This Contemplative Life: writing

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One Craft, Many Ways: The Gift of Large Families and Writing Retreats

On a recent afternoon, my middle son flew off the bus and in through the front door, driven by an urgent demand. “Mom! Mom! I want to buy a felting kit! Can I buy a felting kit?” he cried, throwing his coat and backpack to the ground.

“A what?” I asked, while reminding him to hang up his things.

“Get the computer,” he said, “I’ll show you.”

Curious, I pulled out the laptop and sank into a chair. Isaiah and his brother, Levi, both in second grade, crowded around me, buzzing and bouncing with excitement. I googled the words, “needle felting kit” and quickly found the set his art teacher recommended. We placed an order and several days later, the kit arrived in a small cardboard box.

The box was packed with bags of felting wool dyed in shades from black to ruby red, as well as a foam mat, finger guards, and long, deadly-looking, metal needles. Isaiah pounced on the kit like a hungry lion tearing apart its prey. Bags of wool exploded in all directions and he dove into a project following the step-by-step instructions included with the kit.

He felted like it was his job.

He felted like his life depended on it.

In short time, he completed one, two, then three penguins, repeating the same step-by-step directions.

//

Levi also ordered a felting kit. But, being more frugal than his twin brother, he carefully sorted through options on Amazon, pouring over customer reviews, before deciding on a smaller kit that saved him ten dollars. He was most excited about the plastic toolbox included with his kit, as well as a special pair of dangerous-looking scissors.

Levi’s box arrived a few days later than Isaiah’s and, given the intensity of Isaiah’s progress, Levi felt pressured and behind. He chose a project and worked doggedly toward its completion, clearly not enjoying it as much as he thought he might. Within a day, he completed an adorable owl with big blue eyes. Then, he tucked his tools into the toolbox and placed all the wool and the toolbox into a larger cardboard crate. This, the storing and saving, pleased him more than the crafting itself.

//

Finally, my third and oldest son asked if he could try felting. Isaiah gave him a small amount of white wool and he set about felting haphazardly, without the intensity and stress his brothers displayed. He made a small, white ball, then added a green dot, which became an eye. Then, he added a yellow beak, followed by a short, white tail. He laughed at every new idea, every new addition. He was playing, improvising, like a jazz musician.

Watching him, I commented to my husband, “His work is so outside-of-the-box.”

My husband said, “I don’t think he even knows there is a “box.””

//

I watched my boys working at the living room coffee table over a series of several days. I tended their needle-jab wounds and held wayward pieces of wool in place while fearing for my own fingers’ safety. I encouraged them when the going was rough and exclaimed over their finished projects.

They were all creating, but each did it in their own way.

This can be one of the gifts of being part of a large family, being part of a group large-enough to allow space for a variety of ways of being. This can be one of the gifts, too, of attending a writing retreat.

//

The Friday night Open Mic event is one of my favorite parts of the God’s Whisper Writing Retreat. One-by-one writers of every genre share glimpses of where their words have taken them. As each writer shares, the variety of voices and styles present works its magic on the group as a whole. I can almost feel the artists in the room heave a collective sigh as it becomes clear, There’s room for my voice too, for my way of being and creating in the world. There’s room for me AND you.

Part of the beauty of God’s Whisper Writing Retreat is that it echoes this “large family experience.” Exposure to others, coupled with the space to explore and hone your own abilities, leaves attendees with a clarity about their unique gifts and this clarity produces confidence and enthusiasm. God’s Whisper Retreat celebrates one craft, honed and practiced in many ways. Everyone receives the same life-giving message: There’s room for your voice too, for your way of being and creating in the world. There’s room for me AND you.

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Whether you're a beginner or a seasoned author, there's room for you at God's Whisper Writing Retreat - sign up NOW to register at the Early Bird Price which ends April 1st.

Writers' Retreat: March 3rd 2018

Savor a day focusing on your work and identity as a writer.

Reconnect with the reasons for your art, the source of your words.

Network with other writers and gain insight on integrating writing into your everyday life.

