Renewal

This past weekend I took my two daughters on a quick and spontaneous trip that just happened to include a short stop-off at a beach. Since we live in Iowa, "real" beaches (the kind where the sand comes from God instead of a truck) are a bit difficult to come by around here--especially the sort of beaches where you can't see the other side. But I hunger for that exact sort of beach.

All of the time.

I'm a fan of warm southern breezes, palm trees, and white sand meeting up with the jade green clearness of the Gulf of Mexico. Unfortunately, it takes about 20 hours to get to Florida's panhandle and at least a few hours more to reach some of my favorite spots: Clearwater Beach, Sanibel Island, and Naples. Unfortunately, when the idea struck to get the heck outta Dodge on Friday afternoon, it came with the dratted realization that "the new school year" was scheduled to commence on Monday. And since my bank account couldn't support two tickets to paradise, let alone the three we would actually need, Florida wasn't in the cards for our girls' getaway this weekend. 

So we went to Wisconsin, instead.

Now normally, I don't think most people think of "beach" when they think of Wisconsin. They think of dairy cows, dairy products, guys wearing cheese hats at football games, and rolling green hills dotted with (you guessed it) dairy cows. With the fame of Chicago and the very name of the state of Michigan being shared by that big ol' lake, we often tend to forget that Wisconsin, too, borders Lake Michigan. And when you've got a lake big enough that you can't see the other side, there's bound to be a beach worth visiting.

Right?

Sure. In . . .Michigan. But Wisconsin? Really?

Really.

I've been to the "other side" of Lake Michigan. A couple of summers ago our little family took a long weekend in the lovely little town of South Haven, which boasts two beautiful beaches and is within easy driving distance of many more. Although we all love our visits to the ocean, I have to say: Lake Michigan can be a pretty sweet substitution for us budget-conscious Midwesterners. When you look across the big expanse of blue lake, it may not have the salty spray, but it "feels" like you're at the ocean.

I don't remember thinking about Chicago or Wisconsin when I was on a beach in Michigan, just like I didn't think about South Haven, Michigan as I sat on the Kenosha, Wisconsin sand last Saturday morning. All I thought of was . . . peace. And wholeness. And the strange sort of "rightness" that settles over me whenever I sit near an ocean (or a reasonable facsimile.)

There's something about a big body of water and a sandy shore that helps me find my center. The vastness, the depth, the power of the waves and tides all work together to work a mysterious peace through my soul. Every time I visit a beach--a real beach, not the trucked-in kind--I'm reminded that I need more than what is seen. In the chaos of everyday life, I need that break from the land to know that it's okay to not be able to see the other side. That there is beauty in the mystery. That I don't have all the answers and that I don't have to have all the answers. I simply need to breathe, to listen to the waves breaking and slapping against the sand, and to feel the warmth of the sun on my face while the coolness of the morning still lingers in the sand.

It's only a five or so hour drive away, this beach we discovered. As drives go, it's not terribly long, but neither is it what I would call an easy drive. There's no direct route between my Iowa home and Kenosha, Wisconsin. There are confusing offshoots of interstates I don't normally travel, every excuse for road construction known to man, and every ten minutes or so, a toll booth that will make you a pauper in its quest to pull the state of Illinois out of its monstrous debt . . . at least in the transportation department. Honestly, it's a crappy drive to get to and from Kenosha's sweet beach. But then again . . .

Why should I expect a path toward peace in my soul to be an easy road? 

As a fantasy reader and author, as well as someone who studied at least the required bits of history necessary to achieve a Bachelor's degree in the United States of America, I know that peace is generally only noticed before or after a war. A season of unrest passes, and renewal--that deep, thirst-quenching hope, wells up within.

For me, the renewal of my spirit often comes 

by way of a beach. 

There is beauty in the mystery of not being able to see the other side. And in that beauty, there is hope.

GLASS CEILINGS: Highlights, Underlines, & Notes #2

Want to know more about this post series? Click HERE for the intro

Bracketed in red pen in my trusty old NIV:

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. -Genesis 1:27

The handwritten note in the margin says: 

"identically & equally valuable in God's sight."

And I'm caused to wonder:

At what point did the early readers of this book begin to dissect that phrase and to separate, to denigrate, the place of women in the heart of God?

Here were are, so early in the scriptures--we're in CHAPTER ONE of GENESIS, for crying out loud!--and somehow, someway, women became almost immediately "less than" their male counterparts, according to history. But if this line is read contextually, not so.

