Okay, it's been a while since I've posted any poetry, so I'm a bit rusty, but here's the story.
Sometime last night, one of my favorite artists, Jon Foreman, posted on Twitter that he wanted an idea for a song to write the next day (today). The idea became "tomorrow's song," and he challenged folks to write a song in 24 hours with that subject or phrase or whatnot in it. People responded all over the world, posting their lyrics and music on Twitter. Well, I don't write songs, but I try my hand at a bit of verse, and here's what I came up with.
Tomorrow’s Song
She roots down underneath the purple sheets,
covered in stars that beam bravely. Her eyes are already
filled with the twinkling of sleep, waiting to take her
to lands beyond for the night, but she rubs them away
with the back of her hand, nose scrunched in attempts
to hold the blissful surrender at bay. Oh, how we fight the gift
as children. Every night, she asks me, “Please,
will you sing me the tomorrow song?”
And so I do, with my untrained voice and blurred,
tired mind from cleaning up macaroni crafts and
making peanut butter sandwiches in the shape of stars.
I sing her the song of tomorrow,
of trips to the zoo to see the elephants, of chocolate
chip cookies eaten under blue blanket forts. I sing
to her of yellow tulips heralding spring, and I sing to her
of the raindrops that make the muddy puddles. I sing to her
of classrooms, and first kisses, and prom dates, and graduations.
Sometimes my voice trembles as I sing of swimming
lessons while my mind is underwater, quaking with a nation
swimming for survival. Or I sing of parades and think of
the ones halted by gunfire and cold eyes. Or I sing of picnic lunches
and see hollow cheekbones and distended bellies.
Her eyes are always closed and her mouth always open,
the sweet puffs of yesterday leaving her, before the second verse.
But I keep singing despite my slumbering audience
because it’s tradition and because she asks every night
and because someday she won’t, and too late
I will realize that I sing it for me more than her, that
I sing the tomorrow song to believe
it is true.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
George Fox Journal article: Tom Davis
The George Fox Journal came out this last week, and I've gotten a lot of great feedback about my article on Tom Davis and Children's HopeChest. It was a fun interview - Davis is a great guy, super friendly and very passionate about serving the "least of these."
Peruse the rest of the Journal and see what my alma mater and its alums are doing in the world.
Read my article at http://www.georgefox.edu/journalonline/spring11/measure.html.
Peruse the rest of the Journal and see what my alma mater and its alums are doing in the world.
Read my article at http://www.georgefox.edu/journalonline/spring11/measure.html.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
What I'm Reading: Louisa May Alcott
Apparently, Lauren looks a lot like me. Or so people say. As my little sister, she gets to hear that a lot, but since they moved to Canada, plenty of people say I look just like her. I was here first, I reply. They smile and move on, nothing else to say.
We love a lot of the same things - musicals, Community, Switchfoot podcasts, other pop culture-y type things - but we're vastly different in other ways. She's extreme, whereas I'm moderate. She loves the spotlight, I prefer the shadows. She belongs on the stage, and I'm just fine backstage or in the audience.
Lauren attends a performing arts high school, and this year, her senior year, she was cast as Meg in the musical production of Little Women. Since I was far away and unable to see her starring role, I rejoiced from afar by pumping her for details, re-reading the book, and overanalyzing the characters. As evidenced in this Facebook comment I left her:
Profound. But fairly accurate.
Every little girl wants to be Jo. She holds Little Women together - adored by her family, owner of a wicked temper of which she repents, and strong enough to make her own decisions despite the outside world. Only two things in the world matter to her: her family and her writing. Marriage isn't part of the equation at all.
I, of course, wanted to be Jo, but realized early on that I lacked the strength of will - which my parents were grateful for, but got in spades with the birth of Lauren. But I wanted to write - I wanted to write and support my family. Maybe that's part of the reason I like memoir so much, tracing it back to Jo's own decision to write about her and her sisters. That's what made her truly successful: her own life story.
