Heaps-o-Hope, Hello!

People and things that give me hope for 2014

Pope Francis
He really is the man in white, the good guy riding in on his '84 Renault.  I love the way the pope has shaken up the status quo, both within the church and in the larger world.  I love how he has turned his back on the glitter and turned the church's--and the world's--attention on the poor.  He reminds me that reformers re-form, which isn't always a comfortable process but one that invariably leads to new things.  My heart is fuller with this wise and brave man leading the Catholic Church. 




Nebraska
...the state, not the movie.  Although, if I do happen to see the movie, it's possible I will add it to this pile.  For now, though--and forever, I suspect--it is my home state that fills me with love and hope.  I am deeply moved by its land, its people, its relative absence of people.  When I spend time outdoors in my state, I am reminded of the earth in its infancy, of dinosaurs and virgin prairie, of my smallness in the grand, sweeping scheme of things.  And all of these things leave me breathless and grounded.  May those cuckoo cats on the coasts continue to say "Eh?" when they hear of Nebraska.

Libraries

While the gap between rich and poor grows into a cavernous maw, I can think of no other public place in the United States that offers more leavening agents than a library. Providing virtually unlimited access to millions of ideas--in the form of books and magazines, archives and the Internet--and a group of smart individuals to help people connect with those ideas, public libraries are the embodiment of the First Amendment, my favorite law ever written.  Libraries are those magical places where people may gather, speak out, express themselves, find themselves.  And all for free.  They are excellent weapons against poverty--both economic and intellectual--and it would behoove our government to fund them more lavishly than it funds wars and corporations. 


My Children
While I see bits of both Mark and me in our children, what I mostly see in them is them.  And that makes me happiest of all.  Eric and Allison  give me great hope in the future, and not because of their potential earning power or grades or extracurricular activities.  They are not resumes any more than they are finished products.  What I love most about them is their willingness to work hard and their ability to keep their feet on the ground.  Oh, and the fact that, for reasons beyond my comprehension, they still openly love their mom and dad.  Sigh.




Long Underwear

My friend Kristie has been talking up long underwear for years, but she cuts her own hair and teaches math for a living, so you can understand why I have been hesitant to get on that bandwagon.  This year, though, I caved and bought some Cuddlduds and let me tell you that two legs of stubble can't hold a stick to the soft hug of wearing Cuddlduds.  In fact, I'm wearing them right now and I swear my writing is snappier, warmer, more comfortable to read!   While I doubt that Cuddlduds would've made my Summer Top Ten list, today, at least, they feel very significant and important.  Besides, sometimes, I just wear my Cuddlduds around the house with no pants on, looking like a 19-century pugilist, which is kind of a cool bonus. Although my family might disagree. . . . .

My Reading Rainbow

The roof of my mouth is a bit torn up, what with all the chocolates and peanut brittle I've been cramming into my maw these past few days.

Fortunately, I've managed to take my mind off the dangly little skin flaps by also consuming vast quantities of good reads.  Well, maybe "vast" is the wrong word, considering I'm talking about two books, to be exact.  But, for a slow reader, two books in less than a week's time is worthy of at least some self satisfaction, if not actual words written in ALL CAPS.

Books are funny things, tidy contradictions told in 12-point type, thousands of words all neatly tucked between two covers intended to entice me.  The two I've read this week--"Skellig" by David Almond and "Me and Earl and the Dying Girl" by Jesse Andrews--were written with teens in mind. Somehow, though, both books managed to move and change this 52-year-old interloper--a school librarian who can hardly find her own pulse, much less the pulse of her teen patrons. 

"Skellig" was a delicate tale, its setting and characters all slightly askance, an air of mystery and magic surrounding them.  It was quietly transformative, both for the young characters and for me, the reader.  "Me and Earl" was downright profane at times, but I loved it anyway.  Like "Skellig,"  it, too, captured that strange grey smear that separates life and whatever it is that follows it. 

Books, which always take me away from myself, invariably lead me inward, too.  And like the first step outdoors after leaving an absorbing movie, after I close a book, I often find myself a bit lost and disoriented, blinking at the sun when I was sure it was already night. 

