stories, legends, and fairytales part II

Thanks to those who joined the conversation—you sparked some good thoughts. I realized something I hadn’t before. Robin Hood stands uniquely in my mind for another reason.


I doubt I’ve ever told anyone this, but almost every childhood/YA story I loved and…absorbed, I guess you could say, sooner or later would take root in my imagination in a very specific way—I would “write myself in.” In my version of Star Wars, there’s a girl shockingly similar to me ramming about saving the universe. In my version of Little House…yep, you guessed it. Let’s see. What else? I was on Star Wars for a long time, for some reason. X-men. Yup, really. Little Women. Narnia. Redwall. Anne of Green Gables. Heh. Newsies. I’d forgotten about that one. The Secret Garden.

But I never wrote myself into Robin Hood—the story I claimed to be my “one.” I have been a sailor, a marksman, a governess, a squirrel (all the characters were animals, ok?), a singer, a spy—but never part of Robin’s merry men. Naturally, I’ve started to wonder why. Maybe there just never seemed to be room for me in it.

Or maybe because the story itself it so multifaceted in my head. There is no single streaming plot line to plug myself into, and no character that needs my help.

Wait—what? Hold that thought. Let’s go back to the multifaceted thing.

Did I mention before how many versions of Robin Hood I’ve seen or read? Hmm. Let’s tally. Movies first. The Errol Flynn version, naturally (delightfully ridiculous with lots of laughing with both fists on his hips). The Disney animated version (I love the Scottish chicken maid). The Kevin Costner version that I adored at the time (back when Christian Slater was so hot right now). The recent BBC series (so bad…and yet I can’t look away). Some sad, sad version with Keira Knightley as Robin’s daughter (there’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back). The newish Russell Crowe version (very good…half the time). And of course, Men in Tights (I have no need to ever watch that again, excepting maybe the song and dance about tight tights).

Robin Hood books. Hmm. I’m failing to think of any kid’s or YA version at the moment. They must have been there, though. My brain is calling up some vague memories of illustrations. Robin McKinley’s version is quite nearly great, but she’s had me on the hook since The Blue Sword. I recently read the King Raven series by Stephen Lawhead. Liked it. Took a different twist in history and did good things.

So…the point—ah, yes. All of these versions are different from each other, in small or large ways. And I like that. I like the three-dimensional picture it builds in my brain, and the contradictions don’t trouble me. I do not need it all to fit into one master storyline. But there is so much going on, so many threads, so many different outcomes and storylines (and musical numbers) that I’ve never felt a me-shaped hole anywhere. Maybe that will change in the future, I don’t know—I have yet to kick the “write myself in” habit, if you must know.

So why is it that one of the few iconic stories of my childhood is the one I’ve identified as having the most influence on me?

I don’t know. Maybe because it has no “hole,” needs no “fixing”? Maybe, but…I doubt that is all the reason there is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it just made me want to shoot things and climb trees, not join the plot line.

Well, they say that the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

stories, legends, and fairytales

Do you remember your favorite childhood story? Was there one book, one character, one storyline that captivated you more than others? I like to think so.
Now, I'm not so much talking about stories you liked as a toddler or preschooler; I'm talking about stories that you just seemed to gravitate to as an eight or ten year old, when you were old enough to have (a tiny bit) of discernment, but young enough that your imagination still ran rampantly wild.
For some of us, it may be a fairytale, one of the familiar classics like Beauty and the Beast or Cinderella or the Prince and the Pauper or Jack and the Beanstalk. For some, it may be a broader story, a cultural legend mashed with history like Paul Bunyan or Davy Crockett or Annie Oakley or King Arthur. Maybe it's a staple of classic literature, like Huck Finn or Oliver Twist or...you get the idea. I hope. I hope you're resonating with this. Either that, or you're thinking I've gone 'round the bend (again).
Whatever your story, it affected you more strongly than any other--it seized your imagination somehow. You dreamed it, played it, asked for dress-up outfits...
And if your attachment was particularly strong, you still find a corner of your adult brain reserved for that story. It is part of the hundred things that shaped you into the person you are today.
What is my story? I bet you're wondering, by now. Fine. I'll tell you. It's Robin Hood. (Is anyone surprised?) I don't even know the first time I heard the tale.
You know what gripped me? Not Lady Marian, not the Norman/Saxon dispute, not even the robbing the rich to feed the poor. No, when I was about ten, it was all about two things: the forest and the archery.
And now...now I find it still holds me. All of it--all the hundred different retellings and variations and anomalies. If it's a movie, I see it. A book, I read it. It is a rich tapestry of legend, still growing and changing after however many hundred years. Action, romance, beautiful scenery, more action, smart alecks...what is possibly missing? (maybe personal hygiene, but whatcha gonna do?)
I'm still wondering what this all means, why it matters to me that I have a story, or why it matters to all of us to have one. I could throw out fancy words like archetype or collective cultural experience, but I'm just not in the mood. I might come back to this later. In the meantime, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
What's your story?  