Looking back at it now, after years and years, it's a beautiful story, though overly sentimental for our cynical time period. At the time, though, to write about domesticity in a way that celebrates and elevates it, even while pressing young girls to think for themselves and do what they dream - this was novel. And the woman behind it was novel too.
Louisa May Alcott. I just finished a biography of her, and she certainly was an interesting woman. She was Jo, though a little rougher and edgier. In fiction, we smooth ourselves out, make ourselves more palatable...or more interesting. She wrote of her own family, but she smoothed them out too. The Marches were the family she wished she had. Her father became doting and wise, her mother sympathetic and strong, her sisters her favorite playmates and joyful friends. In the Alcott family, her father was overly idealistic to the point of fanatic, her mother swung between strength and utter depression, and her sisters had to work to keep their family fed - playtime wasn't often an option.
And yet she grew up in one of the most thriving intellectual communities America has ever known: 1840s Concord. Ralph Waldo Emerson brought the brightest of the day to surround him, giving them money (in the case of the Alcotts, often) and inviting them into his circle. Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Margaret Fuller were constantly around. Young Louisa fell in love with Emerson and Thoreau like only young girls can with charismatic older men who dote on them. To be surrounded with such brilliance! Ah, but she paid for it - according to this biographer - with the struggles of life.
Like Jo, she published fiery tales of love and lust for the money, but it wasn't the Civil War that she sold her first serious book - Hospital Sketches - about her experience as a nurse. The Civil War also broke her health.
She didn't want to write Little Women. She thought the subject dull. But she was anything but dull. She had a romance in Europe with a much younger man when she was in her 30s. She never married. She raised her niece after her sister's death. And her temper always gave her fits. She was human and delightfully so.
A question posed in the book concerned whether you'd rather have an easy life or immortality through your work. (Side note here: I couldn't stand how the book was written - poorly organized, frustrating paragraphs, and too many darn rhetorical questions) It was an interesting question, one that we don't get to answer. I think we'd all say immortality, but that means suffer in the here and now, and who really wants that? Louisa may have chosen an easy life, but her life made her work harder. And though Louisa died at age fifty-five, Jo lives forever. So Louisa does too. Could a writer ask for?
We love a lot of the same things - musicals, Community, Switchfoot podcasts, other pop culture-y type things - but we're vastly different in other ways. She's extreme, whereas I'm moderate. She loves the spotlight, I prefer the shadows. She belongs on the stage, and I'm just fine backstage or in the audience.
Lauren attends a performing arts high school, and this year, her senior year, she was cast as Meg in the musical production of Little Women. Since I was far away and unable to see her starring role, I rejoiced from afar by pumping her for details, re-reading the book, and overanalyzing the characters. As evidenced in this Facebook comment I left her:
Profound. But fairly accurate.
Every little girl wants to be Jo. She holds Little Women together - adored by her family, owner of a wicked temper of which she repents, and strong enough to make her own decisions despite the outside world. Only two things in the world matter to her: her family and her writing. Marriage isn't part of the equation at all.
I, of course, wanted to be Jo, but realized early on that I lacked the strength of will - which my parents were grateful for, but got in spades with the birth of Lauren. But I wanted to write - I wanted to write and support my family. Maybe that's part of the reason I like memoir so much, tracing it back to Jo's own decision to write about her and her sisters. That's what made her truly successful: her own life story.
Looking back at it now, after years and years, it's a beautiful story, though overly sentimental for our cynical time period. At the time, though, to write about domesticity in a way that celebrates and elevates it, even while pressing young girls to think for themselves and do what they dream - this was novel. And the woman behind it was novel too.
Louisa May Alcott. I just finished a biography of her, and she certainly was an interesting woman. She was Jo, though a little rougher and edgier. In fiction, we smooth ourselves out, make ourselves more palatable...or more interesting. She wrote of her own family, but she smoothed them out too. The Marches were the family she wished she had. Her father became doting and wise, her mother sympathetic and strong, her sisters her favorite playmates and joyful friends. In the Alcott family, her father was overly idealistic to the point of fanatic, her mother swung between strength and utter depression, and her sisters had to work to keep their family fed - playtime wasn't often an option.