Author, Editor and Writing Teacher, Andi Cumbo-Floyd will lead a retreat for writers of all skill sets.

When: Saturday, March 3rd

Time: 9:00 - 4:00

NEW Location: We will be gathering at the Silver Spring Retreat Center in Mechanicsburg, PA. The center's Historic Waugh-Wilson farm house dates back to the 18th century and offers a blend of gracious space and natural beauty.

Cost: $60 (as you are able - please contact Kelly if cost is a significant burden)

20 Spaces Available

Registration deadline: Tuesday, February 27th

Includes:

     * Two free-writing sessions with prompts

     * Craft-talk on balancing discipline and gentleness

     * A brief workshop experience giving and receiving feedback

* Homemade lunch

* Opportunities to network and connect with other writers

Andi Cumbo-Floyd is a trained Writing Teacher, highly-sought Editor, and author of several self-published books. Her first traditionally published book is due out May 2018. Kelly Chripczuk is a Writer, Spiritual Director, and teacher and has self-published two books.

With a wealth of knowledge and experience, Andi and Kelly excel at creating a retreat space that is safe and enriching for all participants, no matter what your experience, skill level or goals may be. Our desire is for you to leave the day refreshed and encouraged in your writing life.

Questions? Contact Kelly at Chripczuk.Kelly@gmail.com or leave a comment below.

Reserve your spot via Paypal:

Discipline & Struggle

We go up to heaven and down to hell a dozen times a day - at least, I do. And the discipline of work provides an exercise bar, so that the wild, irrational motions of the soul become formal and creative.
- May Sarton in Journal of a Solitude

Seated in the corner of my office, I close the internet window on my laptop and hunker down to write. With just a half hour left before I leave to meet a friend for lunch, I ought to have enough time to squeeze in my goal of 500 words for the day.

I need to write something for the week’s blog post and, hopefully, for my newsletter too. Neither need to be very long. The problem, though, as I begin, is that, well, I don’t know where to begin. I don’t have a story to tell, not even the faintest glimmer of an idea to explore. I had a couple of ideas flitting around last week, but failed to capture them and now one is stale, like bread left out overnight, and the other is shrouded in fog too dense to be explored in this limited amount of time.

Still, I close the internet, sit in my chair, and begin. . . . (pop over to author and editor, Andi Cumbo-Floyd's place to read the rest of this piece). Leave me a message there, then take a few minutes to look around at all the lovely tools and supports for writers Andi has going on.

The Thrift Store, With God (What I Gave Up & What God Holds)

Photo by Artificial Photography on Unsplash

God and I went to the thrift store last week.

It’s was the first day my kids were back in school. Although I often go thrifting with the aim of stocking my kids’ closets, I breezed right through the children’s section of the giant store with barely a glance. The image of them each boarding the bus that morning in new shoes, shorts and sneakers was still fresh in my mind.

The day before, I had been struck by an unexpected wave of resentment at the wealth of new clothes they had and their apparent lack of appreciation for it. It wasn’t just the clothes I resented, though, it was the time, the sheer amount of resources, I sent their way this summer, particularly during the last grueling weeks of August. You see, this summer, I gave up.

I fought hard, in the beginning, to make room for my writing and working life to continue. Hard, like, wearing ear muffs in my office while my kids mimicked the rooster by my window and practiced playing the recorder outside my office door. When working with them at home failed, I took them to a free day camp program the next town over, freeing up two precious hours, three mornings a week. But it wasn’t enough. The pressure to drop them off, drive home, and dive into writing with little to no transition proved unwieldy.

By early August the impact of my evening and weekend work schedule at the library became clear. In summers past, those were times I could steal away to my office write. This summer, I traded those hours for a small but much-needed paycheck.

Then came August, with two birthdays (twins!), several days of single-parenting while my husband wrestled the engine in and out (and in and out again) of his rattle-trap pick-up truck, then several days more of single parenting while he traveled for work. All of this, right around the time the day camp ended.

I gave up. I let go of even pretending to keep the semblance of a writing life together.