a small midwinter rant

The choices I make—am I timid, lazy, or shrewd? Why is it that so often my behavior could fit any one of those categories? You’d think I would always know which I was being—but it’s just not so. I have an itchy feeling that it’s not usually the last—at least not nearly as often as I hope it is. Shrewd is just fine, but whatever I’m about, I sure don’t want to be lazy and scared.


How can I change this? The easy way out is to assume that all I need is some grand, all-consuming goal. Some mountain to climb, some passion to pursue. Then I could have a yardstick with which to measure myself. And isn’t that what we all crave? Solid proof that we’re on it, that we haven’t missed the bus?

But I have a sneaking suspicion that life isn’t all about what I do. It’s who I am while I’m doing it. Maybe I’ve said that before, I don’t know. If so, it’s worth saying again. It doesn’t really matter if I’m an editor or a skydiver or a shopkeeper. It doesn’t really matter if I’m married or single or the mother of six. There is no bus to catch. Who I am is deeper than that. Who I am is not what I do—or don’t do. I cannot find fulfillment in simple action. Action is the effect, not the cause.

Alas! Life would make so much more sense if I could live it that way—if I could dial in to my one concrete thing, like a surfer catching the ultimate wave just right and riding on home. But it’s not. I’m young(ish) and quite regularly dumb but I at least know that. Life is not that shallow.

But I’m not about to take that as a reason to sit back on my can and just focus on being. (Perhaps with some chanting and a candle?) No way. Such an inward, selfish focus is equally no good.

There is no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and digging into this crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd thing called life. We were built to do. But—pardon the sentence construction—doing is what we do, not who we are.

So who am I?

And does it matter if I know? Some days I really really think so, and some days…I do not. No one ever truly figures themselves out, no matter how much we navel-gaze. I don’t think we can. We’re not supposed to. We are the creature, not the creator.

And that, bottom line, is who I am. I am a child of God. I’m his crazy beautiful paradoxical wonderful odd daughter. Everything else is peripheral. He tells me not to worry so much about whether I’m timid or lazy or shrewd. If I listen to him, I’ll be just fine. More than fine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I can probably do fine all on my own.

But I don’t want fine. I want freakin’ awesome. And that is not to be found in the messages the world tries to sell me. I could be rich and skinny and madly in love and still—in ashes.

Is that my whole point, here? Maybe. If I must have a point, that’s as good as any.

most awkward scenarios ever, part II

The company Christmas party. Yes, it’s just about that time of year again.
Office Christmas parties can be rough, even if you work with decent folks. There’s just endless opportunities for awkwardness. Example: bringing a date. Do you? Don’t you? All of the married folk will bring their spouses. Who wants to be number seven at an eight-seat table? Awkward. But so is bringing a random date to fill that eighth seat. More awkward. There is bound to be a bit of inquisition, especially since he is not a committed significant other. The best solutions I’ve come up with thus far are to a) bring my mom, or b) join forces with other single gals at the office and claim our own table.

But what if we went for a third option? What if we took the awkwardness up a few more notches? Instead of a regular date with an acquaintance—how about a blind date? Oh boy. Nothing says “doomed to fail” like a blind date at an office party.

Even better—how about all of the single girls in the office all bring a blind date? Now we’re talking pain. All of us could writhe in agony together.

But we’re not quite done—there’s one more bit of awkward joy we could add: each girl brings a buddy of hers as a blind date for one of her coworkers. We could draw names, like Secret Santa.

And the awkward bus has arrived.

So next time you’re at a company Christmas fling, single ladies—remember it could be worse. Much, much worse.

most awkward scenarios ever, part I

Sometimes it’s good to give yourself a little perspective—realize that whatever happened (or didn’t happen) isn’t, perhaps, quite as bad as you thought. Take a step back. Reduce the level of self-induced drama.

One of the most enjoyable ways to do that, in my opinion, is to imagine how horribly it could have gone.

