Musical Ear: looks like the bass clef!

Happy Little Dude

Oh! I love his feeties!

My Handsome Men

Sprawling Boy

Long Toes for Climbing

Looks Good in Green

Almost Naked!

Sweet Sleeper

With Grandma and Grandpa

Aunt Kathy and Levi

Tired Dad

The Plight of the Poetess

Almost a week ago I finished Kate Douglas Wiggin's young adult novel, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. I started it in need of a distraction from pregnancy, continued listening to it in labor, and finished it nursing. Quite the saga. Little Rebecca's personality, desires, subtle love interests, and progress reminded me of L.M. Montgomery's Emily trio--even though it was published about 15 years earlier. I admit--I like Emily better: less sappy, anticipated, with a tad more reality. But I recognize that they fit the same category of silly, dreamy girl-fiction. Sometimes I need that. Better than crap fiction.

Both Emily and Rebecca are poets. Poetesses, if you will. I started out that way. In fact, I came to college convinced that I would be scribbling poetry and changing the world like Emily Dickinson, T.S. Eliot and William Carlos Williams (just to name a few--back to the silly dreamy girl-fiction separated from reality...). I even briefly switched my major to English linguistics so that I could better appreciate language. Then I decided that *gasp and good grief!* I couldn't write good poetry. I couldn't write good fiction. What then? And now I'm wondering if I can write good essays. Isn't there a line where the hopeful young writer must evaluate herself and say, "Nice try. Keep it as a hobby?" Alas; I am too stubborn to give up. I am too determined to "succeed" (whatever that means in the popular or academic literary worlds) to be satisfied with a hobby. And yes, I've even labled myself. I am a writer. But of what? This is a question that still baffles me. In my idealistic dream existance I want to be able to master every genre at least once in my life (yes! That includes a musical. How in the heck will I pull that off?) In my reality I just want to write every day and find something that slightly satisfies me enough to edit by the end of the week. I believe writers change the world, but I'm not going about to do that anymore. The ones who actually make an influence on their readers do not harbor such proud ambitions.

I want to write for Wesley.
I want to write for Levi.
I want to write out of love and hope.
I want to write well.
I want to write because, frankly, I can't not write which sounds extremely trite but is true.
And in the end, I just want to write.

Anyone with aspirations (a word close enough to "respiration" that it includes everyone) hits a point of wonderment/discouragement and asks if what he or she is doing is actually worth while. I guess I'm here to say that it is, it is, whatever it is.

Our Little Levi (the condensed story)

On the first Sunday of October 2008, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any longer. I tried not to be excited about my late period; my menstrual cycle was not to be trusted—especially when we were hoping to miss nine months. By General Conference, Wesley and I decided to open another pregnancy test, hoping for more substantial results. Nervously, I looked at the results (attempting to expect another single line and not be disappointed) but then two lines appeared, the pink coloring darkening and darkening until I ran out of the bathroom giggling to Wesley. We glowed all day. And the next day. And the rest of the forty weeks.

After my initial, confirming doctor’s visit the first person we told about our pregnancy was the woman who answered the phone for our Deseret Mutual Insurance.

“When’s your due date?” she asked.

“June 3.”

“Oh! How wonderful! You’ll love having a summer baby. You’ll just love having a baby.” I knew she was right.

I wondered how long and how bright I could beam without giving our news away. Wesley and I discussed when we should tell our families: I worried about miscarriage and sharing the sorrow, but we wanted to share our joy. We debated the possibility of telling our families at Christmas. By then, I would be almost half-way through the pregnancy, but since we would only see them at Thanksgiving before that, I could probably hide my slowly expanding belly. I also worried about telling Holly Lynn, but she soon alleviated my fears with the wonderful call announcing her pregnancy. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I couldn’t think or write or study or focus; I needed to talk about my little growing baby. We anticipated a beautiful child; not an “it.” We fondly called our fetus Charles Lamb (after the essayist who wrote one of my favorite pieces, “Dream Children”) from the beginning. If needed, we could always change the fetus name to Alice Meynell after our 20 week appointment. After that first weekend in October, we talked to Charlie and told him how much we love him.

