Eureka! Finding fullness in a moment of emptiness

History tells a tale of how the Greek scholar Archimedes was stymied by the problem of determining if a goldsmith had cheated the king with a crown made supposedly with only the gold the monarch had provided. Like many of us, he took his quandary with him into the bath and our understanding of volume and density changed forever that day.

I had a similar moment a couple of weeks ago. Although the situation did involve water, it didn’t take place in the bathtub. And I didn’t run through the streets naked, yelling at the top of my lungs afterwards.

The Tale of the Water Pitcher

©2011 gjphotography via Bigstock Photo

I’ve always liked checklists for the simple reason that I love crossing things off. It allows me to look back and see all I’ve accomplished in a day. At the lodge, I cross off the same items every day. One of those items is filling water goblets and placing them out for the morning guests. I’ve determined that for every ten glasses I fill maybe one is emptied. The rest go untouched. Why drink water when you have coffee, tea, and juice available?

Because of this, I end up dumping out and washing dozens of cups that have only my fingerprints on them.

On this particular day I had over thirty guests coming to breakfast and the pitcher I had been given to use on my first day filled four glasses at most. Having sprained my knee recently I was acutely aware of how much walking I was doing refilling water pitchers every morning.

That’s when I remembered seeing a large stainless steel pitcher hidden on the back of one of the shelves in the kitchen.

Based on its size I guessed I could fill all of my cups with only two trips back to the sink and I marveled at my brilliance. Little did I know I was about to have an object lesson play out before me that has stuck with me ever since.

I loaded my tray with the first ten water goblets, filled them with ice, and then added the water. A glance in my pitcher showed that I could easily fill another five to ten more, so I set out the glasses, came back to my station and started again. After filling the next set, I looked in the pitcher again expecting it would be time to refill it.

There was still a quarter of a pitcher of water left.

I was stunned and as I set out my second load I wondered how many more glasses I was going to get out of that one pitcher.

One. Two. Three…Seven…Eight…Nine….

Each time I poured I looked inside to check the water level and could not believe there was still something inside. And with each filled glass I became more and more excited.

It’s in our lowest moments that our biggest blessings are usually found.

I was reminded of the widow who had only a handful of flour and a little oil when Elijah approached her and asked for some bread, and how that handful of food was replenished every day until the end of the famine (1 Kings 17).

I recalled another impoverished widow whose sons were about to be taken from her to cover her debts. Elisha told her to gather as many pots as she could find then fill them with what oil she had in her one little jar. The oil didn’t run out until she had filled every single jar, and so her family was saved (2 Kings 4).

And then I remembered a little boy in a crowd of five thousand who stepped forward to share his two meager fish and five tiny barley loaves, and whose gift resulted in enough leftovers to fill twelve baskets (Matthew 14).

That’s when it hit me—I was the pitcher.

I’d been feeling so drained that I wondered how on earth I could be of any encouragement to others and yet, when I considered the last year, I realized I had never witnessed so many moments of fullness coming out of the supposed emptiness in my life.

And that right there was the catch.

Pitchers don’t fill themselves. They are filled by a main source so that they in turn can fill other vessels.

The same is true of my life. I will never find fulfillment in myself. I have to tap into the Life Source. It’s from that connection abundance flows out of my life and into others (John 4:14).

Like the individuals above, it took a moment of near emptiness to realize just how incredibly blessed my life really is. I don’t have to sit waiting for the right opportunity to come around to make a difference in my world. I can be that difference now.

I’ve come to the conclusion that if what I write or do each day affects only one life, the effort is more than worth it. Just as a pitcher can’t fulfill its purpose by sitting on a shelf, neither can I. And like the pitcher, I don’t have to be overflowing to fill a single glass. 

A little bit goes a long way.

By the time I’d set out all the water goblets I had enough left over to fill three more, and still there were a few drops left at the bottom of that pitcher. I had all I needed for the day, plus some!

So there you have it. My Eureka moment won’t go down in history for changing the world of mathematics, and it may never solve any global problems, but it did improve my perspective.

P.S. To this day, I’ve never been able to fill as many water goblets as I did that morning. But that doesn’t mean I’ve quit trying!