The way I read this verse, the fourth word in, "man" is to be read as "mankind" or "humankind." That is not some feminist wish-it-were-so, that is contextual reading, based upon what seems to be God, making a point to clarify (after the semicolon) that "them" is meant to parallel that too-oft-misinterpreted-throughout-history-word "man" at the beginning of the verse. 

As a writer, I tend to play out thoughts like this as a scene. Here's what I see in my imagination when I read this verse. (You may picture something different, that's cool. But go with me for a sec.) I picture God, dictating the creation story to Moses. He's jazzed.  It's taking a while because, you know, Moses is a rather stubborn guy and carving words into stone? Time-consuming. But even though God is really excited to share how he brought earth and light and life out of nothing with the guy he especially picked to be his scribe, he's patient. It's just how he is. I picture him saying something like this:

God: "So I created man in my own image." 

*pause for carving* 

and then *pause for Moses to realize that means HE also is created in God's image*

Moses: Me too? In your... whoa.

God: *nods* "That's right. In the image of Me, I created them." 

Moses: *tilts head* "Them?" 

God: "Yes, them. Male and female, I created them. Write that down. It's important."

I wonder how many times since that originally carving, a female reader of scripture has come across those lines and paused, blinked, and wondered if everything she had been taught (out of context) pertaining to her feminine identity was wrong. Perhaps she had grown up in a legalistic, chauvinistic, or even barbaric home or culture. Perhaps her early introductions to Genesis had focused on how, as a woman, she was little more than a standard bearer of original sin and a vessel for producing a quiver full of sons. I wonder if, upon reading that phrase, her eyes simply skimmed over it, seeing herself not as the "them-as-connected-to-man", but as... an afterthought. 

Or did she pause to reflect about the eternal nature of God? An eternal nature that precludes the need for afterthought. 

How many times did my eyes skip over this bit of creation until I realized that it applied to me in a personal way?

I don't know. I don't remember when I drew that red bracket or made that note in the margin of my trusty NIV, only that I believe it to be true.

Surely I'm not the only one who has paused upon this verse. I have to wonder if, every time that verse causes a reader to pause, God heaves a mini sigh, shakes his head the tiniest bit, and then smiles and whispers across the reader's heart, "Yes, I mean both of you. I created both of you in my image." 

Male and female. Created in the image of God.

But... huh? How's that again? That's messed up . . . isn't it?

Not really. Because I really don't think God is nearly as hung up on physicality as we are. I think his "image" goes way deeper than our rudimentary and shallow definition of the word.

I believe it was author, poet, and storyteller Steven James who opened my eyes to the prismatic depth of this concept of being created in the "image" of God and how it relates not only to our physical appearance, but to our abilities, our creativity, our need for beauty and art and truth and so much more than we appearance-obsessed Americans allow ourselves to grasp. (side note: if you haven't read any nonfiction by Steven James, I suggest you start with his very beautifully written Sailing Between the Stars, one of my all-time favorite nonfiction titles. But really, everything of his I've read is gold, so... grab what you can and dive in!) When I look at that idea of "image" and hold it up to my version of the definition, mine is so lacking that it seems almost insignificant. 

In the big scheme of eternity, does it really matter what God looks like? Hardly. I'd wager that even when we get to heaven we won't be able to look him square in the eye--at least not for a long time! I mean, hello-oo, Glory! Before you send me angry emails, let me be clear: I'm not saying that God does not look like us physically (well, vice versa. You know what I mean.), he very well might. But it's not his physical appearance that makes this verse of scripture really sing in my heart. What matters is what of his image he has injected into us. 

And that he's put it into all whom he created in his image, regardless of societal or culturally mandated gender roles.

Male and female he created them.

You, me, him,her, us.

Outward appearance, bah. We were identically and equally created in the image of God. An image that goes deeper than skin. 

Random as always, but jumping back in.

Summer is a difficult time for me to dig in to creating new material. It's an excellent time for editing--for re-writing--but in my house, where even my husband operates by the public school calender (though  as an elementary principal his is extended several weeks longer at each end than the students and teachers) EVERYONE is home for a good chunk of the summer. I like having them home. I do. But . . . it's really hard for me to concentrate with so much activity (and let's face it, MESS) around.

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I wasn't going to post very much for a couple of weeks due to the hope of achieving some intense writing time. Well, it was a pretty intense couple of weeks. Unfortunately, most of the intensity came from interruptions rather than writing. Some were planned, fortuitous, and even enjoyable. Others were . . . not so much. But whichever category they fell into, they did manage to steal a lot of that hoped-for writing time. *sigh* Sadly, I didn't up my word count as much as I'd hoped.