And yet she grew up in one of the most thriving intellectual communities America has ever known: 1840s Concord. Ralph Waldo Emerson brought the brightest of the day to surround him, giving them money (in the case of the Alcotts, often) and inviting them into his circle. Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Margaret Fuller were constantly around. Young Louisa fell in love with Emerson and Thoreau like only young girls can with charismatic older men who dote on them. To be surrounded with such brilliance! Ah, but she paid for it - according to this biographer - with the struggles of life.
Like Jo, she published fiery tales of love and lust for the money, but it wasn't the Civil War that she sold her first serious book - Hospital Sketches - about her experience as a nurse. The Civil War also broke her health.
She didn't want to write Little Women. She thought the subject dull. But she was anything but dull. She had a romance in Europe with a much younger man when she was in her 30s. She never married. She raised her niece after her sister's death. And her temper always gave her fits. She was human and delightfully so.
A question posed in the book concerned whether you'd rather have an easy life or immortality through your work. (Side note here: I couldn't stand how the book was written - poorly organized, frustrating paragraphs, and too many darn rhetorical questions) It was an interesting question, one that we don't get to answer. I think we'd all say immortality, but that means suffer in the here and now, and who really wants that? Louisa may have chosen an easy life, but her life made her work harder. And though Louisa died at age fifty-five, Jo lives forever. So Louisa does too. Could a writer ask for?
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The King's Speech - The Story You Haven't Heard
About three weeks ago, The King's Speech won a few awards. Actually, it won a great many awards at the Oscars, to add to the pile of awards from the Golden Globes, the SAG Awards, and the BAFTAs. You already know how I feel about this amazing movie (I talk about it a little here), and I was pleased to see it do so well. Usually, the movies I like don't win anything because they're not edgy enough. Well, The King's Speech wasn't edgy at all, but it struck a chord with a lot of people. We're all afraid, and we all want to think we can be fixed. Well, fear can't be fixed, but it can be maintained if we have good friends who believe in us.
Anyway, the story itself is great. An amazing piece of history, so rich and ready for Hollywood. Why hadn't we heard it before? That in itself is a fascinating story.
The screenwriter, David Seidler, had a stutter. He listened to King George the VI on the radio as a very young boy, feeling a special kinship with him. Seidler grew out of his stutter, but around the time Seidler turned 40, he started researching Bertie and Lionel. He wanted to write about their relationship and eventually caught up with Lionel's son. Lionel's son said he'd talk to Seidler and show him some family heirlooms - including journals - if Seidler had the written permission of the Queen Mum, Bertie's widow.
The Queen Mum did write him, but she asked him to not do it within her lifetime. The 40-year-old memories were still much too painful for her. When subject of the Crown is asked to do something by the Queen, he does it. This was in 1982, when the Queen Mum was 82 years old. Well, Seidler though, I probably won't have to wait too long.
The Queen Mum lived to be 101.
So, he started writing in 2005, when he was 68 years old.
Amazing. The first great part of the story is obviously Seidler's persistence. He didn't let go of his idea, his dream, even though he needed to wait. Lots of things make us wait in life; the divine makes us pause by many different ways. The trick is to keep the faith, to trust yourself, and to hold fast to your passions. Waiting is a part of life. The persistent ones are the ones who get things done.
The other beautiful thing is the respect Seidler had for the wishes of his subjects. In this day and age, artistic endeavors reign supreme. The thought is to say what needs to be said and do what needs to be done, regardless of who gets knocked down on the way. Of course, there are instances when truth needs to be told, regardless of someone's feelings. But those instances are rare, though people often use that as their reasoning for their poison words. Many people are hurt needlessly by media everyday, careless words transmitted on the internet or through television screens. Those words can never be taken back.
So Seidler waited 20 years. 20 years because the Queen Mum asked him to. Of course, she was the queen. She may have had a little more pull because of this fact. But she was the subject, and he respected her. She didn't say no - she just said, please wait because this time in my life was difficult. We all have our own stories in our lives that others may need to hear, but we're just not ready to share them or relive the memories. We need people to wait for us.
