“Who cares what you have to say?” and a couple other under-developed ideas

1) On writing and reverence

A couple weeks ago I mentioned that a “talking heads” program on PBS had drawn me in. Part of what they were saying—“they” being Bill Moyers and Barry Lopez—resonated with some thoughts I had at the Festival of Faith & Writing last month. I had/have good intentions about further developing that notion, but for now, here’s the snippet of that interview that made me say, “Yes! I know what you mean!”

BARRY LOPEZ: People think that if you've written a book and somebody's given you a pat on the back then, you know, it's all—you're all settled, you know? You're going to be fine. I know that if I'm not confused, and really afraid, my work isn't going to be any good.

When I sit at that typewriter, I have to be frightened of what I'm trying to do. I'm frightened by my own, belief that I can actually get a story down on paper. I still have that thing in my mind from childhood, "Who cares what you have to say?" So, my path is the same path. It's still a path through confusion and lack of self confidence, and struggle and embarrassment over all of my imperfection. But I would tell you at the same time, I have seen things that have dropped me to my knees in a state of awe, and when I know that that too is there, if I can find a way to build with language a bridge between a failure to believe and a witness to what is incomprehensible. If I can build that bridge and then do it again and then do it again. I would hope that at the end of my life, somebody would say, "Well, his life was useful. He helped." A key for me, in recent years, has been coming to a better understanding of the virtue of reverence than I have ever had before, and here I'm borrowing from an American philosopher named Paul Woodruff—

BILL MOYERS: Friend of mine. University of Texas.

BARRY LOPEZ: Yes, that's right. I read this book. I think it's called "Reverence: Renewing a Forgotten Virtue." And he says in there that the virtue of reverence is rooted in the understanding that there is a world beyond human control, human invention, and human understanding.

And that that world will always be there, no matter how sophisticated our technologies of probing reality become. The great mystery will be there forever. And it's the sense that it's not yours to solve. And the issue of a solution to a mystery is perhaps not a sign of wisdom. I am perfectly comfortable being in a state of ignorance before something incomprehensible. And it's in that moment that you're driven to your knees and you believe. I wouldn't call it religious. It's just what happens when you open up again to the extraordinary circumstances of being alive.

And when you can open up to it and come out of your own little small tiny place in the world and say—if you try, you know, with typewriter rewriting, rewriting, and rewriting, rewriting. And you get something on paper. And you give it to somebody. And you say, "Well, what do you think?" And if it really works, they read it and they say, "I think I'm going to be okay."

2) Christian radio, classical music, and context

Will likes to listen to classical music CDs at our house. Especially mid-morning. For him, at that time of day, the initial “rush” is over. He’s filed a story or two (or more) in time for his newspaper’s deadline, and he takes a break to do some dishes, load some laundry, or pick up the kids’ toys off the living room floor. Pavarotti helps Will chill, apparently. But for me—although I truly love the genre and couldn’t figure out why, until very recently—the music makes me edgy. I want to turn it off, immediately! Or else escape, out of earshot, to a different part of the house.

I have a similar reaction to television or radio evangelism. (Here’s where I know I’ll have a major audience split: Some A-Town readers love their Christian radio; others would consider it appropriate torture chamber listening.) I genuinely appreciate good preaching—the art, the intent, and the theology. However—and here’s where the analogy comes in—when it’s out of context, I can’t stand it! When I want to listen—really listen—to good music or good preaching, I want to be in a concert hall or a sanctuary, not wrist-deep in soap suds with 10 other things on my mind and 6 other sounds vying for my attention.

An exception is the car: If I’m driving, especially alone, the vehicle can “become” a concert hall or sanctuary for me, and I can hear—really hear—truth and beauty.

3) Sure thing, sugar

Recent sugar limit guidelines issued by the American Heart Association seem so extremely restrictive that I’m tempted to throw up my hands and quit trying to behave. No more than 100 daily calories from any kind of sugar, including honey?? Puh-leeze!!

