Hungering for Beauty & Smallness

It has been a difficult season of gray days and black nights and aching for the dawn, a time when every part of my heart, my life, my calling, my core, has been challenged to evolve, adapt, accept, surrender, and overcome. It has been a time of dreadful dullness, punctuated by sharp stabbing moments of inner chaos. This season has left me hungry--so hungry--for change, for growth, for the drenching of beauty that will wash away all the ugliness that remains, both within me and around me.



Today is one of those days when I wish I could recline in a field of flowers and stare at the shapes of the clouds without the fear of creepy crawlies and pollen reactions (as if.) Since fields of flowers are almost sure to have both of those things, however, I wish for the beach; I long to sit at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico, in that flour-y white sand, in that perfect place where the tide laps playfully at my toes, reminding me that I am small and God is big and I am His.


I want to surround myself with beauty and peace and to settle my heart within that sort of perspective. I want it to seep inside me, inhabit me, renew me, and shine out from within me to those around me who so desperately need it. I want to embrace my smallness, that I might allow my heart to be engaged--every moment--in recognizing the immense hope I know exists, even in the chaos of our darker seasons.

I read an article last week that claimed people who see fresh flowers first thing in the morning are more optimistic throughout the day. It made sense, so I thought . . . okay. Let's do THAT.

I brought home two bunches of daisies and one of... something purple from the affordable cut-flower section of my local discount grocery store. There were enough for two bouquets, so two were made: one for the kitchen, one for the living room. After arranging and placing, I instantly felt better. Having flowers on my table, seeing them first thing in the morning and every time I pass through the kitchen these last few days has been... 

wonderful.

We're a household of "pilers" -- we pile stuff, both literally and figuratively. In the figurative sense, it is our emotions that fester in the wounds inflicted upon us as well as those we inflict upon others. But in a more literal sense, as anyone who 'pops in' for a visit unannounced can attest, if there is a flat surface, it will have a bunch of paperwork, mail, and other random stuff piled on it. The worst place for these piles to accumulate, of course, is the kitchen table (which is our only eating surface.) 

Rare is the meal that finds all four of us at the table. Often, we shove all that paperwork detritus to the middle to make room for a plate on which we can eat. Gross, right? I'm not proud of it, it just is what it is. Or at least it HAS BEEN. Until I started this flowers thing. Now, although my family hasn't exactly caught on yet, I'm finding myself pulling stuff off the table every time I walk through the room. I don't want anything there to detract from this little snippet of beauty within chaos.

I moved the second bouquet from where it was sitting unnoticed in the living room (let's face it, if we're in there, our eyes are most likely on a screen.) Now it sits on the kitchen counter. Oh, sweet lovely.

Sometimes, it's the little things that dash away the dull grays and the black nights of a season, bringing color, light, and life back into a heart, if only for a moment. I'll take it. Perhaps it will grow and become a new season of its own.

What do you do when you recognize that beauty-hunger within your soul?

A Season of Growing Pains

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I am (hopefully) coming out of a difficult season, a season in which I've taken emotional punches to the gut... given them back... and been brought to my knees, sorrowed over the resulting losses and filled with regret and guilt over... all of it. I've learned a lot about myself in this season--most of it unpleasant. But I'm finally feeling stronger. Me-er, if that makes any sense. Sadness still lingers, but repentence was true, and although it took a while to get here, that sadness is softer now and I can accept the new peace within the losses. Most days.

Who would have thought I would still be experiencing 'growing pains' at 42?

I hope I've learned things through this season that will make me a better whole down the road, someone who can confidently, kindly, and firmly say "NO" when it is called for and "YES" when it works within the limits of my sanity. I don't want to be that person again; the one who waits too long to be clear, continuously disappoints people because I don't have the heart to be firm in stating my limits when I should. I don't want to put myself in a position again where I've allowed the frustration and irritation of many demands from many various sources become stacked so tightly, layer upon layer, that, when the proverbial tiny strand of straw--or bale, depending on the event--settles on the camel's back, the camel explodes on whoever put it there before collapsing into a heap of tears.