Writing advice from a Sports Trainer

Do what you have to do to eat. But if you want to be a writer you have to write.
 Photo ©2008 MMagallan via Stock.Xchng

One of the hazards (or perks, depending on how you look at it) of working in the service industry is overhearing bits and pieces of guests' conversations. I've picked up conflicting advice on dating, overheard several heated political debates, and have tried to put out of my mind images from sentences I hope never to hear uttered again.

Recently a group of a hundred football players came through. They'd just won their first game of the season against one of our local high schools and most of them were spending the day on the river. After splitting my morning between my breakfast duties and driving shuttles I finally had a chance to clean the lodge.

Usually by this time of day everyone has passed through onto their morning activities and I'm able get through my daily checklist without feeling like I'm underfoot, but on this particular day the sports commentary coming from the TV above the mantlepiece was being ignored by a student who skipped the raft trip and was instead sitting enthralled in the tale of his chaperone.

I didn't get to hear much, but from what I did I learned that the man came from East St. Louis. Having spent some time volunteering there as part of an after-school program during my freshman year of college I had no trouble setting the scene. And like that part of town, it wasn't pretty. It was, however, incredibly intriguing and I found myself working a little slower as the mentor shared about a life that seemed straight out of a Hollywood film. As I walked away with my cleaning supplies I found myself wondering how he had found himself here in Oregon and what made his life so drastically different from some of his family members.

Later on while I was preparing the deck for lunch he came out and struck up a conversation with me. It turns out he's a sports trainer and he works with a lot of the players in his community (both amateur and professional). We started out talking about one of the players who was severely injured in the game the night before. While his teammates were trying to enjoy their victory, he was undergoing surgery. As the captain of three different sports (and he's only a junior this year), he's well loved and respected by his peers. According to the trainer, even if the doctor said he'd never play a sport again, this young man would be the one to prove him wrong. But even if he didn't, he'd do all right for himself. He's just that sort of kid.

There was no mistaking the admiration the trainer had for this young man, and our conversation eventually led into him talking with me about his own journey. By the world's standards he should have been another statistic. Instead he took on the world, put himself through college, started a business that while successful wasn't what he was passionate about, so he sold it and started up his training organization and has never looked back, even when the going was tough. He was living his dream and he couldn't be happier.

That's when he asked about me. 

For the first time in my life I boldly said I'm a writer. I told him how it wasn't what I first set out to do when I started college, but it's what I love. We talked about college, about working with youth, and about what I've been doing this past year. I shared a little about my book and my roughly sketched-out plans for the future.

As I spoke he shook his head and smiled.

"You know what? You're the real thing," he told me. "Don't stop. You keep writing. Don't let anything or anyone hold you back. Do what you have to do to make ends meet right now, but when you get home you make sure you write."

I don't know what encouraged me more, the fact that he called me the "Real thing" or that he took the time to have a real conversation with me. I've gotten so used to the superficial chats with guests that I never would have expected such a huge motivational boost from a complete stranger. In my mind I was just a working grunt. In his mind, I was one of his players who just needed a shove in the right direction.

It was a much needed reminder that my dreams are important, that work doesn't define an individual, and success is rarely what the world describes it as. I'm not the only writer who is working an odd job to put food on the table, so there is no need to feel defensive about it. Unless I use it as an excuse to do anything but write, that is.

Maybe it was his passion that lent me the gumption I needed. Or maybe he just helped me find my own inner fire again. Whatever the case, it was exactly what I needed when I needed it.

I'm still exhausted when I get home from work every day, but now I'm grabbing my laptop or notebook and writing my heart out before I pass out.

Life from the Other Side of the Desk

Photo ©2009 NKZS via stock.xchng

In order to survive for long in this world with any sense of security, you need to work. That's a given. That said, not all jobs are created equal. There are jobs that are seen as glamorous. Jobs that are viewed as ignoble. Work that we strive for. Work that is beneath us. Employment that provides for all our needs. Employment that barely allows us to scrape by.

There is one constant I've come to recognize about how we view the work we do: with a few exceptions, one way or another, we're always looking for something better. Something that will allow us to do what we want, when we want, how we want.

Up until a year ago I spent my days in an editor's chair. I enjoyed the work, but I wasn't always a fan of the content or the long hours it required. Because I worked in the magazine industry my year was planned out 12 months in advance. I lived by the deadline, wished I had more free time at my disposal to write what I wanted, and joked about what it would be like to work a couple "easy" jobs that allowed me to interact more with real people on a daily basis (for the sake of having more material to work with).

