Perfect Practice Makes Perfect

My voice teacher in college used to say “Perfect practice makes perfect”. She didn’t mean that you have to be perfect in every rehearsal. What she meant was that I should give my whole effort to each rehearsal. I have a writer friend who says something like, “It’s okay to write crap, as long as you keep writing.” What she means by that is that your first efforts may not be a work of art, but if you keep working, it might just become that. What I get out those two sayings is that I must keep working on my writing a little every day. We each need to keep getting up from failure, take the lessons, and try again. When we do that we improve our skills.

I’ve been writing for five years now. One thing I’ve learned is that to improve, I must write often. I can’t say I write everyday. But, I’m thinking about my current project everyday. Today I think it’s time I include a section of my novel. It’s pretty much as I first wrote it, so it won’t be perfect, but I’m excited to share it with you. For some reason, I had trouble with the formatting when I transferred the segment. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Let me set up the story so you understand what’s going on in this particular scene. There is a storyline and a main character in the present. Her name is Jenna and her life has been shattered in one terrible day. She goes home to her mother’s funeral and decides to stay to rebuild her life. While there she stumbles onto journals that connect her to the main character in the past, Morgan, living part of her life with her. This helps them both in the end. The excerpt I’m posting here takes place in the spring of 1859 on the Oregon Trail.

Overwhelmed, Jenna decided to go back to Morgan’s life. Maybe living with her for a while would give her some room to think. Settling herself on her bed, she picked up the journal she’d been reading. The words blurred and the now familiar feeling of her mind shifting and fitting into Morgan’s consciousness, overtook her. When she opened her eyes, she and Morgan were walking next to a wagon. The sun was high in the sky. Dust devils swirled engulfing the travelers as they walked beside their respective wagons. Mirages of promised, but imaginary water shimmered on the horizon. Morgan was drowsing as she walked, sweat dripping from every part of her body. Jenna winced. She’d never felt so grimy. How could Morgan stand it? The hair was matted to Morgan’s head under her bonnet, and her feet were swollen in her boots. Dust filled her nostrils and clogged every pore. Out of sheer survival, Morgan refused to think of the stench of her unwashed body, or that of the others on the trail. It was a struggle enough to put one foot in front of the other. Looking up the line, she saw that the other women and and older children were shuffling too. Time was reduced to this one unending march. She’d been walking like this forever and it was never going to stop. In her head day dreams of cool water dripping soothingly down her throat and engulfing her naked body kept her going. No birds were singing. The only sound was of the wagon wheels turning endlessly and grasshoppers escaping being trampled. Usually she was careful to watch where she stepped looking for snakes, holes or roots that could trip her. Today, her brain was boiling in her head and she couldn’t think at all.
Up ahead there was a scream and then a commotion of raised voices and calls for help. William, driving the wagon beside Morgan, reigned in the team. Sarah was running forward to the source of the disturbance. A sharp pain struck Morgan in the heart rousing her. Something was terribly wrong. She too, rushed forward. The screaming was coming from the Rosenberg wagon. A crowd of people were gathered near the left wheel. Morgan was near the back of the group, and too short to see what was happening. “My baby, get it off her, “ Mrs. Rosenberg was screaming in German. Chills ran through Morgan’s body. She didn’t need to see the reality of what had happened. Her imagination twisted her stomach in a tight knot. Many of those who had been in the front of the cluster of onlookers were pushing their way through the crowd holding their hands to their mouths, their faces ashen. Mrs. Acres threw up on a man who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. Many members of the train, even some men were crying. Morgan was shivering with shock.
“Get back,” The Wagon Master shouted. “We’ve got to move the wagon.”
Morgan had already backed away far from the wagon, tears silently running down her face. As the crowd cleared she saw the littlest Rosenberg girl, Elena, standing next to the wagon looking at the front wheel. She was shocked that the adults weren’t pushing her away. She should not be a witness to the horror of one of her siblings crushed under the wagon wheel. The girl turned and looked at Morgan, who gestured for the girl to come to her. Her face was radiant. She was surrounded in a most unusual glow as she walked toward Morgan. She took the little girls hand. “You shouldn’t see such horrible things.”
“It’s not horrible,” the girl said in perfect English with no hint of her German accent.
“It’s one of your siblings. Aren’t you sad?”
“No, it’s not, My brother and sisters are fine. I tried to talk to my mother and father, but they can’t hear me.” Then she looked up at Morgan, her eyes alight with love. “Will you tell them I love them. Thank them for my life and that I’m happy.” Morgan gasped. She opened her mouth to speak, but her mind was a jumble.
“Are you…?”
“Yes, but don’t be sad.”
“Why come to me?”
“Because you can see me. You have the gift. I must go now,” Elena said smiling.

