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Sacred Writing Time

So, I should have been writing.  I should have been revising or scribbling or otherwise generating.  I did not do what I should have, though.  I read.  I read an article about how to navigate narratives war veterans might write regarding their military service.  The overall premise is safety first for the writers, and allowing them freedom to write about those stories if they so choose.  The advice was against a war-story theme for a course, and I agree that could be very traumatic and troublesome.  Create a safe environment for students to task risks.

The article got me thinking about the vets I’ve had in my classes and how many of them did not write about those experiences.  I never expected them to; trauma is something a writer has to be ready to write about, not something to be forced.  The original trauma is forced, so why create another layer of trauma unncessarily?  It would have the opposite effect.  I’ve seen that in my Personal Writing class.  When I push too hard, I can create an environment of perceived hostility.  Sometimes our dedication to the product as teachers comes across as uncaring about the writers as people.

The author of the article reinforced the value of a practice I have: Writing with the students.  He does not share his drafts with students, but I do.  He writes with his students to understand the complexities and challenges of the assignments, to help identify potential minefields and trouble spots, which is why I do it, too.  It just makes good, sound practice, because how do you know the impact an assignment has on students if you, as the teacher, haven’t tried it out yourself?  I think that keeps us thinking about our assignments in a more authentic, real fashion.  The more I teach writing, the more I long for deeper authenticity.  Granted, there’s a certain level of artifice to whatever we assign, but what I mean is that I want students of writing to be able to delve into themselves to find something of motivation and interest in whatever writing situation they find themselves in.

I’m seriously toying with the idea of not creating a defined course schedule this fall, of being more organic.  I always end up changing things around, anyway, so why not allow myself, and my students, some flexibility when it comes to creating and assigning projects?  As long as I meet the outcomes and objectives of the courses, I don’t see the problem.  Well, except for the more anal retentive students.  They’ll adjust.

Namaste… MS

Not Just a Pizza

In case anyone’s interested in reading it, here’s my readaround piece for tonight’s final TE 601 class meeting at Saginaw Valley State University.  Let me know what you think.

 

 

Not Just a Pizza

           A pizza is not just a pizza.  It is not just tomato sauce with some oregano and thyme smeared on a spongy piece of white dough, topped with mushrooms and pepperoni, buried under a thick layer of cheddar and mozzarella.  No, that would be too simple.

            A pizza is more than a pizza.  It is more than what we think of a pizza as being.  That tomato sauce?  It’s lycopene.  It’s vitamin C.  It’s a vegetable exchange.  That dough?  It’s simple carbohydrates (assuming you’re not being fancy and using whole wheat flour, in which case you’ve got some complex carbs and protein thrown in for fun), yeast, and water.  It’s a starch exchange.  Those mushrooms?  They’re more than just delicious fungus shaped like caps.  They’re a non-starchy vegetable exchange.  That pepperoni?  It’s more than just thinly sliced hard sausage packed into a casing.  It’s a high-fat meat exchange.  That cheese?  It’s more than just a bubbly, stringy gob of spoiled milk.  It, too, is a meat exchange.  Just how high fat depends on how much gets piled on.

            A pizza is more than a pizza, no matter how you try to narrow it down into what you think it usually means.  It’s one thing, then it’s another thing, and those things add up to something you thought you knew, but don’t.

            The fun of exchanges is that food is no longer food.  Food becomes the parts they play in your body, the role they serve to feed you and keep you healthy, the sum of their nutritional whole.  They are stripped of what they seem to be, and displayed for what they really are – components, pieces, vitamins, minerals, amino acids.  Chains, reactions.  All serving a purpose.  All understandable, all understood.  The magic is gone, and when the magic is gone, the fear is gone.

            Or so they tried to tell me.  They were wrong.

            This pizza I’m looking at, this steaming pie, should not scare me.  It is knowable.  It is understandable.  It is both known and understood, all through the magic of dietary exchanges.  I know the role and function of each part, and I know that this pizza is a balanced, fairly healthy meal to eat, as long as I stick to a piece or two.  But who sticks to a piece or two?

            And who comes to Pizza Ray’s all by themselves and orders a whole pizza, sit down and not take-out.  Who comes in at three in the afternoon, after walking past the joint every fifteen minutes since noon, building up courage to walk in, but then swerving back to the sidewalk to make the same two-block circuit it takes to build that courage back up again, only to fail yet again?  Who does that?

