Meme of the Day: Childlike Wonder

 

One of the most important things we carry with us (if we're lucky) and one of the first things I fear we lose is the ability to view the universe and the people in it with a child's sense of wonder.

Decades ago, I made the conscious decision to hold onto this quality, and it takes conscious effort to put it into practice, because it forces me to step out of my concerns for tomorrow and regrets of the past and linger in the moment.

It's in the little nature things: the veins in a leaf, the sparkle of sun on snow, the texture of water, the glide of a cloud. And in the silly things: the burn of mint toothpaste, the galaxy swirl of foam in my espresso, the way my cats' eyes "blow out" when they stalk a string, sledding with kids.

And it's primary expressions are gasps, sighs, laughter of delight, and the question "Why?"

Hold onto it. If it's slumbering or dormant, reawaken it. Because life is as dull as cardboard without it.

No Needles, Please

So this weekend, my sister hosted a Botox party. I turned 45 this year, and I've really taken care of my skin. But STILL. There are THINGS. Gravity is dumb. Making expressions, like we primates do, carves canyons in obvious places. I've been wanting to try this procedure for years. If nothing else, it's good research for stories about alien experiments or something. Anyway!

My sister, myself, our mom, and several friends were all thrilled to hang out, eat, laugh, and get stuck with needles. I do NOT like to think of myself as squeamish. I laid under a tattooist's needle gun for an hour and a half and prided myself on my nerve and strong stomach. And during the party in question, I watched a friend and my sister surrender their skin to the RN. No problem. I rushed to be third in line, plunked down in the chair, laid my head back, processed the feel of the needle in my forehead so I could remember it for future reference, told myself to not really think about it, listen to the conversations and laughter going on around me. A minute later: done. Forehead complete. Now to wait till the numbing balm really takes effect on my upper lip, cuz my sister inherited a gorgeous upper lip and I got zilch. I'm not bitter. Not at all.

But as soon as the RN goes back to her kit to refill while we wait, I start feeling a little queasy. No worries, I'll just breathe through it, it'll pass. Then the little black grainy flecks start prickling across my vision. My sister asks me, "Are you okay?" (Later, she said I was green. Apparently, that actually happens.)

I nod, in full denial. A few seconds later, I admit it: "I think I'm gonna pass out." I do not remember anyone running to me. Next thing I know, I'm waking up. My sister is holding me in the chair, my mom is fanning my face with a paper plate. Thank God these are calm women. No one panicked. 

Up till this experience, I've only ever fainted when having blood drawn. (Didn't even occur to me I could FAINT while getting Botox!) But this time, in front of everyone, my body did one better. "I think I'm gonna throw up." Someone shoves a trashcan under my chin, and sure enough, there's no stopping it.

All the while, I'm thinking, "WTF?!?! Why does this happen to me? Body, you're so stupid."

Well, the barfing shoves blood back where it belongs, my head clears, and I come fully around. My friend brings me water, my sister gives me anti-nausea medicine, and someone asks, "Are you done?" As in, Are you finished with the Botox?" Well, after everything I just went through, I consider this an affront. I declare, "I'm not stopping! Stick me again!"

By golly, I came here for an upper lip and I'm not leaving till I get one. Ah, the things we do for Beauty. She who loves no one in return.

In the end, the party was a grand success. We had a blast. Plus, a couple days later, the canyons in my forehead are relaxing into gentle valleys, and my upper lip is marginally plumper. Will I do this in again in six months? Perhaps. With the caveat that "I'm in no way squeamish. I just faint now and then." 

A Year Later: Exciting New Developments

 A year is a long time to let a blog sit idle and languish in a state of neglect. The smallest, simplest tasks, those like blogging, lose all draw and seem like impossible millstones to carry around when depression enters the picture.

Last year, as we all know, was terrible. Pile lingering issues on top of pandemic woes and you get a recipe for major breakdowns. It happened to me. Took me out completely. To the point that I finally realized I couldn't "fix" it on my own. I got help. And that brings me to the first exciting development. 

Dopamine blockers are amazing! Everyone needs this stuff. My counselor advised meds thirty minutes into our first session together. So my doc put me on Lexapro. This time last year I never would've admitted that in a public space. But I have zero shame about it. In fact, I'm proud of myself for taking the step. It was more necessary than I realized. 

Both the counselor and doctor said I wouldn't really notice the pill taking effect for a couple of weeks.

Seriously? Greeeeeeat, I thought. Two weeks of hell while this builds in my system, and I can't even drink liquor to dampen the horribleness.

BUT! Thank God, that's not what happened. I took my first dose right before bed -- and woke up in the night feeling like I was floating. The effects were immediate! My poor brain, scored raw by torturous thought processes, felt as if it was swaddled in a cozy silk cocoon. Goodbye depression, goodbye anxiety.