As we packed for Thanksgiving break, we wrapped a bundle of “coal” (okay, it was some blacktop—but it was easier and cleaner than coal) as an early Christmas present for each of our families. The bundles were the size of a small nectarine: the same size as Charles. When we arrived in Kuna, we stopped by my parents’ house first. Dad sat behind the bar as Mom unwrapped part of her “birthday” present. We told her that the most expensive one she would have to share with Dad. She looked at the black rock and the tag inside that read “Just a little Cole for Christmas” and then she fell (safely) on the wood floor.

“Really? How are you feeling? How long have you known?” My dad wiped his eyes and didn’t say much as Mom gasped out her surprised questions. We told them about the strong heart beat we had heard for the first time a few days earlier. We waited to tell my siblings the news until Thanksgiving dinner where Hollie Rae responded, “I knew we should have made that an official bet!”

We gave our package of Christmas Cole to Wesley’s family the same night we gave it to my parents. Christine looked at the package without reading the card with an expression that said, “What the—?” and so Wesley explained, “Well, this is about the size of our little Cole.” After about three seconds the news dawned on everyone and we were enveloped in a full-family tearful hug.

So the news was out! I sailed through my first trimester with health (and paranoid caution, always sure that I would trip or be bumped or topple on stairs—this lasted for 41 weeks). Strangely enough, my migraines and headaches disappeared almost completely. Little nausea, no vomit, enough energy to go to school with extra credits, teach my first-year writing course, scribble and submit work, and exercise every day. We couldn’t believe how blessed we were. I still couldn’t believe that we were actually having a baby. During the second trimester, my nausea increased, energy decreased. My weight gain and “off days” became more noticeable (especially on the days when I wondered if my head spun faster than the world’s rotation). Wesley and I went to school and work, immersed ourselves in our studies and callings, but our thoughts revolved around our developing baby. In January, we found out that our little Charles really was a boy. Through images made through sound waves we saw the layers of his brain, his facial features, his busy hands and feet. Struck dumb and in love, we stared at the black and white images.

I first felt our baby move during a session in the Timpanogos temple. Suddenly—a flutter. From that day until the day he was born, I rested my hands on my belly waiting to feel our little squirmer from the inside and from without. As he grew, his movements tickled (I never knew that you could be tickled from within!). Throughout pregnancy, our baby always moved more in the temple. He loved it there. As I neared my due date and attended the temple more regularly I sometimes wondered if he would become so excited that labor would begin there.

On Wesley’s birthday (February 26), we watched “Teenaged-Mutant-Ninja Turtles: The Secret of the Ooze” which features the Vanilla Ice song, “Go Ninja, Go Ninja, Go!” To our delight and amazement, the baby moved in rhythm to the song. After that, he often responded to music, tapping out the beat and dancing.

My third trimester was the most difficult. Although I exercised daily until two days before Charlie’s birth, I moved much more slowly and with pain. I finally threw up, but had to laugh at the scene of myself: a small stature woman trying to bend over her enormous bulky baby to reach the toilet. For inexplicable reason I believed that our boy would arrive early. He started dropping at 35 weeks and lowered each week until even others commented on how our baby dragged. But he didn’t come. I worried that he would set me in the hospital while Wesley was in Michigan for a conference. But he didn’t come. Our landlord scheduled a floor replacement in our kitchen—a great benefit!—on our due date, June 3, which I didn’t think we’d be home for. But he didn’t come. Excitement filled us. Peace and joy sustained me. While I anticipated the arrival of Charles, I never wanted reached the point of wanting to jump on the bed in order to force him here. We tried to imagine his face. We tried to imagine ourselves parents.

Wednesday, June 3 passed to the fourth, fifth, sixth. My contractions increased, yet not enough. At 37 weeks I was dilated to a one and 75% effaced. At 40 weeks I was dilated to a one and a half and 80% effaced—Wesley and I wanted to grasp the titles of “Dad” and “Mom.” On Sunday, June 7 my belly hardened into a contraction at five o’clock p.m. Instead of softening like a normal contraction, my muscles remained tense. Small contraction waves continued pulsing—not as consistently as we hoped, but pulsing. My muscles remained hard through the night and all of Monday. I stayed home in response to the pain and hope that we could have a baby.

