BEAUTY

1: a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, esp. the sight

At our final mother/daughter book club of the year, we discussed Uglies by Scott Westerfeld.  The book was good, but the conversation was great.  As I had hoped, the book prompted discussion of not only its content and characters, but our own thoughts and feelings on beauty.  The girls were honest.  They shared that they feel it is important it is to be pretty (almost as important as getting good grades), how it makes them feel if someone look at them strangely ("I must not look good today") and whether it's good to ask others' their opinions (sometimes don't ask, don't tell is the best policy when it comes to fashion and beauty).

If you aren't familiar with Uglies, it's set in a post-apocalyptic world where everyone has an operation at the age of 16 to make them pretty - symmetrical faces, large eyes, not too thin, not too heavy, not too short, not too tall.  When the main character, Tally, meets someone who didn't grow up in a city with this framework for beauty, she can hardly process the differences.  In one key conversation, the outsider, David, tells Tally that she's beautiful.  Her immediate response is that she can't be beautiful: you're either ugly (pre-surgery) or pretty (post-surgery).  There is no room for beauty in a world where everyone looks - and even thinks - the same way.

Our group talked about our own cultural pressures to look or dress a certain way - to wear makeup or not wear makeup, to dress up or dress down.  And we talked about the words we use to describe ourselves.  In Uglies, the pre-surgery children give each other cruel nicknames that emphasize their physical appearance - Squint, Stick, etc.  When David tells Tally this is one of the worst things about the way she grew up, I nodded along.  The words we use to describe ourselves are meaningful - we can see our hair as lank or straight and shiny, our bodies as curvaceous or heavy-set.  To further explore this point, we watched the Dove real beauty video and we discussed that while sometimes it's good to listen to ourselves and follow our heart, we need to be wary of our inner critic.

At the end of book club, I passed around post-it notes for the mothers and daughters to write down what they think beauty is.  We then stuck the post-its to a table and took a few moments to read our thoughts alongside those of others.

It was just one conversation and I fear it won't change these girls' experiences of our culture and its definitions of beauty.  But it's never too early to start this conversation.  In fact, I needed this conversation myself.  I was surprised to think back later on the words that came to my mind when I closed my eyes and pictured what beauty is:

Straight, shiny hair
Gentle curves
Tall
Smiles with her whole face

While there is nothing wrong with any one of these definitions, what struck me most is that there is only one of these terms that possibly applies to me.  If I'm completely honest, I don't see myself as beautiful.  I think I've made peace with my body.  I've accepted what it is and isn't.  But acceptance is a long way from embrace.

I know rationally that there are many kinds of beauty in our world.

Yesterday, we completed a very long journey from Nashville to Fish Creek, Wisconsin.  I've been to Green Bay once before, but that was in February.  It was striking to drive through the early May countryside and think about how different this part of the country looks from season to season.  Sure, winter in Nashville brings leafless trees and more brown that green.  But the landscape in northern Wisconsin experiences a more dramatic and drastic transformation.

I would not say that Wisconsin is more beautiful than Tennessee - they are differently beautiful.  Yet I struggle to mesh my inner experience of myself with my definition of beauty.  What is so troubling and so difficult about beauty is that we begin to define what beauty is and isn't at a very early age.  How can I undo forty years of assimilated thoughts about beauty?

As with nearly everything, I think the first step is awareness.  It was only after I had pictured the long, flowing hair I defined as beautiful that I realized my own hair doesn't look that way. I don't like to wear my hair long - not because my hair isn't straight or shiny but because the longer my hair gets, the more it gets in my way.  It's a definite choice on my part - and a practical one at that.  So should I grow my hair out to make it more beautiful or wear it the way I feel most comfortable?

Or is there a third path?  A path that says the way I feel most comfortable is the way I am the most beautiful?

The Wisconsin birch trees are not spending time and energy trying to look like Tennessee magnolia trees.

Maybe by the time I'm the age of the trees surrounding me, I'll be similarly content with my own structure and able to see the beauty within and without.

HEROINE

1 b : a woman admired and emulated for her achievements and qualities
2 a : the principal female character in a literary or dramatic work

My virtual book club recently read The Heroine's Bookshelf: Life Lessons from Jane Austen to Laura Ingalls Wilder.  While the book was one that struck me as a great concept that struggled to execute well, it got me thinking about what a heroine is and what books I would choose to have my daughters read to help them see ways they can live heroically.

The structure of The Heroine's Bookshelf was that Blakemore selected a heroine and a character trait that each heroine embodied.  For example, Anne of Green Gables illustrated happiness and Scarlett O'Hara showed us fight.  The traits Blakemore associates with heroines are self, faith, happiness, dignity, family ties, indulgence, fight, compassion, simplicity, steadfastness, ambition and magic.  Late in the book it became clear to me that Blakemore and I envision heroines differently.  When I think about a heroine's bookshelf, my mind goes to books that I want my daughters to read in order to see richly imagined characters who meet life's challenges with grace, strength and resilience, amongst other things.

So here are the heroines on my bookshelf (links will take you to my Goodreads review of the book):

Anne from Anne of Green Gables:
There is just so very much to love about Anne, but I chose her first because she feels deeply and isn't afraid to show it.  As she matures, Anne learns to listen to her head, but not at the expense of her heart.  Yet it is the bold Anne in the very first book of the series whom I fell in love with.  She is imaginative, resilient, earnest and loyal - all traits that I would love for my daughters to witness both in life and in books.  If you don't already know Anne, I highly recommend you become acquainted with her.

Scout from To Kill A Mockingbird:
Scout is not your typical girl and she wants you to know it.  Yet she embodies a trait I want my daughters to possess all of their days: hope.  I clearly remember reading this book in the ninth grade.  As the story of the trial unfolded in the book, I recall thinking, "Surely they can't convict him.  Look at all of the evidence."  Like Scout, I had hope that the characters would do what is right, not what is culturally acceptable.  And I was heartbroken when they didn't.  I want my daughters to read books like this one - books that show even when good people take a stand, things don't always go the way we want.  Books that are populated with characters who choose hope anyway.

Leslie from Bridge to Terabithia
Bridge to Terabithia was my favorite book in fourth grade.  Fourth grade was many and many a year ago, but I remember how much this book captured my imagination and broke my heart.  Leslie is the heroine in this book and her imagination is unparalleled.  She's the kind of character I want my children to know because I hope they will cling to their imaginings long past the age when others set aside such things in favor of "real life."  Leslie knows (and teaches Jesse) that life is in the imagined.

Hazel from The Fault in Our Stars
It may be ironic that I recommend a book about a teenager with cancer to help you appreciate living fully.  Yet Hazel will help you see the beauty of the everyday and the way it inevitably melds with the painful.  Not long ago I was thinking about the fact that I can't honestly pray for my daughters to be hurt in order to grow.  I'm not sure any parent can.  But I do pray that any pain they experience will be put to good use.  I can't know how long or short my life or their lives will be, but a heroine like Hazel reminds us all to soak up every minute we have.