Example: you spill half a glass of red wine on yourself at a party. Sad. But it could have been worse. You could have spilled your glass on another woman (perhaps your boss or pastor), and while floundering to help her clean up, you trip on the shag rug, accidentally grope her, and catch yourself on the wobbly end table—which has candles on it. The candles fall, and the alcohol-infused rug bursts into flame. You put it out, but burn your writing hand. You will now spend at least the next two weeks in awkward, pain-filled misery.

See, spilling some wine on yourself wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?

pressure? what pressure?

Somehow, I’ve been working on a little more young adult/teen material than usual this week, and you know what that does? It make me think about my own spent youth—who I was, who I am, where I’m going—how my life and personality have been shaped. Things I’ve done—and things I haven’t done. Things I have barely been tempted to do, that seem to drive so much teen trouble.


Case in point: fitting in. Being a vital part of the group. Any group. Identifying myself with a particular clique versus another clique.

Not my thing. (Even in junior high, when I wandered about basically friendless and nose-deep in books. Throw in a couple tree forts, lots of grass stains, and still-developing physical coordination, and you get the idea.)

Perhaps that’s noble. Or would be—if I’d done it intentionally.

But I seem to be lacking that thing—whatever that thing is—the thing that prompts people to try super hard to “fit in.”

Not that I wouldn’t do it. (Like I said—I’m not quite noble.) Sometimes it sounds nice, though it’s less vital now that I’m all big and grown-up. (Ish.) I just don’t seem to know how to go about it. So I really don’t. Not deeply, anyway. I maintain socially acceptable behavior, no worries, but that’s not the same thing. You dig? Or am I off my rocker?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.

And I do have friends, I promise. I like people. Some more than others, natch, but I like people. (Quit laughing. I do. Most of the time.) I like to hang out and laugh and dance and play.

But trying to be popular? Nope. Not me.

The same with peer pressure. I can’t really say I’ve ever felt pushed to be a certain way, to adopt a certain personality. I’m sure it has affected me—I’m human—but perhaps the effects have been more subtle, below the radar.

Let’s put it this way: you say “peer pressure,” and I look up and go, “What? Huh? Oh, look—something shiny.”

Either I’m socially maladjusted or I’m way ahead of the curve. Eh. Who knows?

Perhaps I should join the “I don’t quite fit in” club.

Sorry, couldn’t resist. I love the irony.

ever wonder?

You can tell a lot about someone just by studying their hands.
At least, I think so. Ok, so perhaps it's not entirely accurate--no one can change how big their hands are, for example. But otherwise...well, it's interesting to think about.
As it just so happens, I have a pair to study. Mine. (Of course, the sample size is a bit low, and biased, but cut me some slack. I'm ruminating, here.)
I have big, strong hands--for a girl. A dairy farmer would quickly put me to shame, but mine are good enough to open 89% of all jars on the face of the earth and that's something.
My nails are short but not ragged or gnawed, and my cuticles are the victims of benign neglect. They've never seen a manicure and would probably laugh at the very idea. Several of my nail beds have clearly been jammed in at one time or another, which you can see if you compare left to right.
Small scars from nicks, and cuts--all minor--and one pale streak on the back of my left pointer finger from my first experience with a chisel. Most of the women I know have smoother (and smaller, but that's beside the point) hands than I do. A little beat up, a little used. As they should be. What are hands for, if not use?
However, you can tell I'm not that tough from my lack of real calluses. My most pronounced callus is from writing. But it's on my ring finger because I'm weird like that.
So, what does all this say? I can draw conclusions because I know the answers. I know I work in an office and write a lot and...well, what else? You tell me.
Are these hands of mine special? Unique? Or all too ordinary? Yes to all of the above?

On a tangent: thinking about hands makes me think about handshakes. I got nothing but respect for my male counterparts...but I've shaken hands with a few "scholarly type" guys with hands like silk, and I just can't trust man hands like that. When I'm afraid I've hurt the guy with a healthy handshake...there are issues. Sure, you work at a desk...but does that mean you never, ever wield a shovel? A canoe paddle? Anything?
Hmm. That's a whole 'nother ball of wax. I won't go into that today.
And if you are a smooth-handed man, don't fret. We can still be friends. But...you may want to apply some sandpaper or something before asking me out on a date. I'm just sayin'.

a thoughtful thursday

You know that feeling, when you’re just trucking along through life and then something…crumbles. And just like that, things fall apart. Not everything. Just something—enough to make you feel off balance and aware of your terrible fragility. A bad news story. A relationship gone awry. An accident. A death.


