seeing her sprawled on the bed or curled up in a
windowsill reading Sarah Plain and Tall or
Jenny and the Cat Club or Betsy, Tacy and Tib, I have loved every
second of watching my girl become a reader.
But it still throws me when she reads something that I haven’t.
I know the novelty of this will soon pass – as she grows and reads even on her
own, it will happen more often. I will not always be the navigator and
trail-guide, though I will hold onto that role for as long as I possibly can,
and then trust to the fact that she has been so steeped in good, rich literature
her whole life that she will make good choices about what to read (and be able
to discern why she doesn’t like something as well as why she does).
Mostly when she shares a book, it’s because she loves it –
and that’s a great joy to me, that she is learning by osmosis that good stories
are gifts. Only once so far has she asked me to read a book because she wasn’t
entirely sure how much she liked it – and she wanted my opinion. I read it and
had a mixed opinion too. I saw places in the story that I wasn’t sure she’d
been ready for, that I figured went over her head or simply didn’t “register.”
And that’s okay. That will happen sometimes too. Once again, I have to trust
that what she’s learned through reading and listening to the good, deep, rich
stories will hold her firmly in place as she encounters new reading territory.
But for now, I think I’ve got to make a new and special place
in my reading stack for the books she recommends. I may not always feel like I
have time to add one more thing to that stack, but I treasure that she wants to
gift me with the stories she’s enjoying, and I treasure even more that she
still wants us to share that reading experience so we can talk about it. So onto the reading stack goes Funny Frank this week. Thank you, sweet
reader girl, for taking the time to recommend another book to your reader mom.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Writing to Elgar
The family is on the way home (yay!) and I've spent this ultra quiet Saturday gardening and cleaning. In this last bit of time to myself, I'm trying to dive into some writing...specifically working on my mid-grade fairytale again. No, I didn't finish all the work I needed to do during these past couple of days, but enough to give myself a little writing break.
Reading over the manuscript yesterday -- the back story that's not quite complete and the first three chapters I wrote in January/February -- I have to say this. I like it! (Whew!) Taking two months away from the project has been really hard, and I'm still not sure how the summer is shaping up and if I'll have any significant time to devote to writing it again, but oh, I've missed these characters and this story. Now that I've dipped my toes back into the project, I guess I can call it a WIP again (work in progress)...
The other thing that's making me smile is how much I associate listening to Elgar with writing on this manuscript. I wonder if other writers do this -- have a particular composer or piece of work that seems to just "go" with the writing on a particular project? My whole winter was steeped in Elgar, especially the Enigma Variations (though I am starting to love some of his other work dearly too) and that's when I was doing most of the writing on this story. I associate Elgar so much with this story that I have named the fictional river near my castle the River Elgar.
Alas, I had to return a couple of the Enigma versions I've been enjoying to the library, but I now own a couple as well (okay, three to be precise). Today I dug out the Bernstein, which I tend to listen to less than the others. It had been a while since I'd played it, so I found myself puzzling anew (ah, the great mysteries of life) why Bernstein slowed the tempo down in the Nimrod movement so drastically. Seven minutes! As my husband pointed out when he first heard it, it sounds like a slow sunrise. He's right, it does. And while I don't find it totally absurd as some music critics do -- there's something so majestic and beautiful in the music that it manages to find its way through even this drastic sort of re-interpretation -- I confess I am completely puzzled as to why he did it. Grandstanding? Playing? Experimenting? Or did he really think there was something inherent in the music itself that called for this kind of slow, languorous, cat-like stretching? The question has me really curious. I suspect it always will.
Writing to Elgar again...no matter what conductor, it just feels good. Among other things, it's helping provide me with continuity of mood when I dive into this story, and that's no small thing considering how long it's been since I've worked on it.
Reading over the manuscript yesterday -- the back story that's not quite complete and the first three chapters I wrote in January/February -- I have to say this. I like it! (Whew!) Taking two months away from the project has been really hard, and I'm still not sure how the summer is shaping up and if I'll have any significant time to devote to writing it again, but oh, I've missed these characters and this story. Now that I've dipped my toes back into the project, I guess I can call it a WIP again (work in progress)...
The other thing that's making me smile is how much I associate listening to Elgar with writing on this manuscript. I wonder if other writers do this -- have a particular composer or piece of work that seems to just "go" with the writing on a particular project? My whole winter was steeped in Elgar, especially the Enigma Variations (though I am starting to love some of his other work dearly too) and that's when I was doing most of the writing on this story. I associate Elgar so much with this story that I have named the fictional river near my castle the River Elgar.
