I feel over-whelmed by the number of people that read my post about Shiloh. Or at least how many times it was looked at, I have no way of knowing how many individual people it is. I guess the premise presented in 'Marley & Me' is true--there's just something about animals that brings out the best in us and that brings us together. Although...I can guarantee you, I won't be watching 'Marley & Me' for a long time...or 'Where the Red Fern Grows'....or 'Homeward Bound'....or anything with a dog in it.
Some of you may know that I've been toying with the idea of writing a children's series of books about Shiloh for a few years now. I had to create a picture book for a class I took in college, and the obvious choice for me was to make Shiloh the main character. It was a big hit--100% for a grade and enthusiasm from the class. I've come up with a few ideas and fiddled around with plots, but I could never get anything the way I wanted it. And I never did find an illustrator...I can't draw worth beans.
The original idea was to have Shiloh and Piper be main characters, as they were in the original story. But Piper died from lymphoma this spring, and now Shiloh is gone due to cancer (we think of the spleen...stupid spleen). For those of you that don't know, Piper is my brother's beagle. Adam and Melanie adopted Piper just a few months after we adopted Shiloh, she was about 4 months younger than him. For a short while Adam lived with Curtis so we had two dogs and two guys smushed in a tiny apartment in Bowling Green. But Shiloh and Piper loved playing together. Their first Christmas was a hilarity. We were all at my mom's house and watched them run back and forth across the house over and over and over again. They were running so hard on their little puppy legs that they actually shifted the rug my mom's dining room table was on. They were so small then that they both fit into a little green doggy bed.
Anyway...I digress...the original story was illustrated with photos cut out and glued onto fabric or paper backgrounds. Like I said, I can't draw worth beans...so I used felt and fabric scraps to make the backgrounds, and cut out pictures of Piper and Shiloh to go into the scenes. The children in the story were pictures of my brother and I when we were little. I always liked the idea of having their world be animated but the dogs be photos. Now...even with probably close to 1,000 pictures of Shiloh...I know I'd never have enough shots to tell the stories.
But for some reason I really want to get back to writing the Shiloh stories. I think I want to pay tribute to him somehow. There's a million little stories to tell...like the Christmas one above, or how he always tried to jump out of the bathtub, or how when he was a puppy he wiggled up to sit behind my head, perched on my shoulders. I always wanted to write a story about his accident and his bad leg, and how although it slowed him down he wasn't really all that different from other dogs. He did so many funny little things that I think I want to capture more permanently than in my memory which will eventually go fuzzy.
I don't know that anyone would ever publish it but even if its just for me and my family, its enough to remember him. I look at the little grave we made for him and I think to myself, its just not enough. I realize it makes no difference to him, it never would have, he was a dog that never thought much of books. But he gave me so much in his short life. I didn't know that he was sick, dying really, so I didn't get to spoil him in his last few weeks. I regret that so much, even though I know there's no way I could've known. The symptoms didn't present until it was way past too late. But I can do this now. I can do this for him, for me, for Curtis. I can remember and I can write.
I'm going to try to not be overly depressing and dwell on him in the next few days and weeks. But it's hard. I didn't sleep well last night. I think night two and day two are proving harder than the first. It's sinking in and Bode's starting to figure things out. If by nothing else than watching me cry all the time, bless his furry heart. I started crying this morning when I didn't have to put food in two bowls and Bode came up to me. His ears were down which is normal for a dog that is worried/scared, but then he popped them straight up and looked right in my eyes like he was ready to listen. So I do what we all do with dogs and poured my heart out to him, and what did he do? He put his paw on my leg and leaned up to lick my face. Just what Shiloh used to do. And Bode has never acted this way before. He never reacted to my being upset until now. I guess Shiloh had time to teach Bode a thing or two about taking care of his people before he had to leave us.
Okay, not being very successful at not being depressing...sorry about that. I'll have more to write as I process through things. I've learned a lot about God through this, in a way. I'm not quite ready to share that story but I will soon. I'm still working it all out with Him and there's more to it than Shiloh.
Anyway...for each of you that read my post about Shiloh and have reached out to comfort me from across the web...thank you. I've treasured each word and felt it as a warm hug. I know some of you aren't even dog lovers but you know how much I adored him, so thank you.