Liesel from The Book Thief
How could Liesel not be on my heroine's bookshelf?  She is brave, resilient, hopeful in the face of tragedy, compassionate, a survivor.  And words save her.  Liesel is a heroine who shows us heroism takes place in the small, everyday acts - in painting clouds in a basement, in a crossword puzzle, in a kind word, in a stolen book.  Liesel reminds us that words matter, that we can make a difference and that life is not life without both the beauty and the pain.

What heroines are on your bookshelf - literal or imagined?  Who do you spend your literary time with?  Who do you want to make sure the young readers in your life get to know?

1 : not genuine
2a : intentionally untrue

I am in the process of reading an exceptionally good book right now.  As with most good non-fiction books, I am taking it slowly.  Not because the writing is dense nor difficult, but because there is so much truth there for my soul to soak up.  I need to read it slowly and give each truth time to settle down into my soul before moving on.  The book is When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd and it recounts the author's own spiritual crisis and the process of active waiting she embraced during this time.  As she attempts to discover who she really is, Monk Kidd investigates and names her false selves:

...I began a process of "naming" my false selves, a process that spanned many weeks of looking within and reflecting on my life.  By naming the inner patterns that imprison us, we come to know them more fully and obtain a certain power over them.

Finding and naming our false selves enables us to answer questions like: If all of my roles were taken away, who would I be?  If not wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, who am I?  What are the masks I wear and who do I don them for?

My bookmark has been sitting on the precipice of the section Naming False Selves for days.  Not because I don't want to read more, but because I think I need to at least make an attempt to see my own constructs before reading Monk Kidd's.  So as I took a very brisk walk yesterday in colder than expected weather, I contemplated what masks I've worn to get through my life to this point. 

Valedictorian
The first one that popped to mind was valedictorian.  If you've only known me for the last five years, I'm not sure whether it would be surprising to know I was valedictorian of my high school class.  I'd like to think you would be surprised - not because you'd think I'm not smart enough to have been so, but because you might see that I am not a person given to competition nor am I particularly achievement oriented.  As I've come to know myself better, I've realized that I don't like competition because competing divides people whereas I long for unity.  My healthier adult self doesn't long to be better than or smarter than other people.  I don't pursue things in order to stand out, but because they interest me or help me grow as a person.

I wore the mask of valedictorian because it was expected of me, even demanded of me.  Without pressure would I have been first in my class?  I think it's unlikely.  I think I still would have had good grades and done well on standardized tests, but I might have been able to relax a bit and enjoy school rather than seeing it as a place where academic performance was of the utmost importance.

The Misfit
Welcome to my college years.  If I felt pressure to be perfect in high school, that fell away the first semester of my freshman year.  I brought home three B's and a C that semester and felt no shame about it.  What I felt instead was a decided case of not-belonging, which persisted right through graduation.  Some of this was borne of being a middle class scholarship girl in the midst of wealthy private school born and bred peers.  Some of it was simply my discomfort in my own skin.  For most of my time at Vanderbilt, I felt like everyone there had been cut out with the same cookie cutter except me. 

I think this is a mask that still appears regularly in my repertoire.  When I'm wearing the misfit mask, I struggle with a desire to fit in that collides with a desire to be seen.  Because if I'm really fitting in and blending in, I'm not being seen for who I am.

The Bitch
Hopefully many of you have never seen this incarnation of me.  In the post-valedictorian, post-misfit years, the bitch was how I coped with working full time, excelling at that work and never feeling very fulfilled by it.  I wanted to understand my work, do it with excellence and help my clients and co-workers.  I felt such pressure to perform and my employer's solution to any complaint I voiced was to throw money at me.  This was not particularly effective.

So I set aside my feelings and hardened myself.  It worked fairly well and in some ways it looked a lot like the valedictorian mask, only with harder lines.  I learned a lot from a very demanding boss, I honed computer skills that still serve me well years later and I compartmentalized my self to be who they needed me to be.  This was not particularly effective, either.

The Conformist
Then came the evangelical years, when I wanted desperately to respond to God's voice and to be accepted by the women in my church as one of them.  I can still remember the hurt of a group leader who strongly disliked me.  In my desire to conform and be accepted, I couldn't tell whether she simply didn't like me or God didn't, either.   Then there were the theological collisions.  I spent years attempting to reconcile the church's belief in the inerrancy of scripture with my own heart and mind's objections that you can't take the portions of scripture on women literally, but ascribe passages on slavery to being from a different historical context.  To conform, I tried to hold back the parts of me that didn't fit my church's image of who women should be.

That was working reasonably well until I gave birth to three diverse, strong girls.  If I could accept the shame thrown upon my shoulders week after week, I could not saddle my daughters with it.  After seeing one daughter labeled as not enough one too many times, the mask of conformity shattered and I let go of the myth that there was only one right path to God.

I'm sure there are other masks in my closet, but I think identifying these four gives me enough insight into myself to move forward with reading about Sue Monk Kidd's false selves.  As I look at these Shannons that used to be, I feel more frustration and shame than compassion.  But I want to be compassionate to these selves that shielded the real and fragile me from the world.  Because they weren't constructed as intentionally untrue.  Instead, they simply took one aspect of my personality and magnified it past the point of being genuine.

What I want for the next decade of my life is to be the things required of me as wife, mother, daughter and friend, but hold tight to a sense of who I truly am, separate from what I do.  May I have compassion on my many selves, both when I fail and when I succeed in seeing the real me.

COCOON

1 a : an envelope often largely of silk which an insect larva forms about itself and in which it passes the pupa stage


A friend gave me a book I've never read for my birthday and the title immediately intrigued me: When The Heart Waits.  The book itself has intrigued me even more.  It's a book to savor and read slowly.  I'm reading one chapter at a time to let the words, thoughts and images sink down into my heart before moving on.  In the first chapter, Sue Monk Kidd talks about being in the midst of a spiritual crisis moment and crying out to God for a sign, for an answer.  Instead of an answer, she turned around to find a cocoon hanging in a tree.  From there, she saw butterflies and cocoons everywhere - in a childhood book remembered, in an art gallery, through a gift from a friend.  "Sometimes God is funny about pointing things out again and again," I thought to myself and smiled as I read.

Ahem.

Shortly after that I realized I had been seeing butterflies everywhere myself: in Flight Behavior, in birthday art created especially for me by a friend, in the When The Heart Waits book.  Since 2009, I have associated butterflies with faith.  That was the year B found a monarch caterpillar and brought him home for us to witness his transformation as a family.  I wrote about that experience back then (if you follow the link, start at the bottom and read your way up) and as I re-read those posts this morning, tears came.  I am still awed by the contrast of my fear and B's quiet confidence.  She had complete faith that her caterpillar Artie would emerge as the butterfly he was meant to be.  And she was right.