At first it sucked and I was sad and mad and had All The Feels. But then acceptance came along like a breath of fresh air and it felt so good to not be swimming upstream, to accept that there was neither time nor energy for more. I lived in the reality of the last weeks of summer with four kids.

I cut hair.

I bought shoes.

I participated in a round-robin of back-to-school night events and organized a mounting pile of supply lists and schedules.

I took them to the pool and praised every new trick they learned.

I washed load after load of towels.

It was what it was.

But, after I loaded them onto their buses, when I went to post the traditional first day pictures online, I felt, again, the loss that accompanies ‘giving up.’ I scrolled through images of friends releasing new books into the world. I read updates of others heading off to new jobs teaching in local schools. I had nothing to post except for a few candid shots of my kids decked out in new gear, ready to face a new year. “This is what I did this summer,” I wanted to write. “This is what I’ve been working on.”

It seemed both sad, to me, and simply, remarkably, true.

In the post-bus quietude, I messaged a friend, “I’m trying to process what I lost/gave up this summer.” Then, I shut up the house, pulled on my sunglasses, and headed to the thrift store with God.

Like an awkward parent and teen tackling difficult subjects on a shared commute, God and I find it easier to talk at the thrift store. Something about strolling the aisles of color-sorted clothes quiets and opens me, creating a place of listening and attention, which God and I both recognize as prayer.

That’s how God and I found ourselves sifting through hangers of winter coats and blazers, discussing ‘what I lost’ this summer. It occurred to me, as I perused tan corduroy coats from the nineties and multi-colored ski jackets from the eighties, maybe I was being a bit melodramatic. I paused, with my hand on the shoulder of a pea coat and considered the possibility.

Was I being melodramatic?

Yes, perhaps I was.

I turned to God, then, for an opinion.

God said, without skipping a beat, “Yeah, you get that way sometimes.”

I stifled a snort of laughter. Of course, God knows me.

With acknowledgement came acceptance. I felt free to feel the loss – both real and exaggerated - and to trust that it too would pass.

God reminded me, then, of how it works between the two of us. “All the things you give up, I hold,” God said. “There is no part of who you are that ever has been or ever can be lost.”

How could I have forgotten that simple truth? With it comes incredible freedom – freedom to hold on when the time and space are right; freedom, even, to fight for what I want. But, freedom also for letting go when time and circumstances demand it.

I felt lighter as I moved on to rows of skirts and blouses. God wandered off into the aisles of handbags and shoes (God does that sometimes). We said we’d meet up in the car on the way home, we find that’s a good place for talking, too.

It Was Good

Photo credit: Damien Taylor -

Novelist Billy Coffey gave a great talk and reading Saturday evening.

This past weekend, three writers gathered two dozen more behind barn walls. In a square room, wrapped in wood, floored in concrete, we sat around white plastic tables in folding chairs while a fresh breeze blew in through barn doors thrown open wide.

We held space.

We held silence.

We honored words – ours and others’ and others’ still.

Then we held more silence, listened, and held space for words unspoken and words yet unheard.

We pruned words – ours and others. We trimmed back the dead, exposed new shoots, sank small sleeping seeds deep in darkness and watered them with attention and simple care. We plotted out the landscape of our days, made plans to fence in empty spaces right in the middle of our back home, work-a-day, noisy, crowded lives. We envisioned fertile ground, held apart, separate, where words and silence might wed, like water and sun, and bring forth bright blooms, arching vines, gnarled roots.

Blue sky, rolling hills, and passing clouds wove mountain magic around us and we believed, again, in ourselves, in each other, and in the truth that “what we need is here.” We found ourselves both hungry and fed, both giving and receiving; and it was good.

Friends, I am just back from helping to lead the annual God's Whisper Writers' Retreat in Radiant, VA. We've already set the date (June 22-24) for next year's retreat and will have the website up and running soon. Meanwhile, you might want to nurture your writer's heart, by signing up for Andi's Discover Your Writing Self course which begins July 1st.

Burp (verb) syn. bolt, rout, ruck

Burp verb

1. noisily release air from the stomach through the mouth; belch.