Showing posts with label write. Show all posts
Showing posts with label write. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sticky Cobwebby Memories
Memories are a powerful thing. So easily evoked, so much harder to shove back in the shoebox and under the bed. Especially complicated memories. Memories that are wholly good are welcomed gladly. Come in, stay awhile, let me reminisce, chuckle to myself, or even better share a belly laugh with a friend. Memories that are wholly bad are quickly banished from thought and stripped of their power to summon my emotions to react.
But those messy complicated memories are another story. Half good, half painful, they flare up at the most inconvenient and unexpected times. I'll be going on my merry way in life, enjoying the sunshine, smelling the roses and suddenly something happens which transports me faster than the Delorean back into my past. A scent, a song, a photo, a phrase, and I'm somewhere in the chronicles of my past. I suspect that even my facial expression changes, that I get a bit glassy eyed as if hypnotized by something, which is partly true. I shake it off, sometimes literally, like trying to shake sticky cobwebs out of my hair, but the feeling of the memory lingers. Like a sticky cobweb, it feels all day as if it's still in there.
Perhaps this is why movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind seem appealing, until we discover what we would be without our memories. I may wish to shed my old memories, the unsettling, confusing ones but with that I would shed entire years of my life.
Historians can't find whole years of Shakespeare's life. There's census records and other official documentation that tells us where he was for most of his life apparently, but here and there large chunks are missing. Not a year here or there, but several years in a row he goes undocumented, unable to be found. No one knows where he was or what he was doing. That's how it would be for me if I were able to erase those memories. Two, three, four whole years, or more, would be gone. Two years worth of stories, both good and bad, I can no longer tell. Two years worth of faces I would no longer know, songs I would no longer recognize, moments I could no longer cherish.
My memories are messy because I am a real person with a real story to tell. Life got complicated, I got complicated, and the aftermath of that is complicated memories. As convenient as it would be to never feel suddenly back in 2003, drowning in old memories, I think, no, I know that I would lose something of myself without those memories. Those years shaped me, perhaps more than any other. From 17 to 22 I grew up, changed, made choices, made memories that have defined the woman I am today. For the better or for the worse, I don't know. If forced to choose I would say better. More complicated, more difficult (especially for my husband who never got to know the carefree me) but better. Wiser, stronger, smarter, more humble, more sure of and realistic about the woman I hope to someday be.
My memories are mine, to keep, to throw away, to share, to hide. One of the most true lines from a movie is from Titanic when Old Rose tells her captive listeners, "a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." What she means are memories. Complicated ones that arise at the strangest moments. But I'm grateful for mine, they serve to remind me of who I used to be, who I am now, and who I want to be. And it has been my memories, those sticky cobwebby memories, that have given me a reason to write. To write my novel, write poetry, write this blog. Writing makes sense of the complicated, keeps the painful ones at bay, and invites the good ones to come in and stay awhile.
But those messy complicated memories are another story. Half good, half painful, they flare up at the most inconvenient and unexpected times. I'll be going on my merry way in life, enjoying the sunshine, smelling the roses and suddenly something happens which transports me faster than the Delorean back into my past. A scent, a song, a photo, a phrase, and I'm somewhere in the chronicles of my past. I suspect that even my facial expression changes, that I get a bit glassy eyed as if hypnotized by something, which is partly true. I shake it off, sometimes literally, like trying to shake sticky cobwebs out of my hair, but the feeling of the memory lingers. Like a sticky cobweb, it feels all day as if it's still in there.
Perhaps this is why movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind seem appealing, until we discover what we would be without our memories. I may wish to shed my old memories, the unsettling, confusing ones but with that I would shed entire years of my life.
Historians can't find whole years of Shakespeare's life. There's census records and other official documentation that tells us where he was for most of his life apparently, but here and there large chunks are missing. Not a year here or there, but several years in a row he goes undocumented, unable to be found. No one knows where he was or what he was doing. That's how it would be for me if I were able to erase those memories. Two, three, four whole years, or more, would be gone. Two years worth of stories, both good and bad, I can no longer tell. Two years worth of faces I would no longer know, songs I would no longer recognize, moments I could no longer cherish.
