Tracy Line

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there.  Because Monday had been a little rough. But as I talked it over with God on the way home that day, I’d heard a small voice inside me say, “Go back.”  And over the years I’ve learned to listen to the small whispers of my heart.  Because often my heart knows better than I.

So here I was, back in the aged and less-than-shiny inner city elementary school.  The room was cold, and a bit dark as the window shades blocked the outdoor light. I sat in the tiny plastic chair waiting.  Waiting for the other volunteers to file in.  Waiting for the instructor to tell us what we’d do on this day of writing camp for at-risk kids.  Waiting in truth, to prove that whisper wrong.

In a matter of minutes approximately 40 8^th graders, most of whom are bigger than me, pile into their own plastic chairs.  I get up from my empty table and find a spot at one with four gangling boys.  One is in constant motion, chattering with kids at another table.  One has his head down as if he’s asleep.  The other two remain quiet, simply staring into space. I’m here for a reason; I want to connect, I want to inspire, I want to make a difference.  But I too remain silent; awkwardness takes over, words won’t come.

The instructor, who’d been absent on Monday, quickly commands the attention of the kids.  It’s apparent they will listen to her.  In fact, if I’m reading the room accurately, I believe they respect her, like her even. The positive energy intrigues me.

She begins the first exercise; we are to close our eyes, think about a favorite toy from our childhood, then describe it, remember how we felt about it.  Five minutes later the kids are writing as fast as they can, about that toy.  Only the boys at my table aren’t writing. They hold their pencils hesitantly, no words are transferred to paper.

I prod them, what about a game you used to play?  Did you play sports, own a basketball?  Did you ever play with action figures?  They stare at me impassively; apparently nothing is coming to mind.  I join them in their blankness.  Together we sink into a comfortable silence, they not writing, me panicking over my inability to engage these boys.

But then something happens.  One of the boys starts writing furiously.  He’s remembering his favorite video game, Black Ops 2. The chatty one gets an idea from a friend: he suddenly remembers how much he once loved his Spider-Man Web Shooter.  The quiet boys put pen to paper, writing about what I do not know.  The boy I thought was asleep is actually reading a novel; I’ll take it.  Today is already better than Monday.  Monday the kids were restless, wild, didn’t trust me, the new volunteer. Monday, I was unsure, as if I too was a middle school student.

We begin to interact.  I ask the boys what age they are, where they attend school, what they like to do.  They are nice, polite, willing to talk to me, an older suburban white woman who can’t possibly know anything about their day-to-day struggles. I enjoy getting to know them.

The instructor interrupts us with the next assignment:  create a 6-word bumper sticker describing your life. Six words?  I sit blankly.  But the boys are ahead of me, writing their words down with ease.  I ask to read what they’ve written. They willingly show me their work. They are proud and I am…impressed.

Minutes later the instructor asks the students to share with the group.  39 students remain quiet while 1 reads her bumper sticker, her toy story.   The instructor points out the uniqueness of her writing and we clap.  One by one each student shares his writing.

I am inspired by their creativity.  I am awed with the fierceness, the depth of their writing.  I am in love with this understanding that through words, even a forty-something suburban white woman can connect with a group of inner city at-risk fourteen-year-old boys.  If she’ll come back after a rough first day.

That small voice, the whisper inside, it’s always right.  I can’t wait until Monday.

PS:  Here is my bumper sticker:  Fueled by faith, family, words, experiences.  If I had more room, I would add:  inspired by the youth of Saint Florian.

The Writer’s Progress

*This week was crazy, I did not meet my writing goal of 2 hrs/day.  Time to get to it.

*BUT-I have 3-count them 3-interviews lined up.  I will collect these faith stories by the end of next week AND I have another story headed my way via email.  Each step forward fuels my excitement about this project.

*I took a leap of faith and emailed an author to see if I could  interview her about a healing she has personally experienced and blogged about.  I haven’t heard back from her (read: this is a lesson in building a thick skin).