This year, I've gotten to experience just that. After finding myself unemployed I had plenty of time to write while I looked for full-time employment, which I believed despite depressing job reports wouldn't take long. Nine months later, I'm still looking. In the meantime, I've had the opportunity to work a variety of temporary jobs which were by no means easy, and have opened my eyes to more than I can share in a single blog post. Here are a few highlights and insights:

I was a caregiver for two months for a family in which the husband was diagnosed with terminal liver failure the week after his wife was ran over by a Mack Truck (not even kidding!). While his wife was in the hospital undergoing nine weeks of treatments and surgeries to repair the leg tissue damage, I learned how to clean colostomy and catheter bags. I feed and tried to encourage. I fought a losing battle with dangerously high fevers from dusk to dawn. I administered enough meds to tranquilize a blue whale and still could see pain in his features. After he passed and his wife was finally able to return home, I learned how to care for someone still going through skin grafting proceedures. But mostly I was there for company during the long, lonely nights.

More recently I've been employed at a local seasonal lodge where I serve breakfast to guests getting ready to take multi-day trips down the wild and scenic Rogue River. I wash dishes, sweep, dust, scrub toilets, wipe down chairs, and show up the next morning before dawn to do it all over again. Before now, I never knew how much one's feet could swell and hurt by the end of an 8-hour shift. I never knew how frustrating it could be to be among people from across the nation and yet be practically invisible. And I never understood the concept of "working to reach the weekend" until now.

In all honesty, I doubt I've written any more than I did before. Instead, I've come to realize that it's not my situation that determines whether I write or not. It's my choices. I choose to come home and take a much needed nap. I choose to watch an extra hour of television with a family member or get coffee with a friend. I opt to surf the web instead of focusing on the blinking curser in front of me. And I've come to recognize that the idea of something better will always be just that — an idea — unless I actively work towards my goals. I can complain about my circumstances all I want, but in the end the only one holding me back right now is me.

Most importantly, however, like an actress who fully immerses herself in a certain lifestyle in order to better fill a role, I've come out with a better understanding of not just who I am, but of who others are. Each life has value. Each life is vitally important. And each life deserves respect, especially those who work the ignoble jobs.

This year's journey may not have been what I initially envisioned it would be, but because of it I can empathize with more of my neighbors instead of just sympathize. Though not perfectly clear, I have a better understanding of certain aspects of life and as a result when I sit down to write I will be able to portray my characters with the integrity and honor they deserve regardless of where society places them on the scale of success.

Looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary

A cottonwood seed hidden in the grass. 2012 J.E. Lindsay

The Cottonwood is drifting through my yard like so many downy ideas just waiting for the right moment to settle and take root. It’ll cling to anything: hair, clothing, spiderwebs. It piles together in crunchy clumps and rolls across the road like bits of snowy tumbleweed.

The amount of seed being released is truly uncountable. The number that will find a fertile place to rest and grow to full-sized trees will only be few.

The ancestor of every action is a thought. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

As I sit at my desk watching these micro-sized assailants to my eyes, throat, and nose parade through the neighborhood I’m reminded of all the stories that have flitted through the field of my consciousness. Some have had great potential but failed to take hold. Most have floated on by without me ever being aware they’d ever existed.

Then there are those few little wisps of the imagination that landed among the right mix of creativity, passion, and gumption. Some of them grew quickly and have gone on to encourage and inspire others. Some are taking their time in maturing, and I love them all the more for it.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes. ~ Marcel Proust

One of the most incredible aspects about writing is we never really know which little seeds will go on to produce the most fruit. This is why it’s so important to train ourselves to discover the extraordinary in every single day. We have to continue fertilizing and watering our creative selves if we want to do anything of value.

And the possibilities for inspiration are as endless as the fluff in the air around me!

It can come from an art walk. A car show. A goofy video posted by a couple of bored children on holiday. Even something as seemingly mundane as watching bits of pollen in the wind could ultimately provide the perfect soil for something incredible to grow.

If you overlook the ordinary, you’ll never see the extraordinary.

A 158-year-old cottonwood tree grows in the middle of an intersection
 in rural Audubon County, Iowa. (Via BigStock.)

There are few things that irritate my seasonal allergies as much as cottonwood pollen, but anyone who has ever seen a full-grown cottonwood tree would tell you it’s beautiful. Like so many things in nature, you would never guess how large the trees get (up to 80 feet) based on looking at the minuscule seeds.

