3 Ways to enjoy the (Writer's) view this Week

While looking for an inspirational picture a few months back, I stumbled across an image of a girl rock climbing. I was instantly attracted to the colors and the feeling of accomplishment that the photograph captured, so I paid for a legitimate copy and made it my desktop for several months.

Though there are no words, I learned three lessons about writing while staring into the bright orange glow of the summer sunset:

1. Writing is a Journey.

You can't call yourself a rock climber if you only think about being one. The same is true of writing. Don't think one day you'll be a writer. Pick up your notebook and be one today. Start small, and work your way up to the harder, higher peaks as you gain confidence and experience.

2. Avoid Rock Wall Vision!

Writer's have a bad habit of getting so engrossed in a single project that we forget to look around. When we do, it's like keeping our nose pressed into the rock wall — we see only the work and forget the beauty around us. Be sure to enjoy creation while you create!

3. Enjoy the Results of your Labor.

Writing (like rock climbing) is exhausting. It requires focus, strength of character, and drive. Finishing a project is a lot like reaching the mountain peak — one of the greatest feelings is being able to look back from finish to start and say, "I accomplished that!"

These three lessons now help get me started each day because they, like the picture, remind me I'm doing something I love. Something that, though always challenging, is ultimately worthwhile.

Untitled Midnight Thoughts

It’s early yet. The night is still deep, yet as I step into the freezing fog to grab a few more logs for the fire the patio is washed in a pale glow. Looking up, a nearly full moon peaks through wisps of silver and I wish the cold weren’t sucking all the heat out of my feet so I could stand and watch a little longer. It’s quiet now, but earlier the frogs were calling out so loud it seemed as if they could fill the pond to Egyptian-plague-like proportions. Stepping back inside, wood in hand, it dawns on me. This is my last night in the stillness that can only really be found at the base of the mountains.

Tomorrow instead of watching the geese and ducks diving into the water it’ll be cars speeding through a street they should be more cautious on. Bass solos will replace the birds’ chorus, and competing television programs and the occasional wail of an emergency will take the place of the midnight chirps and croaks.

And surprisingly enough, as I add one last log to the fire, I find myself ready to go home.

A Writer's Prayer

In the beginning, God created… Gen 1:1 (NIV)

Lord,

Everything I do is an echo of what you have already done. Where you spoke life into being, I reflect that creation through words. You created the heavens and the earth for your pleasure foreknowing there would also be heartache, sickness, destruction, and grief. Yet even with that knowledge you continued to write your story knowing in the end it would all be worth it. Help me remember that you yourself did not shy away from pain and suffering, but willingly sacrificed all for the benefit of someone seemingly small like me. As I sit down today, I pray that each word I write would be an honest reflection of who you are and what you have done simply because of love.

Signed,

A little girl following in her daddy’s footsteps

The Great Acorn War

No, this isn’t a forgotten squirrel stash…

it’s my secret ammo store so I can get back in action during the next skirmish.

I grew up in a small rural town in Southern Oregon. As a result, more often than not my only playmates were my four younger brothers and sisters. While that can sound kind of isolating to some, our modestly sized property afforded us with many enjoyable afternoons. In front of our home was a grove of trees where we would build thicket homes, behind us was a creek where we spent many a summer day swimming. Our bicycles were our noble steeds. Our radio flyer wagons became magic carpets. (Trust me, those things fly down hills and are incredibly fun to race!) And mom’s vegetable garden and fruit trees often were raided prior to a great quest.

Then came fall and the annual rain of acorns. For the life of me I can’t remember who threw the first “oak nut” as my cousin once called them. Perhaps it was dad just being funny and pegging one of us in the back. Maybe one of us got mad at the other and chucked the first thing that was handy but wouldn’t kill the person we were irked at. Whatever the inciting incident, it sparked a war that flames up again about this time of year. In fact, as I write this I’m flushed and out of breath from the first volley of the 2011 Great Acorn war. Over the years, my aim has improved and I hit my target (in this case my brother Matthew) more than I get pelted myself. Note to self: watch your back while exiting mom and dad’s house for the rest of the month.

The rules of engagement are quite simple: you have thirty seconds to gather as many acorns as you can fit into your hands and pockets, then run. You can duck around trees but you have to stay away from windows. Headshots are allowed, but the face is off limits. When you’re out of acorns, reload as fast as you can, but be aware — your opponent can still hit you if he or she still has ammo. And finally, the aim is to have fun, not to hurt anyone.

So what do acorn wars have to do with writing? First, stories like this aren’t unique to my family. By incorporating them into my fiction and non-fiction writing, I’m not only sharing a part of my life with my readers I’m inviting them to recall some of their own childhood experiences which in turn makes my story, real or imagined, more relatable. Second, getting up from the desk and acting like a kid for a little bit isn’t just fun, it helps work out tension in the body from sitting in one position for too long. Laughing, running, and enjoying nature allows us to forget about the scenes that have ground to a slow crawl. It enables us to clear our minds and look at problems from a different perspective. And it can spark a new idea to run with when you feel like you’ve exhausted all other avenues of thought.

So, put down the pen. Close the laptop. Grab a sweater with big pockets and ambush an unsuspecting loved one. Afterwards you can negotiate a ceasefire over a cup of spiced cider.  

The Girl and the Butterfly Bush

Have you ever noticed it’s the small things that make the biggest impact?

There is a butterfly bush that towers over the office I work in. Right now it’s difficult to determine which there are more of clinging to the branches: purple clusters of tiny blossoms or Oregon Swallowtail butterflies.

As I was walking to my car after work last night, two of the Swallowtails flitted past me in tandem. I paused to watch in fascination as they hovered just above the gravel, each facing in the same direction and moving as if they were connected by a single thread moving up and down, back and forth, and swirling in their aerial dance.

I felt as if I’d stepped out of the world and into fantasy as several more pairs joined in and fluttered around me. I stood still, barely daring to exhale, as they circled in the blinding summer sunlight. It was surreal, and yet far too beautiful to be considered even that.

I wondered what would be going through their minds if they could think as humans do. Were they exulting in the echoes of the strains of music that played at the dawn of creation? Were they close friends teasing and flirting, darting coyly away the moment their partner got too close? A pair seemed on the verge of a fight, moving in and backing away with a territorial menace. Still others rested in the shades of the greens and lavender, beating their wings to a soundless rhythm.

And did they wonder at the girl staring silently at them, curious as to why she wasn’t joining in?

It was a moment I like to think was created just for me. A memory to cherish and occasionally take out and revisit. It’s a picture I wish had the words to capture and share with others, but letters on the page could never convey the true grandeur of that instant.

It’s these simple little things that bring me joy and renew my passion for writing. I may never be able to ink out as beautiful a picture as life paints, but I can come close enough that others can share in the magnificent beauty that surrounds us yet so often goes overlooked.