As far as relationships go, my relationship with books has been a very good one this year.  We have spent plenty of time together, some of it on vacation, but most of it here, in my house, with me slumped low in a chair, my hands juggling the book between them.  True, I also have walked away from a few this year, turned my back on them before they could finish whispering their stories in my ear.  And I will not apologize for that.  There is no greater freedom than choosing to pick up or put down a book, and I will exercise that freedom with reckless abandon.

Since 1994, I have kept a journal of the books I read, in part so that I might remember their titles.  Below are the books I read this year--and the accompanying cat scratchings I've made after reading each.  These are the books that stretched and moved me, made me laugh and left me utterly lost in the end.  They made for excellent companions in 2013 and, no doubt, have opened up the door for more of their friends, come 2014.

The Round House (Louise Erdrich) FICTION
"What Erdrich does best is to form characters so rich and real that we can somehow endure the brutality of their worlds and find hope and humanity in the end.  A violent, unimaginable crime almost undoes a family, but they find their way back to each other."

Dante & Aristotle Discover the Secrets of the Universe (Alire Saenz) TEEN FICTION
"Two Latino teens meet one summer day in El Paso and become friends for life.  Well told, although I don't buy the ending."

The End-of-Your-Life Book Club (Will Schwalbe) NONFICTION
"A moving account of how books bring a dying woman and her son even closer."

Marriage and Other Acts of Charity (Kate Braestrup) NONFICTION
"Another fine collection of essays by this outdoorsy chaplain, these focusing mostly on relationships."

The Miseducation of Cameron Post (Emily Danforth)  TEEN FICTION
"A coming-of-age story set in Montana's cowboy country, this tells the story of a young gay girl finding her way in life without her parents, who died in an accident.  I read about half of it...I'm nost sure she developed into a rich character by then."

Gone Girl (Gillian Flynn) FICTION
"Intense psycho thriller about a very messed up couple who moves from NY back to his Missouri hometown.  Filled with lies, deceit and an annoying ending."

The Age of Miracles (Karen Thompson Walker) TEEN FICTION
"An intriguing premise--our days begin growing longer--sets up an interesting, slowly unfolding story of a dystopian, not-so-distant future."

The Beginner's Book of Prayer (Kate Braestrup) NONFICTION
"A good read with interesting suggestions and examples."

Tiny Beautiful Things (Cheryl Strayed) NONFICTION
"Excerpts from Letters to Sugar, an online advice column, that are filled with sadness, loss, humor and wisdom."

Star Island (Carl Hiaassen) FICTION
"Hiassen's latest, it's formulaic, occasionally fun but not my favorite by him."

It's Kind of a Funny Story (Ned Vizzini) TEEN FICTION
"Ended up really liking this story about 15-year-old Craig, who ends up in a psychiatric hospital, where he finds himself and his groove again."

Tell the Wolves I'm Home (Carol Rifka Brunt) FICTION
"Well written with good voice, this story traces an awkward teen's love for and loss of her uncle, who dies of AIDS, and how she and her family find their way home again."

Son (Lois Lowry) TEEN FICTION
"The final book of The Giver series follows Claire, a castoff of her town, who finds herself thrust into a wild world beyond the stifling rules she knew growing up.  She gives up much to find the son she never knew."

My Antonia (Willa Cather) FICTION
"My first, but not last, Cather book.  Such accessible writing for being 100 years old...and, most appreciated is the way she makes the land a character as well."

Molokai (Alan Brennert) FICTION
"An intriguing, sad and ultimately uplifting story about Rachel, a young Hawaiian girl who gets leprosy and must live out much--though not all--of her life on an island of lepers.  Really liked the characters and the land."

Dreams of Significant Girls (Christina Garcia) TEEN FICTION
"Told by three girls--a wild Canadian, a kind Cuban and an intellectual Iranian--who befriend each other at a French summer school.  I liked and appreciated their unique voices.  Funny and touching."