My favorite part of this story is the payoff. Can you imagine what kind of movie 1982 would have produced? There would have been no Geoffrey Rush or Colin Firth or Helena Bonham Carter - they would have all been too young. There would have been no Tom Hooper, because his parents wouldn't have been invited to see a staged reading of it and then asked to give their director son a copy of the script...because he was 10. And maybe it would have won awards and gained acclaim, but who knows.
Seidler, at age 73, is now an Oscar winner. He said in his acceptance speech, "My father always told me I'd be a late bloomer." I bet he's glad he bloomed now.
Persistance. And respect. And then, rewards. That's the hidden story of The King's Speech.
(thanks to this article, written by Seidler, for the back story: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1339509/The-Kings-Speech-How-naughty-word-cured-King-George-VIs-stutter.html)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
What I'm Reading: All Things Shining
Well, I read this book called All Things Shining. And I wrote a review about it. And it got posted on RelevantMagazine.com.
No big deal.
Except it's a pretty big deal. I love Relevant Magazine - I love the print copy, I love the web content, I love the podcast. I'm kind of a fangirl, minus any creepiness (I hope). My dream job is working for Relevant Media Group. Of course I'd have to move to Florida, which means I'd probably see my family about 10x more than I do now. "Christmas at Sara's!" But we're getting ahead of ourselves.
I'm proud to add this to my CV.
Commence giggling like a fangirl.
Check it out here ---> http://www.relevantmagazine.com/culture/books/reviews/25013-all-things-shining
No big deal.
Except it's a pretty big deal. I love Relevant Magazine - I love the print copy, I love the web content, I love the podcast. I'm kind of a fangirl, minus any creepiness (I hope). My dream job is working for Relevant Media Group. Of course I'd have to move to Florida, which means I'd probably see my family about 10x more than I do now. "Christmas at Sara's!" But we're getting ahead of ourselves.
I'm proud to add this to my CV.
Commence giggling like a fangirl.
Check it out here ---> http://www.relevantmagazine.com/culture/books/reviews/25013-all-things-shining
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Why I Can't Pray for Japan
I have this pig bobblehead in my car. I got it at a Cracker Barrel restaurant before I could even drive, this little pink plastic guy who waved his head at me. He's transitioned from dresser to Explorer to Escort, but he's not holding up too well anymore. His back is cracked, his brown spots have turned to a dull green, and - well, there's no easy way to say this - his head no longer bobbles. But he's still in place of honor on my dashboard, regardless of his beauty.
This little pig has a bell around his neck. It's a golden bell, and I forget it's there until I hit major potholes in the road. And then it jingles, just slightly. If my music's not on, I hear it - a tiny tinkle.
I've begun to take that as a sign. I don't think I believe that God causes me to hit potholes just so my pig's bell can ring - I'm a poor enough driver to do that on my own. But whenever that pig's bell rings, I stop my thought process for a second and pray for whatever/whoever I was just thinking about. Usually, I'm coming home from work or from seeing a friend, and I can always think of something to shoot up to heaven briefly.
I'm not very good at praying. I just am not good at it. It doesn't help that I'm a pretty terrible conversationalist in real life - it stands to reason that I wouldn't be very good at speaking to the Most High. It's not like I don't want to pray, or I don't like it. Not at all. I'm just better if I have a little feedback, if the conversation is two-sided. Heck, I'll even take it if the conversation is one-sided, and I'm not that side. I've been in plenty of conversations like that.
I have this friend, Lisa, who is a modern prayer warrior. Going to coffee with her is a gift - not only is she completely engaged, completely taking in everything that you are saying and asking all of the right questions, she without fail will ask you what she can pray about for you. She'll even take a notebook out of her purse, open it, and write it down. I know she'll pray about it.
I want to be like Lisa. But so often I get so overwhelmed by the amount of hurt there is in the world. I start to pray and I start to think, and I realize how small I am and how big the pain is all around me. I live in a privileged area, a privileged community, a privileged nation. And still the pain of those around me is unbearable. That's not even considering people around the world who are struggling to survive.