“Do you want me to say hello to your father and mother?” The girl smiled radiantly. “They love you very much.”
Elena’s hand was warm in Morgan’s. Looking down at her she nodded as the girl began to fade. “Yes, tell them I love them.”
“I will, goodbye, Morgan. Thanks for reading such wonderful stories, and for being so kind to me.” Then she laughed, turned and skipped out into the prairie and vanished.
The air shimmered and Morgan felt as if she were caught in a whirlpool. She closed her eyes to stop the spinning in her head. Presently she turned back to the grieving members of the train. Sarah was comforting Mrs. Rosenberg. Mr. Rosenberg, William and the Wagon Master, were wrapping Elena’s body, while other men passed by with shovels. Morgan took in a quick breath and stifled a sob. The three remaining Rosenberg children were standing alone weeping. Daniel, the oldest was holding his two younger sisters. She walked unsteadily to them, putting her arms around them, saying nothing. What could she say. The four of them clung to each other weeping.
Mr. Rosenberg stood, cradling the body of his youngest daughter. He turned into the direction Morgan had seen her spirit disappear. There was a lovely oak tree not far from the trail. It stood alone on the vast prairie, as if it had been waiting to be the marker for such a precious gift. Men from the train, shovels in hand followed Mr. Rosenberg and began digging a grave under the lone tree. Wild flowers spread in a carpet of yellow, blue and lavender from the tree’s base out into the prairie. The entire train moved silently toward the new grave in a long procession. They gathered silently around. Mr. Rosenberg laid the small body in the grave. As he did so, Mrs. Rosenberg’s crying turned into a terrible keening wail. The children sobbed in Morgan’s embrace. There was no Preacher, or Rabbi on the train to say words over Elena’s grave. The men solemnly covered her body with dirt. Some of the women had collected wild flowers and put them on the grave. A man put a hastily carved marker on the mound at Elena’s head. Then Mr. Rosenberg sang a prayer in a language that no one on the train understood. It was a haunting tune in a minor key. As the song began, the breeze stopped as if the earth was paying tribute to this bright, lovely little girl. The only sound was the strangely beautiful song. Everyone bowed their heads. Many wept for the terrible loss of a child, for their own stupidity in shunning the Rosenbergs, because they were different, or for the loss of their own loved ones long gone. The strains of the song sank deep into their souls. They stayed huddled together for quite some time. Then Mr. Rosenberg and each of his children placed a stone on Elena’s grave.
The Wagon Master, usually a hard task master, said nothing of leaving. He’d witnessed this kind of tragedy before and knew that he couldn’t rush the members of the train back to the trail. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t want to go back either. It never got easier, these tragedies. That’s why this was the last train he’d lead. It was time for him to bask in the joys of nature and live out the rest of his life quietly on his little strip of wilderness. He hoped this was the last time he’d have to bury a child.
In time, William asked Mr. Rosenberg if he could say a prayer as well. Mr. Rosenberg agreed and took Sarah’s place holding his wife. The children joined him and the remaining Rosenberg family clung to each other.
William prayed, “God, we don’t understand your ways as well as we could. There must be a reason for this tragedy. We know that you’ve taken Elena to be with you. She was such a delightful, happy child. But, God, we’re left with a big hole in our hearts because she’s gone. Help us see the purpose of the death of one so young. And help us be there for each other in the hard times ahead. Show us our path. Show us our purpose in your plan. Help us never forget Elena Rosenberg and her joy in life. Amen.” The breeze came up again, relieving the heat of the day. The wild flowers ruffled and gave off a lovely scent. In the long moment of silence that stretched out encircling all gathered near the grave, Jenna marveled at William’s prayer. She’d never thought much about God. He was mysterious and hard to understand. To her he was a capricious character like Zeus. It was obvious that William saw him differently. Maybe there was a place where humans and God met. Her scalp tingled. There it was again, that feeling that everything she’d ever known was an illusion.
The members of the train dispersing quietly back to their wagons, broke Jenna out of her reverie. Only Sarah, William, Morgan and the Rosenbergs remained by the grave. Mrs. Rosenberg had stopped her shrill wail. Her face was closed, the light in her eyes completely gone. She was inside herself someplace and didn’t respond to anything outside. The group moved as one back to the wagons. The Wagon Master was on his horse near the Rosenberg wagon.
“Can you drive your wagon, Mr. Rosenberg?”
“Yes.”