Insurgent (Veronica Roth) TEEN FICTION
"The followup to Divergent.  I'd forgotten details of the first, so I struggled for a bit.  Tris and friends try to upend the Erudites, only  to discover that there's another world beyond the gates."

My Name is Mina (David Almond) TEEN FICTION
"Quirky, thoughtful, broken Mina picks up a journal to begin chronicling her young, lively life.  I like the format, the content, the voice of this British novel of a young teen."

Every Day (David Levithan) TEEN FICTION
"An intriguing story of "A," someone who is reborn every day into someone else's life...until he falls in love and everything changes."

The Ocean at the End of the Lane (Neil Gaiman) TEEN FICTION
"A scary, strange little story about a 7-year-old English boy, monsters, and his ageless, magical neighbors at the end of the lane."

Gulp (Mary Roach) NONFICTION
"Too much poop, but another well researched book by Mary Roach, this one focusing on our guts."

Flight Behavior (Barbara Kingsolver) FICTION
"A slow read for me, but I stuck with it.  As did Dellarobia, the independent, curious, smart and mostly trapped protagonist in this tale of butterflies gone off their trail."

Amy and Roger's Epic Detour (Morgan Matson) TEEN FICTION
"A very nice teen lit book about heartache and discovery.  Well written and good."

Prairie Silence (Melanie Hoffert) NONFICTION
"Cool title, but I thought it was a bit of a letdown.  Melanie, from North Dakota, yearns to return but is scared that, as a gay woman, she won't be accepted."

Death Comes to the Archbishop (Willa Cather) FICTION
"A gentle story of a French priest sent to New Mexico to become a bishop in a wild, beautiful land."

The Running Dream (Wendelin Van Draanen) TEEN FICTION
"A high-school runner loses a leg and has to learn how to live again.  It was okay."

Pastrix (Nadia Bolz-Weber) NONFICTION
"A tattoed Lutheran minister writes about her unusual path to ministry."

The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry (Rachel Joyce) FICTION
"A gentle, quiet story of a quiet man who is compelled to walk to a dying friend.  He finds many things along the way."

Bad Monkey (Carl Hiaassen) FICTION
"Better than Carl's previous book, this was classic Hiaassen--stupid, bad people and complicated good ones who all come together because of a human arm someone caught while fishing in Florida."

Sparks (S.J. Adams) TEEN FICTION
"An okay teen-lit book about a girl who comes out and finds her life changed overnight.  I thought the transition was forced, too quick and smooth, but a fun read, regardless."

The Uncommon Reader (Alan Bennett) FICTION
"A small, delightful book about the queen's late-life discovery of the joy of reading.  Incredibly abrupt ending, though."

The Golden Buddha (Clive Cussler) FICTION
"An exciting mind game involving a ridiculous ship filled with geniuses, and the Dahli Lama."

 Skellig (David Almond ) TEEN FICTION
"A lovely, magical story of two kids who find themselves--and a miracle or two--tucked into the broken body of Skellig, a homeless man they befriend (a followup to My Name is Mina)."

Me and Earl and the Dying Girl (Jesse Andrews) TEEN FICTION
"Profane and fun and moving, this fresh story follows two teen filmmakers--Greg and Earl--through Greg's forced friendship with Rachel, a girl who has cancer.  A quick and good read."

TWO BOOKS I'M MIDWAY THROUGH...

Dad is Fat (Jim Gaffigan)...a funny collection of stories about life as a dad of too many kids under the age of ten.

Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You (Alice Munro)...a collection of 13 stories by the Pulitzer Prize winner who is from Canada (where many of the stories are set).

The Gift of Receiving

Sure, I'm excited for my brother to unwrap the zombie-family car decal that's sitting under his tree in Bloomington, Indiana.  And I'm downright giddy about the See's peanut brittle that awaits Mark's grubby little hands.  But, amidst all of this giving, I keep thinking about what a gift it is to receive.

You cannot receive, after all, unless you are receptive.  And the only way to be receptive is to be open.  Open to getting gifts, hearing new ideas, accepting someone's help.  Open to life itself. 