So, it's three months later, and I feel recovered a enough to give a damn about blogging. Hurray!

To spread out the positive and keep things brief, I'll shout out about the other exciting new developments in later posts.

In Solitude...

I suppose quarantine is a good excuse to take care of the undone things:  fixing the drippy faucet, planting that herb garden, remembering that one has a talent with a paintbrush or a typewriter, knocking out a few volumes on the to-read list ... maybe actually getting some rest.

Reflect, recenter, re-purpose.

Hands of the Potter

So given the current season I'm walking through, it seemed appropriate to heed my husband's advice and drag out my pottery stuff again. The goal is to craft enough inventory to actually sell. What that looks like, I have no idea.

Anyway, here's the gist. I took two ceramics courses back in college as electives--both hand-building and wheel--and LOVED it. We're talking twenty years ago. In my late twenties, I accumulated my own supplies to throw pots in the dubious comfort of my garage (as a result of icky circumstances that I won't describe online). Then came the novel project. Everything else, all hobbies, friends, family, everything, was set aside so I could finish the Falcons Saga.

Now that the novels are complete, and with the LegendFire Community shut down, I sank into a horrible place of purposelessness. No people and few characters to care for, I realized I was suffering something very closely related to Empty Nest Syndrome.

So now, twice in my life, has pottery stepped in as a source of rest and rejuvenation. I admit, writing, as much as I love it, does not produce this restful feeling. Struggling for words, for plot, for conflict, fills me with tension, if not outright frustration. Not so the pots.

Currently, I have no place to set up my wheel. I mean, it's a hundred degrees in my garage right now, and I'd like my CAR to live in the garage where it belongs, so sans studio, I am hand-building mugs and other things in the cool of my dining room.

wet three-legged mugs

I can't wait to see these mugs glazed and finished.

The firing end of things has turned into a more frustrating venture. Over the past couple of days, I had carefully glazed some test pieces, mainly to see how my new glazes blend (or don't), and to see if my old Paragon kiln is still in working order. However...

I get everything ready, wake up excited to begin, only to discover that the shelves and supports I thought I had, I no longer have. Couldn't find them anywhere. I see my entire day and my hope to see results by nightfall slipping down the gutter. Ugh. So ... I have ordered new kiln shelves and posts.

Setbacks and delays. Which seems to be the running theme of the entire summer. Not a big deal in this instance, but when delays continue to stack up, they feel more dire than they really are.

Maybe I'll get to test-fire next week?

Point is, so many life applications to be found in pottery. For a pot to be made beautiful, it must be turned upside down and have the ugly excess trimmed off. Too often do I find myself the pot in the hands of my Potter. Yet the trimming shows infinite care and loving, purposeful intention.

Isaiah 64:8

In Lieu of the Unknown

Image from my Facebook Author page

Hoping this pre-scheduled blog post finds me well on the wild friendship trip. Well, hopefully not too wild. Are we enjoying one another's company? Have we breathed in poetry from a mountainside? Have we laughed a great deal? Maybe cried a little? Are we driving each other nuts? A full report upon my return.

Preemptive prayer:  Please, God, save us from trips to emergency rooms. May our days together be filled with joy, flexibility, versatility, resourcefulness, and patience. That's a tall order in regards to myself, so bring the miracles, God. Inundate us with your good presence, even those who do not call you Father. Guard us fiercely and see us safely home again.

The Friendship Trip

Image from my Facebook Author Page

Road-Trip Fever is upon me. I leave tomorrow on a routine adventure (if there is such a thing) with a big twist. For the first time ever, I am meeting a group of friends for an extended weekend holiday. Understand, these "friends"? We've never met in person. These are dear people with whom I have worked in an online capacity, and gamed with once a week, for many years. But now, we will be meeting face-to-face, for the first time. And having to live together in a rental house for four days.

I admit, I'm nervous. Things like this can clench or destroy friendships. We're each of us introverts, writers, gamers, and most of us have rather severe social, mental, or health issues. SO! This could get interesting. If we can give each other space and be respectful of boundaries, I think we'll be okay. Yes, my husband and I are taking the Tepui and a camp toilet, just in case this large house begins to feel too small.

Thing is, we all met through LegendFire, my former Critique Community. Three of the folks were my most highly trusted moderators. Two others joined later, but were gals we met through gaming. Now, all of us, minus one, game together every Thursday evening.

For some reason, they still look to me for leadership. Bless their sweet hearts. So back in February, when they jointly asked me, "Hey, Raveneye, we want to meet up in Colorado. You go there a lot. Will you plan a trip for us?" I was like, "...Ooookay. Sure! I can do that." In a couple days it was done. And it has been so heartwarming to hear their excitement as the departure day drew closer and closer.

Now, just to survive the reality.