Even though we called our baby Charles until the moment he was born, we posted a list of possible names on the fridge. How could we name our baby until we knew what he looked like? Both Wesley and I were unsure of who our baby was exactly; both of us also assumed that he would probably be Zerin Chad. For the last few weeks of pregnancy, though, I started thinking, “This baby is Levi. His name is Levi.” Blue Jeans. I didn’t know where that idea popped in from, so I stayed quiet. We still didn’t know what he looked like.

When Wesley returned from work at six o’clock, I had started to distract myself by researching family pedigree charts on FamilySearch and calling Grandma Keller to review family stories. (Since I can’t go to the temple for a while, I want to continue being temple and ordinance focused. What better place to start than family history?). I asked about Levi Newell Kendall, an ancestor who knew Joseph Smith in Nauvoo, traveled with Brigham Young to the Salt Lake Valley, and acted as a scout for other pioneer groups. Until I spoke with Grandma, I didn’t realize that he was buried in Mapleton, just a few miles south of where we live in Provo. For Family Home Evening (and to distract ourselves from my continuing contractions), we drove to the Evergreen Cemetery near Mapleton to search for Levi Newell Kendall’s grave. We wandered through the headstones but soon I couldn’t walk far or catch my breath because of the contractions. We had to leave before we found the grave.

We started counting the duration and distance of contractions at 9:30 p.m. They lasted for close to five minutes each and were only separated by three minutes. We were having a baby! We were sure. But we didn’t want to spend unnecessary time in the hospital, so we waited. I thought I might be able to sleep through some of them. We needed our rest if we would be welcoming a baby soon. At 1:35 a.m. the contractions intensified and our usually overactive baby stopped moving. That scared us. I planned on an episiotomy, forceps, and then a C-section (why be disappointed?)—anything to ensure that our son would arrive safely. It was time to go to the hospital. But. When we arrived the contractions stopped. We still registered and connected me to monitors tracking the contractions and our baby’s heart beat. To our relief, Charles’s heart remained steady as an ox—as it had been all through our pregnancy. After forty minutes one of our doctors came in and explained that since I was already overdue and had not made much progress, we could choose to be induced right then. He leaned toward that decision, but we didn’t feel right about it; we packed up, stopped at Smith’s grocery for ice cream (at four a.m.! our consolation prize), and returned home.

No contractions for two days. Wednesday, June 10 marked 41 weeks of pregnancy and our last doctor’s appointment. My doctors schedule inductions after 41 weeks for the safety of the mother and the baby since the placenta can start separating. Because I react strangely to even Tylenol, we had hoped to avoid an induction. More than that we wanted our baby to come on his own time when he was ready. We didn’t want to rush him; however, my body did not progress and I felt that we needed to have him here sooner rather than later. The hospital could schedule us for Thursday (the next day) or the following Monday. We chose Thursday even though Wesley had a final presentation in his material science class: it was a group project. His professor told him to inform his group of the situation and to plan on giving his part of the presentation later.

As the day progressed, we realized that June 11 was Wesley’s great-grandfather’s birthday. If still living, Joseph Royal Cole—the man Wesley was named for (in conjunction with Joseph Smith)—would have turned 99. The hospital would call us between 5:30 a.m. and 8:30 a.m. depending on how many women came in to give birth naturally through the night. We told our families. Mom and Dad began their drive to Pocatello, “calmly moseying down to Utah, calmly” as Mom said.

To celebrate our baby’s near arrival, Wesley and I went to Mimi’s Café for dinner and enjoyed each other’s company. We went grocery shopping. We double checked our hospital bag and I made Wesley a lunch for the next day. It was possible that he could still slip in to class for his final presentation, so we prepared his things for school as well. We toppled into bed exhausted and tried to sleep.