            Someone who just wants to prove to himself that he can order a whole pizza, sit down, eat two slices, ask for a box, and take the rest home to eat two more slices again at another meal.  Or maybe ask for a box, walk out of the parlor with it, then pitch it in the first trashcan he sees on a street corner.  What happens to the pizza after it’s ordered and the two slices are eaten aren’t important, but he makes that what’s-to-come important by dwelling on it, which means he doesn’t have to dwell on the fact he has yet to eat two slices from the pizza in front of him.

            Lunchtime is supposed to be at noon.  It is now three thirty.  My stomach is snarling.  The hunger pangs are deep and they echo.  It actually feels good to hear that snarl and feel that deep echo.  It reminds me of a time when I had the power and something as stupidly simple as pizza didn’t. 

            Oh, who am I kidding?  That pizza would have had all the power in the end.  Just like it does now.

            Since I haven’t eaten since eight fifteen, and all I’ve put in my mouth besides sugarless gum since then is diet soda here at the parlor, I’m feeling lightheaded.  I’m feeling a bit out of it.  I’m remembering what it’s like to starve and like it. 

            I got spoiled by all the structure I used to have.  I’m supposed to keep that structure going.  I’m supposed to have my schedule rigidly in my mind, and follow it just as rigidly.  I shouldn’t be letting three hours go by, working up the courage to walk into a stupid pizza joint.  I was trained to be able to do this.  That’s how I can even be here in the first place.  I’m not locked up anymore; I’m free.

            Only I’m not free.  I’m still locked up.  This pizza is proving that to me.  I’m just as weak now as when I weighed ninety-nine pounds from starving myself and throwing up what little I did eat.  I’m supposed to be stronger than this.  That’s why they let me out.

            I really could use Sandy.  What would she say?  “Nathan, it’s okay, it’s just some starch and meat exchanges,” is what she’d say.  She’d be practical.  She’d remind me of what the pizza means when I couldn’t, when I was wrapped up in the other things it means to me, like weakness, like defeat, like loss.

            The steam from the pizza is thinner than it was when Kasey, the bored waitress, brought it to me, looking at me like I was a hog for ordering a whole pizza, even though it was a medium.  Or maybe I imagined she looked at me like that.  Maybe I was projecting, like Dr. Demitrack said I have a tendency to do.  The steam started out fat, and now it was thin.  Like I used to be. 

            Nathan, now stop that.  You’ve got to stop that.  You can’t think like that.  You know that’s not true.  And you’re comparing yourself to steam coming off a pizza.  What is wrong with you?

            You know what’s wrong with me.  What’s wrong with me is that I ordered a pizza just to prove I could, and now I have to eat two slices of it and get a take-out box, just to prove that I can.  Just to prove that I can do something millions and millions of people can do without even thinking, without even blinking.  Just to prove that two slices will not make me fat, but will give my body the energy and nutrition it needs to help me get through the day.  Just to prove that I’m not a prisoner anymore.

            Just to prove that I’m not what I used to be.

            But I am.  I am today.  Just for today, at least.  And not even just for today.  Just for now, just here at three thirty-five at Pizza Ray’s on a slow Sunday afternoon.  Just long enough to remind me that I’m not as far along as I thought I was, but not so far gone as I used to be. 

            I shift my weight, and grab my wallet from my back pocket.  I pluck a twenty out, tuck it under my clean plate, sip the rest of my diet soda, slide out of the booth, and head for the door I never should entered in the first place.  I walk away from what I worked so hard to do, what I worked so hard to be able to do. 

            Pizza is not just pizza.  I should have known that.

            I lost this round.

What To Do With Myself Now?

So, now that the hustle and shuffling of the semester, and academic year, are over, where do I direct my mental energies?  So far, I’ve managed to avoid the bitchiness and snarling that usually accompany this transition from constant mental stimulation to something less so.  It’s akin to flying along the expressway at 80 MPH and having to slow down to 35 in a construction zone.  Definitely irritating.

There are books to read — A Mercy by Toni Morrison, The Reader by Bernhard Schlink, Run by Ann Patchett.  First, I’ll need to finish Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.  What’s interesting is that the list is mostly fiction, except for Kingsolver’s book.  I usually read nonfiction and memoir much more than fiction, unless that fiction is Young Adult.  

I could write in my journal.  In fact, that’s what I should be doing instead of typing away at this blog.  Yet, when I grabbed the journal and my new pen to head to the chair by the patio doors, I stopped.  I opened up the computer instead and logged on to WordPress.  Apparently, I wanted an audience besides myself.

There are also the Tom Romano books to read, and the David Bartholomae book to read, but those are about composition theory and methods, which is fine, but I feel I ought to put those on hold for a week or two, so I feel like I have somewhat of a break.

What am I going to do with myself?