I want to be better at managing my life, my time, my relationships, my heart. And I still have miles to go... many more heart inches to grow.

But something else I've learned over this time is that I am not alone. Many other authors struggle with these same issues--some more successfully than others. But the truth of the matter is that, too often, we authors--especially those of us who are women--and even moreso those of us who are women AND, by nature, introverts--allow guilt to be draped over our shoulders by friends, extended family, our communities--and especially ourselves-- when we invoke the word "No" when asked to "do this"/"be like this"/"show up here and..." So, we don't allow that little word to cross our lips. We try to be all things to all people ... at great expense to our sanity, our stories, our kids and spouses, our calling . . . until we realize, in one ginormous explosion of emotional wreckage, that we just can't do it anymore. That we have to be selective about to whom/to what/and how we distribute our energies. And then we retreat. Sometimes too far.

Yes, we need to find a balance to avoid becoming utter hermits, we still NEED to go out in the world, interact with others, and breathe the wild air, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said; otherwise, how can we go back into our caves and write about it with authority? 

Saying "no" or stating "I can't today/this week/this month/this quarter/ever" now and again is part and parcel of this often quite solitary calling we've embarked upon. Without being what non-publishing people might perceive as "selfish" with our time and energy, we cannot do what we have to do to invest what we need to invest of ourselves in the worlds of words we create. --- 

While sipping my coffee this morning, I came across this article by Jeanine Henning on the Indie Author News blog and thought I would share a quote:  

"I think, we authors need to be more selfish sometimes. Yes. I said it. We need to be more selfish with our time and space. Because we are the storytellers that make people buy Kindles, download books, go into book shops and have something to keep them entertained with new worlds and characters." -- Jeanine Henning -- Here's the link to the full article, which is aimed at indie publishing authors, but applicable, I think, to us all: http://www.indieauthornews.com/2013/07/the-other-4-tips-for-authors-tips-many-may-practice-but-wont-admit-to-doing.html

That seems like a very unfeeling thing to say, very mercenary, perhaps even a bit . . . arrogant. But there is more than a bit of truth at its core. Every human being has only so much of themselves to give, and it varies from person to person. An author of fiction is called to bleed a little of her life-force into each phrase she crafts . . . in the hope that being so bled will result in a page with a pulse. That is what makes a story resonate as true, even though it is fiction. It is draining. And beautiful. 

And misunderstood by so many.

Because I have somewhat of an obsessive personality (the people who know the real me are choking with laughter over that word 'somewhat' about now), I struggle with balancing my life. When emotional upheaval takes center stage--especially when I know I have not reacted as I should have within it--my focus shifts, pinholing on that upheaval, thus putting everything else--including my writing; perhaps ESPECIALLY my writing--at risk. This is problematic when you have contracted with editors for specific dates on which a manuscript is to be completed and ready for edit. When an author's mind is obsessively trapped in one moment or event, unable to move successfully beyond the resulting regret, sadness, anger, or whatever else resulted from it, anxiety becomes a near-constant companion. Creativity suffers, hope for its return shrivels, characters are silent, and each new scene that hits the ever-expanding wordcount becomes little more than a series of contrived efforts to make *something* happen to move the story forward, but yet . . . they fail to do so in a way that honors the characters' journey.

That was my season. 

Outwardly, I blamed the book. "This book is killing me!" I lamented. But inwardly, I knew the truth. It wasn't the book--okay, it was partly the book, but that's another blog post!--but my meaninglessly verbose creative drought (165,000 word draft with stakes yet unclear anyone?) was due more to the festering wound inside my heart than the story I was trying to bring to life on the page.