2. a noise made by air released from the stomach; a belch.

Synonyms: bolt, rout, ruck

Earliest known use: 1929

My eight-year-old son has discovered the art of burping. I don’t know where he stores them in his wiry frame, but he’s mastered a long, loud release of wind that rumbles through the air like freight train rattling down the tracks. I’m pretty sure he learned the skill – practices it, daily – with the other third grade boys in the back seats of the school bus.

For the most part, I dismiss his frequent eruptions. I figure, it’s part of having a boy and, while I don’t want to be talked at or hear the alphabet song sung in burp (a skill he’s also working on), I’ve decided to save my outrage for other more offensive aerial explosions that I’m sure are soon to become a hobby as well.

The burps, though, light a fuse in my otherwise rarely lit husband. He says the mere sound of it is like nails on a chalkboard. I find this both surprising – he is a former boy, after all – and amusing. My husband is so seldom angry while I’m so frequently irritated, it does my heart good to see him lose his parental cool from time to time.

We both agree on one thing, though, no burping at the dinner table. Otherwise, in the living room, the van, I tell my husband he’s just going to have to let it go. He gives me a pained expression in reply.

I have a habit, sometimes, of repeating things. Every couple of months or so, I turn to my husband in the middle of the mundane and announce in a voice filled with surprise, “Apples make me burp.” Usually, I say this after burping, as though I myself am just discovering the funny little quirk.

“I know,” he says, “you told me that.”

“Oh,” I say.

One night, sitting on the couch watching TV, my husband burped. “Ba-ba-ba-bup,” he said, opening and shutting his mouth as the air passed, breaking it into a multi syllabic expression.

I looked at him. “What was that?” I asked.

“A burp,” he said. “It’s what you do.”

“What?! I don’t do that!” I said, incredulous.

“Yes, you do,” he said, surprised by my denial. “You do it all the time.”

“No, I don’t,” I replied, scrunching my forehead as though searching through a mental catalog of past burps. “I never do that.”

He couldn’t believe my denial and I couldn’t believe his accusation, so we returned to watching TV as the long-married are want to do during an argument, especially if they want to stay long-married. Later though, who could say how long – a day? a week? – I happened to burp with my husband nearby.

“Ba-ba-ba-bup!” I said. Shocked, I looked him in the eye and laughed. “Oh, my gosh! You’re right, I do do that!”

I’ll never forget learning to burp a baby, watching the lactation consultant sit my tiny, hours old daughter on her knee. She cupped her hand just under the baby’s jaw bone, tilting her fragile body forward precariously, pounding with her other hand on the soft, rounded back. Holding my daughter that way, whacking her back, felt completely counter intuitive, but I quickly learned that, aside from slinging her onto my shoulder with my bone pressed just so against her diaphragm, it was the best way to get a burp.

There are few things as satisfying as mastering the art of burping a baby and knowing, with that hearty gush of air, that you’ve saved your baby pain and yourself hours of broken sleep.

I started out this morning wanting to write about fish burps. Fish burps, I now know, are a common side effect of fish oil supplements. Review after review on Amazon had customers who switched from one product to another explaining, “I couldn’t take the burps anymore!” The highest complement for fish oil online seemed less to do with its effectiveness than with the consumer’s relief, “No fish burps!”

I don’t like fish and I was hoping maybe the general sense of alarm over fish burps was nothing more than hysteria. But then I got my first fish burp last week. It was round and full, a small explosion of fishiness that rolled up into my mouth, silently. I was shocked, surprised. I thought to myself, “Fish burp!” Then I texted my husband, who loves fish and who I assumed would be more than a little envious.

“I had my first fish burp,” I wrote.

“How was it?” he replied.

“Fishy,” I wrote.

It occurs to me that, unlike the word ‘hiccup,’ which can be used to describe an unexpected interruption, the word ‘burp’ has no positive use aside from its frowned-upon bodily function. This, I think, is too bad. Is there no potential for positive association with the humble burp?