So why am I seeing butterfly imagery everywhere lately?  (I will confess I am wearing a dress with butterflies printed all over it as I type this - completely unintentional.)  I suspect God is trying to tell me something.  Sue Monk Kidd's words about waiting in her book have certainly resonated with me.  I want to be patient in the waiting, relinquish my own desire to control the outcome and trust that what emerges will be transformed.

That is more difficult than it sounds.  I do long for this decade of my life to be about transformation.  I want to be what I was really made to be, not what I think I should be.  I want to see myself truly and live boldly.  But in order to get there, I have to give myself over to the waiting in the cocoon.  Even that is harder than I would like for it to be.  If I could slip into a chrysalis and hang there all alone for a few days or weeks, that might be easy to settle down for.  Instead, I have to give myself over to waiting for transformation while teaching, chauffeuring, parenting and managing my family.

Will it be worth it?  Can I wait patiently to become someone worth knowing, loving and doing life alongside?  Can I really change and stay transformed?  Because as I read those posts from 2009, I am feeling much the same way right now - low on solitude, like what I need is distasteful to others and hard to come by, afraid I won't ever emerge from this season.  Am I even ready to emerge as a butterfly at the other end of my time in the cocoon?  I'm not sure a butterfly is the animal I would choose to represent me, but I do love that butterflies move lightly and quickly through life, touching down gently, leaving a small wake of beauty as they go.  That I could buy in to.

DECADENT

3: characterized by or appealing to self-indulgence

Last night my husband had an evening work event.  I decided to take full advantage.  I made a dinner he doesn't like (chicken soup and grilled cheese sandwiches), read my own book in a quiet house as my girls each read their latest library finds and finished reading Jason and the Golden Fleece to my girls before bed.  As the coup de grace, I put them all to bed at 8:30 (with instructions for lights out at 9 for the older two) and then... climbed into bed myself.  I often fantasize about going to bed as soon as my children are tucked in, but I never do it.

I planned well.  I grabbed my book, my bottle of water, my phone (in case J called on his way home) and the iPad (in case I finished my book and wanted to watch a Dr. Who).  About five minutes after settling in with the heating pad on and my book in hand, J got home.  He peered questioningly into our bedroom as he opened the door.

"Oh, I'm awake," I said cheerfully.  "I just decided to do what we always talk about but never do: I came to bed as soon as I said the girls' prayers.  Want to join me?"

So he did.  While he watched Alabama play Kentucky, I finished my oh-so-delightful book.  Then we talked and laughed and cuddled and went to sleep.

It felt decadent and completely self-indulgent.  There were chores I could have been doing.  (Putting away a post-grilled cheese griddle, for one.)  But for once I decided all of those chores could wait. 

Let me try that again, more honestly this time. 

I decided (once again) that all of the chores could wait and that I (for once) would not feel guilty about letting them wait.  Instead of squandering the time not spent cleaning my kitchen on Facebook or playing games on my phone or the iPad, I used the time to sink into a book that was just what my soul needed.  It didn't feel like a waste.  It felt honest and good.

A few days ago a high school friend posted as her status on Facebook, "Wonders sometimes if I should have spent a little more time being selfish........"  It's a valid question for most moms to ask.  Should I be carving out time to take care of myself?  I know that I should.  Because when I'm not intentional about making time to care for myself, my mind shuts down anyway.  I find myself unable to concentrate, choosing TV over a book, playing an inane word game online or doing any number of things to simply kill time and numb out.  As an Enneagram 9, I am more prone to this behavior than most, to be sure.  But I suspect there are others who can relate to this.  We aren't meant to take care of others to the exclusion of meeting our own needs - at least not for sustainable periods of time.

Sometimes a little decadence is in order.  Whether that translates as a massage, lighting a candle and grabbing a good book or a night out with your girl friends, I think taking time to feed our souls is important.  Please don't think I speak from a place of one who has it together.  I regularly fail to actually feed my soul the things it needs - sometimes my soul is on a starvation diet, other times it's subsisting on the soul's equivalent to beans and rice.  But every once in a while, I have a night like last night - a night where my soul feasted on the things it needed most.  I can't do it every night.  Ballet will return to its regularly scheduled programming.  The tasks to be done will scream too loudly.  Things will inevitably call me away from the warmth and comfort of my bedroom and a good book.

But here's what I cling to: at least at this point in my life I know what decadence looks like for my soul.  I know that an evening spent relishing the quiet between the covers (of both a book and my bed) is what I sometimes need.  That, at least, is progress: knowing what I need.

What's decadence for you?  What feeds your soul in the cold and gray moments?

Whatever it is, may you seek it, find it and relish it.

FAVORITE

1 : one that is treated or regarded with special favor or liking

In early December, the Ish Girls (my Bible study, named after the book Ish and our desire to be Christ-ish) got together to share our favorite things.  The rules were simple: buy something you love - one of your low-cost favorite things - for each of the other seven women.  We started this tradition last year and loved it so much that we did it again in the spring, without even having Christmas as an excuse.  Both times previously, I knew immediately what to give.  I had clear cut favorite things.  This time, I struggled to find something.  Not because of the price limit, but because I simply couldn't think of anything that delighted my heart.  And I wanted these gifts to be from my heart.

One night, less than a week before our gift exchange, I was telling J my dilemma.  "Your favorite thing?" he asked.  "That's easy.  Buy books."  He was right.  2012 has not been an easy year.  I've struggled and continue to struggle.  But books have been a constant.  They've been a source of comfort, encouragement, companionship or escape.  So I went through my Goodreads list and selected several 5 star books to share with my friends.

Writing has been a struggle, too.  I haven't wanted to be negative and have felt burdened by the old Southernism "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."  There have been many days when I haven't felt like I have anything nice to say.  So I've chosen silence.  But I think I need to write.  I need to begin again and find a way through, by putting some of my thoughts and feelings into words.  I'm not much for resolutions, but I think I know myself well enough to know I need to make time for some creative outlets or I will implode. 

As an attempt to step forward in faith that I will eventually find writing to be a gift and not a burden, here's my first post of 2013: my favorite books of 2012.  Links will take you to my Goodreads review of each book.

The Wisdom of the Enneagram by Don Riso and Russ Hudson - I went to an Enneagram conference in September and heard Russ Hudson speak.  I immediately came home and requested every book of his that the Nashville library owned.  This one did not disappoint.  If you've read other books on the enneagram, but haven't made the time for this one, I highly recommend it.  It will leave you understanding yourself and others better.