Alas, I had to return a couple of the Enigma versions I've been enjoying to the library, but I now own a couple as well (okay, three to be precise). Today I dug out the Bernstein, which I tend to listen to less than the others. It had been a while since I'd played it, so I found myself puzzling anew (ah, the great mysteries of life) why Bernstein slowed the tempo down in the Nimrod movement so drastically. Seven minutes! As my husband pointed out when he first heard it, it sounds like a slow sunrise. He's right, it does. And while I don't find it totally absurd as some music critics do -- there's something so majestic and beautiful in the music that it manages to find its way through even this drastic sort of re-interpretation -- I confess I am completely puzzled as to why he did it. Grandstanding? Playing? Experimenting? Or did he really think there was something inherent in the music itself that called for this kind of slow, languorous, cat-like stretching? The question has me really curious. I suspect it always will.
Writing to Elgar again...no matter what conductor, it just feels good. Among other things, it's helping provide me with continuity of mood when I dive into this story, and that's no small thing considering how long it's been since I've worked on it.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Poetry Friday: The Swing in Everything
I came across this poem I wrote back in January when our
whole family was in love with a Duke Ellington recording from the library. It
made me smile. And it made me realize anew how important music is in my life.
We dance around
the kitchen
to the Duke’s
jazzy swing.
I love just
how he heard
the swing
in everything.
I love the
way he made
new tunes
but still let
old tunes sing.
I love just
how Duke heard
the swing
in everything.
EMP 1/12
Music is a huge part of my life and my home. I hardly
realized how much until the past couple of days when my husband and daughter
have been traveling and I’ve been structuring my days completely around my own
schedule – an occurrence so rare and bizarre that I almost had forgotten how to
do it.
Two days on my own – I’ve been balancing work, play, rest
(or trying to) and also balancing sound and silence. I’ve been basking in
morning quiet time, just me by the window with my cup of tea and my Bible and
prayer book and a couple of other books I’m reading. In the
stillness, so rare, I notice all sorts of things speaking to my heart.
In the afternoons I’ve been working – grading, writing,
housecleaning – and that’s when I crank the music. It’s mostly been classical
and jazz, and oh, how grateful I am for these gems. Benny Goodman playing
anything, Yo-Yo Ma playing Vivaldi and Franck and Morricone and Gershwin
preludes, Elgar’s Enigma Variations (of course) and Michael Tilson Thomas
playing Gershwin’s Second Rhapsody – okay, it’s been a very Gershwin kind of
week.
Music tends to chase us all over the house even in our busy,
crowded days – I’m forever putting something in the player. And if I don’t, the
sweet girl will. And my husband when he’s home, especially when he’s cooking on
Saturday mornings. But it’s been listening to it on my own these past couple of
days that I realize how much it upholds and encourages me, lends essence and
structure and sweetness to my days, helps inspire energy when I’m tired or
calming space when I’m wired.
So grateful for music, for the swing in everything.
The Poetry Friday round-up is at Write.Sketch.Repeat.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Patchwork Post (Mother's Day edition)
One in the morning and heading into Monday...why I'm still up is still a mystery, though it may have something to do with the amazing nap I got earlier today (my mother's day tradition!) or the caffeine I drank earlier this evening. I'm also grading papers. It's May!
The past few days have gone by in a whirlwind. My husband's stepfather passed away on Friday, may he rest in peace. His passing was not entirely unexpected -- his health has been deteriorating for some time -- but the end still came sooner than we thought it might. He died one day before their eleventh anniversary, which I'm sure has made this weekend especially hard for my dear mother-in-law. The two of them were neighbors and friends for years before tying the knot over a decade ago. It was Robert's first marriage, and he was past 70 when he walked down that aisle. I think his last years, prior to the onset of alzheimer's, were happy ones. Today I am just feeling grateful that he is no longer suffering. As I told the sweet girl, who is struggling a bit with all the mixed emotions floating about (really the first death in the family she has experienced) it's okay to feel both happy and sad over a death like this. We can be happy that Mr. Robert is home for good -- no longer confused, no longer in pain. But we can also feel sad because we miss him and because we know grandma will.
I often find that having to put things into admittedly simplified words for my precious nine year old, who is wonderfully bright and inquisitive and sometimes even more emotionally young than her years might attest, is balm to my own heart. It helps me think through the "big things" in life more cleanly and clearly than I ever did before I was a mom, before I learned how to act as a navigator and trail-guide (two things I think moms definitely are).