Author Anne Lamott has a well-loved quote in which she describes laughter as "carbonated holiness." It's a lovely idea, but we all know what carbonation leads to - an accumulation of air in the stomach that must somehow be released. Maybe, then we could push Lamott's metaphor to the extreme and suggest that burps themselves are unexpected explosions of holiness. Maybe.

The truth is, I didn't know what to write about this morning, except I kept thinking about (and enjoying) those round, full fish burps and the thought of those burps - the thought of writing about them - felt like a lump of air building pressure right in the center of my writer's digestive system. It soon became clear I wasn't going to have room to get much else done if I didn't make way, somehow, for that content to escape. So, I wrote almost 1000 words on burps and found I had much more to say than I thought I did and perhaps this post itself is a bit of a 'noise made by air released.' I suspect, like every good burp, it's hit you in one way or another - igniting offense, laughter or a simple reflective pause. And, now that I think about it, that's what holy things always tend to do.

But We Have This Treasure (What Happened At My House This Weekend)

But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us. 2 Corinthians 4:7

A petite Episcopalian priest and a divorced mother of two share one couch. A retired history professor and editor reclines in a corner chair. Beside him, a pastor's wife, worship leader and self-described 'queen of part-time jobs' sits cross-legged in a stiff Ikea chair. Next to her is another recent retiree, a musician and woodworker trying to get his legs back under him after a lifetime of work in the non-profit sector.

Beside me is a Grandmother with rheumatoid arthritis who works full time in the field of medical writing. My dog, Coco, sprawls sleepily on the couch between us, circuiting the room throughout the day to give and receive her fair share of attention.

We get to know each other over the course of the morning, beginning deep and going deeper still, with each of us likely sharing more than we intended to when the day began and yet finding ourselves relieved and grateful for it. By lunch time, there's a general sense of excitement and conversation flows freely.

Then, in the afternoon, we share our gifts - by which I mean, the writing we've labored over and likely felt more than a little scared to bring to share. One by one we pass white pages with black words printed on them, such deceptively simple dressing for expressions so near and dear to each writers' heart.

This is when the amazement begins.

The Episcopal priest, weighted down with the church's good work of Lent and impending Easter, labors daily on the creation of a science fiction novel. More than twelve chapters in already, she shares hopes of adding a prequel and sequel. As we read, a world unfolds (two planets to be exact), double-spaced across several pages and I'm amazed - not because it's either good or bad, but because it exists at all. And when the time comes for questions and feedback, the woman's lovely face lights up at each comment and every critique is welcomed as an opportunity to improve, an invitation to communicate more clearly.

This is how it goes for more than two hours. Pages passed around a circle and one by one the people in my living room are revealed to possess hidden treasure that shines and sparkles as they unveil a wide range of words. One writes so eloquently about friendship and music transcending a racial divide, that several readers gasp and tears spring to more than one set of eyes. Another writes a simple and sparse description of her fast from social media and we all find within her gentle words an invitation - what might we do with our hands and minds if we simply had more time?

Each story leaves us, like treasure hunters having stumbled across a rare jewel, longing for more.

"I should've brought all thirty pages," the retired professor says, obviously delighted by our genuine interest in his story.

"I only just recently resurrected this novel," the single mother says, "I'm not sure when I can commit more time to work on it." But we all, dazzled by the mystery woven in a few short pages, silently wish with baited breath and pleading eyes, for more.

At the end of the day, there's a palpable sense of encouragement, as we circuit the room one last time sharing our goals and 'takeaways' from the day. Although it's a writing retreat, it's been and always is, a spiritual experience for me. I am left with a profound sense of honor and gratitude, not unlike that which I felt entering and leaving the hospital rooms as a chaplain.

Within the human soul is a world of depth, meaning, and wonder - a small glimpse of divinity mirrored in the human being fully alive. Not just some humans possess this gift, we all do. I used to only see the great divide in that verse from Paul to the church of Corinth - the vast disparity between those earthen jars and God's extraordinary power. But, to read it that way, is to miss the point, at least in part.

