If You Have It

(Photo Credit: Google Image)

This summer my friend Sierra took a road trip from Texas to Utah with her three children: Maya, nine; Josh, six; and Carly, three. And I had the honor of hosting them one night. 

Before bedtime, Josh played Wii with my teenaged sons while Maya and Carly watched Harry Potter in a different room. The next morning, much to my horror, I––the guilty hostess––got up at 8:00AM and found Maya and Josh wandering in the living room, obviously hungry and bored. 

I quickly fed them cold cereal then set up a game of chess for Maya and me, while Josh played with Jurassic World Legos. About twenty minutes later, they were done with chess and Legos. Maya scanned the collection of board games stacked on the living room shelves and exclaimed, “We'll play Ticket to Ride!”

“I don’t know how to play that game.” I admitted. 

“What?” Maya looked at me with deep confusion. “How can you not know how to play?”

“Because I’ve never played.”

“But you have it. Over there.” She pointed at the game, somewhat annoyed, or maybe disappointed, most likely both. Her face was puffed up with disapproval of my lack of game skills. 

“I know.” I said, wondering if I should explain to her that no one in my family is particularly interested in playing board games anymore. 

“But if you have it, why don’t you ever play it?” Maya said before taking Josh out to the backyard to jump on the trampoline, leaving me to wallow alone in the question that sounded simple, yet hard to answer. 

I realized there are many other things I have that I’ve somewhat neglected, and the most significantly important of all is time with my children while they still live under my roof. 

I’m living in a season when I still have the blessing of seeing all my children every day: seeing them walking in and out of their bedrooms, the kitchen, the garage. Hearing their croaking teenaged boys’ voices telling, laughing, complaining. Smelling their nausea-inducing lacrosse socks, helmets, jerseys. Time and things so plain, routine, and ordinary that I’ve forgotten every second having them physically present in my life makes my house a home––heaven on earth. 

I often think of, and plan for, my empty nester life. I keep thinking I want to move far away. I want to travel and see places. I want to be the best grandmother in the world, better than the mother I’ve ever been to my boys. But I’ve obviously forgotten that I don't have it yet––despite all my retirement fantasies, I don't have the privilege of spoiling my grandkids just yet. I've forgotten that in the glorious moment I’m currently living, I should strive to be the best mother in the world to my children before I can work to be the best grandmother to their children. 

I can just imagine an older, more mature version of Maya coming to me with this question: “You have your kids still living with you, why don’t you go create bonding memories with them right now?” 

But it was the nine-year-old wise Maya who ran back to me from the backyard, her sunbaked hand grabbing mine; her sparkling brown eyes filled with excitement. “Come jump with me!” she said.

“Uh––” I hesitated, trying to find the best way to tell her I’d actually never jumped on the trampoline in my backyard, either. I wanted to tell her I didn’t much care about the trampoline; it just came with the house. I wanted to tell her I suffered from this paralyzing back pain; jumping on the trampoline would be the end of me. But then I remembered how I should answer her question. 

I jumped on the backyard trampoline with Maya and Josh that summer morning, our animated shadows bouncing on the black surface, laughing, playing, and telling stories. And it was in that precise moment––when I took advantage of what I had––that I was convinced I had the potential of becoming a wonderful grandmother after all. 

Allison

Blog: Allison Hong-Merrill
Facebook: Allison Hong-Merrill
Twitter: @xieshou
Instagram: @jijenmerrill

Courage

Courage

I’m a new writer. At 56, you may think I’m coming late to the game. But I’m of the opinion that any age is a wonderful time to plunge head first into the deep waters of introspection, creativity, and self-expression. Like you, I force myself into the uncomfortable arena of public scrutiny in order to improve my writing. That’s why I committed to be a regular contributing author on this blog. But exposing my heart and mind to the black hole of the internet just terrifies me.

