Day 21 Reflection: Friendship

As I said in these pages before, my best friend Celia died about ten years ago (I’m bad with dates) this week. She taught me a lot about friendship.

We met at a professional conference as the two slowest graduate students. Celia dealt with arthritis through her back and hips, while I had a broken leg from being hit by a car.

The first thing Celia taught me is that friendship is unconditional. She accepted me as I was — at times giddy, at times depressed. She gave me moral support during that rose petal wine disaster when the siphon got clogged and I got drunk trying to clear it. She took me to dinner when my husband at the time dropped a bombshell that led to our divorce.

The unconditional acceptance went both ways. I accepted her movement limitations and assisted her where I could. I helped scrub her back in the shower when she recovered from carpal tunnel surgery in both wrists.

I accepted that she was an introverted bookworm and she accepted that I was a voluble one that took naps when I felt talked out.

I envied her her drive to excel scholastically — she was a research leader, while I was a follower who had been encouraged to work at Master’s 1 rather than Research 1 schools. We complemented each other in research, because I have always been very good with words and she had excelled at research design. I didn’t let my jealousy get in the way of our friendship — that was my problem, not hers.

The day she died of a heart attack, Celia had sent a message on Facebook for my wedding anniversary, and as far as I can tell, she sent it just before she called the ambulance. She didn’t make it, and her daughter called me later while I was out with my husband and a couple other friends. I didn’t cry, mostly because I felt numb and helpless.

It’s been a while, but I still miss her.

Day 20 Reflection: Play

I have never stopped playing.

At age 55, my hands shape themselves into imaginary critters that talk in squeaky voices or growl and nip noses. I sicc them at my husband in the middle of restaurants when nobody’s looking, and he talks back. I don’t do this when the waiter’s visiting, because adults aren’t supposed to play.

I play with words. I make bad puns, which I’m told is more acceptable play for adults. I rename my cats silly things several times a day (Weeblebuttz sits next to me as I type this). I rewrite songs on the fly as jokes, or commentary, or nonsense.

My mind spontaneously explodes into play. I don’t have to make an effort to be playful. I don’t know if this is because I’ve never quite grown up or because I have bipolar disorder and possess the creativity that goes with the neurodiversity, but play is never far from my mind.

And I consider this a blessing.

Conversation with Leah and Baird

I sit at a front table at the coffeehouse. I look out the plate glass window — outside, the incessant rain punctuates my gloomy mood. I watch two people rush inside, looking wet and miserable. The tall man shakes droplets out of his black curls and the woman, long blonde hair tangled from the storm, playfully swats the man in the shoulder. He laughs at her. “You’ll need to get a lot stronger for that to even begin to hurt, Leah.”

They look young, she just out of high school and he in his early 20’s. They lean close to each other as they speak, not quite touching. I can feel the tension of their not quite touching, and understand their plight more than they themselves: they are young and in love, and they do not want to be.

Then the woman glances around and spies me. She taps the man’s shoulder and draws his attention toward me. They make a beeline toward my table. “May we sit down?” the woman asks. “We need to talk to you.”

It’s then I realize who they are. “Leah Inhofer,” I noted as the two sat down. “And Baird Wilkens, right?”

“Of course you know us,” Leah acknowledges as she sat down. “You’re the writer.”

Baird brushes a lock of wet curly hair out of his eyes. “You wanted to talk to us.”

“Yes, I did,” I admit. “It’s time to write about the two of you, and I need to get a better feel for you.” I pause. “You first, Baird. You’re a Nephilim and you were born not that long ago. Who are you?”

“True on both counts,” Baird notes. “It’s been about a year, but luckily, being a Nephilim, I became very quickly. I fell into the agricultural concern at the Dance, sensing that farming was where I could serve best. I found myself gravitating to the Maker mythos of the Archetypes rather than Leah’s Christianity — “

“Not my Christianity,” Leah corrects. “I don’t know what I believe, I don’t judge like my parents’ God does.” Leah shifts in her seat. “My parents don’t approve of me hanging out with Baird, because he’s a Nephilim. They can’t handle that he’s not fully human, because it calls into question all they believe as Christians. His father’s an Archetype — too much like an angel and not enough like one for Dad’s liking.”

Baird shrugs. “I don’t like that at all. I have to work with him, and he’s cordial enough to me, but he doesn’t like Leah spending time with me.”

I suspect there is more to Mr. Inhofer’s discomfort than Baird’s parentage, but I keep quiet.

“Leah,” I ask. “What are you doing now that you’re out of high school?”

“I’m waiting. My goal is to get to college and then vet med school, or at least vet tech training. We need a vet at Barn Swallows’ Dance. I’m trying to get in at the University.”

Baird looks at Leah pensively. “Baird?” I ask. “Are you going to stay at the Dance?”

He shakes his head as if clearing it. “Oh, sorry,” he murmured. “My mind wandered.”

“Earth calling Baird,” Leah teased. “Come in, Baird.” Baird’s pale cheeks took on a rosy tone as he looked down his nose at Leah.

Baird smiles, and I see something in his smile that Leah doesn’t, a longing. It’s not my business to tell, I realize. Only to write.

Day 19 Reflection: Hospitality

My friend Celia has been dead for ten years, but I still miss her. The thing I miss the most about her is how I felt when I visited her — I felt perfectly accepted despite my quirks (my need for an afternoon nap, my chattiness, my occasional giddiness).

To me, accepting the other is the key to hospitality.

