A Normal Life

When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me".
Erma Bombeck

Sheri and I've been friends since our now grown sons were little boys playing baseball together. We've seen each other through all kinds of life changes. New houses, new towns, new jobs. Sick husbands, sick parents, dogs that got sick on the carpet. We've cried together, laughed together, and eaten way too many sticky desserts together.

Last week, Sheri was sitting on my couch. While she chewed a chocolate oatmeal cookie, I chewed my thumb. "I don't know how I'll make my deadline," I told her. "I'm behind and it's not going so well."

Sheri has heard this before. About a dozen times now. "I thought you were going to take a break from writing after your last book," she said. "What happened?"

"I dunno. I was." I exchanged my thumb for a cookie. "But then I got the idea for this story and it wouldn't let me go. I showed it to my agent. She shopped it around. A pretty decent offer came in. After all that how could I change my mind? But! After this manuscript's in, I'm taking a break. Really. This time I am. I have to. The stress is too much. It's too hard. I don't think I can keep doing this."

Sheri nodded. She's heard it before.

But here is the truth. So often, like now, I want to quit. Writing is really, really hard for me. It's scary. What if this time I can't pull it off? One would think the creative process would get easier the more you do it. Practice making perfect and all that. Not so for me. I find every book is more difficult to write than the last.

So as I round the bend on my December one deadline, I toy, yet again, with stopping all this. With trading the creative craziness of life as a working writer for a more normal, balanced existence. It sounds so appealing. No deadlines. No marketing. No fear that finally people are going to figure out that I don't write right.

But then I stop. And I wonder if I have the right to decide what I will and will not do. Is this really my life to use as I want? Over and over again I've said that it's not. I've told God to mold me, shape me, use me. And He has. He's flung open doors for me to use my talents. Allowed me to tell my stories, to see them in print, to hear from readers who are moved by my words.

Those things are huge. I know they are.

I don't mean to be so ungrateful, I tell Him. Really I don't.

It's just that sometimes it's really, really hard.

Prayer by Sara

A few weeks ago, I had the good fortune of hearing artist Sara Hickman perform at a local venue. I'd never experienced Sara before that evening so I had no idea what a treat was waiting for me.

What can I say but that I've fallen in love with her original sound. Rock? Folk? Blues? I'm not sure what to call Sara's work, except lovely. I've nearly worn out her latest CD, Motherlode. Below I've pasted an original poem Sara recently posted on her blog. It spoke to me in a special way. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

To learn more of the scoop on Sara, check out her blog at www.zenlala.com

My Prayer For The World Today

Today I found an old orange dog.
He could not hear, and he was very hungry.
I brought him home with me and gave him food.
I gave him water.
I stroked his fur.
I will give him a bath. He is very dirty.
I can tell he has been missing for some time,
and he is happy to receive attention.
He has no tag, so who can I call?

I will call the world:
Hello, world!
I have your dog!!!
Your dog is here.
And he is safe.
I am calling him “Big Galut”.
He doesn’t respond, but he likes my yard.
If you are missing your dog, please come bring him home.
He is missing you, I know.

This is how I see the world.
We are all looking for love.
We all desire attention.
We all need food and water and care and combing.
We need a backyard to play in.
We need kind hands to hug us and remind us we matter.

I want to be a woman people can trust
And depend on.
I want to be a woman who shines
With love and says,
“Yes, you can!”
I want to say,
“I love you!”
To everyone I meet.

Last night I saw a friend.
She was missing her husband.
He is in Germany.
He has a heart condition.
She looked worried.
I threw my arms around her,
“I love you!”, I said.
She was very grateful and laid her
head on my shoulder and said,
“Oh, it has been so long since I have had a hug!”

Hug the people in your home.
Hug the neighbors on your street.
Hug your fellow workers, and your boss, and the strangers on the street.
Time is so short.
Why are we in such a hurry to get to the next
red light?

Amen.

Girls' Day Out

Yesterday, my mom, my daughter, Rachel, and I spent the afternoon in Edom, a tiny nearby town that hosts an amazing annual art festival. What a fun day we had. The weather was gorgeous -- bright Texas sun, big blue sky, a crisp fall breeze.

We strolled the festival grounds and feasted our eyes on art in every medium imaginable, including hand forged jewelry, oil and water color paintings, sculpture, collage.

When hunger struck, we feasted our appetites on a single order of fried green tomatoes and a bowl of gumbo that we dived into with three plastic spoons. Rachel accepted the offer of a free sample of smoked sausage on a stick, then because the old men selling it were so cute, went back and bought one for us to share. Dessert was a funnel cake, which we shared with a curious met-on-the-spot friend from England, who had never before experienced the delights of this artery-clogging treat.

Through out the day musicians played. Especially lovely were a pair of harpists. One of the women plucked a Celtic harp crafted especially for her by her white-haired husband who sat at a tree-shaded card table selling CDs. He told me the other harpist's instrument was Paraguayan harp. Thus the interesting name of the group, Para Celt.

At the end of the day, Mom and Rachel drove home, leaving me with warm memories of a special day. While the sights, sounds, and tastes of the day were wonderful, it was the company that made the hours so precious.

How blessed I am to be a part of this multi-generational threesome.

Writer's Best Friend

" Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. "

Groucho Marx