The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom - I read this book right around the time we sold our house.  It was a stressful time of getting our house of ten years emptied and show-ready, so this memoir of a brave Dutch woman during World War II helped me try to keep my own struggles in perspective.

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern - a lush, magical book.  I can't think of this book without having vivid black and white images scroll through my mind.  It's a visual feast wrapped in a fascinating story with an unexpected ending.

Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer by Richard Rohr - I expected this book on contemplative prayer to give me pointers or direction on how to be more contemplative in my prayer.  What I got instead was affirmation.  Much of what Rohr described was (at that time) my own experience.

Why I Wake Early and Thirst by Mary Oliver - poetry is not my first love.  But I fell in love with Mary Oliver's poems.  She talks of the love of God and the love of nature having a long conversation in her soul.  These books will forever describe the spring of 2012 for me.  They were lenten companions that described and affirmed my own experience.

Wonder by RJ Palacio - an unexpected book about a startling subject.  A boy with severe facial abnormalities enrolls in public middle school.  His experiences are as stunningly difficult as surprisingly sweet.  Wonder reminds us that life is about both beauty and pain.

No One is Here Except All of Us by Ramona Ausubel - how powerful are words and stories?  If you tell yourself something vehemently enough, does it become your reality?  This novel set in WWII tells the tale of a village who chose to pretend the war was not raging around them.  Would the lie spare them pain or cause them more?

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green - one of the most honest books about life and how to live it I've ever read.  The subject matter is hard - teens with cancer - but Green treats it with an authenticity that was both heartbreaking and heartening.

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain - if you're an introvert, or you know and love an introvert, this book is a must read.  Cain does an excellent job of explaining how our culture is set up to not only serve but foster and reward extroverts.  And she shows the things we're missing out on because of this.

Running the Rift by Naomi Benaron - one of the first books I read in 2012.  I knew nearly twelve months ago that this would be one of my favorite books of the years.  I can imagine the hills of Rwanda, the hope of a young runner and the harsh realities of war.  It's a book of dreams seized, realized, deferred and destroyed.  Well worth your time.

TWELVE

:the number of books I've read in the last month

I don't know about you, but I can tell a lot about my life by the number and kind of books I'm reading.  Because I'm always reading something - as are most people in my family.  Here's a conversation from my van this morning:

A: "Is it weird to have a comb in my purse?"
Me: "Why do you care if it's weird? Some people might have a toothbrush in their purse.  Some people might think it's weird to take a book with you wherever you go."
At which point K exclaimed: "What?! Why?"

So a conversation that started out being about the contents of A's purse (and why she can keep whatever she wants in there) ended up being about books.  We devote a fair amount of time and energy to selecting, reading and discussing books around here.

I've learned over the course of the last few years that I can use books to escape instead of using them to entertain, educate or encourage.  So does the fact that I've read a dozen books in the last month mean I'm on the verge of a breakdown?  Things are never quite as simple as they seem.  Because the last month has also held the start of summer break, a family vacation and more free time than I have during the school year.

Yet I would be misleading you - and myself - if I didn't admit that I have moved swiftly from one book to the next.  Part of this certainly has been a summer indulgence.  Part of it has been a physical tiredness that has left me wanting more time curled up with a book.  And part of it has been trying to find a way to cope with some disappointments in the way our summer is shaping up.

I do not mean to indicate that I'm going to stop reading.  I'm not.  But perhaps, even during the summer, I'll take a breath between books and make sure I'm not checking out on life when I check out at the library.

For interested parties, here's a quick review of the twelve books:

Bitterblue by Kristin Cashore - the author's anti-marriage agenda overshadowed the cumbersome, twisting plot for me.  (But you might want to read Graceling, if you haven't already.)

Wherever I Wind Up by RA Dickey - a book that made me long to shed my shame about my story and that made me admire RA's perseverance and Anne's support of his throughout

The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh - a book that is beautiful, heartbreaking and hopeful all at once

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green - the best book I've read this year - searingly honest, touching and unexpectedly lovely

The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey - not as magical as I wanted it to be (perhaps because I read it during the heat of summer - save it for November or December)

The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach - two baseball books in one month is definitely a record for me - this one's setting of a small liberal arts college and what success means made it worth my time

Enchantment by Orson Scott Card - a fairy tale princess and a modern decathlete experience time travel and find the truth behind our myths

No One You Know by Michelle Richmond - a mystery that is also a story of living life as the survivor

Liesl and Po by Lauren Oliver - a sweet, magical look at grief's place in our life

Once was Lost by Sara Zarr - the daughter of a pastor asks honest questions when tragedy occurs

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs - the cover is better than the book

The Fiddler's Gun by AS Peterson - featuring a great heroine and set during the Revolutionary War

Anything you've been reading that I should add to my to-read list?  Please let me know.

MYSTERY

1 a : a religious truth that one can know only by revelation and cannot fully understand

Saturday evening I met with a group of friends to discuss a book that could have been magical and mysterious, but wasn't.  The book was called Faery Tale and it recounted a young woman's attempt to prove the existence of faeries.  We talked about why the book fell short - why it's subtitle (One Woman's Search for Enchantment in a Modern World) was better than the entire content within its pages, how this was surely a book sold based on an idea, not a manuscript and how the author confused using this trip to grieve her father versus using this trip to flee her grief. 

And then our talk turned to the author's skepticism that she never fully moved past.  She wanted oh so badly to believe there was more than the eye could see, but as the reader I never felt like she truly opened herself up to mystery.  We talked about our own experiences that transcend rational explanation - ghosts appearing bedside, dreams with verbal warnings, impressions of danger for family members, inexplicable images associated with a friend that become clear later.  There is clearly mystery in this world and we are far too ready to explain it away with rationality.

Concurrent with reading this book, I started Richard Rohr's new book Falling Upward.  In this book, he talks about two halves of life.  The first is spent strengthening and building the ego.  During this phase, we learn our strengths, use them to build safety and security for ourselves and spend time and energy on the structure, successes and accomplishments of our lives.  Yet this phase is meant to point us to the second half of life.  Because during the second half of life, we see that the first half of life was necessary, but simplified.  We see that our strengths, our accomplishments, our possessions are worth less than the intangible things in life.  During the second half of life, we worry less about our relative importance and more about living in a space that makes room for contradictions, complexities and mystery.

I haven't finished the book.  Partly because I had to stop reading it in order to finish Faery Tale for book club.  Partly because I found myself struck by the fact that I've not lived my first half of life in the way Rohr outlines.  Where does that leave me?  If I didn't devote energy to building the ego, must I go back to do that before living fully in the second half of life?  Because I do long to get there.  I long to embrace mystery, to hold it and ponder it, to grasp what I can and let go of the rest.  I long to be someone who shares her experiences without regard to whether doing so will advance my own efforts or build me up in the eyes of someone else.  I long to look at others with compassion for who they are, rather than fear of what they might think of me.