Now I see it from another angle - God has placed treasure in these jars of clay and sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of March, the moment will be just right for that glorious power to shine forth and it will be all you can do to keep from squinting at the glory revealed as sunlight dances across a room full of diamonds, a gathering of simple, human souls.

This past weekend Andi Cumbo-Floyd and I hosted our annual central PA writers' retreat. Sign up for my newsletter if you'd like to hear about future events and, if you're a writer, consider attending our next event June 23-5 on Andi's farm in Radiant, VA.

Goodbye, Hello (An Announcement)

Cliff notes Version: Friends, this is a rather long post - the short version is this: Hey, look, I have a new web address! To celebrate the new address and Valentine's Day, I'll be posting a short poem or story each day this week around the theme of love. Check back frequently - next week I'll return to my usual posting schedule.

A Field of Wild Flowers grew out of a vision that arrived in early 2011 as I sat praying in the calm, white, spacious place of my Spiritual Director’s office. It came at a time when life as I knew it (i.e. planned it) seemed to have ended. It came when, for reasons deep and wide, I could no longer see a clear path laid out ahead of me; my sense of destination as well as my means of travel appeared to be irreparably lost.

Which is all a fancy way to say that my life was upended by the arrival of twins, by a departure from my job as an Associate Pastor, and by the slow surrender of my long-held dream of attaining a PhD in Biblical Studies. Before the twins’ arrival, I lived cloistered in our culture’s fantastical illusion that life is a highway – a long, sometimes winding, but steady road toward a distant destination which, most often, goes by the name ‘success.’ And, although we may each define it differently, the successful among us all agree that steady and determined movement toward it is key.

But, like Dante, “Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost. To tell about those woods is hard – so tangled and rough.” I worked through those tangled, rough woods for months before I was free enough to embrace a new vision – to accept my placement somewhat “off of the main road” and commit to really exploring it. What came to me, in the wake of acceptance, was the image of a field of wild flowers – a place with many paths, a space for wandering and discovery, a place of being rather than going.

Thus was born, A Field of Wild Flowers. Words became the lens through which I explored the daily looking for signs of life in the middle of this wide open space on the side of the road. For five years, now, I’ve lived and written from that field, finding God in everything from housework to hens. The more I explored the field of my life, the more I realized what I feared most wasn’t my failure to reach life’s highway’s destination, but the idea that God was somehow waiting for me in that imagined destination - the idea that the love and acceptance, the presence I longed for, was tied up in success' illusory arrival. Imagine, then, my continual surprise and delight, at discovering again and again that God is right here with me on the side of the road, picking flowers, tending house and home, incarnate in each moment as it comes.

Now, five years in, I find myself again in a place of transition, though less lost and less afraid. I’ve learned to make my home here in the field of God’s goodness and grace and discovered that this is, in fact, my destination. Writing has been the means of both discovering and exploring this destination. Over the past several months I've found a new sense of clarity around my intentions as I continue to nurture and expand this site.

I want to create and hold spaces where others can consider the possibilities of God’s presence in all aspects of their one precious life. I want to help others learn to live in and listen beyond the surface of their days, to begin to discover the heartbeat of God that rolls like a steady drum beneath the peaks and valleys of daily life. I want to tell stories that explore the possibilities of God’s presence, that illuminate the incarnational realities of God’s dwelling in our midst. As such, I want to open and share with you the joys, sorrows, hopes and heartaches of This Contemplative Life.

My hope is that this new site will allow me to both broaden and deepen my reach online and through in-person events. I plan to continue to post here once or twice a week and will also add a newsletter that will go out twice a month. This site will continue to boast a wide array of stories, thoughts and reflections; my hope isn’t to narrow my content but rather broaden my audience.

My newsletter, Quiet Lights, will, offer short, simple reflections, images or poems to serve as an invitation to contemplation. The newsletter will also feature updates on upcoming events.