Like the Christmas Eve service I just returned from, where I received the music and the lessons, the smiles from friends and strangers, and left feeling fuller and richer.  That's the funny thing about graciously receiving what others have to offer.  I become more gracious myself, excited to pass along the good that has been given to me.

So, here's to a season when we embrace the gift of receiving, a time of thanking and hugging and laughing with people for all the dumb and wonderful things they've brought to us.  Practical or outrageous, funny or touching, what others bring to my life will be received with open arms and a grateful heart.

May we learn how to open up ourselves a bit more to this crazy, strange and beautiful world and all the people who move through it.  May we receive it all with joyful mindfulness and nary a thought about all those gifts we charged at Target last month.

Small Wonders

A man was meowing in the cheese aisle at Ideal Grocery yesterday.  I backed up to get a look at him and, sure enough, there he was, howling and hunched over the gouda,  his back arched like a tom cat ready for a fight. 

The world is filled with strange wonders.  And, while some concern me, most leave me feeling both lighter and more connected.  Invariably, I can't believe I was lucky enough to have been in the right place at the right time.

I try to collect pieces of these wonders, when I can.   Some, like the meowing man, require words written or told in order to preserve them in my memory.  Others, though, are scattered throughout my house, tiny reminders of this amazing, magical world I live in. 

What would be a coin or key dish in most households is one of the go-to wonder collectors in my home.  Sitting atop the desk in our library, this tiny dish is filled with tiny treasures--a cottonwood twig no more than an inch long, with its five-pointed star sitting perfectly on its stub end; a tiny green-and-black compass earned in the pine-covered Sandhills at an outdoorswoman camp this fall; a black-and-white rocked washed up on an Italian shoreline; a ruddy, vein-laced rock I polished in elementary school that has always brought comfort to my thumb.

Atop the piano in our basement sits a cornucopia of memories collected by simply showing up each day.  Most are blanketed in a thin layer of dust, not from neglect so much as from a lack of motivation to run a cleaner household.  One jar holds a rainbow of rocks lovingly collected in the Oglala National Grasslands, each nudged there by ancient seismic shifts of our moveable planet.  Another glass container reminds me of the shoreline, intricate and beautiful shells gathered from numerous visits to ocean-side beaches.  I am certain that, if I were to lick that tiny, perfect cat's paw seashell, I could taste the salt of ancient seas.  There, too, atop that piano we paid $25 for,  sit numerous bones our family has collected from area streams, bones from long-gone animals seeking a cool drink on a hot day.

This house is a living museum to things that bring me joy, not all of them from the natural world, either.  There are books filled with stories that have changed me and  handwritten notes from friends and family, tucked safely in a file marked "Happy Things."  Our walls, too, are proof of wonder-- adorned with framed butterflies and cidadas, Georgia O'Keeffe paintings of yawning rivers, oil paintings made lovingly by my mother and grandmother.  There, too, hang broken ice-cream parlor clocks, old pinball games and an arched stain-glass window from a rural Nebraska church. 


There are a thousand reasons I love to spend time in my home, each one of them a happy reminder of  some wondrous moment that I was lucky enough to be there for. 

This week, of all weeks--when the urge to outdo or overspend is sometimes too powerful to ignore--it would do us good to wander our dwellings, and rediscover the happy reminders of all of the strange and magical wonders we've come across in our lives. Serendipitous moments remembered by a small token we tucked into our pockets.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

Three Cheers for Journalism!

I am amazed by how much my students can learn when I get out of their way.  And I'm always grateful for those moments when I'm reminded of just how much journalism still has to teach kids.

Yeah, I know.

"Journalism" isn't exactly a nice word these days.  Over the years, its reputation has been muddied by its questionable kin--tawdry tabloids, alcohol-tinged tweets and anonymous online tantrums.   But, as any decent person with a long lineage knows (and, by the way, I am neither), guilt by association only goes so far before it finally falls flat.

 But a profession whose roots wrap around the importance of telling stories is a profession still worth practicing.  And, this week, as my students polished their stories, tweaked their layouts and reflected on their semesters, I was given ample proof that old-fashioned storytelling still has a powerful place in our lives.