As usual, I awoke every hour and a half through the night for a bathroom break. At three a.m. I took my prenatal vitamin and ate a few crackers hoping to stave off my normal nausea and give my body strength since I knew after the induction I would only be able to eat ice chips.

Our phone rang at five a.m.

“Is this Cassie?”

“Yes.”

“This is Utah Valley Hospital. Would you like to have a baby this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you can be here by six?”

“Yes.”

Wesley rolled toward me in bed. “It’s not 5:30 yet,” he grinned.

“I thought we’d have to wait until nine!” I responded. We embraced, said our couple and individual prayer, showered, and gathered our things for the hospital.

By seven a.m. we were in another labor and delivery room on the fifth floor with a huge window with a beautiful view of Provo. The monitors again tracked our contractions and Charlie’s heart. To our surprise, I had dilated slightly. Our nurse, Linda, hooked me up to the IV and began filling me with fluid and oxytosin. We waited. Wesley read our section of Ezekiel to me. He practiced his presentation. He helped me to the bathroom multiple times. We listened to audio books and talked. Linda returned to check on us and increase the dosage of the induction medication. Considering my past experience, we were surprised that my body did not respond quickly. Finally, at the highest level of medication my contractions became hard and constant. I could handle the pain, especially with Wesley there. His presence calms me.

We had not met our doctor on call for the day. Dr. Scott Jacob introduced himself around one o’clock and we knew instantly that we liked him. He would be there until seven p.m., but then would switch with our least favorite (though very capable) doctor. Dr. Jacob explained that he assumed he would need to break my water to allow labor to progress better (I was only dilated to a 3). “Breaking your water isn’t painful, but labor does speed up usually after that,” Dr. Jacob told us. “If you’re planning on an epidural you can get one before or after we break your bag of waters. It may be easier to get it sooner. Some people want to hold off on the epidural, but since you were induced your situation is different.” My pain was bearable. Although I wanted Wesley to stay with me, I also wanted him to be able to do his presentation. My parents were in Bountiful with my sister waiting for us to call—eager to come, willing to come sooner so Wesley could leave for campus for an hour. I didn’t want my dad to see me in contractions. I didn’t want Wesley to worry. And I had concluded weeks before that an epidural was probably a wise choice.

At 2:30, the anesthesiologist put the epidural tube into my back. I told Wesley to go to his presentation. He wouldn’t. I told him it wasn’t a big deal. He called his group who told him not to come; then his professor told him not to come. “Stay with your wife,” he said. We watched a thunderstorm through our window. The rain pelted the glass. We were both relieved to be together, even if it looked like things would go slowly. We anticipated greeting our baby at midnight or later.

At 3:30, Wesley used the bathroom. On the monitor the ever steady heart beat sounded a boxer’s punch, which I felt, followed by a gush of water. Dr. Jacob would not need to break it. Linda checked me. I was dilated to a five.

My parents arrived around four. We talked and laughed. Although I could not feel the intensity of my contractions I could move my legs some. Wesley fed me ice chips to keep my throat moist. We thoroughly enjoyed our hospital stay: nothing seemed rushed or intense, simply wonderful as we waited for our son.

At five p.m. I was dilated to an eight. Dad soon determined he should leave the room. Mom stayed.

At six p.m. Linda’s shift was over. She came to check me one last time—dilated to a large ten. She didn’t want to leave, but introduced us to Elizabeth, our next nurse. Weirdly, Elizabeth and Wesley had known each other their freshman year of college (she had grown up in the same town as some of his roommates). Elizabeth explained how we would push. Her mannerisms expressed full confidence in me. At no point did I wonder (even though I had expected to) if I could “do this.” I felt strong, capable, ready, calm. I could feel the power of our family’s prayers and fasts. Beautifully, I felt the presence of angels. Wesley held my hand and stroked my face. The sun shone brilliantly, glinting off of the remnant raindrops.

We pushed four sets of three. Dr. Jacob came in and informed me that another patient was also at a ten. “We’re in a relay! Let’s see who will win. I want to see these babies before seven. I’m not letting another doctor have them,” he smiled.