*I’m working on entries for 2 writing contests.  Plan to get the rough drafts done by 8/9 and then edit them so I can turn in by 9/1.  Wish me luck!

*Headed to the Across the Arts 1-day conference with my daughter this weekend. Hoping to learn and connect with other authors.

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Before—

She was 17 when she first told me she wanted to jump out of a plane.  I thought nothing of it.  Because I remember what it’s like to be young and fresh.   To be standing in that odd space between childhood and adulthood, longing for a taste of the world.  For me, it was hang gliding.

But I never went.

At 18 she said she’d wait a year.  She and the beau had discussed going together after his birthday.  I thought nothing of it.  Things change in a year.

And I never went hang gliding.

When she turned 19, the boyfriend realized she was serious. For him it was just fun talk and not a true bucket list item. And so he declined.  I thought nothing of it.

But this week, as we’re on vacation, my daughter Sarah made up her mind.  It was time to: Take. The. Plunge.  She asked her Dad to go skydiving with her.  Because long ago when he was 18, he had longed to jump out of a plane.  And he never went.

But now my husband has a wife, three kids and a company to run.  Sorry Sarah, he said: the time for flying is when you are young.

But in steps John.  John, who is on vacation with us.  John who is our lifelong friend who has known Sarah since the very day she was born.  John, who also has always wanted to jump out of a plane.  When Sarah asked John if he’d jump with her, he said yes. Even though he’s not so young. This time, I thought something of it.

I thought:  Wow, they are really going to do this.

            I thought: Wow, they could get hurt.  

I thought:  I can’t hold her back; I have to let her go. 

Because the time for flying is when you are young.

After —

I woke up today and found myself no longer afraid, no longer worried about what could happen.  Instead I was giddy, excited for my daughter and my friend, anxious to see them both fly. One young and one not so young, both challenging themselves to take a leap and dive right into the unknown.

The day is bright, sunny, with just the right amount of clouds interrupting the brilliant blue sky.  And so as I watched the plane soar high into the air, so high we can no longer see it or hear it, I thought something of it.

            I thought:  Wow, they are really doing this.

            I thought:  Wow, this is so cool.

            I thought:  No matter your age, the time for soaring is now.  

I always love a good adventure, even when it’s not mine. And so to Sarah I say: I am so excited for you because this is just the beginning.  And to John: thanks for reminding me you’re never too old to fly.

On day three of the vacation I’m currently on, I woke up to cloudy skies and rain.  I wasn’t concerned though; we’ve had our sun and the truth is sometimes I secretly enjoy a rainy day at the beach.

Because when it rains you do things you otherwise might not. You indulge in your lazy side; curling up on the couch with a blanket and a big bowl of popcorn to watch an old movie.  You challenge your family members in endless rounds of euchre, Yahtzee or Trivial Pursuit.  Or maybe you engage in a craft such as tie-dyeing shirts.  If you choose the latter, and you lack the craft gene like I do, please learn from my mistakes:

What Not to Do when You Tie-Dye Shirts.

1-Don’t read the directions after you have started the process.  My kit came with an instructional DVD.  Had I watched it beforehand, I’d have saved a bit of time and trouble.

2-Don’t assume working in the kitchen is a good idea.  I don’t know why I thought we wouldn’t get dye on our rental home’s White. Kitchen. Counters. Thank God for those bleach wipes.

3-Don’t say “Sure!” when your kid offers to help mix up the dye.  Red, yellow, and blue dye everywhere, one curse word, one kid running upstairs because she felt badly, and one mother who had to follow her up to apologize.  Ah, the irony of family fun….

4-Don’t assume you can skip wearing the gloves.  I currently have a semi-permanent rainbow across my hands, along with speckled legs and feet.  Yesterday, Abby fell on her skim board and I thought she had a huge bruise; turns out it was just green dye.