“Put Mrs. Rosenberg inside. Mrs. Comstock will you stay with her?”

“Of course.”
“The children can ride with you for the rest of today, Mr. Rosenberg.”
“Thank you.”
William and Mr. Rosenberg helped put Mrs. Rosenberg into the back of the wagon. Sarah climbed up beside her. Morgan and William helped the children climb up to be near their father.
The Wagon Master waited until everyone was back in their place, then called “Wagons Ho”. They began their forward motion again, very slowly at first and with heavy hearts. There were still miles to cover before they would reach their camp for the night.
Morgan walked beside their wagon in silence weeping. Her stomach was clenched in a terrible knot. Why had she taken up this journey? She could be home talking with Emma or helping Mrs. Waller with the baking or the children, instead of facing these hardships every day. For her part, Jenna was just as grief stricken as Morgan. Why had she picked up those journals. Was life nothing but a series of losses? Jenna recognized the rage building in Morgan before she herself was aware of it. She tried to help, but Morgan’s control snapped. Jenna was swept up in Morgan’s fury. They screamed at God. Why did you let Elena die? Why did you let my parents die? Why has my life been shattered? I don’t understand you. You’re supposed to be a loving God. Taking our loved ones, and our dreams away from us isn’t loving, it’s cruel! I’m alone because of you! Everything they looked at had a red glow. Rage filled every cell of their being. At first Morgan wasn’t sure what this new sensation was, she’d never felt so angry before. Strange this should be happening to Morgan, right after Jenna herself had had her own meltdown. Even though she tried to communicate with Morgan’s mind, she couldn’t make herself heard. Just as Morgan’s rage hit it’s height, a cool breeze touched her face. Her rage eased slightly and her vision cleared. The knot in her stomach relaxed and she heard a voice in her head. I accept your anger.
“What,” Morgan asked stunned? So was Jenna. Was she crazy to continue this life hopping bullshit. Who’s talking to us? Morgan felt Jenna’s presence for the first time and answered, “God.”
I accept your anger, the voice repeated. You’ve got to feel your life. Keep feeling, and asking questions. Insights come a little at a time. I’m here with you.

Bewildered, Morgan looked up at the sky. An eagle was gliding on air currents far above her. The breeze rustled through the prairie grasses and wild flowers. She could smell moisture from the river flowing near the string of wagons. she saw them with dual vision, hers and Jenna’s. Life is worth living no matter how long or short, so savor every moment. You’re not alone. All who’ve gone before you are with you. Morgan replied, That’s what father used to say. 

I wish my mother had, Jenna said to Morgan.

All is well, is that what you’re tying to tell us? They asked in unison.

What do you think?