While I’m a little sad to move away from the image of wild flowers, which continues to ground me in the present, I’m excited to move into This Contemplative Life. This Contemplative Life will continue to be a space that focuses on the small, day-to-day stories of my own life, but my hope is that my practice of attending to the intricacies of my own life will inspire you to attend to the details of your own life – for, contrary to popular opinion it’s God, not the devil, who’s found in the details.

As always, I'm grateful for the quiet, faithful readership that has grown up around A Field of Wild Flowers. A change to a new web address is a bit scary and I'd love your continued support and help as I move forward. Here are three simple ways you can help me grow this space:

* Please share this webpage, help me build a growing audience.

* Like my Facebook page (still working to update the name there!).

* Sign up for the bi-monthly newsletter, Quiet Lights, and feel free to share that and the resources therein with others too.

Note: If you currently receive my blog via email, you may need to resubscribe to continue seeing posts in your inbox.

Writers' Retreat: March 18, 2017

Reserve your spot via Paypal:

Relish (To Enjoy Greatly)

Relish verb
1. to enjoy greatly

synonyms: enjoy, delight in, love, adore, take pleasure in, rejoice in, appreciate, savor, revel in, luxuriate in, glory in

The world outside was an old gray dishrag, wet and dripping, on the day I met a writer friend for coffee. Settling in, we shared our mutual hatred of January, the way it feels like it always has five weeks at least or seven.

“February is ok,” she said. “By February I at least have hope that March will be nicer.”

This writer is a friend of a friend and has attended several of the local writing events I’ve offered. Each time we meet, we talk like people who don’t know each other well, but would like to know each other better.

Near the end of one event, as we stood talking, she said something I've mulled over for months. She had been asking what I was up to now that all of my kids are in school and when I fumbled for a response she said something like, “I think it takes a good year for a woman to recover after her kids start school.” That one sentence stuck with me and offered much needed permission as I begin the process of reemergence after years of being fully consumed by a hectic home life.

Over coffee last week we each talked about our works in progress and writing plans for the future. She’s just finished revisions on her first novel, is wading into a second, and looking for an agent. I told her how I’d written a rough draft of a memoir last spring and, in the midst of it, realized I didn’t have any idea what I was doing. So I stopped working on the memoir and started writing Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry.

“You know how, if you were going to sew a wedding dress, you would first sew a mock-up of the pattern out of cheaper material, to make sure you understood how to do it?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, nodding.

“That’s what Chicken Scratch was supposed to be, a chance to try the process,” I explained.

“Well, it worked out well,” she said.

The thing is, writing and publishing Chicken Scratch taught me a lot about publishing, but it didn’t teach my how to write a memoir and that’s where I find myself stuck now. “I’m not really sure what I’m doing next,” I said.

“Well, you did a lot - writing and publishing that book in a very short period of time. Maybe you just need to relish that,” she suggested. Registering my blank stare, she asked, “Have you done that?”

In my imagination, the word relish hung between us like some gorgeous, ripe fruit swaying on a low-hanging branch. Relish is a rich word, luxurious like dark chocolate and red wine. The act of relishing, though, is utterly foreign to me. The act of relishing sits like caviar on a cracker – I don’t know what to do with it, don’t know if I even want to try.

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.” Then, I added, “I don’t know how to. I’m a worker bee, always on to the next thing.”

With that, our conversation shifts again to future plans, but the word 'relish' stays with me for days; sticky, like a trace of honey in my mind. Looking it up to write about it today, I see that to relish is to love, to delight in, enjoy and rejoice and it occurs to me that, although the word relish may not appear in the Bible, it's synonyms sure do.

A quick glance at the Psalms, or at Jesus for that matter, reveals that people of God are to be skilled in the art of relishing - biblical writers delight in the Lord, in God's word, in creation. We are to be people who know how to enjoy the goodness of this earthly life. Without the ability to relish the good, how will we ever adequately recognize and confront the bad?

When it comes to "relishing" I have, some work cut out for me, which suits this worker bee just fine. The invitation now is to look and listen for the doorways of delight, the moments when I can open my hands, my heart, to the goodness of what is and has been done. And by doing so, I will be buoyed to begin whatever new work the future holds.