My 7 year is an avid reader of mysteries right now.  Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden, the Boxcar Children, the Bobbsey Twins and Encyclopedia Brown are her constant companions.  When her sisters or I suggest a new book, K will ask us, "Is it a mystery?  Because I like mysteries."  I think she might be on to something.  I think there's something about seeking to explain the inexplicable that appeals to our very nature.  And while the books she reads try to solve the mysteries encountered, K's 7 year old mind is perfectly content to let some things be unsolved mysteries.  She is happy to let magic seep into her life, her heart and her mind.

I think I could learn something from my daughter.  I could learn to solve the mysteries that are meant to be clear and learn to not just accept, but revel in, the parts of life that will always be shrouded in mystery.

CLASSIC

1 a : serving as a standard of excellence : of recognized value

I love books.  I love to read.  I love Goodreads - both because it helps me keep track of what I've read and because it has encouraged me to read more critically as I think ahead to reviewing a book.  But I also love reading what I want to read.  I clearly remember the moment I realized I could quit a book if I wasn't enjoying it. 

I was lying in bed, slogging through a book when I thought to myself, "You know, no one is going to test you on this book.  You're not going to have to write a paper on it."  At that point, I created a personal rule: if a book doesn't have my interest by page 50, I stop reading it.  I created the 50 page rule because I think some books don't jump up and grab me.  I need to get to know the characters, see where the plot might take me, get a feel for the writing and the setting.  But honestly?  That has to happen in 50 pages or I'm not wasting my time.  (This started as the 100 page rule, but 100 pages of Little Women was enough to change that.)  Life is too short to read boring books.

I like the freedom to choose what I'm going to read.  There's nothing better than the right book at the right time - and nothing worse than the right book at the wrong time.  That (along with my busy schedule) is why I limit my book club participation - I don't want to read what someone else says to read.  But without providing myself some structure, I can get into a reading rut.  So I decided this year I should be a bit more targeted in some of my reading.

My first thought was that I should read one classic per month.  Then I decided that was too ambitious.  I settled on one per quarter instead.  Then March rolled around and I realized I hadn't even started a classic, much less finished one.  So I grabbed Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maugham and started it.  I'd found it back in January at the used book store and thought it sounded interesting.  And who doesn't want to read a book by an author with a name as cool as Somerset Maugham?  That alone was enough to make me attempt it.

If a classic serves as a standard of excellence, I can see why this book is a classic.  The writing?  Excellent.  The themes?  Broad, lasting, well-addressed.  The time it took to read the book?  Substantial - and not just because the book was 680 pages long.  The book was so packed that I could only read bits at a time before taking a mental breather.  Was the book worth my time?  Yes, but I'd love for my next classic to be a bit easier to read.

That's where you come in.  What's your favorite classic and why?  It is easy to read?  A book you still think about?  Does it have characters that you love?

Give me all your thoughts.

And should you be looking for your next great book, my favorite book of all time is The Book Thief.  I can't say enough good things about it.  If you haven't read it, read it.  But first leave me a comment telling me your favorite classic!

SELZNICK

: the author of The Invention of Hugo Cabret and Wonderstruck, amongst other books

Around 6 tonight, my husband came walking through the door with the mail in his hands.  With a small smile on his face, he handed me a cream colored envelope addressed to A.

I didn't recognize the handwriting, so I flipped it over to see the return address.

Then I gasped.  "He wrote her back!" I said to my husband.  "It has actual handwriting on it.  And it's postmarked from San Diego, not New York.  I think he really wrote her.  I can't believe it." 

A was at ballet, so we had to wait two hours for her reaction.  Is it bad that I wanted to open the letter right then and there?  Maybe so.  But I didn't open it.  I waited.

As J started to leave to pick her up for ballet, I told him to be sure and take the letter.  "Don't you want to get to see her open it?" he asked before leaving. Well, of course I did.  I just didn't want her to have to wait one minute longer than absolutely necessary to see this.  So I picked her up from ballet. 

As soon as she got into the car, I turned on a light and handed her the letter.  She turned it over and started to open it.  "A," I said, stopping her.  "Do you see who that's from?" 

There was a slight pause as she looks at the handwriting.  "Selznick?" she said, trying to place the name.  "Oh! He wrote me back!" she said and literally started jumping up and down in her seat.

She opened the card and read his words to her, though I think ultimately they matter far less than the fact that an award winning author of books that our family loves took the time to write a note to a twelve year old girl.  She will, I imagine, never forget this.

As we drove home, I told A that I've learned a lesson from this experience of hers.  I explained that while I've read thousands of books in my life, I have never written a single letter to an author.  "Really?" she said with amazement.

"I've always assumed they wouldn't care what I have to say," I explained to her.  "When I saw that Brian Selznick wrote you back, I wondered whether I should write Markus Zusak a letter and tell him how much I love his book."

"And how much you cry every time you read it?" she asked with a smile.

One thing I have been learning this Lent is that I don't see myself very accurately.  I am quick to assume that no one could possibly want to hear what I have to say.  That might not be true.  Markus Zusak might need to hear that his book is the best book I've ever read, that it makes me ache to write, that it captures the truth that the great pain and the great beauty of life often exist side by side.  Maybe I'll get around to writing him because as she ate her dinner, a beaming twelve year old said to me, "God has great timing.  I had a bad day at ballet.  This letter came at just the right time."

I don't know what Brian Selznick's next book will be about.  I do know we will buy it and read it.  We're now lifelong fans.

Maybe you don't have a favorite book or favorite author, but who needs to hear the words you have to offer today?  They could be a gift.

BETWIXT

:between

Lent has just passed the half-way mark.  I would have thought by now that I'd have a better understanding of exactly what my Lenten vow is about and why I am doing this.  I was surprised when I prayed about a direction for Lent and heard the response that I should walk or run every day for 40 days.  I hesitated.  To my ears, this sounded more New Year's Resolution than Lenten vow.  But I continued to feel this was the direction, no matter how much I threw up question marks.  So I began. I thought when I began that I would eventually understand the reason I was pointed in this direction.  I assumed if I just kept walking, I'd see the destination ahead of me sooner or later.

I've learned a few things about myself so far:

1. I am more inclined to give myself grace and walk more, run less when I am doing it every day.  I see this time as less about the workout than the discipline of doing it.  So if I only run 10 minutes one day instead of 20, I'll think, "Well, I'll be out here tomorrow morning.  I can just run 10 more minutes then."  I'm not sure whether this is a good or a bad trait of mine.  It's just what I've observed.
2. Our mornings have a different feel to them when I am up and out the door by 6:15 and back by 6:45 or 7:00.  K is often up and dressing by the time I get back, but even if she's not, I have time to wake her and point her in the right direction with less rush and intensity.
3. I am not finding this easier as the time wears on.  Do I enjoy the time?  Yes, I honestly do.  But I miss sleeping in.  I miss having the energy to stay up past 10 in the evening and I found out Thursday morning that I don't do well without a bit of accountability.  That was the first morning that J was out of town and I woke with a sore throat, which I used as an excuse to not get out of bed.  I regretted it all day.