And as with the fury bits floating on sunbeams as I type this, you’ll never spot a life-changing thought if you aren’t actively looking for it. 

30 Days of Thankfulness in Writing – Day 13: Peanut Butter and Ketchup Sandwiches

Last night I had time enough after walking through the door to hang up my coat, stash my laptop, and replace some scattered books to their respective shelves before the doorbell rang. At the door were two young guests, both under the age of seven, who would be spending the evening with me while their mom and dad had a much-needed date night.

As a single woman, my apartment isn’t exactly a child’s paradise, but whenever the two munchkins come to visit they end up having more than a good time. If it wasn’t for my downstairs neighbors having two little ones themselves, I’d wonder what they thought of the shrieks, giggles, and occasional booms coming from overhead.

One of their favorite things to talk about when here is how they are standing over someone else’ home. Everyone else they know lives in a real house, so the concept of an apartment building is still novel to them. “Am I standing on a light bulb, Edifur?” “We have to tiptoe so we don’t wake up the baby, right?” And with every little sound of a door closing or someone moving outside I get asked, “What was that? Are they coming here? Is it mommy and daddy already?”

If you haven’t already guessed, my honorary munchkins are more than a little inquisitive. I always try to find funny ways to answer their silly questions, but I also try to answer their serious ponderings as honestly, and simply as I can. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason last night they were asking me about Golden Dragons and Vampire Bats. They’re also storytellers (a family trait). They love regaling me with tales about something that happened — usually repeatedly with more and more laughs each time — and I do my best to act just as surprised the tenth time as I did the first.

After playing tickle monster, letting them beat me at Wii Sports (which was surprisingly difficult for my competitive nature to handle), and teaching them how to play checkers (they saw my crystal chessboard in the “library” room and wanted to play with it), I decided it was time to settled down on the couch with a book. Bed time had come and gone, and I didn’t want the Munchkins to turn into Munsters. 

I ended up selecting Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. It’s a little old for them, but I really enjoy the series and I thought Percy’s perspective would keep them entertained. Of course the things I found charmingly goofy they found to be pure genius. A crazy girl named Nancy Bobofit who loves peanut butter and ketchup sandwiches? A teacher who sprouts bat wings and then explodes into a pile of sand? If my neighbors hadn’t been wondering what was going on in the apartment of the “quiet girl who’s never home” before, they were now.  (By the way, Viv, I take full responsibility if they start calling Nana Grandma Nancy Bobofit or if they asked for an odd breakfast this morning!)

Last night served as a much needed reminder  to me that it’s the simple things that leave the biggest impact. The world is still fresh and full of possibilities to a four- and five-year old. Life is all about adventure and excitement. It’s something that’s easy to forget when slogging through each day trying to figure out how to make ends meet.

So, as I get back to writing today I’ve decided I need to find my own Nancy Bobofit and maybe some peanut butter and ketchup sandwiches....

The Overlooked Character

Like most writers, I spend a lot of time getting to know my lead characters.  I catalog their likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, what they dream of, what they fear. But while revising a chapter in my book I came to the realization that I don’t put nearly that much effort into the majority of my secondary characters. I’m not talking about the blink-and-you-miss him walk-on roles here. I’m referring to the people my protagonist and antagonist deal with on a regular basis.

Where my lead is fully realized, the person he was interacting with in this particular instance came off as a partially rendered 3D character in a live-action film. What could have been a show-stopping scene instead fell flat. Everything from movement to dialog seemed forced and unnatural. As a writer I was stumped. As a reader I was frustrated.

Then it dawned on me: Secondary characters are as vital to a well-written story as strong leads. Without them the protagonist has no steel against which to sharpen himself.

One of the best ways I’ve found to fix this problem is to tackle the scene from a different point of view. In this particular chapter my protagonist is dealing with an acquaintance who seems to live to make his life difficult in any way possible. Until recently it was just a literary device to move the story along; I didn’t realize why it was that this particular person was so strongly opposed to my lead. Writing the scene completely from the secondary character’s perspective resulted in two things. First, I discovered Reason and Motive, bringing a realistic depth to both the character and the scene. Second, I uncovered a few new foibles about my less-than-perfect hero that I can use to my advantage at a later date.