I hate that feeling. I wish it never happened—or at least, only happened every once in awhile, like during an F-5 tornado. No one would feel wrong for falling apart after a friggin’ F-5 tornado. It’s simply what happens. And it’s not your fault—seriously, blame the giant life-sucking whirlwind of doom, man. There would be something wrong with you if you didn’t lose it.

But…that’s not how it works. We’re crumbling at the corners nearly every day. From things both small and large. I am beyond wishing never to crumble. Sure, it sounds good, but sister, that just ain’t gonna happen. I’m human. Everyone around me is human, too. Perfectly wonderful (wink) though I am…I’m a disaster area. Just like everyone else.

And here’s the rub for me, as a Christian. Logically, I know that I’m supposed to be ok with falling apart. I know that I can’t hold myself together, and I know that I’m really not supposed to, even. Broken is supposed to be ok. I’m supposed to live all messy and let things hang out and trust in the grace and mercy of God—that he’s got me in hand, and all will be well. Whole in my brokenness, saved by the paradox of Christ. Right?

And when trouble comes, and I feel part of my heart crumble like a stale cookie, I wish…I wish…

I wish that I truly could be ok with it. I wish that I could really let go. I wish that I could stumble through life not caring in the slightest if I have all my crap together.

Is that so strange? Am I wrong for thinking this?

for Jeff

It's Friday, so I'm wearing jeans.
I decided not to go to Jeff's funeral service today, because I went to the visitation yesterday. I paid my respects, I said my prayers. I cried a little. I said goodbye.

But it's surprisingly hard, today. Everytime I see someone dressed in their funeral best, it's like a slap in the face, telling me "That's right. Death happened here. Don't forget." And lots of people are going, carpooling from the office, right about...now, in fact. I hear them gather, putting on their coats. The office gets quieter.
I'm going to keep working, going to keep moving, going to keep on doing what needs to be done. Because I don't know what else to do.

But it's hard, with this funny little ache that comes and goes, catching me just when I've started to relax.

Logically, I know what to do. Don't stuff your grief, but don't dwell. Do express yourself, but don't try to drum up exaggerated emotion. Do pray for mercy on the family. Don't say anything stupid. Do be glad that Jeff's in heaven. Don't for a moment kid yourself that you don't still want him here.
Don't don't don't. Do do do.  

You know what I regret the most? That I didn't know him better. Perhaps I shouldn't feel that way--after all, if I'd known him better I'd be grieving harder now, right? Logic. But logic has little place here, today. Logic can go stuff it.

Where am I going with this? I don't really know.

I suppose this is the part where I roll out some beautiful rumination on life and death, something profound, or a statement of faith. But I'd have to go shallower in my heart to make that happen, and I don't think Jeff deserves that.

He deserves me at a loss for words.

as dumb as sheep

I don't know about anyone else, but I know I can go from hip and intelligent to decidedly dumb in less than one point two seconds. It's like a switch that I can't control, a button that gets bumped into--and bam! Stupidity.

Fortunately, for the most part I contain the toxic spill within my own brain, and offer minimal evidence to the world in general.

Unless you happen to be the person I'm speaking to when the idiot light goes on. Sometimes I clam up, and make eight-year-old level comments. No sentences over five words long. (Yes, that was yesterday.)
Or worse--I babble. Things just drop from my mouth. Silly things. Or worse--mean things. Wit and sarcasm gone horribly awry.

I almost always notice when the light goes on, and try to act normal, casual--but the button has been pushed, and the system needs a reset. It may take three minutes, it may take an hour. There's no telling how dumb I'll be or for how long.

And somehow, I don't think I'm the only one who has this problem. We all have...ahem..."issues." Some have more obvious and/or violent ones than others, but we all have them. We're all royally screwed up. It's a switch we can't control. It doesn't matter how self-aware we are, or how good our intentions are. That idiot light will always pop up.

So how can anyone live in this world and not think they need a savior? Surely it's not too hard to see that we all need to be rescued from our own junk. Especially this time of year, when the regretable, illogical paradox of what we have turned Christmas into stares us right in the eye. It's the season of loving, caring, sharing...stuffing our faces, and trampling people as we rush to seize the deal. Doesn't that just make your skin crawl?

Mine does. Because I know it wouldn't take much for me to be just as stupid and selfish, much as my pride would like to argue otherwise.

We focus on the cheap, temporary gifts, and miss out on the greatest and best and most wondrous gift ever. The eternal Gift.
Freedom from my own stupidity. Forever. Someone to set me on my feet whenever I tip over. Forever.