Namaste… MS

“The Skinny Boy and the Big Guy in the Sky” by Michael Somers

Note:  I was fortunate enough to have this story published in the March 2009 edition of The Tridge, based in Midland, Michigan.  It is the final piece of a longer work  called Skinny Boy, my Masters thesis from 2003 at Northern Michigan University.  I wrote this final piece during the Saginaw Bay Writing Project’s 2008 Summer Institute.      

Additional Note:  This is a story about a teenaged young man, Nathan, hospitalized as a result of his eating disorders.

 

The Skinny Boy and the Big Guy in the Sky

by Michael Somers             

     Weekends here on the teenaged skinny-freak farm — otherwise known as the Adolescent Eating Disorders Unit to those without a sense of humor, like the doctors and nurses — make me want to scream.  It’s like when you’re driving along on the expressway.  Everything flows silky smooth, like water over rocks in a stream, then you round a curve and you have to stand on your brakes to not hit the cars log jammed in front of you.  Everything just grinds to a halt and you’re stuck, not able to move.  All you can do is honk your horn, beat on the steering wheel, and holler, “Come on!  Move, already!”

     Saturdays are bad enough, but Sundays are the worst.  There’s that usual Sunday morning silence, when everything feels softer and more hushed, like in a quiet corner of a library.  Only that quiet is amplified so much it feels like a train clanging and banging through mountain passes.

      It’s just really annoying.

     Besides meals at the usual time, and the usual sit time after meals where we have to digest our emotions, as well as our food, under the watchful eye of the nurses, there’s nothing to do.  There are two hours of total unscheduled freedom between breakfast sit time and lunch, which is totally different from the rest of the week, which has every waking moment filled with therapy of some type, or activities meant to get us in touch with ourselves.  Who knows?  Maybe one of us will have a breakthrough, some Ah-ha! moment that will show us the error of our ways, and we’ll want to willingly eateateat, gain our weight, learn our lessons, and then – the Holy Grail – be discharged.

     Speaking of gaining weight, to do any kind of activities or to go on any trips at all off the unit, we need to be at a certain weight.  Aren’t these little incentives lovely?  Here, Nathan, we’ll let you off the unit to walk in the lobby atrium, but only if you get your weight up to the magic number, your magic ticket off the unit.  You’ll be free, but not really, since you can’t leave the hospital for city passes until you reach another magic number, and either way, you’ll have a staff member with you, so it’s really just a shell game, but whatever it takes to get to you to gain weight is what we’ll do, short of tying you down and tube-feeding you.

     Oh, wait.  We will do that.  Brandy had to be restrained and tube-fed last week.  Oops.

     My first magic number is 125 pounds.  My second magic number is 135 pounds.  My big granddaddy get-me-discharged magic number is 155 pounds.  When I first got here, I weighed 99 pounds, so those numbers seemed pretty big to me at first.  It may as well have been 200 pounds to gain.  From where I sat, there really wasn’t much difference, but as I got to 120 and 122 pounds, believe me, I really noticed the difference.  Freedom, or something sort of like it, was only three pounds away.

       Which brings me back to weekends.  Today, a Saturday, I tipped the scale at 125 pounds.  No dramatic reality-TV “Will he or won’t he?” scale swinging wildly between close-but-no-cigar and yay-you-made-it going on here.  I nailed it.  A decisive 125 pounds.  No muss, no fuss. 

        Sweet sort-of freedom, here I come!

        But not so fast.  Sandy, my primary nurse, lowered the boom.  “Nathan, that’s great!” she said, giving my shoulders a little motherly squeeze.  “Now we can get you off the unit, at least.  Just not today, I’m afraid.”

         “Why not?”  I knew it – a scam.

         “Doctor Preston isn’t here today, and he’s the one who has to sign off on your limited-activity plan, but he’ll be here tomorrow morning,” she said.

         I narrowed my eyes at her.  “But can’t you do it?  Or Doctor Demitrack?  Why does it have to be Doctor Preston?”

       “Because you’re his patient, and he’s your primary doctor.”  She sounded like she was apologizing.  “A patient’s primary doctor is the one who has to sign off on these types of things.  It’s the protocol.”

        “That protocol blows,” I said, stepping off the scale, looking at the floor.

         Again the shoulder squeeze.  “I know it’s disappointing, Nate,” she said.  “But look.  You finally made it.  That’s something to feel good about.  You’re making progress.”

         “I guess.”  Yeah, right.

         “You won’t be able to go to the atrium with Sarah and Holly today, but you will tomorrow.” 

         “Yeah.”

         “Don’t be discouraged, okay?”