Yet if I am completely honest with myself, I might have learned more from that one morning of failure than I have from all the previous mornings of obedience.  I learned that I miss my morning walk when I don't take it.  Thursday I felt the absence of having that time alone, that time to listen to God and wake up slowly.  I was distracted, less at peace and more hurried. 

I shared with a friend via e-mail that I didn't walk Thursday morning.  Here's part of what she wrote back:

I also want to say about you not walking/running yesterday? I get it. I am beginning to think Lent is really about realizing how weak we are and then in that space of us seeing "failure" or our weakness God brings new life... I heard you say you broke your Lenten vow. But I think God uses Lent to break us and then in those freshly exposed spaces show us in whole new ways how beautiful, how loved, how valiant we are.

I needed to hear those words.  I needed to hear that even my failure was part of what I am supposed to learn this Lent.  As I walked this morning, I pondered the difference between being broken open and being broken.  I am definitely broken, but I've realized lately how much time and energy I spend protecting myself.  What might happen if I left the broken places cracked open and exposed instead of trying to plaster them over and move on?

I also needed to read the words of Richard Rohr last night as I finished reading Everything Belongs:

[W]e have to allow ourselves to be drawn into sacred space, into liminality.  All transformation takes place there.  We have to move out of "business as usual" and remain on the threshold (limen, in Latin) where we are betwixt and between.  There, the old world is left behind, but we're not sure of the new one yet.  That's a good space.  Get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible.

I've struggled to explain why I feel it is a part of my Lenten experience for the walking or running to be done first thing in the morning.  My schedule has some flexibility.  I could run in the evenings after J gets home.  Or go for a walk with A and B during the day.  But I've felt in my heart like that wasn't exactly the right direction.  The passage above was like a light bulb.  Morning walks are walks in liminal space.  I'm betwixt and between sleep and wakefulness and able to hear clearly, before putting on my daily armor for the world.  I'm more vulnerable, fresher, ready to listen - and far less inclined to talk.  If prayer is about being quiet and waiting to hear from God instead of throwing requests his way, my morning walks are definitely more like that.  Often, I can't even think very clearly until I've been outside moving for 5 or 10 minutes.

Bit by bit, I've seen a few things about my Lent with more clarity over the last few days.  Going forward, I hope to embrace my failure(s) and live as much as possible in the space where I am listening expectantly.

WONKENSTEIN

: a funny little creature that seems to be a cross between two characters from the books Frankenstein and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

While A and K were at ballet Thursday, B and I headed to Starbucks.  With three daughters who are active in things like ballet, basketball and art and the full time job of homeschooling two of them, it's difficult to get time alone with any one daughter.  Thursdays offer one such small window.  From 4:30 to 6:00, both A and K are at ballet.  I can't make it happen every week, but I like to squeeze in something a little special with B on these days.  She's a fan of antique shops and art studios, so sometimes we stop by a neighborhood shop to browse.  Today had been a busy day filled with cleaning (one of my least favorite things to do), school and appointments, so I thought it would be nice to allow myself a break from the house and all that needed doing.  Hence the trip to Starbucks - each with a book in our hands.

I ordered a decaf latte.  B opted for hot chocolate and a cake pop.  We sat companionably at our table, sipping and reading.  B can be a prickly child.  As the middle daughter, she sees the advantages of being the oldest or the youngest - and she's acutely aware that she occupies neither position.  Yet she is also the daughter who is the most like me in looks and temperament.  In some ways, she has a difficult time making friends her own age - she can be too blunt, too single minded, too unwilling to play the games most girls play.  But there's a reason it was pleasant to take her to a coffee shop this afternoon - B is going to make a great adult.

B and I chatted a bit as we sipped our drinks and read our books, but we mostly sat there together quietly.  That is, until B finished her book, looked up and said, "I'm ready to go now."  (I told you she can be blunt.)  I asked her to clear our table while I read to the end of a chapter. 

On our ride home, she told me about her book.  It was called Wonkenstein, and was about a boy whose parents constantly gave him books to read.  Instead of reading them, the boy threw them into his closet.  Turns out, his closet was doing something with all of those books: taking characters and merging them together into new characters.  Wonkenstein is a coupling of Willy Wonka and Frankenstein.  Eventually there's a Potterwookie as well (Harry Potter + Chewbacca).

For most of the ride home, we constructed our own imaginary creatures.  I said I might merge Katniss from The Hunger Games with Anne of Green Gables.  Katniss could have used a good splash of Anne's willingness to be a good friend to temper her strength and cunning.  We then wondered what it might be like if Peter Pan combined with Jack from Breadcrumbs - we thought Jack might have held on to hope a bit longer with some of Peter in him.

I love these kinds of conversations with my daughters.  Not just because we're talking about books, but because we're dreaming together.  That's more magical than Wonkenstein himself.

BACCHANAL

:an occasion of drunken revelry

 

 

 

The word bacchanal may call to mind not-so-family-friendly images.  Understandably so.  Fear not.  I want to tell you about the Truss family post-library bacchanal.

 

I took A with me for a short trip to the library last Wednesday.  It was, by necessity, a quick visit.  We had less than an hour there because we had to leave in time to pick K up from school.  While I picked up our books on hold (my primary reason for this particular visit), A went straight up to the children's floor and pulled some books.  She's a girl after my own heart in this way.  She may dither over which t-shirt to buy (especially when spending her own money), but the girl can decide which books she wants to read.  We were at at the library after all - when in doubt, just pick both.

 

Our quick visit found us exiting the building with a little less than two dozen books.  A read for the entire ride to Lockeland.  K sat down in the van, told me a sentence or two about her day and resumed reading the book she'd left in the van that morning.

 

I was tired Wednesday.  I'd had a headache for much of the day and was low on energy.  I opted for something easy for dinner, so all four of us spent the afternoon gorging on the books yielded by our library trip.  I read one book that afternoon and evening.  B read 4 or 5 (graphic novels read quickly).  A and K each read 1 or 2.  It was a lovely afternoon.

 

 

 

As J and I were discussing dinner plans, he asked how the afternoon had gone.  I told him we were in post-library mode and he sighed a bit with envy.  While he worked away, we were reading away.  By the time lights were out in our home that evening, we were all drunk on books, having visited another world, run for hours, solved a mystery and entered a fairy tale.