Within the benevolent grace of God, a good friend (also an author) advised me to find a way to figuratively or even physically let it go. On her advice, I did. In the window of my soul, I pictured my hands, filled with the delicate petals of a pink rose--the fragile beauty of what was lost. I lifted my hands to God and allowed a gentle breeze to take those petals from my hands and into his keeping.

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He took them. They are His.

As am I. Still.


It was a beautiful, freeing image... and one I shall cling to and return to when new hurts invade new seasons of my life with growing pains... as surely they will. As long as I live, I'll have many miles to go, many heart-inches to grow.

Have you gone through a difficult season of 'growing pains' lately as an author--or as a human being--or both?

You are not alone.

Random Quirks of Me: 20 Things I've Learned About Myself (Recently)

Some things are just not worth sweating over.

Some things are.

Here are some random quirky things things I have learned about myself in recent months:

1. I do not have the patience to master Photoshop. Not even after taking a once/week class for 6 weeks.

2. and because I do not have the patience to master Photoshop (Elements. The "easy" cheapo version.) neither do I need to learn how to operate that schmancy DSLR camera that I do not yet own (and should never purchase.)

3. I need to use recipes when I cook. 

4. That may not translate into "I will use recipes when I cook" and yet . . . no one in this house will starve.

5. Sometimes, the best thing to say is nothing.

6. Almost always, when you've been hurt, the best thing to say is nothing.

7. When you go ahead and say something anyway, you need to apologize. Quickly. Truly. Repentantly. (But do wait until the repentance is genuine, or what is it worth?)

8. I do not have a spam folder in my brain I can empty. I wish I did. This year, more than any other, my brain feels as if it has reached maximum capacity.

9. Ooooooh... shiny! (I am easily distracted.)

10. No one should have a combined 14,242 emails spread over three email account inboxes. 

11. I have 14,242 emails in three (combined) inboxes.

12. New furniture can change your life. Seriously. I can sleep now, without pain (most of the time) because the furniture I sit in during the day and evening has been recently replaced.

13. New furniture is expensive. But if it changes your life in a way that positively impacts your health and productivity, it is money well spent.

14. If there is a clean dog, and the weather is warm enough to produce mud, he will roll in it.

15. Don't spend good money on bad chocolate. Spend extra money on good chocolate, and then treat it as the treat it is, rather than a cheap stress bomb.

16. Business tax deductions are cool for next year, but it still hurts to buy them this year.

17. Gravity is not my friend. 

18. Also, I am glad for gravity. Just imagine trying to get stuff done when you're floating all over the place. I mean . . . really.

19. You can decide to be content where you are, even though it's the last place you ever wanted to be, but you have to work really hard to keep that contentment or you'll make everyone else around you miserable, too.

20. If you think you need to speak softly so no one will hear what you're saying, chances are you should not speak at all.

So, there they are. Twenty things I've learned about myself in recent months. Can't say as I've applied all (or any?) of them successfully yet, but there they are, in all their humanness. 

Random. Quirky. That's me.

Random Februrary Freak Out (or is it?)

There is something about this time of year that causes certain areas of my brain to implode and makes everything seem 5 billion times more overwhelming than it is. There is just too much to do and my learning curve is getting worse and worse the older I get.

There's income tax filing, FAFSA filing, deadlines, budgets, book releases, graduation, marketing, taxes (right. I already mentioned those. Still haven't done 'em.), reading these stacks of books for review, meal planning, grocery shopping, taxes . . . (yeah, those are still there), cold weather, really cold weather, (btw: who ordered this cold weather, making everyone stay in this house so much when I need to be working, or, at the very least, prepping my taxes?) --what can I say? numbers freak me the crap out.--, and a host of things I need to learn to be a successful independent author; things that I just can't seem to make time to learn because . . . it's cold, it's February, I'm trying to finish the most stubborn and convoluted book I've ever written, and I'm utterly overwhelmed.