         “Okay.”  Easy for her to say.

         “Now, get to the kitchen for breakfast,” she said.  “I need to weigh Brandy yet.”

         I tried not to be a Bitter Billy about the whole thing, but I really was bummed.  Okay, so I pouted, but I tried not to.  It’s just I was so close, and it hit me really hard.  Putting on those twenty-six pounds was harder than the doctors and the nurses know.  It’s not just a matter of eating and gaining weight, it’s a matter of what made us not eat and lose weight, and how everything we do here on the unit is out of our control so much of the time.

        I just felt like such a prisoner.  Do this at this time, do that at that time, eat this, sit here, tell me how you feel, don’t you just love all the beige and mauve, leave the bathroom door open a crack so we know you’re not up to any puking, be where a staff member can see you at all times . . .  There’s no such thing as privacy here.

      I couldn’t take it.  I looked at my cereal, at the stained carpet, out the window, at Sandy, and I just wanted to cry.  There stood a wall I couldn’t get around or bust through.  I was 125 pounds, and I was stuck.

     When Sarah and Holly were leaving the unit with Sandy, Sarah said, “Tomorrow you can come with us, Nate.  It’s really pretty down there with the trees and plants and the glass.  You’ll like it, I promise.”

     Holly just rolled her eyes.  “Oh, yeah, it’s so amazing.  Almost worth getting fat for.”

     “That’s enough, Holly,” Sandy said.  “Let’s go, ladies.”

     As they left the unit and the doors swung locked behind them, I leaned against the wall, leaned the side of my face against one of the doors, and a sob almost came out.

     Almost.

     I hit the door with the side of my fist.

     “This blows,” I said to no one, then went back to the lounge to look out at the sky.

*     *     *

     For the first time since I was placed on the unit, I looked forward to a Sunday.  I actually was awake at six, but just laid in bed and watched how the light started soft like cotton, then got brighter as it slanted through my blinds and crept up the wall my bed was against.  I looked down as the slants created prison stripes on my bedspread, and thought maybe God had a sense of humor.

     As I leaned my head back against my pillow, and let my eyes wander to the ceiling and go out of focus, the word God bounced around inside my head, like how the ball gets bounced between the two paddles in that old-school video game Pong.  Bouncebouncebeep.  Bouncebouncebeep.

     I couldn’t really remember the last time I’d thought about God in any real way, a way other than taking the Lord’s name in vain.  It’s not like I come from a religious family or anything, or like we ever entered a church except for weddings and funerals, or whenever George (excuse me – Dad) felt it necessary to impress the partners of his law firm.  Church always felt odd to me, like I was in a foreign country and didn’t know the language or the customs.

     Plus seeing Jesus splayed up on the cross, sometimes with his eyes closed like he was peacefully sleeping, or sometimes in other churches with his eyes slightly open and rolling up into his head, was just creepy.  I mean, I know that’s the whole point, but still, it’s just gruesome.  Effective, but gruesome.  Which is why churches have him splayed up behind the altar for everyone to see, I suppose.  It’s really good marketing.

     There were times Astrid (excuse me – Mother) would try to get George to go to church just because, but that was always doomed to failure.  I mean, really, she should’ve known better.  I did.

     “George, I think we ought to go to church this week,” she’d say, buttering her toast, or pouring some orange juice.

     “Why?” Pure confusion on George’s part, like she’d asked him if he wouldn’t mind mowing the lawn wearing just his briefs.

     “I just think it would be a good idea.”

     “Why?”

     “George, you know why.”

     He’d smirk.  “No, dear, I don’t know why.  Enlighten me.”

     “That’s why,” she’d mutter under her breath.  I’d think to myself, Uh-oh, here we go.

     “Oh, that’s right.”  The paper would be tossed to the floor and the coffee cup slammed to the table.  “Because I need to, right?  Because there’s something I’m missing, right?”

     Well, yeah, I’d think.  Something like a soul.

     “You said it, not me, George.”

     “Wonderful.  Just great.”  He’d lean in and she’d look at her plate.  “This coming from the spineless drunk of the family!  Yeah, you’re so pure there, Astrid.  I see how this works.”

     “How does it work, George?”

     “It works because it’s all about me needing to shape up, and not you,” he’d say.  “It’s because I’m such a jerk that your life is miserable.  But it’s not because there’s something wrong with you!”

     Not eating during a fight like this was pretty easy, a sneaky anorexic’s dream.  I mean, who could eat with all the knots and trying not to breathe?  Trying to occupy as little space as possible?

     “I just . . .” she’d stammer, then drop her voice.  “I don’t want to fight.”