Mrs. McCallister’s baby cried. A few minutes later the crying stopped, he was getting his dinner. The eagle dove and snatched a prairie dog from its hole. The sun, low on the horizon, sent shadows reaching out from everything it touched. They didn’t need to answer. Life was happiness, sorrow, hard work, uncertainty, frustration, joy, learning, love and so many other shades of emotion. They’d have to accept every one. Right now I’m angry, hurt, confused and alone, and that’s okay. We’ll know the reason one day. Morgan said for them both.
It might be okay for Morgan, Jenna wasn’t so sure. She didn’t like uncertainty. Most modern people, didn’t. Her mother had indoctrinated her with the idea that if she worked hard enough she’d be successful one day. Sharing Morgan’s life was making her face, the fact that that idea was a complete fallacy. Now she realized she’d drifted along never defining what success was for her. She’d taken it for granted that the shiny, comfortable, American dream was her dream life. That was washed away in one horrible day. I don’t want these horrible feelings. I want to know where all this is leading. Morgan believed that her life had a purpose and that Elena, and upon occasion, her father were trying to assure her she was headed in the right direction even though she wasn’t quite sure of the outcome. Jenna wanted to know the end of the story first before she took another step.
Thinking back on the events of her day, she realized, it didn’t work that way. The whole surreal thing of sharing Morgan’s life, and… Seeing the spirits of her parents was one thing, but an unknown little girl in the past. That was too weird. Yet, there must be a reason for it all, as Morgan had said. It occurred to her that she could go back to her own time, get rid of the journals, and chuck the whole thing. That thought made her stomach sink. If she did that, she’d always regret it. Her only true choice was to continue learning from Morgan.
After a couple of hours walk, the train reached the planned camping site. It was just before sunset. The chores were done quietly by fire or torch light. Most people were still affected by the tragedy.
The Wagon Master came to their fire. He was an outwardly gruff man with long brown hair streaked with gray. Above his upper lip was a handlebar mustache and on his chin was a long beard, both also streaked with gray. It was obvious he’d been living outdoors for many years. There were deep lines in his face, which was tanned dark brown. He could have passed for an Indian. The clothes he wore were buckskin. There were dark stains on the top of his thighs and sweat stains under his armpits and down his back. Every part of his body was lean, evidence of the hard work he’d done most of his life. Yet, his eyes were bright with deep smile lines at their corners, which told a story of a man who’d squinted into bright sunlight, leading people to a new life. Morgan saw that he’d found peace there.
“Mr. Comstock, I’m hopin’ you’ll do me a favor. The Rosenbergs seem to like you and your wife. You too, Miss Carlyle Would you mind movin’ your place in the train up behind their wagon and keepin’ an eye on ’em. I don’t like the look of Mrs. Rosenberg. I’ve seen this kinda thing before. She might do herself an injury. Miss, if you’d also keep a close eye on the children, that’d ease my mind no end.”
“We’ll be happy to do anything we can, Mr. Fisk,” William replied for them all.
“I knew I could count on you seein’ how you’ve been so kind to ’em. Thanks. We’ll move the wagons in the mornin’. I’ll go tell Mr. Rosenberg to ease his mind. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” William turned to Sarah and hugged her close.

Morgan finished putting the dishes in the box so they’d stay clean for breakfast, while William and Sarah held each other and grieved the loss of their own children, Morgan went for her bedroll and laid it out under the wagon. Presently William and Sarah were laying out their bedding in the lean to. There was no music that night, everyone was alone with their thoughts. The crickets and coyote songs were the melancholy music fitting for this night. Morgan wondered if she should tell the Rosenbergs about her encounter with Elena’s spirit. Not yet, came the answer. She turned over thinking that she would not be able to sleep after such tragedy, and her episode of rage. Traces of her anger lingered. It was going to take a long while to understand the meaning of everything that had happened to her recently, if she could ever understand it. As she lay pondering, and drifted off to sleep.

Jenna opened her eyes back in her own room with so much to think over.

I hope you enjoyed this little segment of my novel. I’ll keep writing and as my book goes though many revisions, this scene will undoubtedly change. It’s nice to take a snapshot of where I am now, so I have something to compare with future work.