A mirror was directly across from me. I didn’t want to watch my own face. Elizabeth covered by taping a towel across the glass. We continued to talk and laugh, and bear down. No one acted nervous—we weren’t.

“Your baby has so much dark hair!” Elizabeth said as she, Wes, and Mom saw him crowning. I expect to push for hours. But around 6:25 Elizabeth said, “I’m going to get Dr. Jacob.” When he arrived, we pushed twice. No episiotomy. Only slight tearing. At 6:36 p.m. Our baby gave a small cry, then peed. Instead of pain, I felt elated with exhilaration and joy.

“He’s definitely a boy!” Dr. Jacob laughed.

I couldn’t believe we had a baby. I knew the strength and power I felt was not my own. I knew that angels had helped me. The Lord empowered my body and the body of our little boy. Wesley helped the nurses clean off the baby and we gasped as I held him close for the first time. A miracle. My heart overflowed. Most pregnancies do not go so smoothly. Few pregnancies are so secure and beautiful. While the doctors and nurses ejaculated about how well I did, I knew that for some reason God had given me the gift of this pregnancy and birth. He had given us our gorgeous child. He answered our prayers and faith and those of our families.

I am unworthy; I am grateful beyond description.

Wesley looked at me—both of us shocked, amazed. “I don’t think this is Zerin,” he whispered.

I stared at our baby’s face. “He’s not.”

Because our baby (no longer little Charles) was grunting strangely, he went to the nursery earlier than expected to have his lungs examined. (He was such a skilled swimmer, I figured it would take a while to adjust to his lungs). Wesley kissed me and wheeled our baby to the fourth floor. Elizabeth finished cleaning the room, brought me cranberry juice, and went to check on my son. My parents returned to sit with me. When Wesley returned, he told us there may be more respiratory problems and they were doing more tests. My parents went to be with the baby as Wesley and Elizabeth helped me into a wheelchair (“Most women who have just given birth, especially with an epidural, cannot get into a wheelchair this easy!” Elizabeth exclaimed) and took me to my room on the fourth floor where a new nurse, Krista, took over.

I had to wait five hours before holding my baby again. He stayed momentarily in the NICU with lung inflators. Then they x-rayed him to ensure that there were no holes in his lungs. I was informed of these happenings as my blood pressure was checked—of course it peaked. By 11:30, though, the pediatricians decided that he was fine, but that we’d watch his grunting and breathing closely. Krista and Mom helped me begin to nurse my son. He snuggled into me comfortably, recognizing me. Wavy dark brown hair covered his head. His arms, fingers, legs, toes surprised us with their length. He looked around curiously with his still-dark eyes. We gloried in his darling little nose, chin, full lips, and perfect little ears. We kissed him all over. My parents stayed until almost 2 a.m. Wesley changed a diaper that night that probably dropped our baby’s weight by a pound. We didn’t know that was possible.

Between the excitement, Wesley and I decided that we for sure wanted “Joseph” to be part of his name, but we hadn’t spent enough time with him to decide. At five a.m. the next morning, after feeding our baby and staring at our precious gift. We discussed our list of names again then narrowed it to two. Keller Joseph? Joseph Levi?

“This is Levi.” I said. So Joseph Levi Cole was born on June 11, 2009 at 6:36 p.m. named for Joseph Royal Cole and his daddy Wesley Joseph Cole. He is also named for Levi Newell Kendall. His name represents a heritage of faith, devotion to the gospel, and willingness to work hard to build a quality, provident life for himself and others as he builds the kingdom of God. I hope that he inherits his father’s gentle goodness, desire to serve, work ethic and intelligence. I hope that he knows the importance of opening his heart to love and his hands to benefit others.

On the night of June 12, Levi found his lungs. Instead of grunting, he learned to scream like a pterodactyl. Despite the noise and anger that sometimes accompanies his cry, I will ever be grateful that he can breathe well and use his lungs.

We all came home on Saturday, June 13 to enjoy his long fingers (we think he’s inherited his length from the McFarland side of the family) and long life. I never thought I would be so thrilled about messy diapers, a solid latch, a feeding every two hours. Wesley and I are completely enamored with our son, our little Levi.