My memories are messy because I am a real person with a real story to tell. Life got complicated, I got complicated, and the aftermath of that is complicated memories. As convenient as it would be to never feel suddenly back in 2003, drowning in old memories, I think, no, I know that I would lose something of myself without those memories. Those years shaped me, perhaps more than any other. From 17 to 22 I grew up, changed, made choices, made memories that have defined the woman I am today. For the better or for the worse, I don't know. If forced to choose I would say better. More complicated, more difficult (especially for my husband who never got to know the carefree me) but better. Wiser, stronger, smarter, more humble, more sure of and realistic about the woman I hope to someday be.
My memories are mine, to keep, to throw away, to share, to hide. One of the most true lines from a movie is from Titanic when Old Rose tells her captive listeners, "a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." What she means are memories. Complicated ones that arise at the strangest moments. But I'm grateful for mine, they serve to remind me of who I used to be, who I am now, and who I want to be. And it has been my memories, those sticky cobwebby memories, that have given me a reason to write. To write my novel, write poetry, write this blog. Writing makes sense of the complicated, keeps the painful ones at bay, and invites the good ones to come in and stay awhile.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Humbled/ Like a Dream Come True
I'm so humbled by this whole blogging experience. It started on a whim. I read a friend's blog, a friend from high school, someone I'd lost touch with. I clicked on her link which she provided on Facebook and soaked up her life for a few minutes. And it set me thinking. Thinking about how much I used to love to write, and thinking how much I used to love sharing with people. And a blog is essentially sharing with people through writing.
So I picked out a name, based on a book I'd read a couple years ago. And I started writing, not really sure what I'd write about or who would even read it. But I decided those details didn't matter much. I've learned through my studies that the best writers, the ones we put on the canon, are the ones who wrote for themselves, not for an editor or an audience. I have a feeling that many of those writers wanted success and to be read, but were surprised when it came. Anyway, I digress...I started writing for me, for God, for anyone who would read it.
I never imagined that anyone really would read it. Anyone other than my mom, to be honest. But for whatever reason, people are, you are. And every now and then when I don't let myself get in the way, God uses this rambly little mess of a blog to talk to someone, to comfort someone, to touch someone. Honestly, sincerely, and truly, I don't take the credit for that. Sure, I may be typing but it's God doing the real work. And I never really thought that He would or could use me. Yeah, I dreamed about it, dreamed so often of writing for real that it hurts, but I've never believed in it. I've kept my stories and ideas squirrelled away for only me. Everything but this. This merry heart journey.
Its humbling to be read. Its humbling to be used by God. Its humbling to open up my heart and expose my deepest vulnerabilities every now and then. God is good and lets me write and ramble about so many things, but every now and then He requires me to dig deep. And its humbling to see what He does with it when I am obedient. I always imagined that writing would sort of puff me up instead of humble me. Shows what I know, eh?
So, thank you for reading. If you read every post or every now and then or hardly at all, thank you. Thank you for keeping me humbled and amazed and honored. I'll keep writing, even if everyone stops reading, but it is really cool to be read. Like a dream come true, actually.
So I picked out a name, based on a book I'd read a couple years ago. And I started writing, not really sure what I'd write about or who would even read it. But I decided those details didn't matter much. I've learned through my studies that the best writers, the ones we put on the canon, are the ones who wrote for themselves, not for an editor or an audience. I have a feeling that many of those writers wanted success and to be read, but were surprised when it came. Anyway, I digress...I started writing for me, for God, for anyone who would read it.
I never imagined that anyone really would read it. Anyone other than my mom, to be honest. But for whatever reason, people are, you are. And every now and then when I don't let myself get in the way, God uses this rambly little mess of a blog to talk to someone, to comfort someone, to touch someone. Honestly, sincerely, and truly, I don't take the credit for that. Sure, I may be typing but it's God doing the real work. And I never really thought that He would or could use me. Yeah, I dreamed about it, dreamed so often of writing for real that it hurts, but I've never believed in it. I've kept my stories and ideas squirrelled away for only me. Everything but this. This merry heart journey.
Its humbling to be read. Its humbling to be used by God. Its humbling to open up my heart and expose my deepest vulnerabilities every now and then. God is good and lets me write and ramble about so many things, but every now and then He requires me to dig deep. And its humbling to see what He does with it when I am obedient. I always imagined that writing would sort of puff me up instead of humble me. Shows what I know, eh?