At the bottom of this post are links to a children’s book I wrote and my husband illustrated many years ago as a present for our oldest nephew Scott. You can also find it at Amazon.com. I wrote it at a time in my life when I felt lost. The story of Scottosaurus The Little Dinosaur, reflects my inner search for home.

Scottosaurus e-book: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/296509

Scottosaurus paperback book: https://www.createspace.com/3410265

 

Trust Yourself and Open Up

“One of the things that I’ve worked my way out of doing, and I knew I needed to, was comparing myself to other people. That just poisons everything…Your real job in the world is to be you.” India.Arie on Super Soul Sunday with Oprah Winfrey

I was watching Super Soul Sunday last Sunday and I caught the last half of Oprah’s interview with India.Arie. I’d never heard of her before that interview, but as she talked about her creative life and her spiritual awakening, she might have been talking about aspects of my life. I’ve struggled to be creative on my own terms. I didn’t think I was worthy enough to share my deepest, truest feelings, and gifts with anyone except for a select few. I was a people pleaser.

I was insecure about my writing in the beginning, so, I decided to take a writing class at the local community center. I worked hard on the pieces I presented to the class. When I read over my selections, I thought they were pretty good. However, I was devastated when the teacher told me she thought my work was guarded. I could be sharing so much more of myself and capturing the emotions of the readers. I felt like I’d shared some very emotional experiences in my work, but she didn’t see it that way.

Her good opinion meant so much to me. At the time I was writing a memoir. I took what she said to heart and worked for two years to peel away the protective layers to reveal my true self. My memoir went through lots of revisions. When I thought it was finished, I gave it to a couple of people to read for a critique. They liked it. So, I thought it was ready for a real critique. I contacted my former writing teacher and sent her my memoir.

In my mind, it was ready for publication. But, again, she told me that my work was too guarded. In her opinion, I was detached from the events I was relating. I needed to take more chances to reveal myself, the good and the bad. There was one ray of hope, though. She said that I should keep writing. That I had talent and that from the little she knew of me, she felt like I was a warm caring person. I just needed to let that person show through my writing.

She did me a big favor. Though I was deeply disappointed, I knew I was being presented with a fantastic opportunity. I’d been a guarded introvert for most of my life. Maybe it was time to let the real me out of her box. On the other hand I wasn’t sure I was ready to be that vulnerable. The next week, I told my writer’s group I thought I’d eventually turn my memoir into a novel, because it’s easier to hide my true self behind a fictionalized story.

My feelings about the failure of my memoir were too raw to pick it up again. I set it aside. The beginnings of a novel I’d started years before sat in a file on one of our old computers. I decided to make a fresh start and work on the novel thinking I could maintain my anonymity in a work of fiction. How naive I was.

During that time, I stepped up my spiritual practice and as always happens, little by little I realized that I couldn’t hide who I was any longer. If I was going to be an effective writer, I had to slice through the armor I’d been wearing and let people see the real me. The best stories touch us because the teller has revealed a part of herself.

It’s a scary prospect to reveal the real me to the world, but I’ve decided to risk it. That’s one of the reasons I started this blog.

Not long ago I saw the movie, Snow White and the Huntsman. One of my favorite things to do is to use the Internet Movie Database app on my phone and find out as much as I can about the movie I’m watching. It’s all part of my process of analyzing the plot, characters and themes of the story. I don’t often read the user reviews. When I was reading information about Snow White and the Huntsman, I noticed the titles of some of the user reviews and was appalled at the negativity. I liked the movie and decided I had an opportunity to share my true thoughts and feelings by writing a positive review of the movie. It’s a good place to start, because a review is supposed to be written in a little bit of a detached style, but the writer’s opinion still comes through. I have to say, it felt good to share my opinion and let it go out into the world. I plan to keep writing book and movie reviews when I feel the urge. It’s good writing practice.

If you want to see what I wrote about Snow White and the Huntsman, here’s the link. http://imdb.com/title/tt1735898/reviews-673

I’m still working on my novel. I’ll let you read portions of it from time to time. You can tell me what you think about it. Please feel free to comment on my blog posts too. If you think I’m hiding my true thoughts and feelings. I want you to tell me. Thanks for reading.