     “Too late, Astrid.”

     “I just want to go.”

     “Then go.”

     “I don’t want to go alone.”

     “Then take Nate.”

     She’d turn to me, looking for a life preserver.  I’m not that stupid.  I knew what George would do.

     “I’ve got homework to do today,”  I’d say.

     “See?  We all have better things to do, Astrid,” George would say.  “If you’re looking for salvation for somebody, get some for yourself.  That’s who you should be worried about.”

     Even though he’s a jerk most days, he could make sense sometimes.  He was right.  Astrid could have gone by herself, for herself, but she would choose to attend the United Church of Smirnoff instead.

     Suddenly, I knew where my first off-unit trip would be:  To the chapel.  I would have Sandy take me to the chapel.

     Doctor Preston did show up and he did sign off on my limited-activity plan.  Sandy waved it in my face when I went to get weighed before breakfast.  “Great news, Nathan!”

     “Cool,” I said.

     “The atrium after breakfast sit time sound good?”

      “Actually, Sandy, I’d rather go to the chapel,” I said.

     She gave me one of those cock-eyed quizzical looks.  “Okay, sure.”

     “Thanks.”

     For being as disappointed as I was yesterday about not being able to go off the unit, it really felt like no big deal today.  I’m still stuck in the hospital, and besides, I still weighed 125 pounds, so it felt just like yesterday.  I hadn’t moved forward at all.

     After breakfast and after sit time, Sandy ushered me to the doors of the unit and asked, “Are you excited, Nate?  I am.”

     “Not really.”

     “No?” She seemed a bit deflated.  She really was happy for me.  I could’ve played along.

     “I mean, it’s cool I don’t have to be on the unit all the time, but I’m still stuck inside.”

     “I know, Nate, but once you gain ten more pounds…”

     “I know,” I said.  “Can we go?”

     She slid her hospital badge through the reader and I heard the locks click open.  I thought it might feel like a big relief or something when the doors were open, but it wasn’t.  It was like walking through any old set of doors.

     Seeing all the nurses and doctors around even on a Sunday morning was odd.  I knew this was a big important medical center but I didn’t really realize how busy it was.  All the machines beeping and the fast-talking voices, and everyone speed walking, even Sandy.  I had to hustle to keep up with her.  A lot of nurses said hello to her.  I didn’t realize she knew so many people, being that she’s stuck up on the eighth floor with the crazy skinny people when she’s at work.

     The elevator took forever to get to our floor, but it sure whipped us down fast enough.  My bladder was up in my mouth from that take-off, I swear.  And the landing!  The bell dinged and we bounced like a yo-yo that reached the end of its string.  Man, I did not like that.

     The door opened and I felt like I was going from a boat to a dock, all wobbly at first.  “The chapel’s just past the elevator bay to the right, Nathan,” Sandy said as she pointed the way.

     I followed her around the corner and down a really quiet hall.  It was nearly ten o’clock, which is when the non-denominational service was to begin, and there was no one around.  I really expected to see people waiting to get their Jesus on, but when we stopped outside the door that had a sign reading “Chapel”, there was no one inside except some lady in a robe.

      “Hello, Pastor Mitchell,” Sandy said as she shook the woman’s hand.

     “Good morning, Sandy,” Pastor Mitchell said before turning to me.  “Hello, young man.  I’m Deb Mitchell, the pastor on hand for our non-denominational service today.”

      She extended her hand and I shook it weakly, not really sure what to do, where to look, or what to say.  “I’m Nathan,” I said.

     “Ah, yes!” She clasped my hand in both of hers.  She felt warm with light.  “Sandy’s mentioned you before.”

     “Oh, God, I can only imagine what she’s told you,” I said, then stopped.  “I wasn’t supposed to say ‘Oh, God’, was I?  I’m sorry.”

     Pastor Mitchell laughed.  “Don’t be, don’t be,” she said.  “You’re fine.”

     “Well, I’ll leave you two,” Sandy said, turning to go.  “I’ll be back down at eleven, Nate.”

     “Okay, bye.”

     So it was really awkward standing there in the chapel with Pastor Mitchell.  I’d never been alone with a pastor, let alone talk to one before, and I had no idea what to say or how to act.  I wish someone else would’ve been there.

     “Where is everyone?” I asked.

     “That’s a good question, Nathan,” she said.  “Usually, it’s just me and God in here on Sundays, but today I have you.”

     “Ah.”

     I looked around, feeling really awkward.  Another beige room, I noticed.  A small one, too.  I thought the chapel would be bigger.  There were eight small pews and an altar, but no crucified Jesus to be found.

