NICE

1. pleasant; agreeable; satisfactory

Certain words have burrowed their way into my psyche, taking up residence there, shaping the things I do and say for years before I stop to examine them.  Once examined, I may try to uproot them, attempting to rid my mind of an influence better left unplanted.  One such word: nice.  For years, I have longed to be nice, been exhorted to be nice, been told that nice was important.  In order to be seen as nice, I have set aside my own thoughts, feelings and desires.  I've swallowed words, turned the other cheek and melted into the background.  All for the elusive nice.  I say elusive because can we ever really be nice?

Only recently have I begun to ponder the contrast between nice and kind.  As a parent, I encourage my children to be kind, but I rarely admonish them to be nice.  The difference in my mind is that nice refers to outward appearance and perception by others, while kind is about the heart.  One word describes an action, the other sees the motive behind the action.

The definitions of these words bear this out.  If nice is pleasant, agreeable and satisfactory, kind is having a friendly, generous, and considerate nature.  Nice is about how others see you.  Kind is about who you really are.  I want to be kind.  I'm not so sure I can continue to try to be nice.

If I am going to learn to sit with my feelings, I can't be preoccupied with what others think about those feelings.  I can't be unwilling to feel something that is unpleasant or disagreeable.  In fact, as I've begun to examine my feelings, I often find them less than satisfactory.  I have far more fear than I ever would have imagined.  Have I been repressing that for so long because it wasn't received well by those around me?  Perhaps.

I find it interesting that without even realizing why, I gravitated as a parent to encouraging my children to be kind rather than nice.  It's not that I don't want them to be nice - I do.  I want them to be pleasant to be around.  I want others to find them agreeable.  But I want these things to flow from who they are, not result from a pressure to conform to an outward standard.  When I get right down to it, I would far prefer that my daughters be honest and true to themselves than be nice.  I love it when the two things converge, but they don't always.

A friend recently said, "Jesus was kind, but he was not nice."  Pause and think about that for a minute.  Do you conflate nice and kind?  Are you one but not the other?  Which do you want to be?  Jesus was not worried about what others thought about him.  He did not fear being judged different or outlandish.  But he was kind - oh so kind - to those who least deserved it, to those who needed it most, to those overlooked by the higher-ups in his world.

I want to be kind - to others and myself.  I want to allow those around me the space to be who they really are, without fear that I will judge them or belittle them.  I want to be generous with myself and allow my feelings room to expand and be seen without overtaking my rational thought.  I want to be someone who is unafraid of being kind and unconcerned with being nice.

I want to plant words in the hearts of my daughters that allow them to grow into who they are.  I don't want to leave vines labelled "nice" running up their hearts and constricting them when they should be free to beat away with kindness, generosity and abandon.  I want words that are about who they are, not just what they do, to be the ones that burrow in to stay.

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

CAREER

3: a field for or pursuit of consecutive progressive achievement especially in public, professional, or business life
4: a profession for which one trains and which is undertaken as a permanent calling

I have sometimes envied my husband his career. This was especially true when our girls were younger and I stayed at home with them full-time. In those days, my own career was a recent memory. My job - where I was competent and successful. Where I did something once and it was complete. Where I interacted with other adults and had an office with a door I could close when I needed some quiet to think. Those were the days. I actually knew what I was doing.

Then I became a full-time mom and found out just how little I knew, just how incapable I am, just how selfish I am and many other unpleasant truths. So when J would head out in the morning for work, I was a bit wistful. In the workplace, I knew my role and knew I could fulfill it. My job as a mom? Much less clearly delineated and therefore more difficult to measure. Yet I knew I wasn't measuring up. Other moms I knew managed to keep their houses clean, their laundry done and their children fed seemingly without any problem whatsoever. Many of them even found joy in the doing of these things. Me? Not so much.

I loved - and still love - my children. They are amazing human beings that surprise me every day. They have traits I have never seen in other people and use their talents with a confidence I sometimes envy. They are bold, beautiful little girls who are becoming, before my very eyes, bold, beautiful young women.