If you liked this post, you may also like Enjoy! Tales of Waitressing, Chaplaincy & Motherhood.

Fear is a Fox (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

(This isn't the fox I drew, but rather one I found online to work from - isn't it charming delightful?)

Last week I started work on a painting I planned to give to a friend. Standing at the old sink in the Little House (where my office is) I covered a small, square, wooden canvas with a mixture of turquoise and dark purple paint and left it to dry. The next day I added one or two more layers of the same colors. I liked the combination and was happy, so far, with my little project.

(This, often, is the beginning of the problem.)

Next I played with some tulle netting, painting over it like a stencil to add layers of texture and depth. Now I liked the painting even more and the more I liked it, the more my progress slowed.

Love for what was made me hesitant to move toward what might be.

But the painting was nowhere near complete. With the background finished, it was time to add an image and words. I already had words in mind and thought a fox would be a fitting image, so I looked online for a few samples to work from. With luck, I easily found a sketch I loved. I printed it and prepped my canvas board with a glossy gel layer that would preserve and protect the background while also allowing me to ‘erase’ my drawing at any point if I made a mistake.

Then my progress stalled for several days. I loved the background, loved the fox, but I was afraid to mess up either one. I was afraid to start, afraid to try, even though the gel coating meant I could begin again at any time.

I hemmed and hawed, I set my work aside and did not look the sly fox in the eye.

Maybe it wouldn’t be worth writing about if it wasn’t such a common occurrence – the way fear creeps in, cloaked in perfectionism and I, a creature of habit and instinct, caught between fight and flight, freeze like a deer in headlights.

Again, maybe it wouldn’t be much if it hadn’t happened also last week when it came to updating my book files, and if success updating the print files had (as it should have) given way to confidence to deal with the e-book files. Instead, each step ran up against (and temporarily stalled out in the face of) its own wall of fear.

I see this pattern again and again in my creativity and, if I’m honest, in my life. I prefer the known to the unknown, even when the known is not particularly good, but especially if the known is good and filled with delight.

How much time, how much energy, do I waste in this fearful pause?

Why do I fail to believe that the grace of one step might carry over into the next?

Maybe I need to become like the desert monk, Abba Paul, who worked all year long weaving baskets only to burn them and begin again each year - maybe I need to learn again and again the art of detachment, the gift of faith beyond sight.

I talked with a college student about this the other night, one who’s currently taking a drawing class. We trotted together across the cold, dark campus on our way to a Bible study and I confessed how fear had me frozen.

“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “What am I so afraid of? Especially when I could just erase it, just paint over it and start the whole thing over?”

She offered no answer, but confessed to witnessing the same tendency in herself and we continued through the crisp winter night together until we reached our destination – a small house aglow with warmth and light.

The next day, having voiced my fears aloud into the frigid night air, I pulled the fox from its lair beneath a stack of papers on the kitchen counter and looked it in the eye. With a white gel pen, I sketched the outline on my canvas first, then filled in the fur. I kept a bowl of water and q-tips nearby for erasing mistakes, but truth be told, I got it on the first try and barely erased a line. Then, emboldened by success, I added low-lights in midnight blue to bring the fox alive.

I was happy with the drawing, happy with my success.

Yet, I stopped, again, frozen in the face of the next step - hand lettering the words. How would I space them? What fonts should I employ?

I set the work aside, because now I was even more invested, had even more to risk, even more to lose. Against the purple and blue background, the white fox sparkled silver and fixed me with its shining eye.

Every wall of fear has a door. The door cracks open, for me, when I recognize fear as an invitation to examine my own intrinsic attachment and perfectionism.

Now, when the wall rises up in front of me, I imagine stretching out my empty hand and opening the door. On the other side stands the fox, staring. Then, in a flash of beauty, she turns and runs off into the night.

Every day that I create something, I bump up against fear’s wall. And, faster now, I hear the fox's sly whisper, “Look for the door.”

How do you experience and deal with fear in your creative life? In your faith life?

* * *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days. You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment. Thanks for being part of our community!