So, thank you for reading. If you read every post or every now and then or hardly at all, thank you. Thank you for keeping me humbled and amazed and honored. I'll keep writing, even if everyone stops reading, but it is really cool to be read. Like a dream come true, actually.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
When Life Gets In the Way of Living
The novel I'm writing is in two sections; the first book about Gideon and Magdalene; the second book about their children. One theme that runs through both halves is the struggle between living life and having a living, or sometimes just living at all. The main characters of the second half, Justice, Cherish, and Truth, struggle with this the most. Because of his charismatic personality and keen intellect Justice is pressured into running for political office, ultimately becoming the King; Bookish and free-spirited Cherish is swept into the world of Academia, moving from the research and teaching that she loves into the frustrating politics of leadership; in childhood it became clear that Truth is a 'seer', meaning that he can only speak the truth and he can see the truth in any situation, the perfect leader for the Church except that his gift has made him painfully shy. All three wrestle with wanting to have a 'normal' life, out of the spotlight, free to make decisions without wondering how the whole country may be impacted by their choices. This struggle becomes especially intense for Cherish when she falls in love with someone incredibly unexpected and rather inconvenient.
I didn't set out to write a novel about this struggle. I just started writing and I haven't stopped. It has morphed several times but this theme has been apparent throughout. The character I love the most is Cherish, she is the me that I want to be. She's witty, charming, incredibly learned, sophisticated, and graceful. But most of all she is determined. There is a breaking point in the book that causes Cherish to finally rise to the occasion and take her life back. She defines her life in her own terms and she stops letting the powers that be direct her life.
I, like Cherish, feel that I've been swept into a life that isn't one of my choosing. I let life happen to me rather than intentionally choosing the path I would take. Now the great thing is that God has been leading me through the paths of His choosing--paths which led me to my husband, ministry opportunities, and friendships. But I have to wonder--if I'd joined Him in the front seat rather than napping in the back seat, would there have been more opportunities, more blessings, a more rewarding path? But because I was just cruising, disengaged from taking responsibility for my life, I settled for the path that seemed easy, convenient, or 'only temporary'. God's not going to throw a sleeping person into an adventure.
Cherish seems to wake up one day and realize indignantly that she didn't choose her life. I have that same feeling every now and then. I wonder how I got here, like driving from home to work and not remembering the drive. I've gotten from Cuyahoga Falls to Wayne but I don't remember how I got here. This isn't about regret, but the realization that I've been sleeping through life. Or perhaps that life has gotten in the way of living.
Take a job because you need one, not because you love it. Before you know it life has slipped through your fingers and you haven't been living. Put off starting a family because there isn't money or time, and before you know, life has slipped through your fingers and you haven't been living. When we shelf our dreams and settle for less, even if we believe it's only temporary, before long life has slipped through our fingers and we haven't been living. That life has gotten in the way of living. e.e. cummings once said, 'being undead isn't the same as being alive'. Boy, ain't that the truth?
One reason I've kept writing the novel throughout the years is because it seems that if I can work out their issues, I can work out mine. That's how the whole thing started. A writing assignment in 11th grade. I made up a distopian world where the characters couldn't be together because he was too different from the accepted norm. At the time I was dating a boy my family wasn't a big fan of because he was older than me and quite different from what they wanted for me. In my story it all worked out...so I kept writing, writing, writing. But it never worked out in real life...so I kept writing. The story changed. I changed. As I've grown up, the story has grown up with me. But I still write to work out my own life on the page. I'm no longer Magdalene of the first story, the story I wrote at seventeen...I'm Cherish, the story I'm writing as a young woman.
In the story, Cherish doesn't change very much externally when she takes her life back, unlike her mother in the first book. She doesn't run away, quit her job, or change the world. But she makes it clear that now her job is of her choosing. She will love and be with the one of her choosing. She lives a life of her choosing, even if it looks very similar to the life that was chosen for her. She wakes up from her existence and begins an adventure. An adventure that doesn't take her any farther from home, but an adventure of the heart.