Joseph Levi Cole

7 pounds, 12 inches

20 inches long

Born 6:36 on June 11, 2009

Named for Great-great grandpa Joseph Royal Cole (June 11 is his birthday)

and great (etc.) grandpa Levi Newell Kendall

Helen Keller

Around first grade when I learned about Helen Keller, I started reading all the little histories I could. I loved her. I loved the idea of her. I loved Annie Sullivan. I bought books with braille samplings and tried to learn the alphabet (failed, sadly, without more guidance). I also loved the romantic thought that we could be distantly related. Me! Related to Helen Keller who revolutionized education for the blind and the deaf! Helen Keller who contributed to society so selflessly!

But I never read any of her work. Just about her. Like many of my phases, I continued to appreciate Helen Keller but my interests turned elsewhere.

Until last week. Someone (Rachel Hadas, I think) in the reading series I'm digitizing mentioned The World I Live In, and I thought: "I've never read Helen Keller's writing! What the heck!" So I checked out the delightful volume published in 1910 and sweetly "vandalized" by many different readers' underlining and stars. After reading the book, my senses felt enlivened, suddenly aware of themselves and their purpose. My fingers touched my world with more awe. I appreciated my nose more. (And continued to ignore my tongue as much as possible to ward off nausea). My eyes and ears seemed like foreign creatures that I had never actually utilized before.

Helen's writing is intimate, honest, and plucky. Her spirit is obviously independent; stronger than I realized (stupid of me, I know). She essays on her daily experience--another surprise. Nothing really felt like a manifesto, although much of her world did require explanation. She ruminates on hands, communication, dreams, and mostly on the world that we create for ourselves--the reality of which is actually beyond our senses. We need self-consciousness and imagination to be human, not necessarily sight or hearing or common language.

Reading her essays was really like discovering a thoughtful and thought-provoking friend. I anticipate more reading.

Some quotations:

"Remember that you, dependent on your sight, do not realize how many things are tangible." --Helen Keller, from "The Seeing Hand"

I've been thinking about this as we wait for baby Charles. He is obviously real, alive--yet not quite tangible. But if I never see him, he's still there--right?

I wonder about the tangibility of faith, of souls, of sunlight and beauty. I want to be more connected to this tangible world (a moment from Charles Lamb, "New Year's Eve": "I care not to be carried with the tide, that smoothly bears human life to eternity; and reluct at the inevitable course of destiny. I am in love with this green earth; the face of town and country; the unspeakable rural solitudes, and the sweet security of streets. I would set up my tabernacle here." A favorite quote, applicable to so many different situations).

"The infinite wonders of the universe are revealed to us in exact measure as we are capable of receiving them. The keenness of our vision depends not on how much we see, but on how much we feel." --Helen Keller, from "Inward Visions"

Same concept as "line upon line, precept upon precept"? That concept has always frustrated me--the immature person in me almost wants to cry out, "But I need more--more!" So. How to expand the capacity of the soul? How to feel more? Any suggestions?

Pregnancy Chronicles (Before Charles Lamb's Full Entrance)

Due Today

And that is all
I have
to say.

A Hoot

While missing work and waiting for the floor man to come to my house and redo my kitchen floor as arranged by our house management people (scheduled for 9 a.m.: didn't show up until 3:30, then didn't have all the materials--so he's coming again tomorrow. Do I mind that my house is in shambles while I'm having contractions and tomorrow is my due date? Trying to be calm and less anal) I read Carl Hiaasen's Newberry Honor Book, Hoot. Quite delightful, actually. And not just because I needed a distraction. It's hilarious and clever.

The main character, Roy, deals with a few situations that he feels he can't be fully honest with his parents about--for the sake of keeping his integrity with friends, himself, etc. The text notes his discomfort and desire to remain completely upfront with "his two real best friends." I appreciate Roy's good motivations, but he did lie a few times to his parents. Is that okay? I'm inclined to say no, particularly when his parents had been nothing but trustworthy and reliable to him (the book actually makes a good case for the importance of parenting and maintaining close relationships with your children. Another ten points from this reviewer). How do you help a kid in that circumstance? How do you discuss honesty when it has never been an issue before? How do you recognize dishonesty? How do you address the problem without making the child feel attacked or vulnerable?