     “Where’s Jesus?” I asked.

     She laughed.  “Some days, I’d like to know that, too.”

     Was she kidding?  No wonder people didn’t come to her services.

     “Seriously, Nathan,” she said, reading my expression.  “I’m assuming you mean the crucified Jesus you see at other churches?”

     “Yeah.”

     “We all share this chapel, small as it is.”  She sounded like she was apologizing.  “We hold Christian and Jewish services here.  There’s a space for Muslims down the hall, only without pews so they can lay their prayer rugs out.  I have a cross and whatnot that I bring out for services, but we don’t put up any permanent iconography.”

     “Oh.”

     “Do you go to church often at home?”

     “No, never.”

     “Is there anything I can try to answer for you?”

     Yeah, I thought.  Why is George such a jerk?  Why is Astrid a drunk?  Why am I bulimirexic?  When will I get out of here?  How can I make all of this stop?

     Instead, I started to feel like I had needles stabbing me in my head and arms and stomach.  “You know, maybe I shouldn’t have come,” I said, backing away from her.  “Maybe we should call Sandy back to get me.”

      “Nathan, please, stay for a bit.”  She backed away slightly, like she knew coming toward me would have made me run.

     “I don’t want a sermon.”

     “Then I won’t give you one.”

     “I don’t know what I believe or why I came here.”

     “Then I’ll give you space to think about that.”

     “Really?”

     “Yes,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing toward a pew.  “Tell you what.  I’ll just be in the office off to the side here, and I’ll keep the door open a bit.  You sit here and if you need me, just call for me.”

     “Don’t I need someone around me?  I can’t be alone, can I?”

     “You won’t be alone.  I’ll be close by.”  She smiled in a way that told me I could trust her.

     “Okay,” I said, and sat in the closest pew.  “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

     “Anytime you need me, Nathan, I’ll be here for you.”

     Just like with Sandy, I knew she meant what she said.  She shut the chapel door, dimmed the lights and the electric flameless candles, and went into her office.  To pray?  For me?

     I made a tent with my hands, elbows on my knees.  I put my chin against my hands.  I leaned forward.  I closed my eyes.

     I exhaled.

*     *     *

     So my head is bowed here, sort of.  Is leaning my chin against my hands like this okay?  Is sitting here with my elbows on my knees okay?  Or should I be kneeling?

     They really need a chart in here, sort of like Praying for Dummies, or The Complete Idiot’s Guide to How to Behave in Church.  Or in chapel.  Whatever.  Just something.

     In the movies and on TV, praying looks really easy.  You just assume the prayer position, and off you go on your merry little “Heavenly Father” and “Thank Ye for This Day” way.  Clasp your hands, intertwine your fingers and lean forward, sort of like I’m doing now.  See, Hollywood is good for something, even if some of the nurses like to blame Hollywood for how girls like Sarah, Holly, and Brandy start down the path toward Eating Disorder Funland.  Like it’s that easy.

     What am I supposed to say to you anyway, God?  I’m sure you get asked for things all the time, like “Please don’t let my husband die from his brain tumor” or “Could you make sure my Tyler gets into Harvard?”, followed by the “I promise I’ll dedicate my life to You and the Savior Jesus Christ, Your holy son who died for our sins.”  I could do that, but I’ll be honest, I don’t think asking you for things and basically bribing you with the promise of my supposed belief is a solid plan for connecting with you on a spiritual level.  It seems selfish to me.  Not that I’m not selfish, mind you.  I just think too many people use you like some cosmic Magic 8 ball, expecting you to give them some Yes-No-Maybe answer floating in blue liquid.

     But I digress.

     Or am I really digressing?  I feel like I’m being way too casual with my thoughts, like maybe I should be all formal sounding, like “Dear God, it is a pleasure to prostrate myself before you in holy contemplation, to examine my wicked ways, and to ask your infinite patience and forgiveness as I navigate these sin-infested waters known as human life.”

     I could do that, but that’s not me.

     What I’d really like to know today, God, is what made me want to come down here to this chapel.  Why I thought about George and Astrid and church, and what about that made me think the chapel would be a good place to go.  Now I’m here and no one else is, except for Pastor Mitchell, who’s in her office, but could be watching me and laughing to herself, or waiting for me to say her name and pounce on me to convert me.  But I don’t really think she’d do that.  She seemed really sincere about letting me have some space to just think.