I had a chance to talk with my own mom on this phone this afternoon, and to tell her anew how much I love her and miss her. And oh, I really do, on both counts. So grateful for her presence in my life.
The past few days have gone by in a whirlwind. My husband's stepfather passed away on Friday, may he rest in peace. His passing was not entirely unexpected -- his health has been deteriorating for some time -- but the end still came sooner than we thought it might. He died one day before their eleventh anniversary, which I'm sure has made this weekend especially hard for my dear mother-in-law. The two of them were neighbors and friends for years before tying the knot over a decade ago. It was Robert's first marriage, and he was past 70 when he walked down that aisle. I think his last years, prior to the onset of alzheimer's, were happy ones. Today I am just feeling grateful that he is no longer suffering. As I told the sweet girl, who is struggling a bit with all the mixed emotions floating about (really the first death in the family she has experienced) it's okay to feel both happy and sad over a death like this. We can be happy that Mr. Robert is home for good -- no longer confused, no longer in pain. But we can also feel sad because we miss him and because we know grandma will.
I often find that having to put things into admittedly simplified words for my precious nine year old, who is wonderfully bright and inquisitive and sometimes even more emotionally young than her years might attest, is balm to my own heart. It helps me think through the "big things" in life more cleanly and clearly than I ever did before I was a mom, before I learned how to act as a navigator and trail-guide (two things I think moms definitely are).
I had a chance to talk with my own mom on this phone this afternoon, and to tell her anew how much I love her and miss her. And oh, I really do, on both counts. So grateful for her presence in my life.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Remembering Maurice Sendak
One of the first books I remember really loving as a child was Maurice Sendak's Pierre. I know he was most famous for Where the Wild Things Are (what a rumpus!) and In the Night Kitchen, but I loved his stubbornly apathetic Pierre. "The lion took him home to rest and stayed on as a weekend guest," was one of my favorite lines in all of literature when I was a little girl. I also think it may have been the beginning of my understanding of how a story could have a "moral." CARE. And such a simple, profound moral it was, for all of us who had ever back-talked our moms in bored tones, sat backwards in our chairs, poured syrup in our hair -- or wanted to.
I also enjoyed Chicken Soup With Rice, another book in Sendak's little "nutshell" library. Perhaps my first understanding of personification? "In March the wind blows down the door and spills my soup upon the floor. It laps it up and roars for more!"
I was thinking a lot about these little books yesterday after I heard the news that Mr. Sendak had passed away at the age of 83. Truly the end of a chapter in children's literature.
In honor of his memory, I thought I would post links to two reviews I wrote some time ago. One is to a review of Sendak's book of essays Caldecott & Co.: Notes on Books and Pictures. The other is to a review of the Leonard Marcus edited Dear Genius: The Letters of Ursula Nordstrom (the great children's literature editor at Harper's who discovered Sendak when he was designing windows at FAO Schwarz).
Sendak was an amazing example of someone who took anxiety and fear and channeled them through an artistic process that gave life, hope, enjoyment and catharsis to so many. R.I.P. Mr. Sendak. You will be missed.
I also enjoyed Chicken Soup With Rice, another book in Sendak's little "nutshell" library. Perhaps my first understanding of personification? "In March the wind blows down the door and spills my soup upon the floor. It laps it up and roars for more!"
I was thinking a lot about these little books yesterday after I heard the news that Mr. Sendak had passed away at the age of 83. Truly the end of a chapter in children's literature.
In honor of his memory, I thought I would post links to two reviews I wrote some time ago. One is to a review of Sendak's book of essays Caldecott & Co.: Notes on Books and Pictures. The other is to a review of the Leonard Marcus edited Dear Genius: The Letters of Ursula Nordstrom (the great children's literature editor at Harper's who discovered Sendak when he was designing windows at FAO Schwarz).
Sendak was an amazing example of someone who took anxiety and fear and channeled them through an artistic process that gave life, hope, enjoyment and catharsis to so many. R.I.P. Mr. Sendak. You will be missed.
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
Of Stories and Supermoons...
One of the other lovely moments of this past weekend was when our little three-person family hunkered down in the windows of the sweet girl's room after dark on Saturday night so we could watch the supermoon rising over the nearby hills. It was an awesome sight -- big, bright, tinging the very dark clouds in front of it silver, highlighting the outlines of trees.
The sweet girl was hugely excited. A supermoon, after all, is a somewhat novel occurrence (it's what you call a full moon that coincides with the closest approach the moon makes to earth in its elliptical orbit) and we hadn't caught the last one, fourteen months before. She came up with a story idea about Luna, the moon who once in a while becomes a superhero, and we've been working on it together during language arts time -- a treat for us both, since we officially finished the year's grammar text last week.