5-Don’t let my previous suggestions stop you.  Despite the mess, despite the teenagers making fun of me (their favorite pastime), despite the rainbow hands, we had fun.  And our shirts turned out pretty cool.  That’s what I love about tie-dye;  even those of us who can’t pull off a paint-by-number can come home with a pretty cool looking, one-of-a-kind work of art.

In later contemplation, I decided life is a lot like tie-dyeing, because: 

1-It’s messy.

2-It’s more complicated when you don’t follow  ‘instructions.’

3-Even when we’re trying our best, we fail, making curse words and apologies part of it. 

4-When you take short cuts, it shows.

5-Despite all of it, life is good, rich and with the right attitude, fun!

The Writer’s Progress:

One reason I started this blog was to keep myself accountable and thus I want to report my progress.  

1.  I’m on vacation so I’ve done next to nothing in the last 5 days.  I did however, arrange to arrange for an interview for when I get back.  This is progress! The week we get home I’ll collect my first story for a book on faith and miracles I’m working on.

2.  I have a friend working on getting me contact information for another person whose amazing story I heard through the grapevine (my husband, a valid source I’d say).  I’m so excited to interview this guy so am praying he’ll be up for it.

3.  Finished a freelance assignment I’d been working on.  Girl’s got to earn a little cash whilst she’s working on her dreams…

The waitress, I noticed, was paying rapt attention to my daughters.  Three sisters sitting in a row, requesting chicken fingers and fries, honey mustard on the side.  She took their orders with care, wanting to get it just right.  I sensed this had more to do with whatever was going on in her heart than it did her desire to be an adept waitress.  And I was right.

As we waited for our meal to arrive, I wondered about this waitress, thought about striking up a conversation with her.  Yet what would I say?  I see you looking at my girls, have you a daughter of your own?  Or, are you the mother of boys, longing for a little girl?  As she refilled our drinks I contemplated the story hiding behind her intent, brown eyes.  Turns out I didn’t have to ask.

As she brought our check, the waitress inquired about my daughters.  She asked their ages, where they attend school, and what it’s like to have three children.  She, she went on to tell, had a son, about nine years old, the pride of her existence.  But as she spoke I could see the worry in her eyes; with it came her story.

She’d tried for years to get pregnant after having her son, but to no avail.  Then, as luck would have it, she’d gotten cancer.  Now she was in remission, but her doctor warned her against having more children.  It would weaken her immune system.  Most interesting to me was that when she spoke, it was not with bitterness, but with acceptance for her fate. She was at peace with what life had handed her.

But I wasn’t.  My heart ached for this woman I do not know.  I was sad for what she’s been through and even sadder that she doesn’t get to have the second child, the daughter, she longs for.  I felt angry at her doctors for squashing her dreams, even as I know my anger was displaced. They, did not give her cancer.  They have her best interest at heart.

Mostly though, I just felt guilt.  Guilt for sitting here at this table with three beautiful, vibrant daughters and a body that has not yet betrayed me.  Guilt for having a life I humbly understand many would envy.  Guilt in knowing my life, thus far, has been easier than hers.

So from this waitress at Chili’s I have realized 3 things:

1.  The gifts in our lives are given, not earned.  I can’t take credit for what I have.

2. We can rarely fix or alleviate the pain of others.   We can however try to be conscious of it, pray for them, and be a kind presence in their times of need.

3.  When life throws a crisis in your direction, there are really only two ways in which you can respond: with bitterness or acceptance.  My guess is we all start with bitterness. But if we can’t move away, can’t eventually get to a place of acceptance, it will destroy us.  So really, if you want any kind of life at all, there is only one response.

The Writer’s Progress:

One reason I started this blog was to keep myself accountable and thus I want to report my progress.

*I have stuck to my goal of writing for 2 hours a day.  I am finding if I write first, then do other work, it energizes me.

*I have completed two manuscripts I need to turn in for a writer’s conference I’m attending in July.  Just need to re-edit about 72 more times and then send them out.  Wish me luck!

