The Lump

I'm sitting in the waiting room looking through magazines, pictures of houses with gardens and wide plank floors, trying to forget why I'm here. I can't though. Stella is toddling around and everyone she meets lights up at her antics. Horrible, horrible thoughts cross my mind. I picture her in a wedding dress, someone putting lipstick on her, and I wonder, do I write her a special letter for that day? Is it fair, to make her sad when she should be so happy? Is it selfish? Would she even be sad, or just feel obligated to read it? It is fairly certain she won't remember me by then.

By then she'll have moved on, been loved, not quite so well as I would have loved her, but loved by someone. I think of this hypothetical someone and I'm at once grateful, jealous, filled with a sadness that pulls me apart. Of course I'd want him to move on. I never want him to move on! How could he? How could they all? All the earth, turning, people moving on and on without me as though I was a fly someone swatted away.

Calm down, calm down, I think. You don't want to cry here. Shouldn't my faith make me strong now? Shouldn't the way I handle myself show the world how Great a God I trust? But, my kids. It's not just me. If it were I could face it all, but my babies, without the insane love that a mother feels, who will help them, who will never give up on them, who will spend every last breath, dollar, minute on keeping them safe? And it dawns on me finally as I'm lying on the table, the gel spread over my breast and the tech asking me questions, that I know He will. He will protect them, guide them, love them and comfort them. He will never leave them or forsake them. And He'll do it all better than I ever thought I could. I don't feel insignificant now, only relieved.

The specialist comes in and smiles and I know it will be ok. Just some bruised tissue he says, from when you offered your breasts to feed them. It happens, a little damage, a scar, a harmless mark of motherhood. No chemo, no cancer, no writing letters for the days I'll miss. And I say thank you, but I'm not so relieved as I was a moment before, because the burden is still lifted. I don't have to be everything anymore. He takes away and gives back so much more. So I thank God then, for the lump.

Just Some Old Poetry

Here's a couple of old poems I found while looking for lost chapters of my novel. This is from at least 8 years ago, so pardon the angst.

Forgive this
insistence
on unveiling.
When hailing truth
the failing youth
doesn't seem to bring
the wisdom I thought it would.
My friend said,
and in the end bled,
"Love stands a test,
and time is but one."
What fun! This steadfast
head cast nobly
shoulders squared
and heart bared
a valiant soldier marching
his overarching ideals.
This feels too strong for me
Not wrong you see,
but I'm too tired for action
and words are all that's left
to give me satisfaction.

And another one:

You were mine, to have, to hold
You were warmth when my hands were cold.
And I loved you young, and
I loved you old
and I loved you even though.

Ephesians 5 Poem

-->

I was proud and alone
Split the marrow, shatter the bone
His hands gathered splinters,
Pressing gently from the ash.
Trash into treasured child,
Our treasures now are trash.

And when we laid it out
On the altar where it burned,
The scent of the sacrifice.
The lessons that we learned
Rose with wafting pleasure
To heaven, and to God
It was absolutely nothing
It was everything we had.

Burnt the untrue word
Burnt the ragged shirt.
Burnt the clench of anger
Burnt the mocking smirk
Burnt the flippant turning
From the suffering of others.
Burnt the blindness that kept us
From seeing our own brothers
Burnt the comfortable chair.
The last, as it burned, sending sparks into the air.

And leaving all we were

Upon the soot-stained floor.
We arise, not less, but more.
A shining, glittering thing.
Duty, yes, to every cell, a promise.
Beauty, too, and know this
That God has formed us together
No longer two alone
A humble reproduction of the
Love that was his own.

So when the ghosts come whispering
Of two long gone lonely souls,
Banish with this thought
Those cold and doubting spectres:

There is no room for ghosts
In the space where our hands meet.
The bire, our bed
The fire, our sheets.
Recall then, the conflagration of the self
And the holiness of a creation
That began as destruction.

Filled so full of sacrificial love
That every step echoes with
It's gracious song.
A gift for a gift,
Not a wrong for a wrong.

From His face we learn the truth:
That truth from His eyes shone,
Whatever the circumstance
We will never be alone.

Out of the Rut and Onto the Road

I have bent over backwards to play this role. The perfect mom, the perfect wife. I have swept, mopped, dusted, organized, laundered, straightened, ironed, fixed, shopped, cooked my way through the dreariest parts of winter. I have researched, read, taught. I have nursed, changed, bathed, snuggled, kissed, and rocked to sleep. I am tired, and I am ready for a change.

It is time, I think, to say no to a few more invitations and requests, to let the dishes and the laundry sit until I'm ready, to let the kids stay in their pajamas. It is time to stay inside even when I just feel like getting out. It is time to let someone else have the babies for an hour while I sit and write. It is time to let Stella have a bottle, and let someone else give it to her.

It is time to take a week off from elaborate school plans, and just snuggle up on the couch and read books to my babies. It is time to say no to more work, even though I want to be making money so badly.

It is time to shut everyone and everything else out, and write the story I've been thinking about for so many months. It is time to treat my characters like the friends they are, instead of shooing them away so that I can check everything else off my list. It is time to be alone. It is time to enter a new world. It is time to write.

Novel Update

Almost done with the first two chapters. It's difficult because I keep wanting to go back and just fix them instead of moving on. I also have a pretty solid outline of the rest of the book.

Writing has been slow because Henry has been sick - in other words, up crying when he should be sleeping and when I should be writing. Luckily Greg has Columbus day off so I've had a chance to write for a while today. I'm confident that I can do this. I just have to psych myself up for it.

My goal is to have a first draft by the end of February. According to my outline, that's about 4-5 chapters a month, or one a week. Pretty stiff pace! But since I know what I want to write I think it's a reasonable goal.

Old Friends

I went to a bridal shower today and ran into some old friends I hadn't spoken to since middle school. It was interesting, once I got past the initial small talk, to look at them and try to answer the questions.

The questions, however they were actually phrased, were these: "Who are you? What have you done with what you had all those years ago? How did you grow up? What did you care about enough to work for?"

In some ways the answer was easy. I wasn't embarrassed to say I was happily married, with a beautiful baby boy. That I had just finished law school and was studying for the bar. But part of me was disappointed. I thought back to how I was back then, so hopeful, so sure that everything I wanted would work out. I talked to a friend who had always shared my love of literature and dream of one day becoming a writer. (I say "becoming" a writer to mean writing full time. I still maintain that you are a writer if you write, published or not).

For a number of reasons, this dream has always been put on the back-burner for me. I didn't have time, I didn't have experience, I couldn't afford it. And now, with school over and the end in sight (the end of constant studying, that is), many of those excuses will be stripped away, and the deeper reasons will be all that is left. These are that I am insecure, that I am afraid of being judged, that I am afraid that I will never be able to express what I have to say.

One of the hardest parts about writing is that the more you do it the more you find to criticize about yourself. This can be good, but it can also be so hard. The tough part is not the ideas; the inspiration. I can honestly say I've never had writer's block. The tricky part is the labor. The organization, the editing, the nitty gritty toothbrush-scrubbing work of fixing individual sentences. Basically, it's hard work.

But it's also familiar and comforting. It's one of the only things that I feel like I was born to do. And when I do get an hour to write, it's like coming home, or like catching up with an old friend.