I'm tired of life getting in the way of living. I'm tired of realizing that life is slipping through my fingers and I haven't really been living. And I think the change comes in choosing something everyday. Choosing to sit in the sunshine, to go to the park and swing, to teach the dogs how to go down a sliding board. Choosing to color instead of clean, to sing instead of sigh. Choosing to write, to read, to dream. Choosing to take an opportunity when it comes.Choosing to make the most of my life in every circumstance.Choosing to find the adventure in the ordinary. Choosing to find the thread of my life that God has always been holding onto and follow it passionately, instead of mindlessly being woven in and out of other people's adventures.
I'm still working on the book. Like a coloring page, I've got an outline but I need to color it in. And as I color it in Cherish and her brothers will find their adventures...and I think I will, too.
I didn't set out to write a novel about this struggle. I just started writing and I haven't stopped. It has morphed several times but this theme has been apparent throughout. The character I love the most is Cherish, she is the me that I want to be. She's witty, charming, incredibly learned, sophisticated, and graceful. But most of all she is determined. There is a breaking point in the book that causes Cherish to finally rise to the occasion and take her life back. She defines her life in her own terms and she stops letting the powers that be direct her life.
I, like Cherish, feel that I've been swept into a life that isn't one of my choosing. I let life happen to me rather than intentionally choosing the path I would take. Now the great thing is that God has been leading me through the paths of His choosing--paths which led me to my husband, ministry opportunities, and friendships. But I have to wonder--if I'd joined Him in the front seat rather than napping in the back seat, would there have been more opportunities, more blessings, a more rewarding path? But because I was just cruising, disengaged from taking responsibility for my life, I settled for the path that seemed easy, convenient, or 'only temporary'. God's not going to throw a sleeping person into an adventure.
Cherish seems to wake up one day and realize indignantly that she didn't choose her life. I have that same feeling every now and then. I wonder how I got here, like driving from home to work and not remembering the drive. I've gotten from Cuyahoga Falls to Wayne but I don't remember how I got here. This isn't about regret, but the realization that I've been sleeping through life. Or perhaps that life has gotten in the way of living.
Take a job because you need one, not because you love it. Before you know it life has slipped through your fingers and you haven't been living. Put off starting a family because there isn't money or time, and before you know, life has slipped through your fingers and you haven't been living. When we shelf our dreams and settle for less, even if we believe it's only temporary, before long life has slipped through our fingers and we haven't been living. That life has gotten in the way of living. e.e. cummings once said, 'being undead isn't the same as being alive'. Boy, ain't that the truth?
One reason I've kept writing the novel throughout the years is because it seems that if I can work out their issues, I can work out mine. That's how the whole thing started. A writing assignment in 11th grade. I made up a distopian world where the characters couldn't be together because he was too different from the accepted norm. At the time I was dating a boy my family wasn't a big fan of because he was older than me and quite different from what they wanted for me. In my story it all worked out...so I kept writing, writing, writing. But it never worked out in real life...so I kept writing. The story changed. I changed. As I've grown up, the story has grown up with me. But I still write to work out my own life on the page. I'm no longer Magdalene of the first story, the story I wrote at seventeen...I'm Cherish, the story I'm writing as a young woman.
In the story, Cherish doesn't change very much externally when she takes her life back, unlike her mother in the first book. She doesn't run away, quit her job, or change the world. But she makes it clear that now her job is of her choosing. She will love and be with the one of her choosing. She lives a life of her choosing, even if it looks very similar to the life that was chosen for her. She wakes up from her existence and begins an adventure. An adventure that doesn't take her any farther from home, but an adventure of the heart.
I'm tired of life getting in the way of living. I'm tired of realizing that life is slipping through my fingers and I haven't really been living. And I think the change comes in choosing something everyday. Choosing to sit in the sunshine, to go to the park and swing, to teach the dogs how to go down a sliding board. Choosing to color instead of clean, to sing instead of sigh. Choosing to write, to read, to dream. Choosing to take an opportunity when it comes.Choosing to make the most of my life in every circumstance.Choosing to find the adventure in the ordinary. Choosing to find the thread of my life that God has always been holding onto and follow it passionately, instead of mindlessly being woven in and out of other people's adventures.
I'm still working on the book. Like a coloring page, I've got an outline but I need to color it in. And as I color it in Cherish and her brothers will find their adventures...and I think I will, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