     You know, those thoughts I had about her just now, the ones Astrid would call ungracious, are ones that George would have.  They sound like something jerky he’d say out loud.  That man can be so obnoxious, so rude, and he can really make me sick.  He’s so mean and sarcastic.  Anyone disagrees with him and he instantly attacks, just cutting them to shreds until there’s nothing left but a pool of blood and a heap of bones.  He’s just awful. 

      That’s probably what makes him such a good lawyer, and that’s all well and good, but why doesn’t he turn it off when it comes to his family?  Why can’t he just find one nice thing to say to Astrid, something like “You look so beautiful in that new dress, dear”, instead of “I can only imagine how much that overpriced piece of garbage cost, and it’s not exactly a good color on you.”  I mean, really.  Astrid tries and tries to be good enough in his eyes.  She volunteers, she keeps an immaculate house; she’s a good little trophy wife, if you’re into that sort of thing.  Maybe she wouldn’t drink so much if he were nicer.  Maybe I wouldn’t be here in this hospital.  Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten the eating disorders.

     Listen to that.  “Gotten” the eating disorders.  Like they’re contagious and anyone could get them just by touching the handle on a drinking fountain.  George would tell me to take responsibility for myself, to not blame others, but that hypocrite couldn’t apply that to himself even if he tried.  Astrid gets the blame for things going wrong to the point she gets obsessive-compulsive about cleaning the house, or has to drink, or worse, both.  But as long as she looks perfect, or makes us seem like we’re perfect, that’s great.  Keep up those appearances. 

     I can only imagine how my being here in this hospital is putting a crack in those appearances.

     What Astrid doesn’t catch, I do.  I’m not assertive enough.  Athletic enough.  Smart enough.  Popular enough.  Competitive enough.  I don’t have girlfriends.  I like riding my bike.  I like being anywhere other than around him.  He puts my stomach in knots.  He wants me to be what he wasn’t when he was a kid, and he wants us to have the life he didn’t, but I’ll tell you, he’s not very different from Grandpa Thomas, not at all.  George would never say it or admit it, but the reason we haven’t seen Grandpa Thomas in over three years is not because it’s too much of a hassle to find time to visit him in Arizona, but because those two aren’t any different.  Not one bit.  And it drives George crazy.  I can tell nothing and no one is good enough in Grandpa Thomas’s eyes.  The last time we visited him, he told me I was a disappointment, in just the same tone and with just the same look of contempt George has when he says it to me.  Then George got worse, and all I heard for a month straight was how nothing I did was right and what a letdown I was as a son.

     Gee, love you, too, Dad.

     What makes someone so bitter and unhappy inside they have to act that way to people they’re supposed to love?  If they experienced so much hurt growing up, why would they pass the hurt along to their own kids?  Why does George get caught up in that?  Sandy calls it a cycle, but I call it a cyclone.  You have this anger inside and all it does is spin out of control, destroying other people’s houses and dreams, once it’s destroyed everything inside of you.

     I’m afraid of becoming like him, God.  I’m afraid too much has been leveled by the cyclone that passed from George to me.  I’m afraid if I ever get married and have kids, I’ll do to my family what George did to Astrid and me.  I’m afraid that I’m no good and can’t be fixed.

     And I’m here, away from him.  Astrid is still there right in the storm’s path everyday.  I can’t protect her even if I wanted to.  She didn’t really protect me anyway.  She had her own problems because of George, and probably not all because of him, if I’m going to be really honest here.  For someone to drink like she does, for someone to be so scared and lonely and sad that they get hammered everyday, for someone to put up with the things George says to her, there’s something inside of her that’s haywire.  Her parents both died before I was born, and the only thing I really know about them is that they didn’t have much money and that Astrid is just like her mother, according to George.  Astrid won’t talk about them, other than to say she never felt so free as on the day of their funeral.  They died in a house fire; they smoked in bed, apparently, and they did themselves in before lung cancer could.  Accidentally, of course.  Anyway, there was nothing left from the house, not even pictures.  We have a wedding picture of theirs somewhere at home, but that’s the only one I’ve ever really seen of them.

     I don’t know if all of this technically counts as a prayer, God.  I don’t even know if that’s what I wanted.  I didn’t really expect to talk to you about any of this, let me tell you.  There was something about being here in this dim, quiet room, with Pastor Mitchell nearby, that I felt I could be safe.  That I would be safe.  I’m not used to feeling safe.

      I don’t want to be like them.  I’m not going to ask you to show me how to do that, since I’ve got to figure it out myself, but if you are out there and you are listening, please don’t forget about me.  I need all the help I can get.

     Is this the part where I’m supposed to say “Amen”?  If so, “Amen.”

     I don’t want to be rude or anything.