But I like having pursuits aside from the rearing of these lovely ladies. I like having a part-time job using my administrative and writing skills. I like contributing to society in a way that I can actually see. But I don't really want a career anymore. I truly have no desire to pursue "consecutive progressive achievement." I want to write, I want to cook for my family, I want to help my girls become who they were made to be. I want to be who I was made to be.

J stayed up past midnight working and left for work before 6 this morning. Do the math on that. Not only do I not want a career, I don't think I could do it. I've settled in to the rhythm of my life (even though the rhythm changes frequently) and I like what it has to offer. I like sitting here on a rainy day, writing, even though there is laundry to be folded. There will still be laundry to be folded when I finish writing. In fact, there is almost always laundry waiting to be washed, dried, folded or put away in this house. But I'm OK with that. And I'm thankful that J loves his career. He loves the work he does and is fulfilled by it. He provides for all of our families needs and many of our wants. He is happy to go to work each morning in order to do this for us. And I am content with no career. Only projects, daughters and words. This is enough for me.

LIESEL

Gender: Girl
Origin: Hebrew
Meaning: God is my oath

I just finished re-reading The Book Thief. As you'll know if you are my friend on GoodReads, while I am a big reader, I'm not a big re-reader. Liesel, the title character, is one reason I chose to read The Book Thief again a mere 7 months after finishing it the first time. She's a beautifully written character and we get to see her go from a scared little girl to a brave young woman over the course of the book.

Liesel becomes a book thief for the first time the day of her younger brother's funeral. He dies en route while her mother is taking them to an agency to be put under the care of foster parents. The fact that her mother gave Liesel up to a foster family should speak to the sadness that permeates this book. The Book Thief is not set during a pleasant time in our world's history: you know going in that a book set in Germany during World War II is going to be painful.

But I wonder whether Liesel, as Markus Zusak envisions her, could have existed during any other time. Certainly the reader sees her brokenness, her loyalty and her perseverance in stark contrast to the depravity surrounding her. Zusak knows Liesel well and doesn't write her in a false way. She doesn't change from damaged to whole in one fell swoop, never looking back to darker days. In fact, I'm not sure Liesel ever emerges whole from this experience.

I desperately hope that my daughters never experience any of the many traumas faced by this brave fictional girl. But I hope one day (when they are much, much older) that they will, read this book and, like Liesel, see the value of words and use them as a life preserver. Whether they are navigating the murky waters of adolescence, hiking the difficult terrain of a new college or just doing their best to get from one stage of life to another, I hope the written word will be there to buoy them. I hope they will see words as the gift they are and that this knowledge will guide them to use their own words very carefully.

I was thinking today about the Word becoming flesh and making his dwelling among us. My words clearly do not have the power of God's, but if my own words became flesh, would I want them to dwell among me? Am I carefully using the power of words that we have because we are made in God's image? Or am I squandering that gift on chit chat or, worse, crafting verbal weapons that soar through skin, bone and marrow to pierce the hearts of others? If there's anything I learned from The Book Thief, it's that words make the whole thing possible. Hitler could not have wooed a nation into insanity and hatred without words. That Liesel uses words to save herself is some solace.

MANIFEST

: to make evident or certain by showing or displaying

Some words have a way of settling into my heart and taking root there. Last week, the three words that spent time weaving themselves into my thoughts were manifest, bold and courageous. (I'm studying Philippians and Paul talks about how his imprisonment has made the gospel manifest through other Christians who have become bold and courageous after seeing him.)

I like the verb manifest. To me, it implies something that is already there, but works its way out and becomes visible, like a genetic trait that manifests itself at a certain age. I like the words bold and courageous as well. One translation used the word fearless instead of bold. That word doesn't appeal to me as much because it feels so unattainable. I can be bold in spite of being fearful. I can act courageous even if I don't feel it. But being fearless means an absence of fear - that's a tough one. It's not just acting a certain way, but feeling an absence of something.

So while I'd like to imagine boldness and courage manifesting themselves naturally from who I am, I don't think it's quite that simple. I'm not sure those two traits are buried deep within me, waiting to become evident. Instead, I have to cultivate these two traits like they are a precious and rare seed that has been planted and may not survive without the proper care. It shouldn't really be that hard. Boldness and courage are traits I see and love in my daughters. B's been bold from the day she was born and K is bold to the point of disrespect (something we're working on). A's courage was evident in her willingness to try out for The Nutcracker - she feared failing, but wanted it badly enough to try. I love this about them and want them to always be bold in being who they were made to be.