A few days ago, there was an earthquake in Japan. That earthquake caused a tsunami. That tsunami killed over a thousand people, wiped out entire communities, and devastated the nation. Also, it caused massive explosions at nuclear reactors, causing leaks that may be slight or may become bigger. Thousands, if not millions, are impoverished.
I don't know how to pray about that. It's been all over Twitter, Facebook. #prayforjapan "Our prayers are with Japan." Yeah, they are. If I could formulate them, they would be. But I can't even find the worlds to convey the pain. How do I pray? How can I possibly communicate my anguish, or even know the anguish of the Japanese people?
But when I get overwhelmed, I step back. Pare down. Let go of the big picture. I leave the numbers behind, the fears and the continuing disasters. And I remember that there are individuals who need my prayers. When I think of Japan, I can pray for Hiroki Otomo, whose mother and uncle are missing. Or Hiromitsu Shinkawa, whose wife was swept away during the flooding. Beyond just Japan, when I think of the AIDS epidemic and poverty in Africa, I pray for the little girl I sponsor in Ethiopia, Nancy. Somehow it helps me to narrow things down, to pray for the specifics.
The Lord knows. He knows the pain. He knows when I pray for Nancy, I pray for her nation and every other child like her. He knows when I pray for Hiroki or Hiromitsu that I am praying for all of those who are missing loved ones, whether they are wondering if they are alive or mourning their dead. He knows I cannot comprehend the world and the wounds it contains, but that's okay because that is his job. He can handle it. He just wants me to be faithful to remember them. To be grateful for my world and to remember the pain in theirs. The Lord doesn't need me to pray, but I do because I love him and I love the people around me - whether they are next door or halfway around the world.
So I pray for Japan, and I pray for Ethiopia, and I pray for my roommate's midterm on Tuesday. I pray for my dad's bad knee and my brother's college group and my best friend's marriage. I pray for my co-worker's relationship with his dad and my own relationship with my future. And through all of those things I pray for all of the hurts of the world. Whenever my piglet's bell rings.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Some Lenten Thoughts
I'm not all that familiar with Lent or the church calendar. Growing up Baptist, our church didn't follow the traditional calendar in the least - I barely knew a thing about it until I went off to college. It was there that I found a deep respect for the traditions of the church. I love the history and the words and the thought that normal people like me, in their own times, did this very thing, said this very phrase. The communion of saints feels so much more real to me when I engage in the liturgy.
But Lent has always been a puzzlement to me. First of all, I can never place it. It always sneaks up on me, since Easter moves around so often. And then there's the popularity of it. Obviously, the Lenten season is about giving up and denying self. But I feel like most people do it for the challenge to them or as a way to lose weight while looking holy. My anti-establishment streak kicks in. I don't want to do something because everyone else is doing it. I don't want to seem faux-holy. I don't think God smiles upon that. At least I'd keep my integrity while still acting like a fool.
Don't misunderstand me. There are many people who take Lent very seriously. They use the practice of self-denial to connect into the suffering of Christ. And I know folks who have done that by giving up chocolate - their comfort food - or Facebook - the most extreme time-sucker ever invented. Those are good things to give up, and good people do so with good intentions. I respect that. I don't respect those who try it because their friends are or because they want to see if they can do it. And I didn't want to be one of them.
But this year, I'm participating in Lent for the first time. I started hearing from those I really respect and love about what they were abstaining from. They were well-thought-out, beautiful things to leave behind. And I started feeling the tug on my heart that said, What are you giving up for me?
The honest answer was nothing. I'm not really into self-denial. I love comfort and safety and security. I love knowing and planning and having. I don't love risk, discomfort, or wanting. And I know that God requires all three of these things from me.
You see, I've been struggling with wanting something. I want something big that most people in my life already have. And I am jealous of them, and not a very good person when that I am behind the curve and I can't catch up. You see, God doesn't promise me that he'll give me what I want, but only what I need. I have to believe that God has my best interests at heart while he tells me to wait.