Joy of Life

“The most absurd and reckless aspirations have sometimes led to extraordinary success.” 

- Vauvenargues, was a French writer.

I just finished reading Brené Brown’s book, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let go of Who You Think You’re Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are. A long title for a great book that reminded me what I’d learned from my dad; that life’s an adventure, the good and the bad. Feel it all. If you don’t, the colors fade and life’s a chore, or worse hell. I’d rather embrace life to the fullest. So, I’ll go out on a limb and tell you about a crazy thing I did.

Five years ago, I retired from my secure teaching job to become a writer. I’d only been teaching for ten years, so my annuity isn’t very large. I know some of you will think I was really stupid. However, it’s turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been a struggle and sometimes down right frightening.

I may have written in an earlier post about my epiphany on my way to school in the spring of 2007. My soul was telling me I was supposed to be a writer and not a public school teacher. I have to say, I love being in the classroom. I love seeing the light bulbs go off as my students gain new understandings. But, I’d been feeling restless for quite some time. I knew my life wasn’t quite what it could be. Then inspiration, or God, or my soul got through and I knew I was going to be a writer.

On the last day of school I was packing up my room. I’d decided to teach one more year. That would make my teaching career an even ten years. As I packed, I was thinking of my writing life ahead. The thought came to me, I could quit right now. I haven’t signed my contract. The moment I thought that, I was filled with the most profound joy. It permeated my entire being. My skin tingled, my heart pumped for joy. I felt as if I could float out of the room. That feeling stayed with me while I loaded the car and on my hour drive home. I couldn’t wait to tell Barry. I sailed through the door confident that he’d be filled with joy too. Boy was I wrong. When I told him about my experience and the possibility of quitting sooner, a look of fear spread over his face and burst my joy bubble. Mine was the larger income. “How will we make up your income.” Logic set in. The joy was gone. I had no answer.

When I walked up to the School District office with my signed contract, my heart was heavy. I knew that feeling well. When I make a decision that goes against what my soul wants, even if it does look crazy, my heart is heavy and my stomach sinks. It’s so different than the elation I’d felt just a few days earlier.

I worked that last year. It was a good year. I learned a lot about living in the present moment. About taking a breath and getting centered. I was also inspired to apply at the local Community College as adjunct instructor, which has turned out to be a great learning experience.

I can’t say that these five years have been easy. Oh, no. We’ve had financial difficulties. I’ve felt clutching fear about money at times. But, We’ve also faced our fears, and asked for and received Divine help in setting financial goals, which are now putting us on a more secure footing. Barry and I have never starved, we still have our house and we’ve learned to trust again. We’re always taken care of, if we allow it. We’ve worked through our fears and for me at least, I’ve learned that I am not the amount of money in my bank account, nor the clothes I wear, the car I drive, or the house I live in. I’m so much more. I’ve also learned there are so many things to appreciate about life. We’re both finding new creative outlets. And I love writing.

As I was finishing Brené Brown’s book, I remembered a silly little incident when I took Barry home to meet my family that illustrates what it’s like to feel joy in life.

It was our Christmas break. Barry and I had become engaged the winter before, but he’d never met my family. We’d had a great time during our visit. On New Year’s eve, we decided to stay home with my parents. Neither one of us are party people, and we didn’t have friends to go out with. So, we stayed home, watched the celebrations on TV, ate popcorn, and played games. As the ball in Time Square descended and the count down commenced, Barry prepared to give me my New Year’s kiss. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. We were startled when dad yelled “Happy New Year,” jumped out of his recliner and hopped to mom’s recliner to give her a kiss. She had the chair reclined and dad leaned too hard on the chair. Mom, dad and the recliner ended up upside down. We were all laughing so hard we couldn’t get mom right again for several minutes. Barry said, “Now I know I’ll fit into this family.” It’s a moment of joy that we told over and over again at family gatherings. It’s one of the stories we shared at the family reunion just after dad’s death.