 

 

 

Last night, B had a friend spend the night.  As we sat down at the table to eat pizza, B said to her friend M, "Do you want to grab a book to read or something?  It's kind of a tradition in our family.  We like to read while we eat." I realize this is not great table manners.  We don't do it every meal, but we do indulge in this habit once or twice weekly for dinner and nearly every day for lunch.  (One of the many benefits of homeschooling is that lunches find A, B and I sitting around the table at mid-day reading for a half hour or so.)

 

 

Here's hoping your weekend gives you ample opportunity to curl up with a book of your choosing.

POEM

: a composition in verse

The poem is not my favorite literary form.  That would be the novel.  Yet during our trip to the library yesterday, I checked out three books of poetry.  Two by Mary Oliver and another that I found on the shelf and just thought looked interesting.  I first heard of Mary Oliver at a silent retreat.  At each retreat, we start our time together with a few readings before we enter into silence.  Once Oliver's poem Praying was one of our readings:

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch


a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway


into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Praying happens to be in Thirst, one of the volumes I found at the library yesterday.  The other volume is Blue Iris, which the one I've chosen to read first.  It's been a lovely journey so far, filled with meditations on nature and lines like "the long work/ of turning their lives/ into celebration/ is not easy" from the poem Sunflowers.  It has made me think and simultaneously calmed my restless, wearied, overburdened mind.

Why did this novel reader choose some books of poetry for company right now?  In part, it was because another recent (non-fiction) read had excerpts of several poems that I thoroughly enjoyed - by Mary Oliver and several other poets.  But it was also because I haven't been able to concentrate enough to read a novel.  I am now 100 pages into one, but while it is thoroughly readable, I am not jumping headlong into it.  Part of me wonders whether this is my spirit reining me in and discouraging me from numbing myself too much with words (as I am prone to do).   So when an idea struck me to spend some time in a book of poetry, I thought the idea might be divinely inspired.

Poetry has lessons I need to learn. 

Lessons about
slowing down,
savoring each word,
visualizing time, place, flowers, trees,
seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary,
and grasping everyday life as the gift it is.

If magazines are fast food, cotton candy reading and novels are healthy entrees, poetry is rich, decadent dessert.  Meant to be taken in small portions and savored.

I don't know whether my time in Mary Oliver's words is meant to teach or comfort me, I just know I am sinking into it and letting her words wash over me.

Black Oaks

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
   or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
   and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound, though the blue jays
   carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
   the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
   for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
   of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
   little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
   one boot to another - why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth, I don't want to let go of the wrists
   of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,
   I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

From Blue Iris: Poems and Essays by Mary Oliver

TWELVE

:age of my eldest daughter, as of today

Twelve years ago today, I was in labor for the first time.  It was the day after Florida State beat Virginia Tech in the BCS championship game.  I remember this because I was tired and went to bed early.  J stayed up to watch the game.  I kept waking up (from contractions, it turns out) and I wandered out from the bedroom to ask J, "Are you coming to bed soon?"  Somewhat exasperated after this happened two or three times, he said, "Yes! When the game is over!  What are you doing up anyway?"  Finally, around 2 AM I woke up to pain in my lower abdomen and had the wisdom to stay awake and see if I might be having contractions.  I was.  Three minutes apart.  Like clockwork.  J didn't get much sleep that night.  A was born about ten hours after I finally realized I was having contractions.

It's hard to believe I've been a mother for a dozen years, but there's no denying it.  Not because I've suddenly figured out how to be a wise, confident and effective parent, but because A is undeniably 12.  Her body shows it.  Her mind shows it.  Her eyes that roll at her father and I when we try to be funny show it.  Definitely 12.

For this year's blog celebration of her, I thought I'd share 12 of my A's favorite things.  You can always tell a lot about someone by the things they love.  Here's some insight into my twelve year old based on what she loves:

Favorite Drink: Water.  Don't offer her juice or milk or fruit punch.  She might have the occasional Sprite or Coke, but well over 90% of what she drinks is water.  She knows what her body likes.  Simple, straightforward, readily-available water.

Favorite Singer: Taylor Swift.  As I mentioned, she's a 12 year old girl.  Surely this entry surprises no one.

Favorite Sister: The one in the other room.  A enjoys her space and is not generally argumentative.  She fights equally with B or K - but far less than the other two fight with each other.  If you leave her alone, she'll leave you alone.  (Which is why she likes her sisters best when they're in the other room.)

Favorite Spot: Curled up in a chair, reading.

Favorite Friends:

From last year's ice skating birthday.  These friends are still her favorites.

Favorite Breakfast, Lunch or Dinner: anything from a restaurant.  For a girl whose mom likes to cook, A is one girl who loves to eat out.  Want her to feel special?  Offer to take her to Sweet 16th for breakfast.  Or Provence for lunch.  Or Zoe's for dinner.  Or Jeni's for dessert.  She likes to eat out.

Favorite Book: the one in her hands.  A reads a lot.  She doesn't keep track of every book she reads, but I think an conservative estimate is that she averages 7 to 10 books weekly.  She definitely reads more than 10 books during a vacation week and she might slip below 7 during Nutcracker or recital week, but the girl likes her books. (Which suits her father and I just fine.  We merely watch her with envy and ponder giving her more chores, for she surely has too much time on her hands if she can read this much.)

Favorite TV show: I started to write about Princess Tutu, a recent Netflix find that offers ballet, manga-style.  Then I realized nothing tops So You Think You Can Dance.  This show is a favorite of our entire family, but we started watching it for A.  It has exposed her to many different styles of dance and unlike Dancing with the Stars, the costumes are generally rated PG, not R.  She will often hear a song on the radio and say, "Oh! Tad and Lauren danced to this.  Remember?"  Only she's the sole member of the family who can remember every routine she's watched over the last three seasons.  It's amazing how good her memory can be about the things she likes!

Favorite Color: Green.  Not sure why, but there you have it.

Favorite Way to Earn Cash: Babysitting.  Not that she's actually had any babysitting gigs yet, but this girl is a natural born babysitter.  She loves her younger cousins and wants to hold the baby the entire time we're visiting.  Today at our homeschool group gathering, she spent as much time smiling at a 15 month old as she did chatting with her friends.  I see a calendar in her future packed with weekend babysitting gigs.

Favorite Time to Arrive: Early.  This child hates to be late.  And I do mean hates.  One Saturday last year, I misunderstood and thought her ballet class was canceled.  The teacher called me about 10 minutes after class was scheduled to start and asked if A was coming.  I told A to get dressed and we sped over to the studio.  A was a wreck the entire time, despite the fact that her teacher knew it was my mistake.  She truly detests being late. She gets this from her father.

Favorite Thing to Do: Dance.  And I think she was born to do it.  A is not an extrovert.  She's not a girl that you meet and think, "Wow. I best she loves being on stage."  So I asked her one time whether she likes to dance in front of people.  She paused to think, then shrugged.  "Well, yeah.  That's how you do it."  It brings her joy and her joy is so clear to the audience that I think it brings them joy as well.  It certainly brings me joy to see her doing something she loves and doing it to the best of her ability.

