Italians, Arches and Getting Older

I may not be a Delicate Arch, but I am forming over time.

We pull up to the Moab Valley Inn and there's a group of about twenty Harley Davisdson's in front.  We have already been dazzled by our drive through the Rockies and then winding around the Colorado River on 128. I am still feeling that sense of surreality I felt over seventeen years ago when I first landed here, in Moab, Utah, so the motorcycles fit right in with my out of body experience.

In my '20's and '30's, I thought that time was linear, but more and more now I am realizing that it's not: time is fluid - I am every age I have ever been. The good news is that the bull*&^* is what's eroding, leaving room for my authentic self.

I pass the riders on my way to check in and have to stop myself from gaping - they are all in their 60's and 70's, the sounds from their mouths sounding like bubbles from a stream: Italians.

My past, present and future are commingling - yes, being an elderly Italian tourist on a motorbike is in my future. Why not?

Yet I have no time or wherewithal to stop and make friends, to practice my rusty Italian - I am on a mission - to get my family of five settled so that we can blaze trails up and through the red rocks of Arches National Park.

The last time I was in Moab, the kids were barely a twinkle in my eye and I still had a lot of growing up to do. Now I am 45 and I have an 8, 11, and 13 year old. They have never been to Moab. I haven't been back either, and if you've read my book Edges, you can feel my love for the area - setting as character.

Back to the car and the motorcycles are gone, and we are off to the trail head for the 1.5 mile hike to Delicate Arch. It is 5pm, and although there is no direct sunlight making the 90 degree weather bearable, the light on the rocks turn them into the color of bright watermelon.

We have company on our journey, and the voices we hear are not just American: they are Hebrew, German, mostly French . . . Italian! The hiker's ages range from twenty to seventy, in various shapes and sizes.  Scarlett at 8, is the youngest hiker, so we can forgive her the occasional "are we there yet?" sighs.

The wonderful thing about this hike is that as massive as Delicate Arch is, you can't see it until you get there. You have to trust, have faith.

I am moving in that faith, in the present.

Hiking through the rocks and then the steep slick rock, then up and up (vertigo!) and around corners, steep drops and . . .

"Che bellissima!" Indeed. The kids are enchanted, as I knew they would be.

The vertigo is new for me: a sign of age? Yet it's not annoying or frighting, it just adds another dimension and I take deeper breaths and exhale more slowly.

The kids are exhilarated hiking back, feeling a sense of accomplishment. We have a late dinner at the Blu Pig, and a group of elderly Italians have the table next to us. Were they the ones on the motorbikes? Were they the ones on the hike?

We see them for sure at breakfast the next morning, and on another long hike we do in Arches to Devil's Garden. There are so many things to do, how can we have the same itinerary?

Rob helps some of them through a stream the next day when we are hiking in Negro Bill Canyon.

Although they are older, they are vigorous, they are inspiring. They are curious and delighted.

Finally, on our last morning, I get the courage to speak to some of them. I have been saving up all of my Italian until this moment. They are from Milan, and flew to Phoenix, renting the bikes there. They only laugh when I ask them what they think of American coffee.

"Ciao!" they shout, and vroom off.

But our adventures are not finished! Our next stop is Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado. It is mid afternoon and we have a tour of Cliff Palace at 4, but the drizzle makes us bide our time in the museum, where four of the Italians are! We greet each other like old friends - and I again am reminded of the fluidity of time.

I may not be a spring chicken, but I have learned and am still learning what it takes to practice radical self-care, and not to give up on any aspect of my life - be it physical, mental, spiritual. I may NOT be Italian, but I will be an older person who is a voracious lover of life, just like these powers of example.

I may not be a Delicate Arch, but I am forming over time.

Merry Part and Merry Meet . . .

. . . And Merry Christmas!

Just let's be merry.

Let's take a leap of faith.

We're in this together - this life that is both more terrifying and wonderful than we could ever imagine. We can bask in our ordinary, human beauty.

Tonight's dominant story in our culture is one of a baby - the "light" of the world - being born in a stable, but I've been thinking more about Mary.