Which reminds me...any teacher/writer folks out there, do you have any story writing websites or curricula you especially love or recommend? Especially for late elementary/middle grade years? So far I have trusted to our love of reading good stories and just the actual act of writing stories -- S. writes them often, and sometimes we write them together -- to incorporate lots of natural learning. But as she rounds the corner on her tenth birthday and we contemplate (gulp!) fifth grade in the fall, I've found myself wanting to look into some resources.
But back to the supermoon. I wrote this little poem, full of sibilant sounds, in honor of the event:
The sweet girl was hugely excited. A supermoon, after all, is a somewhat novel occurrence (it's what you call a full moon that coincides with the closest approach the moon makes to earth in its elliptical orbit) and we hadn't caught the last one, fourteen months before. She came up with a story idea about Luna, the moon who once in a while becomes a superhero, and we've been working on it together during language arts time -- a treat for us both, since we officially finished the year's grammar text last week.
Which reminds me...any teacher/writer folks out there, do you have any story writing websites or curricula you especially love or recommend? Especially for late elementary/middle grade years? So far I have trusted to our love of reading good stories and just the actual act of writing stories -- S. writes them often, and sometimes we write them together -- to incorporate lots of natural learning. But as she rounds the corner on her tenth birthday and we contemplate (gulp!) fifth grade in the fall, I've found myself wanting to look into some resources.
But back to the supermoon. I wrote this little poem, full of sibilant sounds, in honor of the event:
The supermoon
ascends silently,
slides past cloudbank,
seams a silver lining,
then stands sentinel over
sighing sycamores…
and shines.
Monday, May 07, 2012
Birthday Celebration, Gardening and Gershwin
My dear husband celebrated his birthday on Friday. He took the day off, which gave us the morning together as a family before the sweet girl and I trundled off to homeschool group for the afternoon. Then dear friends took her home for the evening, and he and I actually went out to dinner. I'm still reeling from D. having a whole day off (can't remember the last time that's happened!) and the two of us going on a date (can't remember the last time we were able to do that either). It was a lovely day.
The rest of the weekend was lovely too in many ways, though I've been battling tiredness and a sinus headache.
We got our plot assignment in the community gardens. A cause for great excitement! We loved our gardening project last year and couldn't wait to get started again. We planted a few seedlings and also some seeds. Waiting to see what comes up...one of my favorite parts of gardening.
It was also a very Gershwin weekend. He's been one of my favorite composers since I was sixteen, and the sweet girl has grown up knowing and loving his music, but we've been learning more about him because he's our composer of the month in this final month of school. We showed her the ballet from American in Paris (which she loved) and spent a good bit of this afternoon (when we weren't out gardening) listening to the New York Rhapsody. No, not the Rhapsody in Blue, but a much less known Rhapsody Gershwin did later. It's sometimes called Rhapsody in Rivets. It sounds deliciously familiar -- so Gershwiny -- and yet new too. A great combination.
So many more blessings I could recount from the past few days...including some amazing God moments in our community. Oddly, following such a moving and gratitude filled few days, I am feeling a bit flat and not ready to face the new week...though I suspect that's got more to do with not feeling well than anything else.
At any rate, the new week is here, so onward I go!
The rest of the weekend was lovely too in many ways, though I've been battling tiredness and a sinus headache.
We got our plot assignment in the community gardens. A cause for great excitement! We loved our gardening project last year and couldn't wait to get started again. We planted a few seedlings and also some seeds. Waiting to see what comes up...one of my favorite parts of gardening.
It was also a very Gershwin weekend. He's been one of my favorite composers since I was sixteen, and the sweet girl has grown up knowing and loving his music, but we've been learning more about him because he's our composer of the month in this final month of school. We showed her the ballet from American in Paris (which she loved) and spent a good bit of this afternoon (when we weren't out gardening) listening to the New York Rhapsody. No, not the Rhapsody in Blue, but a much less known Rhapsody Gershwin did later. It's sometimes called Rhapsody in Rivets. It sounds deliciously familiar -- so Gershwiny -- and yet new too. A great combination.
So many more blessings I could recount from the past few days...including some amazing God moments in our community. Oddly, following such a moving and gratitude filled few days, I am feeling a bit flat and not ready to face the new week...though I suspect that's got more to do with not feeling well than anything else.
At any rate, the new week is here, so onward I go!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)