It’s way worse than attending my first writer’s critique group:

After reading the first few sentences of my piece aloud, I suddenly felt abandoned by humanity and pictured myself kneeling before the guillotine. My face burned with heat. I didn’t dare look up because I sensed everyone’s squirming discomfort. After I finished reading, several awkward moments were needed to formulate a polite way to say, “This stuff is crap! Who do you think will read this?” The president of the writing chapter validated my insecurities when he opened his door to me the following month and said, “Wow, I’m surprised you came back!”

At least my humiliation then was a self-inflicted wound in a cozy, contained setting. Posting on a Facebook page subjects you to possible damnation to infinity and beyond. What if my post is SO bad that it goes viral and Jimmy Fallon wants me on his show to wring out every last drop of public ridicule possible? Just kidding, I know I don’t have the talent to write that bad, but still . . .

To help conquer my current fears, I thought back on some former challenges I had met. Remembering what I’m capable of propels me forward. Here’s the short list:

·        five caesarean section surgeries

·        spent an entire night in a mice infested tent trailer  

·        completed a 50 mile mountain race as a grandma

·        after 32 years of full time homemaking, became a Placenta Encapsulator (processing placentas into pills for mommies)

If I could do that…

What can stop my writing goals? My passion lies in nonfiction because it encompasses the contemplative and substantive stuff of life. I relish my obsession with memoir and have begun writing my own. 

Here is a list of my favorite books that got me going:

     On writing

• Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg
• The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr
• Stein on Writing by Sol Stein
• Writing Creative Nonfiction by Tilar J. J. Mazzeo (The Great Courses Lecture)

Memoirs

• The Liar’s Club by Mary Karr
• Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
• Dispatches by Michael Herr
• The Faraway Nearby by Rebecca Solnit
• A Girl Named Zippy by Haven Kimmel
• This Boy’s Life by Tobias Wolff

I’m fighting to quiet my fears and embolden my courage to write. So far, most of what I’ve encountered has been kindness and support from fellow writers. Thank you for helping me stay in the games. Maybe I can be the poster grandma for those of you who have something to say but lack the confidence to jump into the arena.

Let’s do this thing!

Carpe Diem, Baby! 

"Forgetting is an editing principle. You only remember the important things." (A writing lesson from Aleksander Hemon)

The view of Barcelona from our cable car while travelling up to Montjuic.

I always knew that if I went back to school it would be to get a degree in creative writing. That's how I ended up in the Cedar Crest College Pan-European MFA program. That's how I ended up in Barcelona in 2014.

Port de Barcelona

When I wasn't bingeing on gelato and calamari, I was immersed into the culture (religion, architecture, pop-culture, art, language, and literature) of Catalonia.

How much gelato is too much gelato? 

On weekdays I attended classes at Ateneu Barcelones where lessons ranged from writing in the vernacular to flash fiction. My professors, who I had already anticipated would be great, BLEW MY MIND. (When I explain it to my family and friends, I literally do the explosion gesture off my temples.)

The Spirit of Montserrat

One such professor was Aleksander Hemon, author of The Book of My Lives and The Lazarus Project. He also writes for The New Yorker and showed up to class in shorts and a grey tee with two pigeons printed on front. More than once he dropped the cap of his dry-erase marker, and more than once he nicked his shirt with the ink tip. Erasing it smudged the spot.

Aleksander Hemon and a list of themes he pulled from someone's 20pp manuscript. Whoa.

I wish I could've captured every last word from his mouth and bottled it to chug like some sort of writing Mt. Dew. But since he's a native of Sarajevo, I had a two-second delay interpreting his accent. This'll have to do.

• Consider having an organizing principle or composite structure to your piece. Make it a shape.
• As writers, we can only represent one part of humanity. Much of literature does just that.  
• Literature gives a window into humanity that no other vehicle can. 
• Can you add metonymy? A part to represent the whole? 
• Literature helps us understand something about the human mind and appreciate the artifice or "cathedral". 
• We build "cathedrals" so that we can draw people to the emotion. 

Sagrada Familia

• "Language is biological." 
• "We are composite people."
• "Discontinuity is the default way to process the world. It's an acquired skill to put it together."
• Imposing order on the chaos is what literature does.
• We create to compensate for the things we can't forget. 
• In life, in non-fiction, forgetting is an editing principle. You only remember the important things. The remaining montage is the story. 