Too many places I’ve been have professed hospitality and shown otherwise, many of them Christian in focus. I stayed at a bed and breakfast that posted the “As for me and my house, we will worship the Lord” quote in a guest room. This seemed almost hostile to me, even though I’m a Christian — as if the host had said “Leave this part of you that’s not Christian behind if you’re going to stay here.” I attended a church once that prided itself on its inclusiveness yet employed an uncomfortable silence when I mentioned I had just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, just when I needed reassurance. I did not feel accepted there.

To me, the whole message of the New Testament. the key book of Christianity, is that the other is our brother or sister. Many other religions hold the same message. How can we be hospitable when we shut the door to travelers and seekers who are not like us?

To give hospitality is to say, “Please sit with me. I will assume the best of you. Spend this moment with me. Come as you are.”

Day 18 Reflection: Focus

I’m beating my head against the keyboard facing this topic, wondering how I can write about this without stating the obvious: We need focus to fulfill our goals.

We have valorized focus, declaring it a quality that leads to greatness. However, too many things disrupt focus: background noise, mental distractions and worries, a cheesecake staring one in the face, too much challenge in the task, even the amount of sleep one has gotten the night before.

It is not always possible to be focused. It’s often the case that people are too scattered, or too worried, or too overwhelmed to focus. It’s time to ask for help, take a break, get a good night’s sleep, put away the cheesecake, and try again.

Drunk on Possibilities

It’s Spring, and I’m drunk with the possibility of plants surviving the winter and popping up in my garden. I swoon at the possibility of seeds I plant growing up into lush leaves and succulent roots and fruits. I dream of my garden as I nurture it with manure and pull the weeds to prepare for the season.

It’s Spring, and I’m drunk with the possibility of getting my novel published. I send it to publishers and agents I haven’t sent it to before, envisioning the book’s acknowledgement page, and hoping beyond my experience of rejections. The thought of being published makes me tipsy.

It’s Spring, and I’m drunk with the possibility of finding my muse again, the inebriation of ludus, the joy of enjoying the energy of growth. My drunkenness makes me giggle, which makes people look at me sometimes.

In the words of Baudelaire, one should always be drunk.

Day 17 Reflection: Possibility

I am positively drunk with possibility. To be drunk on possibility is to see an opportunity and combine it with hope, and recognize the potential of good things.

A blank computer screen, a seed, a fresh journal, a job application — all of these whisper possibilities in us, possibilities of creation, growth, sustenance. All we have to do is act. And wait.

A possibility is not a probability. Not even hard work brings us a guarantee. We have to act to bring the possibility to fruition, and then we have to wait. And sometimes we’re disappointed, but then we hear the whisper of possibility again, and our essential optimism risks disappointment again for the sake of pursuing opportunity.

Chronic disappointment leads to a dulling of that sense of possibility. People get drunk on substances out of a sense of hopelessness. Those who have not been provided opportunity lose trust in possibility, wanting to believe only in sure things. The unscrupulous prey on these disenchanted people. Con artists guarantee riches to unsuspecting victims, taking advantage of their dreams, their drunkenness on possibilities. The sign of a con, in fact, is this promise to make the possibility a lucrative reality. Real life seldom promises fulfillment of our possibilities.

It’s too easy to chide people for being unrealistic, but believing in possibilities requires from all of us a certain recklessness, a certain desire to believe that a computer screen and keyboard will yield a novel and that a resume will get an interview. We all need to believe in possibilities, and we need to make more possibilities possible for those who face an impoverishment of opportunities.

Because being drunk on possibilities is the best inebriation.

Day 16 Reflection: Wonder

The way the light spills into the hallway, I realize that I have never truly seen light before. White light, moonlight from the window, turns the stairwell into shadows. I look out the window, and high in the sky floats a huge moon, ancient and luminescent. It is my moment, mine and the moon’s.

Day 15 Reflection: Curiosity

I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with my curiosity.

This probably has to do with the fact that, at the age of seven, I got caught going through the drawers of a buffet at my friend’s house. I wanted to know if all buffets were catchalls for stuff like the one at my house, and what kind of clutter my friends’s parents collected. I seriously didn’t know I did anything wrong. (That was a lot of my childhood, getting yelled at for things I had never been told were wrong.)

As a adult, I’m still very curious. Most of the time I save my curiosity for the most appropriate things, like research: “How much debt do college students have? How do they feel about it?” Or writing: “What would Luke Dunstan do in this situation?”

But then there’s the rubbernecking at accidents. The burning desire to ask personal questions. The gleaning of details on the Internet about teens dying of suicide and celebrity nervous breakdowns and the manifesto of the New Zealand shooter. I am not proud of myself for these, because with each click on such articles, I vote for privacy to be invaded and websites to post hate.

I suspect that curiosity is hardwired in the brain as a mechanism to protect one from harm — if I know what caused the accident, I will avoid the same fate. If I know the motivation of the mass murderer, I will spot the next one before he attacks. The truth of the matter, though, is that fate is capricious enough that no amount of information can guarantee safety. So I keep the personal questions at a minimum and only to the people closest to me, and I drive on when I see the accident.

Curiosity, they say, killed the cat — but satisfaction brought it back. Sometimes we never get satisfaction, and that’s okay as long as we don’t try to get it at any cost.

Querying progress: Not a lot to report

I haven’t reported my writing/query progress for a while, so here it is:

My Prodigies query got rejected by Tor/Forge and a lot of agents over the past few months.

My query is now out to three publishers — one big, the others small and independent.

One of the small presses asked for my whole manuscript, which is progress. We shall see.

The other two presses — it’s early days yet.

Please keep me in your thoughts and even prayers if you think this unabashedly liberal and universalist Quaker deserves them.