Thinking back over these two weeks, however, looking at all I've done or been a part of doing, I guess I shouldn't be too upset with myself.

*The 30 year old wallpaper in my bathroom is now gone. I painted, sanded the walls (don't ask. DIY problems!) and painted some more. Now I'm only about $1000, a few trips to Lowe's, and a skilled carpenter away from bringing my bathroom into this century. (In other words, ten years from now, when I find that spare $grand and finally replace that blue-cloudy fake marble, shell-shaped double sink and whitewashed 1978 cabinetry, the now-fresh taupe-y grayish brown paint will need to be updated. But it'll do for now!)

*Albus got "fixed" -- and subsequently had complications involving his stitches and an incessant need to nip at them. I can now say that I answered a telephone call from a friend and responded to her question, "What are you up to?" with "Well, I just put a maxi pad on my male dog. What are you doing?" Also, I "slept" on the living room floor with my poor sweet pup while he got used to wearing "the cone of shame" for a couple of nights, resulting in a totally messed up body clock that has me relatively productive until 2 or 3 in the morning, but unable to really function until about 10:30 the next day.

*I got together with my "book 3" cover models and finalized the wardrobe selections for the photo shoot, which is now scheduled! Woot!

*School supply shopping, registration paperwork, and sports physicals are completed!

*One of the two color guard routines I'm responsible for choreographing for the high school marching band is almost perfected! Which means I've spent actual time *gasp!* outdoors!

*Several conversations with a few of my traditionally published friends have made me ever-so-grateful to be forging my own path through this changing industry. The more I hear about their struggles, deadlines, and lack of input into the final product, I realize that, at least at this moment in time and with this chaotic mind, I am doing the right thing for me by self-publishing. Yes, it's a LOT of responsibility and a lot of work, but honestly, I am way too *squirrel!* easily distracted, too often wracked with anxiety, and entirely too much of a control freak to go the traditional route. I am more thankful than ever to be a self-publishing author who sets my own deadlines and plays by my own rules while doing what I love. And yet... there are things about this journey that still have me occasionally digressing into panic mode.

*So, my old friend anxiety. We meet again. Yep. I've had a bit of that familiar nemesis stealing my sleep and adding to the chaos. But unlike my usual "Just lay there while my gut feels like its being compressed by a Ben-Gay-covered vice that is injecting caterpillers into my gut", I have used some of those sleepless hours productively, stepping out of E'veria and working on another project. In the last week I've completed about six chapters of rewriting on a contemporary YA romance that I hope to release within the next year, all within the wee hours.

*Although I did not accomplish as much as I'd hoped toward finishing Eyes of E'veria Book Three, I did manage to write about 10,000 new words--and cut about 1000 "old" ones. Only 15,000 to go before I dig in to the initial revisions! PROGRESS! I'll take it!

*I've also attended to my sweet gig at HEA, having submitted 6 book reviews for July releases and having completed reading 2 August releases and started a third.

So, yeah. I've been fairly intensely busy, though not blogging. Now and then the chaos-that-is-my-life has been tempered by mixing a few solid writing days into the madness, but considering I'm readying this blog post at 2:21 am on a Sunday morning (that still feels like Saturday night!), there is clearly plenty of madness to spare in my world!

What's going on in your world? Has your summer been chaotic -- or sublime?

Rare Share: Baking Success

I used to love to cook and I was, at one point, halfway good at it. Not so much, anymore. I did, however, have a moderate success in my kitchen today, so I thought I'd share this little number I whipped up for my daughter who was tired of "the same things we eat all the time."

EASY Salted Caramel Cupcakes w/ Salted Caramel Frosting 
(Yummers! Just made these by playing around and they turned out GREAT!)





SALTED CARAMEL CUPCAKES
Mix together:
1 yellow cake mix, 
1-1/3 cups water, 
1 T vanilla, 
1/4-1/2 t. fine sea salt to taste (I used coarse: 5 cranks of the grinder), 
1/3 C. caramel ice cream topping (heated in microwave 45 sec, pourable consistency), 
1 T canola oil. 
3 eggs, added one at a time, mixing well between additions
Mix on low until blended, medium speed for 2 min. Bake 20-25 minutes in preheated 350 oven. 