I'm wagering that today's quote will prove most appropriate, likely for all of us.

Stories on Stone

Image from my Facebook Author Page

While I love this quote by one of my favorite authors, I treasure more the image I pasted it onto. These hand-prints were found in the Lascaux cave, in France. Each hand is a story in itself.

Some months ago, I happened to see the Antonio Banderas film Altamira, which portrays the discovery of similar cave paintings in Spain by Marcelino de Sautuola in the 1870s. Near the end of the film, Sautuola's wife places her petite hand in a print just like these. The fit is perfect. "You didn't tell me they were women," she says. This rocked me. Could it be true? We, from our patriarchal societies, have assumed the painters were men. But what if caves, like wombs, were the province of women?

And so when I look at the image depicted here, from Lascaux, I imagine generations of women trekking into the dark, a bowl of pigment in one hand, and some kind of light source in the other. Why did they venture into the darkness to leave their mark? Was it new motherhood and gratitude that drove them into the womb of the earth? Was it, perhaps, a prayer for fertility? Or coming into a position of leadership like a priesthood or lore-keeping?

Nearly every hand seen here is a left hand. Was it the bowl of pigment each woman held in the right? Red, black, white pigments. Now see the woman earlier in the day, crouching on the ground and grinding the colored minerals to powder and mixing it with water. Did each color have a different taste? Is the color dependent on the generation?

With what awe did each woman stand and gaze upon the hands of the women who came before her? "This one is my mother's. This one belonged to my grandmother..." They would have remembered the women and the names and stories attached to each print. The only lasting chronicle of their people.

Choicest Possession

Image from my Facebook Author Page

Should a room be stripped of furniture, as long as the books remain, the room will still feel furnished, warm, inviting, and full. They provide the furniture of the mind, food for the imagination, and a necessary occupation.

I'm afraid my coffee tables are a little cluttered with books. Can't get enough of them around me. I hunger for their contents and their companionship. One feels a little less alone when surrounded by books. Their voices are there for the asking.

The Touch of a Book

from my Facebook Author page

I went to lunch with my mom this week, and after we ate, we 'just happened' to stroll through an aisle of books at a nearby department store. The books drew us like honey, like magnets, like gravity, like love. Mom picked up a book and said, "I miss the feel of a book." She's been reading quick and easy downloads on her reading device. She sighed and rifled the pages and commented on how lovely the jagged edges were. Watching her admire the bound treasure in her hands was a precious experience.

Of course, she bought the book.

Several, in fact.

We all did.

Throwing Dirt

From my Facebook Author page

I don't usually (okay, ever) post about my views concerning society, but my heart is aching this morning. For the past two years, I have been living under the certainty that an era has ended and a new era has begun. I have seen nothing yet that contradicts this certainty.

It is an era of ugliness. Ugliness to one another. A era of casting judgement. Judgment in the shape of verbal stones. An era where tolerance and forgiveness are growing cold. Anger and violence on the upswing. An era in which the sacredness of life is under assault. A era in which the chip on the shoulder is a matter of pride to be proclaimed. An era in which forgiveness is weakness, and taking offense is strength. An era in which kindness is a favorite word, but a scant reality.

The headlines I read every morning confirm this. The media sells it like a fad that will increase ratings, promoting it. If it is a fad, it is a deadly one. My friends echo it, and I feel a divide beginning to break open between us, because I cannot follow them into this attitude. Ironically, it is the attempt to right wrongs, to cease judgment, that seems to have birthed this anger, this finger-pointing, this violence of word and deed.

Where is kindness? Where is mercy? Where is the attempt to listen and reach understanding? Where is the outstretched hand offering aid, offering encouragement, instead of a stone?

When we throw dirt, we lose ground.

Getting On With It

from my Facebook Author page

I've identified a stronghold of envy or jealousy in my life. It's hard to admit, but it was even harder to identify and nail down as existing at all. The attitude of "It's not fair" often comes from this flaw of envy. "They have it, I want it, I've even worked my ass off for it, it's not fair."

They have it, I don't. Very well. Get on with it. Or disintegrate into a weepy pile of self-pitying goo.

GET ON WITH IT!!!

And so I have. I am pleased to announce that I have broken ground on the overhaul of Blackbird. This overhaul is so massive, so hefty, so down-into-the-grain of the story that the title doesn't even work anymore. I have a backup in mind, but will not yet mention it in a public place. So for now, the working title "Blackbird" will suffice.

After three days of writing, I'm about 6000 words in. The stage is now set for a massive setting move and vast character changes. Gabriella, my protagonist, has been the steady rock through all these upheavals, remaining inwardly largely the same. For purposes of cohesion, I did have to give her a fascination with items from antiquity, like these beauties:

Sakhmet Statues, British Museum

Now Gabriella is almost set to go on her life's journey.

And I have gotten on with it.