So I will give something up for the next 40 days. Which is a really long time, I realized today. That's a long time. I will feel the tug on my heart to have, and knowingly put it aside and let God fill the hole. Because I have to believe that's what he's doing with me. He wants me to be happy, I believe he wants to make me smile and give me what I want, but he isn't - because he knows better. He knows all. And he knows that waiting will make me stronger, will help me to find out what I really need and who I really am.
And I will suffer along with Christ. Sure, my agony will be nothing like his, as he took the weight of the world' failings on his chest, but I tell you, I'll feel some pain. I'm not telling you what I'm giving up because I don't want to do this for you. I don't want to see if I can do it. I want to do this because I will learn about the character of Christ, that he would give up so much for me.
Now, hand me some chocolate.
But Lent has always been a puzzlement to me. First of all, I can never place it. It always sneaks up on me, since Easter moves around so often. And then there's the popularity of it. Obviously, the Lenten season is about giving up and denying self. But I feel like most people do it for the challenge to them or as a way to lose weight while looking holy. My anti-establishment streak kicks in. I don't want to do something because everyone else is doing it. I don't want to seem faux-holy. I don't think God smiles upon that. At least I'd keep my integrity while still acting like a fool.
Don't misunderstand me. There are many people who take Lent very seriously. They use the practice of self-denial to connect into the suffering of Christ. And I know folks who have done that by giving up chocolate - their comfort food - or Facebook - the most extreme time-sucker ever invented. Those are good things to give up, and good people do so with good intentions. I respect that. I don't respect those who try it because their friends are or because they want to see if they can do it. And I didn't want to be one of them.
But this year, I'm participating in Lent for the first time. I started hearing from those I really respect and love about what they were abstaining from. They were well-thought-out, beautiful things to leave behind. And I started feeling the tug on my heart that said, What are you giving up for me?
The honest answer was nothing. I'm not really into self-denial. I love comfort and safety and security. I love knowing and planning and having. I don't love risk, discomfort, or wanting. And I know that God requires all three of these things from me.
You see, I've been struggling with wanting something. I want something big that most people in my life already have. And I am jealous of them, and not a very good person when that I am behind the curve and I can't catch up. You see, God doesn't promise me that he'll give me what I want, but only what I need. I have to believe that God has my best interests at heart while he tells me to wait.
So I will give something up for the next 40 days. Which is a really long time, I realized today. That's a long time. I will feel the tug on my heart to have, and knowingly put it aside and let God fill the hole. Because I have to believe that's what he's doing with me. He wants me to be happy, I believe he wants to make me smile and give me what I want, but he isn't - because he knows better. He knows all. And he knows that waiting will make me stronger, will help me to find out what I really need and who I really am.
And I will suffer along with Christ. Sure, my agony will be nothing like his, as he took the weight of the world' failings on his chest, but I tell you, I'll feel some pain. I'm not telling you what I'm giving up because I don't want to do this for you. I don't want to see if I can do it. I want to do this because I will learn about the character of Christ, that he would give up so much for me.
Now, hand me some chocolate.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
New Page - "Diary"
Well, I'm just changing things up, aren't I? It's getting all crazy up in here! Whoo-hoo!
Okay, enough of that nonsense. I'm trying out a new page. It's called "Diary," and the hope is to write a hundred and fifty words each day about one thing that happened during that 24 hour period. In one way, it's proof that I write every day, even if I don't post something major. In another, it forces me to find significance in each day, no matter how mundane it feels. Each "post" will be little snippets, nothing very good or profound. Some of those snippets may find their way into longer pieces -- who knows?
I'm a little annoyed with the formatting, that I can't separate the posts out like I can on the main page, but since I don't want these little snippets mixing in with the real posts - look how elitist I am - they'll have to just add on top of each other. I'll see if I get too annoyed by the whole deal. My blog, my rules.