Sitting in a sloppy circle, sharing the ways they'd connected with someone or something they had otherwise known little about, my Newspaper staff amazed me this week.  Their first-semester final assignment was intended to push them into uncomfortable territory, but I had no idea just how much they'd learn while they were there.  Or how seriously they would approach the assignment, whether their topic was something as silly as a club dedicated to eating pie or as serious as a Sudanese refugee who had found her strength through the hardship in her life (see link to the story below).

From Africa to America– A Transition to a Better Future  By Imani Wilson

And the Yearbook staff did not disappoint either, as their semester-in-review reflections pointed to ways in which they'd been stretched, times when they connected with strangers, and the surprising benefits of taking a chance on something new (see excerpts below).

"Just a simple interview can have a big impact.  You meet new and exciting people when you are working on a piece.  I get great satisfaction in interviewing people and learning more about them.  People love it when others take interest in them--we can’t help it, because we’re human.  And, when you see your story, pictures, or layout come to life, you feel a sense of accomplishment."

And from another Yearbook student. . . . 

"I have stretched myself in this class by talking with people that I haven’t met before. I am not much of a person to talk one on one with people that I don’t know, and I have learned how to do so without worrying."

If I were to buy a textbook for journalism, I think I'd buy "The Little Engine That Could."  Corny as it is, its message is an excellent mantra for scholastic journalism.  Writing a well-told story, designing an accessible layout, capturing a powerful moment with your camera--these things do not happen overnight.  Or without risk.

I want my students to be in uncomfortable territory.  I long for them to face roadblocks and mishaps, challenges and disappointment.  I really, really want them to move past personal discomfort to risk learning something new about themselves and their world.  

And I have found that the best way to help them do these things is to step aside and give them permission to go, do, offering them occasional roadside assistance along the way.

Contrary to what all the contrarians out there are hollering, journalism is still a noble and worthwhile field and I, for one, am delighted to be standing in it.

Avoiding an OCD Christmas

I woke briefly last night, as young lips brushed my sleepy cheek.
 
"I'm home."  

"How was it?" I murmured, not waiting for an answer.

This morning, our dining room table was cluttered with the detritus of her answer, the one I did not stay awake for--a crumpled, hand-written note, a small jewelry box and a necklace, red netting cradling two clementines.  And a perfectly good Christmas sack I hoped no one had stuck tape to.

For some reason, the pile seemed foreign to me, too much stuff.  And I thought about all of the ways--most of them unintentional--in which I have imprinted myself upon my children.  I did not need her to be awake for me to know how she felt last night, wondering, briefly, if she'd underdone it.  Not gotten her Secret Santa enough.  Even though I'd encouraged her to back off even more.

"Fifteen dollars is plenty," I uttered in the line at Best Buy, a store I usually avoid, its antiseptic boxiness always leaving me feeling empty.

Of course she made it twenty.  She is conscientious that way.  Occasionally too concerned with the reactions of others to do what is plenty and practical. 

We are different in that way, my daughter and me.  But my blood runs through her--good or otherwise--and I know that she will always feel a bit removed from the forced nature of such events.

Yes, Jesus is the reason for the season, although I suspect he'd be calling for do-overs, if he could.  Besides, I have trouble focusing on the Godly this time of year, what with all the 24-hour music stations and too-bright LED lights.  And, at times, I find myself resistant to participate, my hand having grown tired of holding iced cookies.

I do not wish to impart my resistance upon these young children whose bodies hold my DNA.  I know that I should encourage them to dive in, just say 'yes,' indulge themselves a bit. 

But there is that ancient hum I cannot ignore, the one that vibrates in my very legs.  And it tells me--and my children, I suspect--to fight mightily for a stripped-down, straightforward existence, a practical and quiet life in which we can just sit a bit and be, no frills or ornaments upon us. 

It is there, in the sitting and the slow breathing, where the ancient stories can be heard, the voice but a whisper. 

Lucky Charms and a Bowlful of Hope

"Show me a day when the world wasn't new."  --Sister Barbara Hance

I know I've shared that quote before, but several things this week make me want to chew on it and enjoy its flavor a bit more.