And, yes, I am much happier having done so.

Bounce

From my Facebook Author page

I've spent the first half of my life trying to run fast and climb high. The current season in which I find myself is trying to teach me how to bounce. One day I hope to look back and find that I have bounced with grace, humor, hope, and faith.

And not to worry about the bruises I pick up along the way. One can little hope to bounce skyward without first hitting the ground.

Reclaiming Courage

Image from my Author Facebook page

Getting back on my feet. Had a hard blow last summer. It stopped cold my capacity to work on Blackbird, a novel that deals with heavy themes. Recharging at last and trying to decide if now is the time to resume.

With resuming comes big questions:

* Do I move the setting to 1800s Egypt? Some other locale?
* Do I continue with the antique voice or revise to something more myself?
* How much of the original vision to I keep? How much must go?
* Have I learned to balance family and God time with writing? Or will I revert to obsessive behavior, excluding everything and everyone else?

I'm clearly gun-shy, on many levels, for many reasons. But I can't sit on my hands forever. I gotta jump back into the arena.

The Fundamental Nature of Story

Image from my Facebook Author Page

One of my favorite concepts to explore is that of the universe and everything in it being created with a spoken word. What a glorious, gruesome, fantastic, and frightening story we are part of. To make sense of it all, we turn to our storytellers. We are made of story. We need it like air. Or we suffocate in the heartbreak and the chaos.

The Wonder in Believing

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May we never become that poor soul who says, "Fairies don't exist." May some part of ourselves, however deeply buried, never grow up. Urge the child out on occasion and gasp at the wonder to be found in the moonrise and the sunset and the curls of the ocean wave.

Lost, With Purpose

Image from my Facebook Author page

I have found myself in a wilderness. Story won't come. Neither purpose nor direction. My compass has stalled. A season of mental desert. Rather than wandering aimlessly, giving in to confusion, disorientation, fear and despair, I have chosen to be still and embrace this portion of the journey.

Instead of roaming the sands, scorched by a blazing sun and pricked by brittle brush underfoot, I sit in the shade of a great Tree and wait. Contemplating. Analyzing. Taking my own measure. Digging deep and finding how far I must go to find life-giving water. It is closer to the surface than I realized.

An asp lurks under the sand. It approaches unseen, but I hear its whispers. I must not listen. It speaks only lies. I slam my heel into the sand with a shout like a blade, and it flees. The breath, rustling in the leaves overhead, carries the truth. It is this, and only this, I must heed. I am no longer afraid.

This prolonged stillness may look like idleness, but it is hard work. My legs itch to run. My hands long to embrace a richer soil, my arms to swim in abundant water. But that is for later. This is my now.

I will be stronger when I walk out of here. Leaner. Purer. Perhaps even wiser.

In the meantime:  Do not panic. Pitch the tent. Gaze in awe upon unfettered stars and watch the sunrise ignite the dunes with roseate fire.

The Happiest Retreat

Image from my Facebook Author page

People who knew me when I was a child say I was given to writing anyway, but all I can remember is retreating into my imagination to hide. Usually from social situations I didn't know how to handle. Tension at home. Boredom in school. A mind palace. Isn't that what Sherlock calls it?

I guess it made me one of those strange children. A classmate told me, just before we graduated, that she avoided me because she thought I was weird. "You used to talk to yourself."

Mortification! Did I? Then I remembered. Yes. I was so bored in class that I had entertained myself by watching my favorite movies in my head and quoting my favorite lines. In a whisper. But still my mouth had to have been moving, and this apparently had not gone unnoticed. Luckily by senior year I had grown out of it, to the point that I couldn't remember ever having done it.

Embarrassing moments aside, the mental palace remains a place of refuge, not to ignore the world, but to process it in healthy ways that my emotions can handle.

And out of it is birthed Story.

Lesson Learned

(image from my Facebook Author page)

To read and gain no depth, no new insight, no new wisdom makes for either a very poor book or a rather poor reader.

A few novels that have broadened my horizons:

To Kill a Mockingbird

The Help

The Joy Luck Club

The Book Thief

Angela's Ashes

The Woman Warrior

The Diary of Anne Frank

Tess of the D'Urbervilles

Why We Love Story

(image from my Facebook Author page)

Thoughts?

The series that comes immediately to mind is N.K. Jemisin's Broken Earth Trilogy. Stellar reads, all three. Explorations of heavy themes like racism, freedom, sacrifice, and consequences of messing with the planet, all in apolitical ways. Bald truth without preaching. Meaningful storytelling done right. The complex, convoluted, charged fuck-ups of history removed from real-world context and placed neatly into our laps in the form of a heartrending tale. Peel away the story's exquisite wrapping, and the author has challenged each reader to look directly at these approach-at-your-own-risk topics.

That's what the quote above means to me.