Where I wrote. The library at Ateneu Barcelones

• "We are not passive, especially as writers. We create culture."
• For memoirs, lay down the memories you feel compelled to write. You'll gravitate to some scenes. Enter the space and spend time there. Motifs will rise from the words. Organize by delineating and select "furniture" to go with the space. 
• "Nostalgia has the veneer or sheen that life was better".
• When writing, remember that "it's all [crap] until it isn't. Editing requires stamina. And we're entitled to our failures."

The castle at Monjuic

Apply these to your life or writing as needed.

Much love, 

Rena

Look for Kindness

I perch on a bar stool at our counter-height table, Facebook scrolling over the screen of my iPhone. I’m breaking an unspoken rule I gave myself to avoid Facebook on the Sabbath. Not because the Spirit hasn’t prompted me to post things on Sunday, He has, but because most of the time Facebook isn’t so much about sharing something spiritual, as mindlessly occupying my otherwise anxious mind.

My anxiety needs outlets, something other than my life to worry over. Before Facebook I made up stories. Since I’ve called myself an author that’s changed. I reach for escape and instead of my place of refuge—my story world—I find a wall of worry. Is this the right plot choice here? Is that really what that character would do?

So I’m latching onto Facebook.

But what I want to be an escape from worry this morning is the opposite. The screen plays stories I’d never thought to write. Horrible things. Angry things. Selfish, frivolous things.

Until what I really want is reassurance.

I want to know that love is still real. That the world isn’t falling apart around me. That my babies will grow up safe and hopeful. I want to know that I’m worth something, even here, in my grubby t-shirt and yoga shorts, doing the very thing I told myself I wouldn’t do today.

I’ve gotten off to a real bad start this morning.

It’s the tiny posts: a quote from a prophet, a scripture, an honest, heartfelt status update. Blips. My mind shifts and God reenters.

I open up my scriptures in another app and try to focus. I pray silently, right there, my head hunched over the table while my daughter pecks at breakfast and my husband strides through with his suit-coat and shoes in one hand.

Words come. My own, maybe. A thought drifting through my head.

Look for kindness. Look for joy.

Is that what I’m supposed to do?

I don’t know where to look. Not on Facebook. In that sea, there is kindness, I know it. But today is worse than usual. Something happened. Something big and evil. And it’s all over Facebook. Plastered.

Tell me where to look for good.

A prompting? Most likely. I open up my photos.

Look for kindness. Look for joy.

Yesterday, we went to the river with extended family we hadn’t seen in a long time. The kids wanted to get in and one cousin, a twelve-year-old girl, took my two-year-old daughter’s hand and waded with her into the water. I caught the moment on screen, but profoundly enough, the gesture is hidden by the foliage of the trees.

You have to look to see it.

My daughter climbs on my lap to see the photos. I flick through them, but soon go back to that one. It's like I've emerged from deep water and taken my first full breath of the day.

I cannot change the world. I cannot fix the things that are falling apart, or unfair, or bad. I cannot take the hurt away.

But here in my own little world, God is still at work. He’s in my niece's hands. He’s in my toddler’s insatiable chatter. He’s in my husband, off to church before the rest of us, calling goodbye from the doorway.

He is at this table, in this room.

A perfectly ripe nectarine for breakfast. A smile from my son. A tiny post of something good. A scripture. A prayer.

An answer. 

Look for kindness. Look for joy. 

Architecture of Memory--Creating a Storyteller's Archive

The Archive

I'm rather infamous in my family for my fact-retention.  My mother jokes that I can tell, down to the date, time and roadtrip, who got to sit in the coveted front seat in our Chrysler mini-van.  This is incorrect, but the principle that I can give details to my grudges is spot-on.  I can also create a world around my fond memories.

My family members think that this is an impossible skill to cultivate, but I can give you some ideas of how to prove them wrong.  When I was in training for interpreter duties, our instructor taught us a memory device called chaining.  He would give us a list of words to look at for fifteen seconds and then ask us to repeat the list of words in the same order without deviation.  The first time, it was a challenge.  Then he instructed us to find links that carried us from one word to the one that logically followed in the chain.