Maybe it's because I'm a mother myself, and I need to have frequent visitations by angels to remind me to "fear not". Maybe it's because she carried on and through in spite of life being overwhelming and stretching her farther than she ever thought she could extend without breaking.

Maybe it's because I saw The Hobbit this morning.

Bear with me.

Bilbo Baggins is everyman. Bilbo Baggins is Mary, he is ME. He wants things to remain simple, and safe: comfortable. But it is "adventure", that helps him to grow. Not only that, it is in helping others that he finds himself.

Wow.

I am merry, I am Mary, I am Bilbo Baggins.

By now you may have realized that Christmas makes me loopy. But I am goofy for all sorts of stories, especially ones that make me think and feel.

Now it is 12:09AM and Santa must be coming very, very soon.

Sweet dreams my angels, and . . .

Merry Christmas!

A Prayer for us from Madeleine L'Engle

My grandmother, Madeleine L'Engle, was known to be a woman of great faith. This greatness of faith came from her own struggle with it.  Indeed, I believe that she wrote what she needed to hear, hope, believe. In A Wrinkle in Time, we all identify with fear of the threat of darkness, and wonder who or what is going to stand between us and IT.

It is the same in the books following. This poem below is St. Patrick's Rune from A Swiftly Tilting Planet, which is itself an adaptation of The Lorica of St. Patrick. (Of which it is said that God turned St. Patrick and his followers into deer when they were pursued.)

Who comes between you and the powers of darkness? I can't even begin to write about what happened on Friday morning, but I can share my struggle and my DESIRE for faith with you - indeed, maybe that is how we can help each other, and hug our own children tighter:  Children lean toward hope and away from cynicism. Let us be childlike, and place this prayer between us and despair.

St. Patrick's Rune

At Tara in this fateful hour
I place all Heaven with its power
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And the fire with all the strength it hath,
And the lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness:
All these I place
By God’s almighty help and grace
Between myself and the powers of darkness!

Write What You Know?

I don't know what I know until I've written it.

Until I've listened, until I've opened up myself enough to the possibility that I don't know everything, to mystery.

How can we know something without stretching our imaginations to discover and explore? What a wonderful adventure writing is!  To know something or someone is to be open to exploration and discovery. Knowledge and experience shouldn't be rigid - we need to be flexible in our definitions, and open to the possibility that we don't know everything. My imagination knows things, my subconscious knows things, and yours does too. There is something you know in everything that you write.

Many of us start a project writing what we know in a concrete way until it begins to take on a life of its own. Or we start out completely the opposite, wanting to learn about something and finding our own truths, knowledge, within the story.

Our first novels are often the most autobiographical. I happen to have experience with alcoholism and recovery in my own family, so it makes an appearance in between the pages of EDGES. Another novel was inspired by the Reality TV show I was on, and the novel I'm writing now is based on something I had on my bucket list when I was a teenager: to be a performer on a cruise ship. (It's not on my bucket list anymore, although I think that writing about it counts, don't you?)

Every novel, story, even blog post, has a different trajectory. We get stuck, because we don't "know" something. I don't know where this is going . . . how many times have I told myself that?  But our job is to keep writing, even through the undulations of self doubt. I practice writing something almost every day, even if it's just one hundred words.

Yes, it may be NaNoWriMo, but don't let low word count get you down, keep writing, and know that you will get better as you practice, whether the words fly across the screen or drip slowly like molasses: keep plugging away and keep the faith.

In other news, I am selling my own copies of Edges! If you would like a personalized copy for yourself or someone you love, I will charge only $10, which includes the shipping.

Read and write on my loves!

The Election, Mother Nature and Gratitude

This year, Election Day happens to fall on a beautiful crisp autumn day in the North East, sandwiched between two storms. My friends and I are all giddy to have heat and electricity again, AND to exercise our right to vote. We are cautiously optimistic, yet I am still anxious, proven by the fact that I can't seem to focus on any project for any reasonable amount of time.

However, Mother Nature and the election have both helped me to see the bigger picture.