I was one of those kids who was devastated at the idea of disappointing my parents. There were a few times when I didn't thoroughly explain a situation from the beginning, but (like Roy) those were quickly cleared up. I wonder if this is abnormal, though, and I wonder about little Charles and his siblings. (Another looming question of "what to do when I'm a real parent?" Oh crap...). My current conclusion: be totally honest with my children and uphold open communication and the expectation that they will be honest with me. Is that enough? Any ideas?

Writing Life/Lives

"How we spend our day is, of course, how we spend our lives."

"Who will teach me to write?....The page, the page, that eternal blankness, the blankness of eternity which you cover slowly, affirming time's scrawl as a right and your daring as necessity; which you cover woodenly, ruining it, but asserting your freedom and power to act, acknowledging that you ruin everything you touch but touching it nevertheless, because acting is better than being here in mere opacity; the page, which you cover slowly with the crabbed thread of your gut; the page in the purity of its possibilities; the page of your death, against which you pit such flawed excellences as you can must with all your life's strength: that page will teach you to write."

--Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

Occasionally, I need a little zip from a writer who tells me it's okay to write crap, and it's okay to wonder why you write when no one will ever care to read your work, it's okay to miss the vision of your original hopes as long as you strive after that vision. And, frankly, I enjoy reading along the lines of other writers' lives. I want to discover the hows of what they do, even though I know there is no magical ritual that will form good writing--other than writing writing writing.

All of Dillard's writing makes me reexamine the blade of grass, the arc of the sky, the walk of caterpillars with new awe. She reminds me to open my senses--which is too necessary, too often. After reading her work, I look at the world and can say, "WOW!" more often because I notice it. (How awful that there are long moments of existence that I forget to notice).

And sometimes I get stuck in the rut of myself: although I don't always believe it, the worth of the world does not depend on my little family. The worth of my world does, but there's a lot more going on. I know that. I overlook that fact too often as I obsess about due dates (TOMORROW!) and parenthood. Those are my daily thoughts--in constant need of expansion, but not too bad. The writing life is the life that records the wonder, and then sorts through the records to find gems worth sharing.

Or is that just every life?

Hotel Amerika

recently (and amazingly) published my essay, "Kuna Phonebook," in their trans-genre issue. The journal came out this week. Check it out if you're interested. If you're in for an experience, look up Kuna, Idaho. The place is an adventure if you think about it.

Krakatoa

Yesterday I finished listening to Simon Winchester's book Krakatoa. I've been cleaning the house and folding clothes to it for more weeks than I should admit (granted it is ten CDs). I enjoyed savoring each piece of it. The book is worth gifting to others (or yourself) even if you don't put yourself in the "sciency" category. Wesley endured my ruminations on Darwin, imperialism, religious traditions, and fire in general. The world exploded, the moon melted, the sunsets radiantly inspired artists and zealots. The volcano that destroyed an island and thousands of lives continues to recreate itself like continual resurrection.

What I loved most about Krakatoa was how many connections can be made--socially, politically, scientifically, etc. Our lives and histories interweave in inexplicable ways. I love Winchester's tone of awe and wonder about the volcano (and its historical appendages). Despite the ruin that surrounded it, Krakatoa is a story of how the world continual recreates itself. Our earth fills with hope in the midst of disaster. One seed species dropped on lava remains. One daring fisherman edging toward new shores. One grumble-rumble that becomes common and accepted--blow off a little steam now to avoid huge explosions later.

Of course, I started to over-personify the volcano: we can discover inspiring sunsets in our horrors, we can form abundant life in the fertile soil of past mistakes, we can find freedom within the boundaries of our own bodies. It's easy for me to say that now when I am not facing the smoke of any eruption, when I'm just anticipating change and unable to imagine it, when I believe that our explosion will bring exhaustion and joy and life. I know so little about desolation that I do not deserve to comment on it.