For example:

House
Table
Sun
Watermelon
Dog
Twenty-four

In chaining, you would come up with something along the lines of "We went into the House to carry a table outside so we could enjoy the sun.  We'd bought a watermelon, but the dog knocked it off the table before we could eat it.  24 hours later, we sold the dog."

It doesn't matter if the story is believable or cohesive as long as the list is faithful to the original.  In interpreting, where you will often have to hear someone say that they reached the corner of 24th and Pine St. at 6:07 p.m. and signaled a right-hand turn at the stop sign, you have to remember all of that with very few notes in front of you.

The Proof

Similar skills make a good storyteller's memory.  Let me illustrate with two examples that will perhaps reinforce my mother's impression of my memory.

1)  In 1993, I visited the Washington, D.C. temple for the first time.  Six young women and my mother carpooled in our mini-van and I sat in the front seat.  We were following Bishop Johnson and at one toll in New Jersey, we discovered that we were in the Exact Change Only lane without exact change.  Matt Foley jumped out of Bishop Johnson's car in front of us, ran back and handed me fifty cents for the toll booth before returning to the bishop's car.

Structure of this memory:  Details are 1993, Washington, D.C., six young women, Bishop Johnson, New Jersey and Matt Foley.  I remember it was 1993  because we only went to the temple once a year due to the long drive from Massachusetts and I turned twelve in November of 1992.  We had room for six people besides the driver and it was not a co-ed car.  Bishop Johnson reminded me of Harrison Ford, so I remember him perfectly.  Also, he was the bishop who drove so fast that we got there 3 hours before the rest of the caravan and were in the hotel hot tub by the time everyone arrived.  New Jersey was the only state where we didn't have exact change.  Matt Foley's sister, Shauna, was in the car with us, so I remember her brother giving us the change for the toll booth.

2)  I have a Latin puzzles book that I got for my 16th birthday.  It's inscribed as being given on November 26, 1996, but I know that it wasn't.  It was given to me at a surprise family birthday dinner on November 29, 1996, along with a recording of Leonard Bernstein playing Rhapsody in Blue.

Structure of this memory:  Details are Latin, 16th birthday, November 26, family dinner and Rhapsody in Blue.  I remember it being Latin because I was taking Greek at the time and hadn't studied Latin for two years, but still enjoyed it.  I know that it was my 16th birthday because it was the day before my first date.  The surprise was the family thinking my birthday was November 29, not November 26.  They do this a lot, with dates ranging from November 24 to November 30, and this was the first of three years in a row that they missed the date.  And I remember it being with Rhapsody in Blue because I had a tape recording of that, but this was a CD.

You can already see the world of details that I described previously.  I remember that the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang a concert on February 1, 2005 because I attended the concert before the joint birthday party for my aunt and father, who were both born on February 1.  I know that in 1993, my best friend's birthday party was delayed one day because I played the solo in the Brandnburg Concerto #5 on her birthday, December 5, and was still able to go to her birthday party the following day.

Three Tricks of the Trade

It doesn't take much to have an excellent memory for details.  It's all in what details you choose.  I recommend one of the following ways:

1.  A specific date.

I can tell you that I got my mission call on November 1 because it arrived the day after Halloween. I went to divorce court on May 19, 2005, because it was the same day that Revenge of the Sith came out and I was still tired from the midnight showing when the judge granted the annulment that I request.  The Boston Red Sox won the 2004 World Series on October 27.  Can I tell you other details about these dates?  Absolutely.

The story about my mission call can be expanded to talk about how I got it at 7 a.m. and my family wasn't ready on the conference call until 7 p.m.  When people would ask me how I was doing, I would hold up my white envelope from church headquarters.

May 19 is the day that I became single again and that the last Star Wars movie came out.  It's also now my sister's wedding anniversary and I grit my teeth every year at everyone celebrating such a happy day for her when I'm still single 11 years later.