My favorite picture of A from her 11th year of life

Happy Birthday, A.  I look forward to seeing you grow into a name that is so apt for you.  You are graceful and gracious.  It is sheer grace to parent you.

READ

1 b : to learn from what one has seen or found in writing or printing

There are lots of things I'd like to write about tonight.  Each year, the last Christmas gift I give my daughters is a gift of words: words that describe who they have been over the last year.  I'm pondering the right 7 words for K, the perfect 10 for B and 11 fitting ones for A.  But my brain has not been firing on all cylinders over the last 14 days, so that last Christmas gift - and blog post - will be delivered a bit late.

Instead, what I've managed to do over the last hour or so of calm and quiet is look back on what I've read over the last year.  For Christmas, my family gave my mother two books - one nonfiction, one fiction.  The fiction one is People of the Book, a book I chose both because it's well-written and interesting and because I thought it was appropriate that our family give it, since we are people of books.

I have been so pleased in the last few months to see my extroverted K become not just a capable reader, but a voracious one.  I had wondered whether this little bundle of energy would ever find solace, entertainment and adventure between the pages of a book.  It seems like nothing less than a gift from my Creator to have three daughters who love to read.  So if you don't read much, here are my 2011 suggestions for places to start.

Nonfiction
I don't read a lot of nonfiction (just six books this year, with a seventh in process), but there's a clear trend in the nonfiction books I do read.  I only read them if I think they're excellent.  And I don't just mean they have excellent ideas and content.  They must be well-written.  Both I Thought it Was Just Me by Brene Brown and The Art of Family by Gina Bria fit this bill.  I would recommend the former to any woman, so strong is the culture of shame in our world.  The latter is an inspiring, rather than instructional, take on parenting.

Historical Fiction
One of the best, if not the very best, books I read this year is a small, quiet book called Between Shades of Grey.  I love historical fiction for what it teaches me about our world and this book was an eye-opening and sometimes heartbreaking look at what it was like to be Lithuanian seventy years ago.

Series
I think everyone in my family likes to find a good series of books.  For K, this was what ultimately got her hooked on reading.  A friend talked up the Magic Tree House books to her, she read a few and she's been sold ever since.  For me, a series is easy entertainment.  I've done the work of getting to know the characters through the first book or two, so if the author can keep surprising me, I'm happy to go along for the ride.  Two series have done this for me recently: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel by Michael Scott and Leviathan by Scott Westerfeld.  I enjoy the Scott series in part because of its use of historical characters inserted into fictional plots.  The Leviathan trilogy has been my introduction to steampunk as a genre and they are fascinating alternate reality books.


Supernatural
Looking back at my reading trends over the last year, it's clear I like books that are otherworldly.  Sometimes the books that help you see our world best are the ones that aren't quite set in this world. A Discovery of Witches is a great book about accepting who you are and loving someone different than you.  Also worth a read was the lighter fare of The Daughter of Smoke and Bone.

Just for Fun
A book that doesn't fit into my normal reading pattern is Ready Player One. This is a book about gamers competing in a virtual reality game - not standard fare for this girl who majored in art history and has never played games beyond casual Wii with the family.  But if you grew up in the 80s, this book has something to offer you.  It's entertainment, but well-written enough to not leave you feeling like you've just dined on cotton candy.

There you go.  A mere 8 books - not even 10% of what I read this year, but books I think will appeal to a wide range of people.  What have you read recently?  What do you want to read?  I'm always willing to add to my to-read list.

SAMENESS

1 : the quality or state of being the same : identity, similarity

2 : monotony, uniformity

Have you read The Giver?  If you haven't, I humbly suggest you do and I'll warn you that this blog post will probably reveal far too much of the plot of the book to you.  So you might want to stop reading this and go read it right now.  If you have read The Giver, were you as struck as I by the similarities to our own world?  Or is it just my life?

You see, in this book an entire community has been devoted to sameness.  People wear the same clothes, children wear their hair the same way and everyone sees everything in literally black and white.  It's the ability to see the color red that makes Jonas different, that makes him The Receiver.  Jonas is chosen to receive, hold and bear the collective memories of the community for generations back.  It's only in these memories that things like sunshine, color, war, animals and pain live on.  Because those things don't exist in Jonas' world.

Shortly after Jonas begins receiving memories, he learns about color and asks The Giver, "Why did colors disappear?"

The Giver shrugged.  "Our people made that choice, the choice to go to Sameness.  Before my time, before the previous time, back and back and back.  We relinquished that when we relinquished sunshine and did away with differences."  He thought for a moment.  "We gained control of many things.  But we had to let go of others."

What things do we give up in our own lives in order to have control of other things?  I'm sure none of us go so far as to not see color - the very idea horrifies me.  But have I tried so hard to control my emotions that I feel nothing?  Yes and I am trying to let go and feel.  It's a very hard and painful process to allow my emotions to surface, to actually feel them.  Yet it's an essential tool in the battle to fight sameness.

I've had occasion lately to realize how quickly I can bottle up my feelings, especially when they are strong or threaten to overwhelm.  J's recent promotion has elicited a lot of fear.  Fear about a variety of things, but with an underlying theme of the fear of change.  I feel like telling God, "Enough with change already.  Let me just be for a while!"  But that's not happening and one small but significant change is that I am letting myself feel my fear.  I am listing my fears aloud and in my mind and sometimes even crying over them.  I'd rather do this than not feel at all.

Several years ago, the girls and I listened to the audio book of A Wrinkle in Time.  I remember the scene where the children have arrived on another world and they sense that something is wrong here, but can't place it at first.  Then they realize that all of the children are bouncing their balls in unison, each ball striking the ground and arcing back up at exactly the same time, all down the street.  I was so struck by the fact that we are not all meant to be the same.  That's completely counter to what God intended.  He meant - and means - for us to be gloriously different.  He means for us to see the colors, feel the sunshine - and experience the pain or fear.

I don't even think God wants sameness within an individual.  We are meant to grow, to change, to be different at 38 than we were at 18 or 28.  Because life's experiences change us - or they should, if we're really experiencing them.

Do you fight sameness in yourself?  Do you embrace the ways you are more of one thing, less of another?  Do you fight sameness in others or encourage?  Do you surround yourself with those who think and feel differently?  I have a dear friend who recently told me she had a difficult time with an hour or so of silence at a workshop.  Given my penchant for and love of silence, I smiled at her admission.  But I'm so thankful that she is different than me.  Because she sees things about me that I can't even see and she names them for me.  I don't want you to be like me - or anyone else.  Nor do I want to be like you.  I just want to be more like me. A little more every day.