Anyway, still reeling from an amazing Les Miserables concert I watched on PBS. The voices, the voices were phenomenal. Out of this world. Someday, in heaven, we will all sing like opera stars, and the music will never end. My God, soon - soon.
Okay, enough of that nonsense. I'm trying out a new page. It's called "Diary," and the hope is to write a hundred and fifty words each day about one thing that happened during that 24 hour period. In one way, it's proof that I write every day, even if I don't post something major. In another, it forces me to find significance in each day, no matter how mundane it feels. Each "post" will be little snippets, nothing very good or profound. Some of those snippets may find their way into longer pieces -- who knows?
I'm a little annoyed with the formatting, that I can't separate the posts out like I can on the main page, but since I don't want these little snippets mixing in with the real posts - look how elitist I am - they'll have to just add on top of each other. I'll see if I get too annoyed by the whole deal. My blog, my rules.
Anyway, still reeling from an amazing Les Miserables concert I watched on PBS. The voices, the voices were phenomenal. Out of this world. Someday, in heaven, we will all sing like opera stars, and the music will never end. My God, soon - soon.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Mumford & Sons and Joyful Passion
College students are always being asked about their passions. It’s rather annoying, especially for those of us who aren’t music majors. Some of us just aren’t passionate folks, and that question – along with “What has God been teaching you lately” – strikes fear and trembling into me.
It wasn’t until my senior year of college that I thought of an answer. Sure, it’s kind of a cop-out, but I started saying that I was passionate about others fulfilling their passions. It’s why I get starstruck, why I admire people, why I love going to concerts, book readings, and plays. Because they are full of people who are living their dreams. I’ve always struggled with being optimistic and idealistic about my own, but when I see that light in someone else’s eyes, that joy and love, I am inspired.
My favorite band of the moment is Mumford and Sons. I’m not really sure where they came from, but all of a sudden they were there and my life got a tiny bit better. I discovered them last summer with their blend of British folk rock, lyrics that strike straight to the soul, and tight four-part harmonies (complete with cello). Right now, they’re the soundtrack to my day, played on repeat in my office, in my car, on the ride home from the gym.
I was struck while watching their performance on the Grammys of “The Cave,” a track from their debut album (which you should own). They were different from the other acts. Those rappers and pop stars were polished and smooth, doing what they do with swagger and cool. Not Mumford and Sons. Besides sounding stellar live, which is not something to take for granted, all four members poured their hearts into it, and – get this – they smiled. They grinned at each other with boyish excitement. Their glee was refreshing.
The same joy was evident in a tour documentary about the Mumford boys, posted on their Youtube channel. All they do is tour and play and tour and play, and they love every second of it. They just really really like performing. They feel the most themselves while they play together. One of the members said this: “When we’re not touring, we’re individuals and no one likes being individuals when you’re in a band.”
No one likes being individuals when you’re in a band. It struck me as incredibly profound and honest. We all like to pretend we’re self-sufficient and independent. Yes to some degree, the whole-hearted pursuit of something takes you away from others. But true passion brings the right, like-minded people together. When you find your place, find where you fit and how you fit, find a purpose and a goal, that is when your passions are realized. Maybe it is within a band. Or an orchestra. A theatre company or a writing group. Or maybe it’s or a basketball team, or just a group of people who like to cook or bake or knit.
Passion is not solely singular, something that you yourself pursue. It is more global than that. It’s taking the experience of the self and creating or doing something that makes a difference. It incorporates other people. It shows you things larger than yourself. That’s what passion does.
My answer to that primary question is different now. My passion is stories. It’s writing my own story, and reading good books, and hearing people’s lives. It brings me into the lives of others, forcing me to engage with them and join with them in their own passionate stories. It’s feeling so thankful that those people - like Mumford and Sons - are doing what they love because it inspires others to pursue the same. Learning from their passion, their joy and bright ecstatic faces, urges me forward in my own art.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Answer: Self-Discipline
Question: What doesn't Sara have?
There are those people - those annoying, annoying people - who are single-minded, focused, determined. They do anything they decide to do. They change their lives on a daily basis because they believe it can be done. They are the movers and shakers, the world-changers, the optimism and the realism, the hand-shakers and networkers, the few, the strong, the brave. They are the disciplined.