My procrastination habits and excuses ("But I must finish the book! I can't attend to that other stuff right now!") are only adding to the crazy. I'm practically inhaling chocolate these days, and my increased caffeine consumption (via both coffee and Dr. Pepper) is not helping to ease me through the final stages of writing this book during February's annual freak out, instead, it's providing:

• Nightly anxiety attacks.
• Lack of sleep due to anxiety (and caffeine perhaps?)
• Feelings of being overwhelmed and mildly freaked out. 
• Nibbling habits that prove I would make an excellent chain smoker, were I open to adding cancer sticks to my collection of bad habits (thankfully, I'm not quite there. Yet.)

But am I doing anything proactive to counteract it?

Err... nope. I have to finish the book, remember??? THERE'S NO TIME (okay, there is probably time. But there's a pronounced lack of motivation.)

*bangs procrastinating head on desk and avoids doing tax prep for another day*

I'm "attending" a webinar this afternoon concerning one of many items I have put off learning about due to its residency on my I-CANNOT-LEARN-ONE-MORE-THING-CUZ-MY-BRAIN-REACHED-CAPACITY-PRIOR-TO-TURNING-FORTY list of things that so overwhelm me about this business. Honestly, just the thought of facing all I do not know about this subject (and so many other subjects!) makes me want to grab my hair at the roots and curl into the fetal position until Spring--assuming I can finish this convoluted book in the fetal position, you understand. For the book must be finished.

Is it cabin fever . . . or the natural result of avoidance? Is it a sign that complete insanity is only a snowball's throw away? I hope not (although my children might argue that the proverbial crazy stone hit its mark a while ago.) 

What overwhelms you to the point of succumbing to a random (or increasingly regular) freak outs?

Points to Ponder Concerning the 50 Shades Buzz

Even before I became a reviewer of books and films, I operated under a general, albeit unofficial policy that I would refuse the temptation to condemn a book I had not read (or a film I had not seen) based on what I had heard about it from the media or others*. As you read, please remember that. 
*Sadly, the term 'others', as referred to above, most often means Christians, the church, and those who have been placed--or have placed themselves--in the spotlight as a mouthpiece for the Christian community as a whole--but that is a topic for another day.

I have not, nor do I plan to read the Fifty Shades of Grey book series; neither do I intend to see the film. Therefore, I will not comment directly about either, because I do not consider myself qualified to do so. 

However, as a media professional, I do feel qualified to comment on the buzz surrounding these books and the film based upon them.

Before I began working in the romance fiction industry, I was not even aware the BDSM subgenre of romance fiction existed. It wasn't until I came across the term "BDSM" as central to a book review that I Googled the definition and . . . my jaw dropped. "Okee-dokey, then," I thought, shocked. "So... that's a thing. A real thing? And there are people really into it? Empowered by it? Turned on by it? Living it?" 

Yep. 
Well, color me innocent. And surprised. And . . . sad.

Although Fifty Shades of Grey might be the bestselling book of this subgenre, it is far from alone. Still, those who criticize the series based on perceived content seem to believe it shockingly unique. It is not. (I say 'perceived' because, let's face it: most of this book's negative critics have NOT read it.) Author E.L. James is hardly a trail-blazer. BDSM fiction existed well before Fifty Shades of Grey and more titles are releasing every day. For every person who purchases one of James's Grey books electronically, a slew of like titles by other authors will be set before their eyes, tempting them to purchase . . .

. . . while critics snarl and hiss and judge, using only that one as reference.

It makes me wonder . . . do they not know there is a whole world of that stuff out there? 

Why I don't read Erotica or BDSM books
I accepted Christ when I was eleven years old, but there were times in my younger adult years when I was not bothered by graphic sex scenes in novels. Several years ago, however, I decided those scenes were not something I needed in my life and I made a faith-based choice to skip through the pages of those I came across accidentally in my reading; moreover, I now choose to avoid reading books I know will lead toward graphic sex scenes. 