I run around like everybody else on a daily basis, sweating the small stuff and working hard at keeping the faith.

Now in this election and with these storms, our faith is being put to the test: What do we really believe in? What matters to us?

Like everybody else, I worry about money.

And it becomes crystal clear: my bottom line is NOT about money, it always has and always will be  about human rights; being an individual in a larger community where we support and help one another. Yes, I am a huge idealist. But look at who I share genetics with? Writers, artists, priests, social workers . . .

Human rights encompass women's rights, gay rights, educational rights. Not to mention FEMA, war, health care, the environment - so much more. 

My youngest daughter went around kissing the heating vents and the fridge this morning. My eldest son is showing signs of maturity, intellectually, physically and spiritually. My middle son still hugs me and tells me he loves me several times a day. They are growing up and I want them to have a world where we acknowledge the science of climate change, where they won't feel less-than if they aren't wealthy, or marginalized if they or their friends are gay,  or pushed around for having a vagina.

Being a human is messy, complicated and beautiful. 

 

I voted for Obama in '08 and I certainly voted for him again this morning so that he gets to finish the job he started - which I believe is going to help everybody, and not just a select few.

There are people I care deeply about who vote differently and to you I say - whatever happens, let us seek to understand each other, and to understand that our integrity and conviction is what makes us better people, and the planet a safer place. Let us look for the things that we have in common and not the things which divide us. I still want to be in conversation with you and be in community with you, now more than ever.

It is the human condition that warms us, and our humanity that is the most sacred.
 

Am I worried about the Nor'Easter coming tomorrow? (That's something we can agree on.) Yes! (And still no generator!)

 

And another thing: NaNoWriMo is sooooo not happening for me right now - but I love all of the writing mojo going on around me and I encourage everyone to ready, set, write!!!!

 

The Miracle of Story

Image via Wikipedia

Albert Einstein: “There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.”

I would much rather live the second way, but it's not always easy, is it? Like most people, I need constant reminders that I have a choice in the way to look at life. I need stories that offer a variety of perspectives, where I can both agree and yes, disagree. I need stories to help me think and I need to write stories to discover what I think.

Stories are like eggs, waiting to hatch. They may be ugly or they may be beautiful,  but most likely they are somewhere in between, a combination of both ends of the spectrum. 



Today I am gorging myself on stories by the teen writers of Girls Write Now and their mentors as I dive into the final stages of Anthology edits. Tomorrow I will go to headquarters to sit down with my co-editor, writer Kirthana Ramisetti, where we will shape it into a book, and then hand it off to the copy editor before it goes to publication.

Some of us have just celebrated Easter, the story of the resurrection of Jesus. Others of us have celebrated Passover,  the story of the Exodus from slavery in Egypt to freedom in the desert. Some have also celebrated the return of Persephone from underground, the return of the sun, making the earth fecund again.   

We have all certainly made note of the springtime with the rains and budding leaves. (Our family celebrates with all of these stories and more - the requisite scavenger hunt for candy filled eggs.)

Stories tell us who we are. And that's why we write, don't we?


Stories and faith are talked about in the same way: it's like driving at night - our headlights only show us the way a little bit at a time. We have to trust in doing the next right thing. We may get lost, but we can always find our way back to our story, our center. 


Sometimes I get anxious when watching a movie with the husband because I don't know what the story is about. He laughs at me (gently) and reminds me to enjoy the ride.


Are you enjoying the ride in your writing, your reading, and/or your faith?

Thank You, Dr. King

Cover of Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."
— Martin Luther King Jr. 

I'd better write this tonight while I'm bleary-eyed, before I read all of the well written and thought out blogs tomorrow, celebrating what would have been your 82nd birthday. Before reading more about the Arizona gunman and people pleading for another charismatic leader to stop the madness. Then I would certainly chicken out. But tonight, it's just you and me. I LOVE celebrating you - always have (and not just because we got a day off of school).