SALTED CARAMEL FROSTING: 
mix together on medium-high to high speed: 
4 oz (half a block) neufchatel (1/3 less fat) cream cheese & 1 stick REAL butter (both softened to room temp), 
2 T caramel ice cream topping (heated in microwave to pourable consistency), 
2-3 half cranks of sea salt grinder (approx 1/8 teaspoon fine sea salt, to taste)
1 C sifted confectioner's (powdered)sugar
*raw sugar to sprinkle on top for decoration (optional)

(I simply piped the frosting on to the cooled cupcakes through a ziplock bag with the corner cut out) DELISH!

YOU'RE WELCOME!

Just a little somethin'

To concentrate on writing my next book, I'm going to be staying away from the internet as much as possible over the next couple of weeks.  While I'm away, enjoy this random dragon fly that crossed my path today when I happened to have a camera in hand:

See you soon!

Highlights, Underlines, & Notes #1

Want to know more about this post series? Click HERE for the intro

Underlined:

In the beginning, God

(Genesis 1:1, incomplete)

There is more to that verse, but that is all I underlined. I don't remember when I made that mark, only that it still speaks to me. 

"In the beginning, God" 

There is no period, and I won't add one. It comes with its own timpani-like resonance. There was a beginning, and God was IN it.

Let's put this in more finite, tangible terms, shall we, and see how it explodes into God's Grandeur:

We all have a beginning. I was the second child born to my family, due on Thanksgiving, but I didn't arrive until December 15th--and then only by Cesarean section, which was fairly major surgery in 1972. That is my beginning, but if circumstances and history had not been lined up correctly by a divine hand who cared immensely for his creation, I wouldn't be here now. 

Why am I? 

Ah, the universal question. "Why am I here?"

Here's the answer, as best I see it:

In the beginning, even before the first spark of Earth was formed, God knew that sin would enter this world and soil his perfection. He knew that, as a consequence of that sin, womankind would struggle throughout the centuries, in various ways, to bring forth children into this fallen world. Some mothers would struggle so much that their babies wouldn't even be able to exit the womb in the way he originally designed. 

In the beginning, God also knew that thousands of years later, in a year we would label 1972, one particular mother (mine) would need medical intervention in order for us both to survive her pregnancy. So, at some point during the time in history celebrating the Roman Empire, God loved me enough to give an added bit of knowledge, skill, and risk-taking adventurousness to Mama Caesar's Family Physician. 

Yes, c-sections have been around for a long time. And yes, he had me in mind when he allowed the first one to be successfully completed. Perhaps you, as well. At the first c-section: God. At the ones that trained centuries of doctors and surgeons to successfully complete the procedure: God. And at the one which culminated in my first cry: God.

In the beginning, God

The beginning, my beginning, your beginning.

"Beginning" is a pretty big concept, isn't it? It's bigger than a birthday or a date on the calendar; it's the reference point for all-action-that-follows. It's the nothing-before-now point where everything resting in the glare of potential energy becomes a sense of kinetic hope.

It's a pretty big deal, the beginning. And God is IN it. 

In. It.

As an author, I know how much I struggle over the first line of every book. This one is perfection, before the sentence is even finished. "In the beginning, God" The very structure of the seemingly dependent clause is a big picture statement before the verb that follows is even given breath.

In the beginning, in my beginning, in your beginning, God. I can't look at those first four words of the Holy Bible and not see the personal nature of a divine creator. And if "in the beginning, God"-- if, on that gargantuan canvas of hope, he thought to paint a pixel of me, then how can I ignore worshiping him in the Now?

God, your knowledge and presence are vastly greater than my mind can ever hope to comprehend. Please forgive my narrow vision and inject your life into the dryness of my shale-like heart. For love of you and for your glory, may I read, write, pray, and live. Amen.

Random Epic Fail: Bunnies Edition

(see, I told you this blog would be random.)

We have teensy little baby bunnies in our yard. More precisely: we have baby bunnies in the section of the yard that is fenced and reserved for our 65 pound dog.

We have a biggish yard and only a small area of it is fenced off for Albus to do his business. So I ask you: what sort of stupid rabbit makes her nest/warren/whatever-you-call-a-baby-bunny depository in the middle of dog's bathroom?

Of course, we did not discover the bunnies on our own. It was Albus who discovered them when, stupid me, I saw a bunny sitting out in the middle of his area and thought, "Oh, maybe he'll be curious and they'll make friends!"

You see, I had a dog once who was a friend to all rabbits. He was a Cocker Spaniel named Friskie. He was not what you would call a good-natured dog. He had a terrible temper. He was very territorial and would nearly bite your arm off if you came near him with scissors (needless to say, he wasn't groomed very closely very often.) We were very careful around Friskie. But bunnies? Those guys were perfectly safe. In fact, nearly every temperate day, you could look out the window and see Friskie in the backyard, touching noses with a wild bunny.