This exercise also reminded me of another fundamental truth about writing: There are always two sides to every story, and as a writer it’s my job to get to the bottom of both.

When Criticism breeds Strength

I’ll never forget the day I sat through my first peer critique in college. It was my first creative writing course and I’d spent weeks agonizing over what to write. I ended up with a corny children’s bedtime story, that while fun to write, I was terrified to show others and hear what they truly thought. Not only did I make myself sick over it, I ended up calling one of my closest guy friends and filling his voicemail with tears because there was no doubt in my mind the entire class would hate it. It was the first time I’d ever contemplated skipping class.

The way the critique worked was simple: everyone got a copy of my story the class prior to my critique date. On judgment day I had to read the story aloud and then sit silently while each of my classmates commented on what worked for them and what didn’t. If I opened my mouth to defend or explain myself, I’d be docked points; afterwards I could ask a couple of questions for clarification on anything that was said.

To be honest, it was less traumatic an event than I’d made it out to be and I’ve since adopted the credo “The fear of the thing is worse than the thing itself.” Many of my classmates really enjoyed the concept of my story and my professor suggested I learn more about writing for young readers because he thought I had talent in that direction. A classmate even asked to take my story home for his son.

The reason I remember that day so vividly is because it is the day I learned the value of constructive criticism. It also formed the first layer of skin I would require to make my way as a writer. I’ve gone through many more critiques since then, some more pleasant than others, but I quickly discovered that I learn more from having someone point out my weak spots than by receiving pats on the back. I need honest eyes because I tend to overlook or justify obvious flaws in my storytelling. It also helped prepare me for the rejection slips that would later come my way.

I believe learning how to handle critiques of my work early on has been one of the most beneficial lessons I’ve learned. It’s taught me to separate what is being said about my work from how I think about myself. It has also encouraged me to look at my writing through a different point of view. Because of this, it is much easier to pick up my pen and get to work rewriting after receiving a generic “Thank you, but not today.”

And besides, I’ve had enough Yeses to prove to me that when I put my mind to it, I’ve got what it takes to stay in this game.

The Power of Point of View

Be shepherds of God’s flock that is under your care, watching over them — not because you must, but because you are willing, as God wants you to be; not pursuing dishonest gain, but eager to serve… I Peter 5:2

You can always tell where I’ve been by the trail of books strewn about my apartment. I’m someone who will read three novels at a given time, plus a book on writing, and whatever manuscript I’m editing. I’m not sure how I manage it, but somehow I’m able to keep all the storylines straight. This morning as I hurried out the door to meet my brother for our morning run I noticed a book on my couch-side table: The Power of Point of View by Alicia Rasley.

One of the first things driven into our heads as new writers is Point of View. Whose eyes are we seeing the story through? How do a character’s perceptions and motives color the events unfolding? Is he a trustworthy narrator? Do past hurts prevent her from building strong relationships with others? I would argue that point of view is one the most important aspects of a story, next to the story itself. It determines how I as a reader will respond to the world unfolding before me.

For some reason the book on the table brought to mind a passage I’d opened my Bible to last night before turning out the light. In it Peter was addressing the elders of the church about how they should lead, and as I read through the chapter I found myself inspecting my own ministries, both inside and outside the church. I realized that Peter was encouraging his fellow elders to check their personal point of view and it forced me to ask myself, “What is my point of view when it comes to writing? What are my motives?”

I view my writing as a ministry, and words as an incredibly powerful tool. Through my writing I can encourage others, but I can also tear them down. I can inspire others towards greatness, but I can also lead them to anger and bitterness — recent news stories and the comments posted afterwards are a perfect example of that. In many cases, I write because I love to write. It’s something I am passionate about. But there are days when it becomes an obligation, and like any ministry, once that happens I lose my effectiveness. I might as well be tossing random letters into the void for all the good its doing me and my readers.

Starting today I’ve decided to ask myself “Why am I writing today?” when I sit down at my keyboard. If it’s for recognition or a paycheck, I’ll close my laptop and find something more productive to do with my time. However, if I can honestly look at my reflection in the monitor and say, “I’m writing because I’ve been called to write and it’s something I want to do regardless of whether I receive credit for it or not,” then I believe I’ll receive a double blessing: Not only will I be doing something out of love, but I won’t have to worry about the outcome because my ego will have been taken completely out of the equation.