My definition of 'graphic' may not be the same as yours. And my idea of what constitutes a 'graphic sex scene' does not necessarily place a book in the category of 'Erotica' in the official categories of Romance Fiction, as I have come to discover. BDSM fiction is, technically, a subgenre of the subgenre of Erotica, which falls under the larger genre umbrella of Romance Fiction. Erotica, by definition, is literature or entertainment created with the intent of inducing sexual arousal. Since I do not read for that reason (I am quite happy to leave the inducement of that state to my husband, thank you very much), I do not read erotica. 

I consider erotic content in fiction (that written with the intent of inducing sexual arousal) akin to that destructive beast, Pornography--a thing that worms its way into an imagination only to become an obsessive habit, intent upon soiling the sexual expression of or appreciation for true, relational love. Therefore, I find the concept of BDSM behavior, whether in fictional form or as a lifestyle choice, a grievously sad comment on the status of modern romantic expression and psychological health. 

How our hearts ache when we learn someone we love is a 'cutter', someone who purposefully damages herself (or himself), using self-mutilation as a means of coping with stress or depression, or as a way to deal with past abuse or other psychological trauma. When an individual seeks a form of violence to give himself or herself a sense of control, it evidences deeply unmet spiritual, emotional, and psychological needs--and perhaps reveals that this person has suffered other forms of past abuse, which still inform his or her self-image. To me, BDSM, by definition, regardless of which combination of words used to form that acronym, is cutting's more glamorous cousin. 

We were not created to derive pleasure from the receiving or administration of pain--not even second hand through the fictional depiction of those sorts of sexual/physical encounters. We were created to form meaningful relationships, to emulate hope and love that, when met in marriage, can express itself beautifully through the safe, secure, and fearless joining of our bodies as one.  It breaks my heart that there are people so broken, so damaged, that they would be willing to be hurt--or to inflict hurt upon someone else--to escape numbness, to feel worthy, loved, or even alive. The concept of BDSM directly conflicts with my definition of what healthy, fearless, safe, loving, and partner-honoring sexuality is. That is why I do not read BDSM books.

And yet...
That being said, the growing popularity of this subgenre should serve as a wake-up call for mental health professionals and spiritual leaders; a call to provide a safe environment, free of judgment, where those who have fallen victim to the BDSM lure--either by choice or as a result of ongoing abuse--can find hope and healing (even if the only lure to which they have succumbed is that taking up space in their mind.) It should also encourage us to be honest with our teens and young adults who have access to these forms of entertainment. 

How we are entertained can color our perception of true expressions of love and desire (vs. what is abuse) in future relationships. Imagine, if you will, a generation of boys and girls who go into adulthood and marriage believing that instigating or submitting to psychological and sexual abuse is just another night in the bedroom. 

A Warning Concering the Negative Impact of Anti-50 Shades Proselytizing
What are the implications of BDSM entertainment's popularity... if handled with only judgment and censure by its opposition? The obvious answer is: curiosity and rebellion. Think on that.

If the prevalent opposing message the public receives is, "It's bad! And if you like it, so are you, Perv!" all we do is promote shame at the expense of truth, inflicting new wounds upon the likely already-existing ones a more compassionate approach might soothe.

Heaping shame on those who have read books glamorizing BDSM--and/or those who will watch movies based upon them--is not speaking the truth in love. (see Ephesians 4:14-16)


Positive Things About the 50 Shades Buzz 

• Even though the Fifty Shades of Grey promotional blitz is slapping you upside the face every time you turn on your TV, not all the buzz is pro-Fifty Shades or pro-BDSM. (Obviously.) Perhaps you've seen #50ShadesIsAbuse on Twitter or other social media networks. Have you noticed the diverse mix of people tweeting, blogging, and otherwise posting that hashtag? I have seen it quite a bit this week, as well as many other hashtags promoting a similar message. Because I have not read the books to justify that comment as fact, I have not personally participated in the movement--to do so would violate my personal policy (see the first paragraph); but that such a hashtag exists and is being promoted by people of such historically ideologically diverse platforms, leads me to my next point:

• For the first time in my recollection--perhaps in the history of the WORLD--many feminists and Christians are on the same page: BDSM entertainment glorifies abuse. (The message might be portrayed a little differently depending on who is touting it, but at its heart, it is the same.) Although the general focus of social media hashtags and whatnot is on this one book/movie, it cannot be denied that these two, oft-head-butting factions are, in fact, mingling toward the same cause. (Those of us who consider ourselves 'Christian Feminists' are nodding our heads, thinking 'finally!') 

• But that brings up another point to ponder: women are not the only victims of BDSM-driven abuse. Whether by choice or not, men, too, suffer physical, sexual, and psychological abuse when the person with whom they are involved derives pleasure from the giving or receiving of pain. 

• We have been given an opportunity and a stage on which we can speak the truth in love, encourage intelligent discussion, and raise awareness of how to help people trapped in an abusive relationship, lifestyle, or pattern of thinking.

• Kindness, compassion, and love--real, Christ-like love--are the only proactive expressions that will ultimately succeed in helping people overcome an obsession with or addiction to destructive behaviors.

• Regardless of the labels some loud naysayers may wish to assign, the fact that someone has read erotica or plans to see the Fifty Shades of Grey movie does not make them a pervert; it only proves them to be a consumer of pop culture.

If you are surprised I would write something like this, well... so am I. At least a little bit. I generally prefer to tell stories, to avoid controversy, and to hang out in my writing cave, playing with my imaginary friends. But because I have been personally victimized in the past by people within the church who have judged me and my faith by the sorts of books I read and promote (again, another post for another day), books they would never even CONSIDER reading because another Christian (who also likely did not read them) pronounced them 'evil' -- I felt called to share my heart on this subject. 

I leave you with this advice... a tiny, and yet rather immense gem of wisdom I came across this past week in, of all things, a romance novel:

"Love well."
(from To Catch a Prince by Rachel Hauck -- available February 24, 2015)

GIVEAWAYS GALORE! #32AuthorHunt

I know. My blogging at this location is sporadic at best. But just in case anyone out there in internet land actually reads this blog, I absolutely HAD to let you know about a promotion I'm involved with going into the holiday season. It's called the 32 Author Hunt. It was put together by author Brock Eastman as a blog scavenger hunt with an amazing cache of prizes, including 32 books and an i-pad mini! Check out this bookshelf for some of the books you could win:

Visit THIS PAGE for more info
Visit HERE when you've found all the clues
or if you need an easy-to-click list of links with which to do so!
Oh, and do take a peek at that newly-redesigned cover of THE RYN in the top row, center
(I know, the changes are subtle, but they're there!)

Make sure you also visit the 2 stops on the hunt in which I'm directly involved!
You can find my character interview with Captain Cazien de Pollis (a rather clever pirate you might remember from his minor role in The Ryn and The Remedy.) by clicking this link to Rachel Starr Thomson's blog. Now that Rynnaia's tale has been told, Cazien is still being chatty; therefore, I had to interview him... especially since this particular swashbuckler will be stealing the spotlight with the first of his own 2-book set in the Eyes of E'veria series in June 2014.

At my other blogging home, Edgy Inspirational Romance, you will find a feature interview with fantasy author Jenelle Schmidt AND a bonus giveaway of (wait for iiiiittt....)
an autographed copy of the soon-to-be-released PAPERBACK version of THE RYN (Eyes of E'veria, book 1)
and a spray lotion and perfume roll-on of RYNNAIA, a scent I created with MiA Bath & Body products.
Most of the authors on the hunt are doing this bonus giveaways, so make sure you visit them all!

The hunt goes through December 6, 2014. What are you waiting for?
Begin at Stop#1 by clicking on this link to Brock Eastman's blog

 Good luck!

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.