Happy birthday, Jesus.

going for broke

So, I'm gasping for air, sweat making my shirt cling to my body and running down the sides of my face. It's chilly, so my nose is running. I've taken a couple hard falls; I know I'll be sore tomorrow. I wish I had cleats  on; I've lost my footing several times today, once falling flat on my face, almost hard enough to knock the wind out of me. One of my hands stings; I've definitely bruised the meaty part of my palm this week; last week I broke a blood vessel on one of my fingers. Three weeks ago I earned a hand-sized bruise on my shin.

What on earth am I doing? I'm playing. Playing hard. Really hard. I've never been particulary nimble or quick, but by pushing hard I can keep up with just about anyone in this group.
Why? Why punish my body like this? Why try so hard when it doesn't really mean anything?

Because it's not punishment. It's love.

Love of life, and love for my body--for the fact that I can run and jump and hurl myself through the air and catch and throw and fall and laugh. It makes me feel alive. Truly, truly alive. Something in me loosens, for better or worse, making me just a tad wild and loud and flamboyant and perhaps, depending on your persepective, totally nuts. Those who know me are nodding their heads. Perhaps laughing. They've seen me like this.

So, even though I'll need a hot pad for my back after the game, I'll do it again. And again. Because life should be more than just sort of trying. Sometimes, you gotta push it. I'll never be an all-star, and I'll certainly never look attractive while doing it--but I do it, gladly.

I fall again, as three of us collide. I roll over my shoulder onto the cold turf, and laugh. I'm not the only one laughing. I bet God is laughing to, delighting in the fact that I delight in this body he's made me. And laughing because I look so silly.

cobwebs and other things in my brain

So, I'm working today. Really. Pages are turning, emails are flying snappily about, manuscripts and ads and cover copy are all marching their way across my desk...
But that's not what I'm really doing.

What I'm really about is good old-fashioned daydreaming. I'm super good at it. It's a natural talent I've possessed since infancy. Just ask my mother. The difference is that the adult me can multitask. Hence the working and the dreaming. The child me just stared off into space and answered parental requests with "yeah" and "ok, I will" without remembering she had done so.

So what am I thinking about? Lots of things, really. Snippets of stories, song lyrics, things to do in my new house...

And what my ideal life would look like. Lifes, perhaps--since I always seem to come up with more than one potential scenario. Scary how often these comes to mind, since they generally bear little resemblance to my current, actual life. Granted, this has to be taken with a HUGE grain of salt. Dreams have a lovely way of scooting around anything messy, complicated, or potentially disastrous.

Start a home textiles business and B&B on Mackinac Island? Sure! You'll love dealing with customers--and you'll turn a healthy profit, naturally. It'll be nothing but super fun. Write novels in the slow winter season? Go for it! They'll sell great, and you'll always be inspired and content...living with your eight cats...not talking to real people more than once or twice a week...

Maybe I'm a little jaded. Perhaps sardonic, even. (no kidding, you say) I prefer to think that I temper my dreams with logic. Realism. Not pessimism. I don't think I've ever been accused of being negative. Nope. I hate whining. I hate hearing people (including me) sabotage themselves through excuses and doubts. And I see too many possibilities for pessimism to ever take root. Too many dreams, too many might-bes...

Crap. I've stopped working. I have to go.

neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring!

Yep. I think the title pretty much says it all. I can stop writing now.

But I won't, not just yet. In case you're wondering: yes, that is a quote. It's from A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle, one of my favorite authors. I love Madeleine simply because she's real. Her characters are real. Real people that screw up and are confused and want to do the right thing but don't always know how. (The flying unicorns and singing stars and strange entities like It are just a bonus.)

"Mom," Meg Murry says, whining a little. "Charles Wallace says I'm neither one thing nor the other--neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring!"
"Who cares?" says Calvin. "You're Meg, aren't you?"

Sometimes I'm a lot like Meg. Even though logically we know that people don't fit neatly into pigeonholes, we still try. We still find it confusing or disheartening when we can't fit ourselves into some tidy category. I get frustrated, feeling that I fit nowhere.

Logically, no one "fits." I know, I know! Since when are emotions always logical? "I'm neither one thing nor the other!" I cry with Meg.

Who cares? I'm me. Me, with all my diverse bits and pieces. Deep down, I know that I am better off this way. God made me this way, and he's not in the habit of screwing up. And I do belong. I belong to him.