I wonder if, like my daughters, I once had seeds of boldness and courage within me. Did I hide them from the light and starve them of food and water? Or were they never there? It seems like it will be harder to plant them in the fallow field of my heart than in the fertile heart of a young girl. But maybe if I water them and tend them daily, they will eventually become present enough to be manifest in my life.

ART

4 a: the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects ; also : works so produced b (1): fine arts (2): one of the fine arts (3): a graphic art

A friend asked me the other night why I majored in art history since I am a self-proclaimed Word Girl. It gave me slight pause. I've never thought of the two things as being contra-indicators. I've loved books for as long as I can remember and I fell in love with art in the ninth grade when I went to Spain, saw El Greco's The Burial of Count Orgaz and toured The Prado. Since I hadn't given this question thought before, the answer I gave then was that my major actually taught me a lot about writing. It was an intensive liberal arts education and I spent a lot of time learning how to communicate my thoughts verbally and in writing. If anything, I think majoring in art history enhanced my love of words because it forced me to articulate what I saw, what I knew and, occasionally, what I felt about a work of art.

After giving this a bit more thought, I think the connection for me between words and art is even deeper than one enhancing my enjoyment of the other. I think both art and words are frameworks for me to understand life. When I visit a museum, the very act of standing before something created by someone makes me stop and think about what life is really about. Not every work of art moves me. To the surprise of many and consternation of some, I do not like representational art much at all. I much prefer abstract art because it lets me interpret and reinterpret it for myself. Even so, I can leave an exhibit of nearly any type of art with my head swimming with ideas.

Words are much the same. A well-written book is fodder for endless thoughts, soul-searching and deep conversations with friends. I have asked J how people who don't read books can get enough distance from their own lives to even understand their lives. A good book takes me far enough away from my daily life to examine it. Without books, how would I even be able to really live?

I think the power in both visual art and books comes from our Creator. We were made in his image and our appreciation and need for art is a reflection of the fact that we are both created and creative beings. I unaplogetically think that art is a vital part of our life, our culture and our very existence. I guess one of my deepest held hopes is that one day, I'll write something that makes someone stop and ponder their life and see it more clearly through the lens of something I have written.

TITLE

5 a: the distinguishing name of a written, printed, or filmed production b: a similar distinguishing name of a musical composition or a work of art
6: a descriptive name : appellation

When I went to the Frist last week, there was a photograph of one of Abraham Lincoln's assassination conspirators. The title of the work was what made me stop to look twice at the image. Before knowing the title, I liked the work. It had a grittiness and edge to it that was not common in the posed portraiture that dominates photographs from this period and that made it stand out from the work around it. While I wouldn't say that I liked the work any less after reading the title, but I did feel differently about it. The title changed my experience of the image. Before knowing the title, I read the insolence in the young man's stance one way. After knowing the title, the same body language had different connotations to me. In this case, the title was "a descriptive name" but sometimes the title has an even more profound impact when it's not descriptive.

One of the striking things to me about studying the book of Ruth this fall was the title. If you read the book of Ruth through several times without knowing the title of the story, I wonder what you might name it. I don't think I would have named it after Ruth. She's certainly a key player in the story, but she doesn't call attention to herself and therefore tends to fade into the background. I think this is noteworthy because the authors (both the human author and the Author) of the story want you to pay special attention to Ruth.

I think the title of something - whether it's a book, an album or a work of art - frames your experience as the reader/listener/viewer. This makes me wonder whether those who select the titles do so with great deliberation or on a whim. I think a close analogy to this is naming your children. In a way, the name you give your child frames her experience of life. Not because the name necessarily describes your child but because it is so much a part of her existence that she can't escape it.

I looked up the meanings for the names of each of my daughters before naming them, but only with the last child (K) was the meaning of the name the reason we chose the name we did and spelled it the way we did. B doesn't really like the meaning of her name, so we've altered the meaning to fit her better, since she doesn't go by her full name anyway. I think it makes her feel better to think of a meaning for her name that suits her better.