I am not one of them.
I firmly believe that some folks are wired to be marathon runners and best-selling authors, so solely focused that they have no other version of life. And I believe that a lesser type of their discipline can be grown in those who are not. And I know that discipline is good. It's a virtue. It's a way of displaying that you have things under control.
Here's the problem I'm running into: I don't have things under control. I can't keep all plates in the air. If I'm actually spinning the "going to the gym" plate, the "seeing friends" plate falls to the floor. Or the "eating healthily" plate. Or if the "reading books" plate is up, the "writing" plate is down, as well as the "spending time with God" plate. I can't spin them all, and I can't possibly choose, so I take turns.
Right now, I've got the plates of "gym," "reading," and "clean house/errands" up in the air. The rest are somewhere between the air and the ground. I'm trying to figure out how to do all of these really good things. And my life is so simple - I don't see how people who have to care for people other than themselves can keep all of those plates up. I really don't.
All this to say, the "writing" plate is going to go back up. We'll give it another shot. Discipline needs to be developed in me, because I'm not a focused one.
In other news, I hate the gym.
There are those people - those annoying, annoying people - who are single-minded, focused, determined. They do anything they decide to do. They change their lives on a daily basis because they believe it can be done. They are the movers and shakers, the world-changers, the optimism and the realism, the hand-shakers and networkers, the few, the strong, the brave. They are the disciplined.
I am not one of them.
I firmly believe that some folks are wired to be marathon runners and best-selling authors, so solely focused that they have no other version of life. And I believe that a lesser type of their discipline can be grown in those who are not. And I know that discipline is good. It's a virtue. It's a way of displaying that you have things under control.
Here's the problem I'm running into: I don't have things under control. I can't keep all plates in the air. If I'm actually spinning the "going to the gym" plate, the "seeing friends" plate falls to the floor. Or the "eating healthily" plate. Or if the "reading books" plate is up, the "writing" plate is down, as well as the "spending time with God" plate. I can't spin them all, and I can't possibly choose, so I take turns.
Right now, I've got the plates of "gym," "reading," and "clean house/errands" up in the air. The rest are somewhere between the air and the ground. I'm trying to figure out how to do all of these really good things. And my life is so simple - I don't see how people who have to care for people other than themselves can keep all of those plates up. I really don't.
All this to say, the "writing" plate is going to go back up. We'll give it another shot. Discipline needs to be developed in me, because I'm not a focused one.
In other news, I hate the gym.
New Page - "What I'm Reading"
If you look up at the top of this page, there's a tab that says "What I'm Reading." I made a resolution/commitment/tentative choice to read four books a month this year. That's approximately one book a week, but we all know that I'll read the majority of pages in the last week of the month. Procrastination, old friend, I salute you.
Anyway, this is a way to keep me accountable. These books will find their way into my writing (actually, I've been meaning to write about ALL of them - hello again, Procrastination), but I wanted to make a list. I'm starring the one per month that I liked the best, and I'm also writing a one sentence summary. All of the books I list are not necessarily recommendations, but feel free to check them out from your local library or buy them from an independent bookstore. We've got to keep both of those places in business, people!
Now, A Traveller's History of England is calling my name. Seriously, craziest history ever: Celts, Romans, Saxons, Angles, Jutes, Vikings, and we're not even past 1000 AD. Crazy.
Anyway, this is a way to keep me accountable. These books will find their way into my writing (actually, I've been meaning to write about ALL of them - hello again, Procrastination), but I wanted to make a list. I'm starring the one per month that I liked the best, and I'm also writing a one sentence summary. All of the books I list are not necessarily recommendations, but feel free to check them out from your local library or buy them from an independent bookstore. We've got to keep both of those places in business, people!
Now, A Traveller's History of England is calling my name. Seriously, craziest history ever: Celts, Romans, Saxons, Angles, Jutes, Vikings, and we're not even past 1000 AD. Crazy.
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