“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.”
~Madeleine L’Engle
How profound is this? And what a truth! Some of the most powerful literature is written for kids. It challenges thinking and shines a light on what the world is like, encouraging them to question the status quo and make changes to improve society.
“Maybe it’s better to look stupid, but strong, than it is to look smart, but weak. I don’t know. I not sure that I want to believe that the world stage bears that strong a resemblance to high school.”
Jim Butcher in Turn Coat.
Tibetan proverb quoted by the Dalai Lama in The Book of Joy (I highly recommend this book!)
This quote brilliantly summarizes my experience of life with and as an exchange student. Half your heart has moved to a new location.
Writing is done in the time we make, not the time we find.
~Amy Sue Nathan
(Writer’s Workbook, Writer’s Digest. 2016)
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I teach my students that writing isn’t about inspiration, it’s about sitting down and doing. I often have no idea what I’m going to put on a page until I sit down with the intent to get 500 words today, or whatever. Then I’ll hear the voice of a character, tune in, and record the conversation. Identifying even snippets of time to focus on writing makes a difference. Sometimes those are otherwise lost moments, that become significant because of the writing that happened in those moments.
What do you think? Do you find time or make time for your writing?
Mrs. Filber’s daughter memorized Poe’s The Raven and recited it for her mother’s sixth grade class. Student Wanda reflected years later, “This was my first encounter with the power of poetry…How independent Mrs. Filber’s daughter was–she could conjure up this poem at any time in the future, enjoying it again and again!” (May, W. 1991. “The Arts and Curriculum as Lingering.” p. 145).
What power in memory
to pull from air,
call upon bardic traditions,
weave words around ears.
Captivate.
Infiltrate.
Enervate
with poetry.
.
.
(A little poetry inspired by my grad school reading today).
When a woman makes the choice to marry, to have children; in one way her life begins but in another way it stops. You build a life of details. You become a mother, a wife and you stop and stay steady so that your children can move. And when they leave they take your life of details with them. And then you’re expected move again only you don’t remember what moves you because no-one has asked in so long. Not even yourself. You never in your life think that love like this can happen to you.
~Francesca in Bridges of Madison County
by Robert James Waller.
It was hard to imagine what life would be once kids had grown and moved off to their own independent lives. Some women have invested so much in their children that they have to dig deeply to find that they are no longer who they were before children, and it’s time to find a new identity. It can bring depression and a sense of loss.
I confess, I was not one of those women. For me, departure of the children was a celebration and an immediate flowering. I started writing Grace Awakening a month after our kids moved out. A new life began on the page and a new world enfolded before me as I began interacting with authors. It made me thankful we’d had our kids so young. 🙂
In the book, And We Stay by Jenny Hubbard, protagonist Emily is sorting out the world by writing poetry and reading Emily Dickinson. The book is full of poetry and is written with a very poetic tone. Here is a particularly beautiful passage:
So sew. Either way you spell it, on its own, the word looks wrong. Emily could write a poem about it, about how sew needs a subject, an object. About how a girl needs a duty to lock her in place. So if she sits at a desk, scrawls words on paper, are the words as lonely as she, or do they sow seeds into a soul across time, across centuries? Was Emily Dickinson ever able to thread the words together in such a way that she was beyond the need for stitches?
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“The kind of wrapping you come in has nothing to do with it. As quickly as you realize that, contentment and peace come—from the heart. Happiness is within you.”
~Charlotte Greenwood
Just came across this in my audio book today:
“An insult is like a drink, it affects one only if accepted.”
Robert A. Heinlein in Glory Road
How true is this!
The difference between being ‘thin-skinned’ and ‘thick-skinned’ lies in if you ‘accept’ the insult or not. If you do not, it rolls over you and you can remain jovial and calm. If you accept an insult, it can be toxic, taking bitter root and poisoning both you and others around you as you spread the toxicity.
This brings to mind that some need more gentleness than others.
While insult may be completely unintended, those who presume a negative intent will let their ‘acceptance’ of the insult fester. Their perception is their reality.
This is when one can either wait for the one presuming insult where none was intended or implied to either wake up or move on, or one can say “I’m sorry you felt that way, it was not the intent.”
I am prone to the former, with a shrug of shoulders. For those of us who ignore even intentional insults (some of us have taught junior high and therefore have a lot of practice) it can be hard to feel sorry for those who are so fragile or victimized that they see insult wherever they turn. They’re emotionally exhausting to be around.
I don’t drink either literally or figuratively. It seems like a sound way of avoiding trouble.
“You mustn’t wait for someone to rescue you. A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she’ll find her courage wanting. Don’t be like that… You must find your courage, learn to rescue yourself, never rely on anyone else.”
~Kate Morton in The Forgotten Garden
What do you think of this advice? Does it get in the way of accepting help from others?
Shawn L. Bird 