So now you understand how my early childhood experience with the dog/rabbit connection might make me think my sweet teddy bear of a Goldendoodle, Albus, would consider a bunny rabbit a potential friend.

Epic. Fail.

He chased the bunny. The bunny ran and scooted under the fence. Safe. Right?

Not exactly.

Albus sniffed around the area where the bunny had been sitting, which was right in our pine-needle strewn side yard. He stuck his nose right down in there and really seemed to be concentrating. Then he pawed at the ground a bit, stepped back, and stared into what appeared to be a small hole. I figured, "Oh, great. He's going to eat rabbit poop." So I hollered at him. When he didn't immediately abandon his sniffing and nosing about (big surpise.) I went out to get him.

In the hole he'd uncovered, there were at least 5 baby bunnies, right there in the middle of the flippin' dog yard!

Stupid, mama rabbit!

So, Albus was hauled inside (quite literally) and I, of course, grabbed my camera and set one of my girls to Googling what the heck we were supposed to do to SAVE THE BUNNIES!

The internet says mama rabbits only come to care for their babies intermittently and only through the nighttime hours (it had been nearing dusk when she'd been there, so I guess "nighttime" is a loose definition of the bunny timeline.) Other than that, the baby bunnies are pretty much on their own. So I'm thinking... Okay. How do I make the bunnies safe during the day? How do I do that? A cage? A box? A fence? But how do I make it so that stupid mama can get in?

I look out in the garage. Nothing. No ideas. Down in the basement, however, I see... the antique bird cage. It has no bottom. It will be perfect. Or so I thought. But even though I tied up the door with ribbon, I worried that if I left it out there all night, mama bunny might not go in and take care of her babies; so, since Albus spends his nights indoors (and most of his days, too) I brought it in at bedtime. This morning, I put it back out, but closed the door so Albus wouldn't be tempted to stick his nose or paw through the hole.

After a while, Albus needed out. He sniffed around the cage, of course, but seemed like he would leave it alone, so I went about cleaning the kitchen.

A little while later, I hear my eldest holler, "Albus, NO! NO! Bad dog! Mom, he's eating the bunnies!"

Well, he wasn't eating them, but he did manage to dig under the cage and pull one out. It squealed. (Bunnies can make a horrible sound when they are scared -- this I knew from years back and a housecat who was fond of "playing" with them.) Even though it is so tiny--only about 5ish days old, according to a vet's article I read last night--the sound about broke my heart.

Delaney recovered the baby from Albus--still alive--and put Albus in the house while I checked on its bunny siblings and tried to figure out how to keep these babies safe.

I know, I know. It's nature. I'm an Iowa farm girl--I understand the food chain and all that, that it's Albus's nature to "retrieve" and to be fascinated by small things that not only move but squeak, but I'm a sucker with a capital S when it comes to animals. And helpless baby animals? Please.

All the mama bunny fur that had insulated the babies beneath the pine needles was now soaked in dog-dug mud, so I had to figure out some other way to keep them warm. (Did I mention it was raining? Yep. It was raining.)

Delaney went inside to get some tin foil to cover the birdcage to keep the rain off the babies, but how to keep them warm? The fur was destroyed, the pine needles all soaked and muddy.

What would have the sort of water repellent nature as rabbit fur? I had no idea. Cloth might smell funny and make mama rabbit stay away. Or it might get wet and only make them colder. Delaney suggested I take some of the down filling out of my comforter.

Thanks to Albus "losing" his tennis ball in my bed last week, there is a torn edge on my down comforter, and being that I'm something of a procrastinator and not great with a needle and thread, I haven't fixed it yet. So, I reached in and pulled out a hand full of soft, fluttery down. I then cut up a thin dish towel, wrapped a strip around the down, and put it on top of the bunnies with some more down on top.

Yes, I just sacrificed part of a king-sized down comforter for wild baby rabbits that are probably going to die. For all I know, down is poisonous to rabbits. Or they'll inhale and it will block their little noses up. Or (insert all the horrible possibilities you can think of)

GREAT! What did I just do?

Well, the best that I can. And that's all I can do, right?

I imagine it's going to be another epic fail and we'll have a bunch of dead baby bunnies within the next 24 hours. But ... who knows? Maybe it will work and my neighbors will curse my ingenuity when their gardens suffer from an influx of vegetable predators.