My dad had Joy of Life and he taught that to me, even though I forgot it for awhile. It’s back now. I’m grateful for so many things, especially my decision to become a writer. I may never be rich and famous, but I’m doing what I love. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Remembering Dad

Sunday is Father’s Day, which makes me think of my dad. He died in 2004. That was a hard time, because he was my mentor. Even now I have a hard time articulating what he meant to me. The deepest feelings are the hardest to express. However, I’m going to try by telling a story about him that illustrates his character.

When I was a Junior and Senior in high school my dad was the camp director for the youth camps sponsored by our church. The kids at the camps came to love him, because he didn’t deal with problems the same way other adults did. Here’s an example of what I mean.

One year at camp, a rivalry started between a group of girls and a group of boys. One group had played a prank on the other group and of course retaliation was required. I don’t remember how many rounds of this went on before, the girls came up with a smashing idea: Take all the faucet handles from the boys bathroom. Of course, I wasn’t part of the group, they were sure I’d tell my father what they were planning. The next morning, none of the men and boys could take showers or even wash their hands because all the faucet handles were gone. During breakfast, dad announced we were going to suspend the regular schedule and have a special meeting. The girls were shaking in their boots. They were sure they were going to be sent home in disgrace.

During the meeting dad said that he understood how fun it was to play pranks. It could build camaraderie. But, it’d gone too far now and the faucets needed to be returned so the men and boys could get cleaned up. If the girls responsible brought the faucets back, all would be forgiven.Then the girls and boys responsible would need to make amends. All the campers looked around at each other in disbelief. I knew what they were thinking. “An adult is going to forgive and forget and not humiliate us?” We were dismissed to our first activity. The culprits had until lunch to return the faucets.

The girls came to me, “Is your dad serious. If we confess and give back the faucets, he won’t send us home?”

“Yep. He always means what he says.”

“Will he punish us?”

“Well, yeah. But, he’ll talk to you first and you’ll get a chance to decide your punishment. And the guys will too.”

“Man, you’re dad is cool. You’re lucky.”

“I know.”

The girls turned in the faucets to my dad right then. I went with them at their request. When they handed dad the bag, he looked at the girls and then in mock despair said, “Oh, I can’t believe you sweet girls did this. Oh, my, what are we going to do?” He went on for awhile like that until he noticed that the girls were embarrassed.

The girls laughed, but hung their heads. Then my dad said, “Well, we’ve got to fix this. You’ve proved that you’re mature young ladies by admitting what you did. Now, we need to talk about how this got started, who the boys involved are, and put things to rights again. What do you think?”

I could tell by the look on the girls faces, they couldn’t believe it. He was asking for their help in resolving the issue. They weren’t getting yelled at, or slapped, or sent home. In a way it was a much more painful process, because my dad was requiring them to do some self-examination. Then of course the boys and girls involved were required to do extra chores, or some such thing and the camp went on. After that, my dad was the hero of the camp. He’d treated those kids like human beings who make mistakes, but are intelligent and can think of ways to make things right. Not only that, he didn’t humiliate them. They knew, as my brother and I did, that he cared about us no matter what we did. He trusted us.

That’s how I was raised. When I did something wrong, my dad and mom would talk with me. “Why did you do that? What were you thinking and feeling when you did it? What can we do to make things right?”

My dad understood that sometimes people do things out of fear, or anger, or lack of self-love. They go a little bit crazy. Whenever we’d ask dad why people kill, or mistreat others, he’d always say, “Because they’re in so much pain. They think if they hurt others it’ll make them feel better, but it doesn’t. That never works does it?” That’s always the way it was. Dad asked us lots of questions to get us to think. My dad, who’d dropped out of high school because he had undiagnosed dyslexia, used the Socratic Method to teach us great lessons.

I guess he’s the one who started me on the path of personal growth. I’m always asking questions about movies I’m watching, or books I’m reading or things that happen. And I learned something else from my dad. I am not my mistakes. I’m more than that. That’s why my friends liked to hang out at our house. My parents, and especially my dad saw value in them, even when they messed up.