*I am struggling to get moving on my book on miracles.  Stupid fear getting in the way.  But, I did spend some time researching/gathering ideas for how to capture more stories on how God is achieving his goals through us.  I’m also collecting ideas for titles and how to structure the book.  Baby steps…

When you actually think about it, procrastination is a funny thing.

Not always.  I mean, come on, it’s easy to put off doing certain things, things that are no fun.  Like taxes. Cleaning. Flossing teeth.  These are things we need to do, but it doesn’t mean we want to do them. It’s just part of the minutia of life.

But lately I’ve discovered I procrastinate on things I want to do.  Huh.  I want to lose weight.  I want to pitch magazines.  I want to start my book.   But yet, tomorrow always seems like a better day for it.  Why?  In a word: fear.

Jon Acuff, the author of a book called Start. writes about this very topic.  Please note:  I am not promoting this book.  I haven’t even read it, though I might, if I can take another self-help book (it does get some nice reviews).  But I did see an interview with him and something he said has really stuck with me, “Any time you do something that matters, fear gets loud.”  Indeed.

So when the stakes are high, so is the fear.  Add to that the hard work involved in reaching your goal, and you have yourself two real reasons to put off what can be done today.  But then there’s that other important truth, “Nothing good comes easy.”  So if we procrastinate, if we don’t go after what we want-whatever that is-then what?  We miss out on the richness of life. And we only get one life.

Only I  can define what is important to me.  And only I can kick procrastination in the rear.  And this is a bummer, because I’d really love to be able to pay someone to do that for me.

This week, I did one thing to move forward:  I made a decision to write for 2 hrs a day.  I actually set the timer on my smart phone, and did not allow myself to get up, check email or answer the phone until the timer went off.   And guess what?  I made really good progress, surprised myself with how much work I got done.

So what’s the moral of the story?  Ignore any negative thoughts, sit down to do the work, and progress will come.  If nothing else, Jon Acuff has at least one thing right: the title of his book.   OH and one disclaimer: in regards to the losing weight thing….well, nobody’s perfect!

Going for it isn’t easy.  Ever.  Doesn’t matter what you want to do, where it is you want to be, or what it takes to get there.  It. takes. courage.  And courage, it seems is something I lack. At least when it comes to this.  This, my dream.   This, my decision to quit my safe and secure job and follow my writing dreams.

Because lots of people want to be writers.  Lots of people think they are good writers.  And lots of people aren’t.  What if I am in the latter category?  What if I’m crazy to think anyone would want to read what I write?  And the biggest fear in my heart:  what if I put myself out there, work really, really hard, and….fail.  I know, I know, failure is just a step, we learn the most from our failures, failure doesn’t define you….But still, who wants to fail?

My husband is not like me.  He doesn’t suffer from the urge to over-analyze everything or lean just a tad to much toward the practical in life.  Instead, he goes after what he wants, forges ahead even when the stakes are high.  He does not fear failure and yet he always, always says: failure is not an option.  This doesn’t mean he won’t make mistakes.  It doesn’t mean it won’t take hard work.  It does means he’ll keep trying. It means he’ll focus on the positives, work on what is within his control, and choose not worry (too much) about the rest.   So this year, I’m joining my husband in his mantra.  I will go after what I want. I will work hard and focus on what is within my control. And  I will not give up.  It starts with baby steps. Simply putting one foot in front of the other and moving ahead. And, here I will share it all.  And if it interests you, you can follow it all: my mistakes, my successes, my lessons learned.

Today’s steps: Setting Goals

I’ve set some work standards for myself:

-I will write 2 hours every day.

-I will set specific monthly goals (SMART goals-specific, measurable, attainable, realistic, timely) and keep tabs on my progress.

-And finally…I will.start.the miracle book.  No more procrastinating; I’ll take steps forward each and every week. And log those steps.