You were murdered the year I was born, a fact which has always frightened/fascinated me. Do we really live in a world where good people are punished? How can there be a God? Yet you were a man of deep faith, embodying this idea of radical love and have always been  one of my biggest heroes. Darkness begets darkness . . . we are what we think and believe, aren't we, Dr. King?

You planted a seed of social activism that blossomed and complemented my Christian/bohemian upbringing: your crossover of Christian ideals and Ghandi-like philosophy appealed to my budding soul. You were responsible for my becoming politicized: as a teen I marched and I canvassed for no nukes, civil rights, gay rights, women's rights, the environment. I wanted to live in and believe in a world where radical love was possible. I lost my faith in my early '20's, Dr. King. I had some difficult times and some hard knocks. Then I channeled my energy into becoming a therapist, a mother, a writer, but always with the hope of being of service. 

My husband and I were awed by the National Civil Rights Museum when we drove through Memphis on our cross country road trip 13 years ago. The museum was built around the Lorraine Motel where you were assassinated. We spent an entire day there, hearts in our throat. It's one thing to have knowledge of these events, and quite another to have visual and tactile context.

My faith ebbs and flows, but I love taking time to remember you, Dr. King - a man whose spiritual and civic duty were one and the same. A man who died for what he believed in. 

Nonviolence is the answer to the crucial political and moral questions of our time: the need for man to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence. Man must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.

Nobel Prize acceptance speech, Stockholm, Sweden, December 11, 1964.

 

 

Related articles

• MLK Day couldn't come at a more appropriate time (Rep. Mike Honda) (thehill.com)
• "Happy Birthday Dr. King" and related posts (thelangarhall.com)
• 10 Martin Luther King, Jr. Quotations (huffingtonpost.com)

Turning to a Lit Life after 9-11

Image by Sister72 via Flickr

How many of us turn to literature for help during tragic times? The events of 9-11 nine years ago held many of us New Yorkers in a nightmare where our notions of reality were threatened. How did we get through it? For me, I turned to The Lord of The Rings Trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkein, Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials and A Wrinkle in Time by my grandmother, Madeleine L'Engle. Yesterday I finished reading Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins, a surprising tribute this time of year. The battle between good and evil and the utter uncomprehension war brings. The old trope of absolute power corrupting absolutely.

September 11th, 2001. I was half watching the Today Show as I was trying to get my toddler ready for the park when it happened. It didn't register: the burning towers, the second plane crashing in. It couldn't be happening. I walked Cooper to the park, a beautiful, sunny, September morning, meeting with other parents.

"Did two planes really just crash into the World Trade Center?" All parents were walking around in slow motion, cell phones to their ears. We were talking to each other, talking to the air. "How could two planes have malfunctioned?" "Maybe it was terrorists." "What?" "Doesn't your wife work down there?" "I have to go home, see what's happening."

This was our city's downtown, up in flames. My brother could see it from his rooftop on 14th Street. I used to work downtown as a counselor at a high school right across the street from the World Trade Center. The kids had just started school again. Were they all right? I had other friends who worked down there . . .

For the next week, I was glued to CNN whenever my son was sleeping. Us New Yorkers were in a collective nightmare. Even on the Upper West Side we could smell the rampage of our city. And we were helpless.

It wrenched my heart, broke me down. It was unthinkable . . . So I read, to seek understanding for why human beings do terrible things, for hope, to be able to fall in-love with humanity again.

I watched friends move out of the city, quit their jobs, reevaluate what's important. Change their lives. I enrolled in a Seminary to become an Interfaith minister, but I realized that I could serve humanity better by taking myself seriously as a writer. I helped take care of my grandmother, had two more babies and I wrote.

Edges at first was a book written with the backdrop of 9-11. It was wrong, and overshadowed the other things I was trying to say, but my psyche was working overtime. I was able to take it out after a while as my faith came back through other stories of strength and resilience. Faith can slip away so easily, but sometimes it is the realest, truest thing I have.

Frodo has to destroy that ring, Lyra has to get captured in order to rescue, and Meg has to find the double edge of her faults to save Charles Wallace and her father. And I have to read and write, in order to find Truth.