Long Time, No Blog

So, here I sit on the first day of my spring break, unable to simply walk away from the computer. Addicted? Oh, you bet. No doubt about it. Earlier today, I graded essays, so being unable to cut the umbilical cord seems more difficult that giving it a metaphoric snip-snip.

If only whoever accused me of walking away from my duties could see how much trouble I have walking away from my work, period. I’m constantly thinking about my classes, about my students, about what to teach, how to teach it, planning, plotting, wondering, analyzing. I do not walk away. I might not work on someone else’s specific timeline, but I always get my work done. Whoever wrote that about me never talked to me about it in person, never sought audience with me to discuss their concerns. Rather, they took the anonymous opportunity to accuse me of walking away from what is my life, basically. The accusation was about one particular aspect of my work, but still, they didn’t understand what I was doing, and rather than being constructive, decided to be destructive.

I told myself last year that I needn’t get so caught up in what my colleagues think of me, but it really does matter to me. Yet, they form these opinions without true knowledge, without primary research. The egos are amazing sometimes. Amazingly rude and destructive, that is.

I didn’t intend for this post to be a grousing about work, but it’s clear I needed to get that negativity out of my head.

Here’s hoping the rest of my break is a bit more unplugged.

Namaste … MJS

Tis the Night Before Christmas…

….and all through my house is the smell of the vegetable lasagna I made for tomorrow’s Christmas party (ham is on the menu, and I simply do not do pork of any kind).  Underneath that is the smell of peanut brittle and banana bread.  Once again, I feel compelled to bring food to a holiday gathering, and once again, I shall realize that everyone else feels that same compulsion, and once again, there will be too much food.  Better too much food than too little love, I say.  And at this gathering, both will be plentiful.

This year, I really looked forward to Christmas.  I didn’t dread it at all.  Next year, I want to be even more happy for Christmas to arrive.  Dan and I don’t exchange gifts and we don’t give gifts (we don’t believe in adding to the Christmas crap-buying frenzy), and it works out pretty well.  What I’d really like to do for next Christmas is go away to Pigeon Forge, rent that cabin we rented this summer.  Or maybe we just have Christmas in July and rent the cabin then and celebrate our own kind of Christmas this coming summer.  I’ll have to float that idea by him, but I’m sure he’ll dig it.

Merry Christmas to everyone!  Eat, drink, laugh, ideally surrounded by your friends and loved ones!

Namaste… MS

Mike Hits the Pause Button

So, after thirty-five consecutive days of writing anywhere from one to four hours a day, I decided to take a break for two days.  I gave myself the weekend off from writing about Nathan and his saga.  Where things left off, his mother had just made a huge decision that will change the direction of the plot so far.  I kind of knew she might do what she did, but until it actually happened, until it was actually written, I didn’t know for sure.  She’s full of surprises, for sure.  As a result, I’ve needed to take a few days and let her decision marinate.  I needed some space to figure out where to go next with the story.  It’s been a good mental vacation, too.  I’ll be ready to get back to it tomorrow.

Namaste . . . MS

60,107 Words, 251 Pages, 30 Days

So, I did it.  I took the National Novel Writing Month challenge this year.  I set out to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November, and I did it.  I’m still doing it.  The novel is not done.  Nathan, my main character, is not done speaking.  So I will keep writing until he tells me to stop.

I passed the 50,000 word mark last Monday; everything else has been icing.  

The teacher in me is asking, What did I learn from this experience?  The writer in me wants to answer.  So I shall, in a very off-the-cuff, non-polished way.  I learned that if you show up every day to do something, whatever it is you’re doing comes easily after a few days of doing it.  The writing just came easily after awhile; I could get in the zone quickly and stay there.  Another thing I learned is that being the conduit to a fictional world is eery and exhilarating at the same time.  The experiences are mine and not mine.  It’s a very present type of absence.

It’s been five years since I’ve channeled Nathan.  This summer, I got back in and finished a part of the original novel that needed completion.  This November, the “sequel” came about through NaNoWriMo, and I had no idea just how much there was left to say.  Nathan is different this time around.  Before, in the first one, he was more guarded.  Now, he’s less so.  It’s interesting to see.  I’m looking forward to seeing where he and I end up.

Namaste . . . MS

Happy Birthday, Grandma

So today is my grandmother’s birthday.  She’s been dead nearly a year now.  I honored her memory by writing about her (at least a veiled version of her) in a novel I’m writing for National Novel Writing Month.  At one point, I was taken directly back to when I was a child and that’s when my writing went to deep place.  I could feel her with me.  She sat on my shoulder.

I love you, Grandma.  Happy Birthday…

Namate… MS