I remember October 27 because it was my husband's birthday.  He was picking up his sisters for the birthday dinner while I anxiously watched Game 4 of the World Series.  When he returned with his sisters and the cake, I had an amazing story to tell about the moment that my team reversed the Curse of the Bambino after 86 years.

You can frame your entire life around dates like these.  I hear it when my clients say "When did I go to Dr. _______?  It was about two days before my sister's birthday, so June 12."  You can even simplify it and say "In spring of 2014" or "At the beginning of last June" and go from there.

2.  A specific habit

Every January 30, my mother sends out a mass text reminding us to eat a piece of peanut-butter toast in memory of my grandfather's passing.  I have many memories of visiting Grandpa Leo and he would carry a little red tray of toast and a jar of peanut butter to wherever Grandma was sitting every night before bed.  This was usually around the time that they played the last game of cards for the day.

Alternatively, I have a friend who tells painstaking stories.  The summer that we were roommates, she would tell me every detail of getting out of bed and getting ready for school and walking to campus...all so she could tell me that she fell asleep in her Psychology class.  I can sum her up as my friend who falls asleep in public and this is important because she's also the friend whose companion had permission to carry a water gun in case this friend needed to be woken up suddenly.

If someone told a story about your habits, what would be included?  For me, people would probably remember that every afternoon, I walk into my apartment and tell my roommate about my day from the comfort of my beanbag chair.  I can tell that any conversation with my mother happened after 6 p.m. because she teaches piano until 5:30.

3.  A specific object

I have a silver-and-mother-of-pearl necklace in the shape of a swan.  I started collecting swan things in 2012, when I found a 14k gold antique pendant in a shop in San Diego, CA.  Since then, I have gotten black swan earrings, a black-and-gold swan pendant, a swan Christmas ornament and two glass swans.  (My debut novel is a retelling of Swan Lake.)  The silver necklace, though, was one that my roommate and I debated the origin of.

Why?  Because she told me she got it at the same place where I got my glass swans.  That was Las Palmas, Spain.  When I told her that, she insisted that I was forgetting where I bought my swans.  This was the same place that I bought a hand-worked leather purse, so I know it was on Las Palmas.  It wasn't until months later that she realized that she bought it at the same market where I bought my nephews terra cotta bird whistles and that was several days later in Portugal.

Regardless of whether you remember the date or not, you can build an entire memory around something that was there at the time.  I remember my 6th birthday because it was the day that Grandma taught me how to use her typewriter.  I  remember getting a porcelain Christmas cottage on December 24, 2014, because my family exchanges gifts on Christmas Eve and it's what my mother gave me the year before last.

Conclusion

This may sound absurd, but developing these skills can improve your memory retention.  It can lend authenticity and intrigue to your life experiences.  And it will make you a better writer.

The Collective Woman: Celebrate Greatness

     My eighteen year old niece and I stood at the edge of a room full of incoming college freshmen. She likes to get the lay of a room before she enters, and I know that, so we paused, and our eyes drifted over the faces. Many of them turned to look us over as well. My cute niece with bright blue eyes, long blond hair and fitting jeans attracted the gaze of more than a few young men. One or two of the young women glanced over in confident interest, the look that said, "We could be besties." 

But most of the looks from women tried to show disdain or disinterest, some even openly discouraging. 

I admit it. Sometimes I kind of want to hide from women like that, and I silently prayed that my niece would be able to separate her own worth from that mirrored in the reactions of others. 

"There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so small that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in us, it’s in everyone. As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."
Marianne Williamson, 1992/1994 Inaugural Speech -Nelson Mandela

On another afternoon, the large conference room fell silent as a skinny, gorgeous, young brunette slinked in through the double doors. All eyes gave her the once over from her spiky heels to her tight black leather pants to her fitted sweater. Mmm. Hmm. You know what we were thinking, and it wasn't kind. No way was this woman, whoever she was, going to penetrate through more than our polite smile and weather talk. 

But instead of sitting beside us in the audience so we could snub her, she moved to the front of the room and joined the others on the platform. Oh no. The collective groan rolled in waves even though no one dared make a noise. 