Thursday, for instance, when a few colleagues and I were faced with leading a discussion about the brutal, hard-to-watch documentary "Bully."  I was not looking forward to the evening at all.  It was a depressing, heartbreaking film to watch the first time, much less to sit down and watch again.  And to watch it so close to Christmas?  Well, that just felt a bit cruel.

My foreboding was amplified by events leading up to the second showing--a morning migraine, a flat tire, a clock ticking, a funeral procession, malfunctioning equipment, brutal cold weather. . . .

But one line in that film has since come back to me, over and over again.  Halfway through, Alex, a goofy looking kid from Iowa with a target on his back--a kid who'd been bashed and berated, torn down and kicked--said something that made me think he would be alright.

"I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in hope."

And, just like that, Alex took possession of his life, acknowledging that he would no longer be object, but, rather, subject. 

See, you can't have luck--good or bad--unless it happens to you.  You do nothing to create or repel it.  You simply receive it.  Or you don't.

But hope?  Hope is something you possess, something that swims inside you.  It is, as researcher Brene Brown said, "a function born of struggle."  That idea, that we can blossom in the face of hardship and vulnerability, was a message Brown shared throughout this morning's episode of "On Being."  It's one reason I was so riveted by the conversation.

This snowy, soft, magical day--and a Sunday, of all things!--seems to be the perfect backdrop for a  message of hope born of vulnerability (not weakness, so much as simply being human).  And I've seen just enough dads hauling sleds up the street, just enough dogs romping through light snow and bluejays dodging hawks, I've smelled enough wood-burning fires and fresh-cut Christmas trees today to make me believe that we might be ready for a return to something more hopeful than the fear-addled times we've been living through.

I, for one, am going to give myself one very long hug today--warts and all.

Middling Woman-Child

I got to hold a baby last night.  A beautiful, tiny, fine-smelling boy wrapped up in love and fashionable, N-gauge sized clothing.  And my womb did not ache!

Apparently, I've entered that stage of life when I can enjoy an array of pleasures without actually having a darned thing to do with them.   

Hello, vicarious living!  My, aren't  you looking good today!? 

I'm thinking this stage of my life (often referred to as "DNR" in hospitals) is going to be pretty awesome, if you ask me.  And, of course, you didn't.

Why, just today, I had the absolute pleasure of reading  yet another completely mind-blowing article about Pope Francis and, even though I am no longer a Catholic in good standing, I felt a wave of love and warmth roll over me.  Is it weird that I have a tiny crush on a Pope? 

 And, when two Yearbook girls called me over to their computer this morning to show me a photo of a young man they thought was the bomb, I was able to glance at his photo and say "Ah, like fresh laundry!"  My reaction was both entertaining and perplexing to them.

Bonus, I say!  I'm at the stage where people don't exactly "get" me but they have to kind of respect me, too, so I end up the winner, no matter what stupid think I just uttered!

And what advice would I give those two fine young women?   

"Get used to it, girls!  Life is both perplexing and funny!  And sometimes the lines are really, really blurred."

Granted, I'm not yet at the "When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple" stage yet.  And I'm pretty sure that, when I do reach that stage, the Internet will be a great, grey mystery to me.  As will my phone number.

But, for now, at least, I'm liking this strange middling place I find myself in.  One in which I can speak both freely and mysteriously--often using the very same words.  I like that I am just old enough to enjoy a newborn baby without actually feeding him, yet still young enough to tell a phone scammer to cram it up his....well, that wouldn't be a very ladylike thing to say, now, would it? 

The Bystander's Blues

I woke lopsided today
--askew and askance
unable to dance
an unnameable color of grey

And the prints on the wall
--tipsy and turned
all angled astern
as though they are ready to fall
 
I think what I have is
the bystander's blues
the burden of being aside

while friends lose their hair
their lunch and their flair
white-blood cells no longer abide

No pity for us
who watch from afar
Nor should there be,
this much is true

And yet I am heavy
on edge and unsure
my worries sit
restless on you