Junie B. Writer

A little over a year ago, Vi and I took a trip to Albany. It was part personal, part professional. I had some conference-y things to do, but Vi was able to tag along, and we had plenty of time to enjoy the state capitol between meetings. We rode the train there (fun), took a taxi into the city (also fun—although Vi was disappointed it wasn’t yellow), and went to a Children’s Expo that happened to be going on the weekend we were there. One of the programs at the Expo was a free presentation of Junie B. Jones, the musical. Attending the show reminded me of two things: 1) how much I enjoy live theater, 2) how much I want to write.

There’s something almost magical about musical stage productions that makes me feel more fully alive. The cast of about 6 performers charmed the audience of parents and kids with their portrayal of a first-grade classroom, starring Junie B. Jones. For those of you who don’t know Junie B., she’s a spunky, no-holds-barred kind of kid—a character (and I do mean a character) created by author Barbara Park. I credit Junie B. for turning my kid from non-reader to bookworm, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha). I’m also grateful to Junie B. for inspiring me to get off my creative duff!

I’ve always enjoyed writing. Well, almost always. And maybe “enjoyed” isn’t quite the right word. Let me rephrase: Ever since I can remember, I have felt compelled to write. Like I was meant to write, made to write—designed for it. I think of British Olympian Eric Liddell’s famous line in “Chariots of Fire”: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.” I may not be an Olympic-caliber writer, but ‘when I write I feel God’s pleasure.’

It’s not always a pleasant process, mind you. Sometimes it’s hard—very hard. I nearly sweat. I occasionally cry. I often have to get up, walk away, do something else for awhile, and come back to the writing. When I was in seventh grade, I remember relating to a poster hung by my English teacher, Mr. H: “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” (Thomas Mann) I tried to discuss the insight of this quotation with my pubescent friends. They either didn’t care or they disagreed. One of them told me it was ridiculous: Writing seemed to come easily for me, she said, while her assignments, while torturous to fulfill, yielded decidedly mediocre marks.

The difference, I tried to tell her, was that I cared. I cared how the words sounded strung together on the page. It mattered to me whether I inserted a semi-colon or separated my thoughts into sentences. I fretted over word choice. I wrestled with my characters’ development. I tossed and turned about my stories’ settings. A few times, I failed to turn in my homework because it simply didn’t satisfy my standards. For a goody-two-shoes-teacher-pleaser like me, foregoing a full grade-book on principle epitomized the junior high English concept of oxymoron.

When middle school gave way to A-Town High, my passion for words took a supporting paragraph’s role to the main subject of my adolescence: Boys. I used and abused my writing ability. It saw me through school; I took it for granted. The careful crafting of love letters were the only times I recall paying attention enough to actually improve my composition aptitude. I guess it wasn’t until college that I remembered Madame Muse. The agony of a particularly painful break-up prompted me to seek the solace writing proffered, a long-forgotten friend extending her arms to me in earnest welcome. My journal became a place of prayer, a source of strength, a haven of healing for my battered, bewildered soul.

I consider it no accident that I ended up taking my basic composition course in the second half of my junior year. It’s a long, boring story why, wrapped up in a couple rolls of red tape, but I ended up having to the fulfill the 3 credits that spring—precisely the season I found myself ready to re-enter the realm of reality and wholeness.

I don’t think that mere coincidence led me to the Albany Egg last March, either—where I sat next to my fidgety daughter, surrounded by dozens of similarly squirmy strangers, while a talented young woman conjured a spirited 7-year-old and moved me to tears—moved me to write—with her final song: “Writing Down the Story of My Life.”

I am writing down the story of my life:
what makes me scared or nervous,
what makes me sad or blue.

If I want to draw a weiner sausage
Or a picture of a beautiful day,
Or list my favorite colors and foods,
Everything I want is A-OK.

Your favorite kind of popsicle, your allergy to glue,
How much you love your family, or what friendship means to you,
A picture of spaghetti or a lovely mountain view,
No matter what you think or dream or feel or say or do!

Keep on writing down the stories of your life…..

I am, Junie B., I am!