Real

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real, you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

Source: The Velveteen Rabbit

The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore

A small gift of a film landed in my lap today. I found myself feeling melancholy about the loss of my fall position as librarian and caretaker of the stories at the elementary school I have been working at for the past couple of years. Most of the time I don't dwell on it, but with the dreary rain today and the smell of fall in the air already my heart began to break again for the loss of those small wee faces upturned to hear me read to them my favorite stories and to help them find their own.

I can't even re-create the steps that brought me to Moonbot Studios website for morrislessmore.com but I was instantly enchanted. I poked through the site, watched all of the vimeos available and was hooked enough to lay down real money to download the short award winning film. It is stunning and heartfelt. Have not been so moved by film since the first 30 minutes of Pixar's Up.

It begins in New Orleans and tells the story of the hurricane stealing everyones stories. Miraculously no words are spoken but hope is restored for this community as Morris finds his own story again. Watch for the little red head at the end of the film... she too was a keeper of stories, even for a short time.

Please make sure to click through this link to watch a tiny preview - it won't let me embed it here - you won't regret it, promise.

The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore

Humpback whale says thank you to the people who saved her

This is so moving - an incredible metaphor for freedom - the joy with which she explodes from the water afterward is magical.

Soul Gardens

Here's the link to the talk I gave last week at church - I was really happy with the way it all came together:

Soul Gardens

Vulnerable like a bird

Birds have become an important metaphor for me this past year - so I really loved this thought:

Life is precious. Not because it is unchangeable, like a diamond, but because it is vulnerable, like a little bird. To love life means to love its vulnerability, asking for care, attention, guidance, and support. Life and death are connected by vulnerability. The newborn child and the dying elder both remind us of the preciousness of our lives. Let's not forget the preciousness and vulnerability of life during the times we are powerful, successful, and popular. ~ Henri Nouwen

The Moon is Always Whole

God of the two lights,
I love the sun,
its revealing brilliance,
its lingering warmth;
but in the dark of night,
let me learn
the wisdom of the moon,
how it waxes and wanes
but does not die,
how it gives itself
to shadow,
knowing it will emerge whole
once more.

Jan Richardson, inspired by Barbara Kingsolver's poem "Remember the Moon Survives"

via - The Advent Door

this is so me right now

Waiting for the pen to dry up so he can start fresh with thoughts that are worth new ink.

via Brian Andreas, The Story People

It was what I was born for

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for--
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world--
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.










Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant--
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these--
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Source: Why I Wake Early, Mary Oliver

via inward/outward

I'm sorry

Great article on the difference between true apologies and apologia - based in the political arena, but useful as a metaphor for teaching in all areas - what is the real difference?

Joe Wilson, Obama and the Clintons: The Dance of the Apologists

To hear the things ye hear, and heard them not

Pete Rollins is having a parable writing competition - very cool:

To mark the US release of my latest book, Paraclete are running a writing competition. The idea is to get you, yes you, to write a parable dealing with pretty much anything. It should ideally be between 100 and 1000 words in length. Oh, and you can enter as many times as you like.

First prize is a beautiful limited edition print entitled ‘New Life‘ by the artist Jared Robinson (Jared is currently collaborating with me to create work inspired by my writings). You will also receive $100 worth of Paraclete books of your choice and the adoration of your friends and family.

Second and third prize will receive $50 worth of Paraclete books.

My desire in running this competition is to help people rediscover the importance and power of parable. So, if you attend a writing circle, church community, youth group etc. you might want to take some time to explore the theme of parables (suggested reading below) and then encourage everyone to write one.

So what are you waiting for? Send your entries to Carol Showalter, no later than 1st August, 2009. 

The entries will be judged by myself and the winners announced on 1st September, 2009 both here and at Paraclete Press.

Tips:

A parable can be loosely described as a short, fictional narrative that draws the reader 
into an insight concerning some aspect of faith and life. Parables often work best when 
they challenge commonly held attitudes and unmask the poverty of some widely held value. Parables are generally structured in a very simple and stark way, with a narrative that avoids any unnecessary detail that may detract from the central, evocative message.

Some books, apart from my own, that might help get you in the mood include,

The Song of the Bird

Parables of Kierkegaard (Kierkegaard’s Writings)

hat tip to Adam at Pomomusings because I read his blog post even before I read Pete's :D

image credit: ‘New Life‘ by the artist Jared Robinson also at Eye-Catchers Media

The White Pebble by Hugh MacLeod

I Love to Tell the Story

What a wonderful experience Sunday was for me. Other than being sick and hyper from the cold medicine I took I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The picture is of my new storyteller statue that I got for Mother's Day. I used it for the background of the power point slides.

Here's the link to the talk, I'd love any feedback if you do listen to it:

I Love to Tell the Story

Reconstructing Heidi

This past winter has been emotionally difficult for me. I don't think it was a full blown depression, but a "recess" of sorts. Not the fun recess you always enjoyed in elementary school, but the "backing away" kind of recess that seemed to set me apart, withdraw and tuck in. Starting my degree work, Jacob's diagnosis of juvenile diabetes and the S.A.D. of winter seemed to pull me into myself. It didn't have the ear marks of many of the other deep, dark episodes I have lived through, but I knew I wasn't my best self.