Our worst suspicions confirmed, someone introduced her as our keynote and soon she was standing in front of us, making all kinds of jokes. We couldn't help it. We laughed, and we warmed toward her. But then she said, "And here I am, six months pregnant..." 

Silence. And then an actual audible negative noise. Was it a hiss? A moan? A humph? I can't remember, but the noise spoke for us all. No way could we love a woman who looked that good in leather while six months pregnant. Mmmm, mmm. Not happening. And our attention drifted.

 We are supposed to hate beautiful, confident, skinny women. It makes us feel better.

I went to dinner with a wonderful friend who works in finance. She was feeling the stress of a new promotion and subsequent performance reviews, a new boss and new employees. I asked her about her boss, and she said he was good, tough, but not as tough as a woman. Curious, I encouraged her to explain. Her experience has been that women feel competitive towards other women in the workforce and instead of helping them rise, they try to stifle and oppress. 

If another woman succeeds at work, then she might take your place.

Stephen R. Covey talked about the abundance vs scarcity mentality. 

Abundance Mentality: Something wonderful happens to someone else, and you think, "Awesome! Now I know that could happen to me too."

Scarcity Mentality: Something wonderful happens to someone else, you feel actual fear, because there is a pie of good things available to humankind and if someone takes a piece, that much less is available for you to grab.

During a busy week of the year, with activities every day for each child, I fell behind. Too often, I let my children down for one thing or another. One particularly awful day, I had fifteen minutes to buy the supplies my daughter needed from the grocery store. I ran through the aisles, filled my cart, and said a prayer of gratitude that a register was open with no line. 

I reached for my wallet to swipe the credit card early and dug around the bottom of my Coach purse. I widened the bag, tilting it to the side. No wallet. I dug in one of the pockets and pulled out my checkbook, my french manicured nails resting delicately on the side of the Vera Bradley check book case. "Do you take checks?" Desperate, I didn't want to fail another child. My heart sank and I searched my mind for any solution.

The girl shook her head, explaining new store policy. I scanned faces, feeling more desperate, shifting my high heeled shoes back and forth. A line had formed behind me by now, eyes staring pointedly at me.

Then the lady behind me asked, "How much is your order?" 

"Oh, it's $75." 

Shrugging, knowing it was too much for anyone's generosity to cover, I started clearing the conveyor belt so others could check out. But she stopped me and offered to pay for the whole thing. I put up a bit of fuss but saw in her eyes a sincerity I knew I would hurt if I didn't accept. Tears on my cheeks, I hugged her tightly and promised to pay it forward.

    Abundance mentality. I had a new haircut. My business casual clothes were freshly pressed. I did not send off any helpless vibes or any weakness that could have endeared this woman to me. Instead, she helped me just because she saw a need and stepped in to fill it.

Also consider, we could be hating all of these perfect women for no reason. Remember that of everyone you meet, many will be going through an awful crises, and not a single one is perfect. 

 

That lovely pregnant woman in the leather? She was going through a divorce. Her husband left her and their still unborn second child. Our opinion of her changes with that knowledge, but it shouldn't. We don't need to know she is experiencing a crises to recognize she is a human, deserving of love. 

  As I stood with my niece on the threshold of that room, watching women who were obviously looking forward to taking her down a peg or two, I felt nervous. She is full of hope and happiness as she envisions her life unfolding before her. She has an incredible naiveté and the faith and hope of one who expects life to treat her well.  If I could put a sign on her that she had to unknowingly wear all the time, it would say, 

"Be kind. Think well of me. I am insecure and would love to connect in real friendship." 

But I know that women will not want to think well of her, and so I write this plea. Can we not do better as women? Can we not live and let live or even better, SOAR and help others to Soar? 

Be the best you can; and I'll cheer for you even if you excel to heights I could never reach, because you are a woman, and that makes you a part of me. Together we make a whole: Our half of the human race. And when one of us rises, it proves that we all can. Your skinny tight leather makes me look good too, not because I'm wearing it, but because you are, and you look fantastic.