I used to not like my name. I think this was due in part to the fact that I did not have a middle name. There's no way to turn my name into a cute diminutive, so I was stuck with the name my parents gave me. It means "small, wise one" and I like that now. I'm not sure I am fully living up to the name, but it's a good goal to work towards. It frames my experience of life nicely, like a well-titled work of art.

ENVY

1: painful or resentful awareness of an advantage enjoyed by another joined with a desire to possess the same advantage

I've started to experience a new emotion when I read a good book. I have loved reading for as long as I can remember, but only recently have I begun to truly envy the authors of the books I read. Up until a few months ago, I would have said I'd never want to write a book. I would have told you that while I love reading, I just didn't have the desire to write a book of my own. That has now changed dramatically and I positively long to write a book.

There are books that I read by certain authors (Home by Marilynne Robinson, People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks or Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell) that I can't even bring myself to envy. Each of these women doesn't just write - it's something bigger and more beautiful than that. But there are others that I read (Twilight by Stephenie Meyer, Nefertiti by Michelle Moran or Book of a Thousand Days by Shannon Hale) that make me think, "Well, I could write that!" And I envy the author for having the seed of an idea needed to start a book, the bravery to start writing and the persistence to keep writing.

I do, as the definition of envy says, "desire to possess the same advantage." I want to have an idea that compels me to pursue it, the time to write for pleasure and the courage to just do it. Because coupled with my envy is a fear. A fear that while I can read any book I want, I am not capable of writing one. That while I can admire and be touched by the creativity of others, I do not have the ability to bless others with my own blend of talents and gifts. Together, the envy and fear leave me crippled. So I limp along reading good or great books and push this desire to write one - or just start writing one - deep down.

Maybe 2009 will bring new emotions as I read - contentment in a good book, thankfulness for the joy it brings or appreciation for the writing, the story and the characters. If the envy remains, I pray God will give me the seed of idea I need to start and the courage to water that seed with words.

DISCIPLINE

1: punishment
2obsolete : instruction
3: a field of study
4: training that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character
5 a: control gained by enforcing obedience or order b: orderly or prescribed conduct or pattern of behavior c: self-control
6: a rule or system of rules governing conduct or activity


I've decided I need to be more disciplined in my writing, so I thought my first entry on this brand new blog should deal with the concept of discipline. I think the most relative of the definitions above is not the primary. I do not write to punish myself, but to train, correct, mold and perfect myself.


I feel the need for more discipline in my writing because writing stays on my mind. I compose essays, reviews and blog entries in my mind, not just once but several times each day. If I'm mentally writing all day long, it seems like I should at least take the time to put some of it down in a semi-permanent format. I do a lot of writing for work, but not much of it is creative in nature. With that writing, I'm trying to best capture what our ministry does, why it matters and, usually, why someone should give us some more money to keep doing it.


I'm hopeful that I'll be disciplined enough to leave work at work while I write here. I think the pressure on my heart to write comes at least partially from all of the reading that I do. I love to read (reading brings into play more self-discipline than discipline) and reading a good novel makes me thankful that the author chose to listen to their inner voice that told them to write. I'm not saying there's a novel hidden inside me, but unless I take some time to write, how do I know what words might come out?


I took my eight year old daughter today to the first major audition of her life. She's a dancer and desperately wants to be selected to participate in this ballet. I admire her. I admire that she is disciplined with dance. She dances three to four days each week and she said last week that sometimes it's just so hard that she wants to cry. That same day, she felt like she was on top of a mountain while she danced. I hope the mountain-top experiences keep her going back. And I hope that regardless of the outcome of her audition, she will continue to dance.


I am much more afraid of failure than this brave eight year old. I won't even give my husband the address to this blog for fear of looking like a fool. But that's exactly why I need the discipline of writing. I hope that as I go along, I'll eventually write something that just screams to be shared. My daughter dances everywhere - in her room, through our house, in the hallways of her school. She can't contain her joy in using the gift she's been given. I hope she'll always see her gifts as gifts and not begin to dance only in her room, where no one else can see her.