Spring has finally descended on the east coast, and I knew that getting to the shore was a high priority for me. Things kept getting in the way of that and yesterday I finally had the time, the car and the break to get away. I looked at it as a time to restore my soul. Getting near water always seems to do that for me, especially when there are waves involved. Lake Geneva always had beautiful waves, white caps even. For such a small lake it had noisy waves and I always found peace when I was quiet enough to listen.

Our ocean here in the Bay of Fundy has incredible tides, but most of the time they are noiseless. There are a few beaches though that make noise as the tide comes in. Yesterday morning I knew I wanted to be at one of those beaches. The best one, Jasper Beach, is such a long drive, but the music of the waves in the rocks is like no other place on earth.

Gas prices are high and my desire to sit in the car for a long period was low, so I decided to go to our favorite beach combing spot which is the closest to home. The little town was under construction. They are widening the road for the dreaded natural gas line that has railroaded it's way into our serene little spot on the planet. The trucks, construction and dust was everywhere. I wasn't sure I would get into my secret parking spot to walk to my secret beachfront - so I opted for the boat launch instead.

It's a nice little park with a few picnic tables and an expanse of rocks to climb and comb, and I had always wanted to see if it was as rife with beach glass as I had hoped. It was not. But the smell of the sea and the sound of the water was there and I climbed the rocks and toted my camera in case there was anything that moved me.

The noise of the trucks kept interrupting my thoughts and I began to get frustrated. No glass, beeping trucks and that still, small voice of fear in the back of my mind saying that God wasn't going to show up today. That I was really going to be on my own again, that familiar feeling I seemed to push away all winter.

I finished the beach and started to roam the park. Enjoyed the small violets pushing through the leaves and brown grass as if to thumb their nose at the noise and winter. I remember picking those as a little girl in my back yard for my mother when I should have been napping but snuck out of my window instead.They brought back nice memories.

My tummy rumbled and I remembered my packed lunch and thought that sitting at one of the picnic tables in the sunshine might redeem the day. As I sat there I took pictures to show just how amazing the view here truly is. I am blessed. People save their pennies to vacation in such beauty and it's literally right down the road from where I live now. I was grateful.

The thought of opening myself to my surroundings so that I didn't miss anything came to me again and I said a prayer that I be aware.
I watched as about a dozen ducks came into view. I think they were eider ducks, but I wasn't raised around here, so I'm not sure. They were amazing as they would dive deep, for nearly a minute and resurface down the shore, popping up and floating, returning again to the deep, all knowing where the flock was going, all staying in close contact and all resurfacing together to continue down the shore.

I tried to noodle out the deeper meaning of community, fearful this was the message I was supposed to "get" today. Nothing deeper came. Again, frustrated I gathered up my lunch and returned to the trusty, old Volvo to pack up and head down shore to the glass picking beach so that the day wouldn't be a total wash.

As I walked back through the grass I came upon a pile of old, seaworn bricks. All shapes and sizes, collected by someone and set there so purposefully. I walked on to the car imagining the child who saw them as treasure, but the parent who disagreed and made them leave those precious objects behind. It seemed like such a loss. So much work to collect.

As I got to my car I was struck with the urgent need to honor them somehow. Collecting rocks has always been a bit of a silly habit of mine. The thought came to me that I could build an innukshuk with them. I stowed my gear, slung my camera around my back and returned to the pile and attempted to carry all of the loose pieces to a place of honor. I would regard the time and effort that child (because, who but a child would labor so diligently and have their hard work be shunned so carelessly?) put into collecting these precious objects. Just tumbled old bricks that had floated down shore from the factory that used to employ this community.

Now I had a puzzle. Since moving here I have become fascinated with innukshuks. They are monuments that say "I was here." The Inuit in the north use them as markers for winter travel. Their formation is ritualized and the stones are gathered by the whole community. Each type of formation tells something to those trained to read it.

There is water here.

We went this direction.

Civilization is that way.

To those looking for markers along their path they are life savers.

I have always rejoiced at seeing them along the highway. Tiny landmarks that spoke of someone taking the time to signalize their place in history. The ones we have locally are not those of the great tribes, but they still speak of signposts along the path to me.

I have heard that each stone gathered is to be used by the tribe to make the innukshuk. I had 13 pieces (my favorite number since childhood) and they were all shapes and sizes. These were not stones either, they were former bricks, so they were not the types I would have gathered on my own. I would have chosen some long, flat rocks to give stability and arms to my statue, some sturdy legs for a good foundation. Not these random, misshapen lumps. I was tempted to give up. Leave them in a pile for someone else to find. A small ebenezer to still honor the work, but definitely a project that required much less from me.