Dad, I miss hearing you say, “I’m proud of you.” Having you as my dad has made all the difference.

Reading is Dangerous

My husband suggested that I might want to write a humorous story to break up the tone of my posts. I wish I could do that, because I gain insight from humorous stories too. But, unfortunately, I’m not Erma Bombeck, or Mark Twain. I wish I were. I may at some point be able to craft a humorous story, but not today. Today I’m writing about how something I’ve been reading helped me understand something that happened that has been a puzzle until now.

Have you ever read a book or a story that affected you so deeply that you continued to think about it long after you finished the last page? I have several on my list. Many of them have made me laugh or cry. They certainly made me think. That’s why reading is dangerous.

When I get emotional while reading, I’m usually alone. Which is the way I prefer it. When you cry in public it makes everyone uncomfortable. This story is about what happened one day, when I was teaching English. I hadn’t thought about that incident for years until this morning.

I was reading the book, The Gifts of Imperfection, by Brene’ Brown for my up coming book club meeting. In today’s section, Brene’ was relating an incident when she felt deep shame over a response to one of her blog posts, and how she dealt with it. (In case you don’t know about her, she researches the effects of shame on us and how vulnerability can lead us to wholehearted living.) While I was reading, I was reminded of this incident in my English class and thought I’d relate it to you.

The class was American Lit. We were reading the account of Olaudah Equiano, a slave who later bought his freedom to become an abolitionist in England. The section titled, “The Middle Passage”, describes his capture and trip across the Atlantic to one of the Caribbean islands. It’s a harrowing story, so much like the account in Roots, which made me stop reading the book for several days until I could recover enough to pick it up again. The slaves are whipped and crammed into tight quarters. The description of the callousness of the captors, the beatings, filth and stench were so real for me, that I was deeply affected. When I was reading it at home, I thought, I hope I can get through reading this in class without crying. Of course, I couldn’t.

My students were understandably concerned. I think it’s sad that crying in public is not okay.

The classroom became deadly silent. They didn’t know what to do with a teacher who was crying over a passage in the story.

One of the braver students asked me, “Miss, why are you crying?”

I had no idea what to say, but honesty seemed the best policy. “I’m crying because I feel bad about what happened to the slaves.”

“You mean, like you had something to do with it?”

“Yes, I guess. I feel bad that the whites treated the slaves so badly.”

“But, Miss, you weren’t there. You didn’t do it?”

“You’re right,” I said. “I still feel bad.” Then I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and we continued discussing the selection.

It’s important for you to know, that I was teaching in a school that has an over 90 percent population of Mexican/American students. The school is on a border town in Southern Arizona. Those students understand persecution. I don’t know if the fact that I’m white and I was crying about what happened to the slaves so long ago affected my students or not. I think it did. I hope it did.

I write about this incident because, I think it’s important to write about the good and the bad things about being human. Some of the biggest insights have come to me when I’m reading about a person or character’s greatest struggles. As a writer, though, it’s hard to dig down deep and write about those most painful feelings. At least it is for me. I can write about them all day in my journal, but if I know someone’s going to read them, well that’s a different matter. The thing is, that’s why I should dig down and write about the pain, because someone’s going to read it and gain insight. That’s what Olaudah Equiano did, that’s what Brene’ Brown does.

I’ve been doing a lot of personal work lately. Reading Brene’ Brown’s book is just one aspect of the work. It’s helping me see that if we keep secret our wounded places, it can destroy us. On the other hand if we share them, we can help someone we don’t even know. Olaudah Equiano helped people understand what it was like to be captured, tortured, and transported to a far off place and be sold into slavery. His was one of the first slave stories. Many more came after. Who knows maybe his story touched enough people who saw how wrong slavery was and they started the Abolitionist movement.

I guess that’s why I read. Because I’m looking for insight into myself and into what it means to be human.That’s also why I write. It’s part of my process of healing and understanding.

What books or stories prompted you to think long after the reading was finished?