No. I was determined now. This was my puzzle. As I looked at each one I realized that they were the color of my hair. I had personalized these stones somehow and would feel a measure of failure if I was unable to build them into a statue to stand tall.
As I put the stones together I remembered the conversation I had with my counselor the day before. I went to him in an attempt to untangle the snarls I have had this winter. Getting my assignments and reading done for school has seemed to be an insurmountable task somehow.

I spoke of fear. So much of it unnamed and unidentified. I had told him that sometimes it feels like my head is full of molasses and I am just unable to put two thoughts together enough to build something with. Fear that I wasted my best brain on bad theology, fear that I have nothing "academic" left in me, fear that I will fall back into the bad habit of telling men in authority what I think they want me to say, instead of voicing my own thoughts and ideas; even though these are men who respect and care for who I really am.

And then I spoke of the past few years of deconstruction. How I felt like I had dismantled, torn down and razed just about everything in my quest to find the truth, about God, about myself, even about truth itself.He said that sometimes the deconstruction process is so complete that we sometimes feel like we have nothing left to stand on. That even if we had left a few steps of the old foundation in place that we would have something at least to build on, even if it was a weak foundation. He used that metaphor to talk about building on molasses and slogging through it. He acknowledged that it's a lot of work.

I realized as I played with those bricks that what I was really doing was beginning the reconstruction process. That those bricks were the parts of me that had been dismantled and left strewn about my feet. I puzzled over each piece trying to make them all fit back together. Many times I was tempted to go find those base rocks that would make the process easier, but I knew that would defeat this process.She kept tumbling around me, and I scrambled to catch each piece. I found as I progressed that I had a good solid statue, but that there were some extra pieces left over. I began to feel a bit of a failure and then I realized that as I reconstruct Heidi, and everything I now hold dear, that there will definitely be pieces I won't be putting back into the structure of my theology, belief system and person.
It was okay to leave some of those broken pieces lying at my feet.As I walked away I turned back to see her. To admire my handiwork. I even snapped a picture. Then I realized that I should snap my own picture to mark this place. To say "I. Was. Here."

As I got back to the car another drove in. Up until that point I had the place to myself. As I turned the engine over I saw a father and son get out and a bit of panic crept in. "What if they knock her down?" I just knew she was too tempting to be left standing. And I realized that I had no control over this.

She could be rebuilt and I'm still standing.

Cracking nutshells

I read this quote from Tony Jones on Adam's blog Pomomusings from a series he is doing on the Kingdom of God. I liked it so much I wanted to remember it:

Making room for the questions is one of the aspects of emergent Christianity that many seekers appreciate. As a result, emergent Christians often get labeled as “slippery.” They’re told they don’t answer questions directly but answer instead with another (often deconstructive) question. But, these questions are actually attempts to get to the assumptions underlying the initial question.

So questioning is not an act of defiance on the emergents’ part. It is a trait of integrity.

When someone asks, “What is the Gospel, in a nutshell?” I often quote my friend, philosopher of religion Jack Caputo, who wrote of the philosophical impulses of “deconstruction”: “Nutshells close and encapsulate, shelter and protect, reduce and simplify, while everything in deconstruction is turned toward opening, exposure, expansion, and complexification, toward releasing unheard of, undreamt of possibilities to come, toward cracking nutshells wherever they appear.”

Quote taken from Tony's new book The New Christians: Dispatches from the Emergent Frontier

A Periodic Table of Visualization Methods

I can't even imagine the ways in which this will be useful - but it is the most fascinating tool - and I know it will help me tell better stories. How will you use it?

A Periodic Table of Visualization Methods

hat tip to one of my favorite gadget blogs: Cool Tools

The book opened -- a gust of wind

I'm passionate about juvenile fiction - it's the genre I hope to write in one day. Coming of age stories move me like little else and the journey from childhood to adulthood is fascinating to me. I think it probably has something to do with the fact that my own was so awkward and confusing and my love for tweens and teens that ties these together.

I am currently reading a novel by Marcus Zusak called "The Book Thief" about a young German girl coming of age during WWII. It's different, engaging and has some of the most extraordinary prose I've encountered. It is books like this that keep me from beginning my own, they are so intimidating I could only dream of one day penning such depth.

I remembered that I had documented the quotes I loved from "The Princess and the Goblin" here and so I thought I'd do the same with these.

The title of this post is the first quote - short, but so incredible in the way it captures how I feel when reading a story - "the book opened - a gust of wind". This is how story engages my soul. I literally feel my hair blow back when I pick up a good novel. This idea is so rich, I instantly fell in love with it.

The next quote is in reference to the main character, Liesel, who is struggling with reading and constantly mocked for her disability.

"She was the book thief without the words.

Trust me, though, the words were on their way. And when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain."

The words were on their way. For as intimidating as the first quote was, this one gave me hope. The words were on their way. Beautiful.

The picture of wringing words from the clouds like rain - this is what a good novel does for me. It deepens the pool of my soul. Wonderful, wonderful.

Thank you Mr. Zusak.