Day 1 Camp Nano April 2019: The beginning of Gods’ Seeds:

I’m trying to motivate for April Camp Nanowrimo and a new book. Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter:
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A group of beings — human-like, but with a venerable air for all their apparent youth — sat in a room whose black crystal-crusted walls shone with reflected light from the molten white floor, from the white and silver table, and seemingly from the participants themselves. The paucity of light did not lessen the sterility of the surroundings.

“The Apocalypse proved that we, the Archetypes, no longer take our protection of the human patterns seriously,” Luke Dunstan said earnestly, his hands tented in thought. His visage, weathered in contrast to the unlined faces of the other immortals around him, announced that he had become worldly and, unlike most Archetypes, had committed evil — in his case, for the sake of good. Unlike most Archetypes, he had also repented, which gave him a perspective that could be called almost human.

“But they still embrace evil,” the Baraka Archetype, short and spare like his people, countered. “They fight wars. They envy each other and they commit crimes out of greed.”

“Or out of want, or madness, or jealousy or a dozen other things,” Luke stated, the grimace on his face reflecting a view of reality he knew had wavered from the neutrality of an Archetype. Su, his consort and the Oldest of the Oldest, watched impassively, her tightly curled hair ruddy in the sparse light. She knew how to play the game, Luke noted sourly, something he had lost in his long association with humankind.

“If we give them the full impact of their cultural histories — not just the facts, but the emotions — the fear, the hatred, the xenophobia — “ The Bering Strait Archetype trailed off.

“How do you know it will make them worse? They already have the stories of their peoples’ pasts, and those seem to inspire xenophobia, it’s true. But what if they remember the full impact of the losses of war and weigh it against their hatred — would they decide to fight more? Or would they lay their weapons down?” Luke paused to take a breath, to calm himself down, to wear the gravitas of the Archetype instead of the passion of humans. “The point is that, if they kill each other, millions of them will not die with each death. If we keep holding the patterns of the humans — “

“One of our deaths will kill millions of humans,” Su interjected. “Which is why the Maker created us nearly immortal. Yet Lilith, who held the patterns of all women, was nearly killed by our kind. Can we guarantee this won’t happen again?”

All of a sudden the residents of the room stopped speaking. Luke felt as if a wind had cut through his immortal bones and chilled them for just a moment. Then he felt the weight, a weight of the history of countless descendents of the people of the seax, the knife that gave its name to the Saxons. And then his burdens vanished, and he felt a hollowness inside. The gasps from the others at the table echoed his.

“What — what was that?” The Ibero-Maurasian snapped, breaking the silence..

“I think — Su, did you notice anything?” Luke asked, knowing that Su had not carried humans’ patterns, their cultural DNA, for millennia as all her people, the Denisovans, had long since become extinct.

“Nothing,” Su answered, “except that all of you around me froze for a moment, and slumped forward. As if something had been taken away from you.”

“As it has,” the Bering Strait Archetype murmured. “I think — I think we have lost our patterns, and if we have, the Maker has taken them from us.” He sounded bewildered, as if something more than the weight of patterns had been taken from him.

“I must see — “ the Ibero-Maurasian said, then paused, and Luke knew that she mindspoke another Archetype. “No,” she finally said, speaking slowly as if weighing each word. “I think we are the only ones whose patterns have been taken.”

“But what does this mean?” the Baraka demanded.

The Arnhem Archetype, theretofore silent, spoke. “I think this means that the Maker has decided for us — He will take our patterns from us whether we are ready to relinquish them or not. And we’re the harbingers of this big change.”

Day 27 Reflection: Gratitude

Everyone knows that gratitude makes people happier.

Maybe not everyone, but popular psychology instructs us to write gratitude journals, naming a magic three things per day that we feel grateful for. One can find gratitude journals in hard-bound form, in smartphone apps, and in Facebook memes. That’s because gratitude journaling works, according to research in positive psychology (Emmons and McCullough, 2003).

Some days it’s hard to write anything in the gratitude journal. Days when little things go wrong one after another, we hug those hurts to ourselves as if to use them as currency to bargain with our Maker for better luck. When we fall into negative self-talk, learned patterns of pessimism, we can’t find a thing to be grateful for. Gratitude doesn’t come to mind when we suffer from depression or post-traumatic stress disorder.

I have those days of suffering, given that I live with Bipolar 2, which I’ve been open about in these pages. I also wrestle with negative self-talk. I’ve wrangled these two into submission for the most part, but still depression and darkness pop out at times.

I challenge the darkness with gratitude:

I am grateful for my bipolar disorder, because it has made me take care of myself. I am grateful because it has given me insight into suffering.

I am grateful for getting my manuscripts rejected because it has forced me to work harder and improve my writing.

I am grateful for my struggles because they remind me that nothing is simple in life.

Day 26 Reflection: Mercy

I have hurt other people with my actions. Other people have hurt me with their actions. Sometimes our actions are deliberately chosen to cause harm; more often, we act out of ignorance or out of our brokenness.

When we are the one who hurt someone, we want mercy. We want them to look at us and say, “I will not punish you. I will not fire you, or cut you off from this friendship, or levee this fine on you. I will not carry on this family feud.” Because that is what mercy is: the act of withholding punishment.

When we are the hurt ones, we struggle to deliver mercy. Because we’re hurt, damn it. Because we have been betrayed. The desire to inflict hurt, we believe, lessens our pain. We want retribution, in other words.

Punishing someone doesn’t lessen our pain. Intuitively, it seems like it should. But punishment is not the same thing as seeking restitution or remediation. Restitution is restoring what was lost, whether money or trust. Remediation is fixing the problem. These things, not retribution, set the balance right.

An example of giving mercy through process is restorative justice, which seeks to connect offender and victim and allow the victim and community to truly speak their sorrow, their pain and anger.
Restorative justice is a hard concept to fathom, because it requires reconciliation rather than adjudication. It requires facing the offender and explaining the hurt, and it requires the offender listen. We don’t quite trust the process. It doesn’t always work. But the willingness to try it is what we call mercy.

Day 25 Reflection: Blessings

Note: I am not usually overly Christian in my writing, being rather universalist in my leanings. But as the topic is blessings, I thought I would write in the dominant American religious view, Christianity, and its struggle with the concept of blessings.
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I dreamed last night that I was watching a religious TV movie and then I was in it. In the dream, I had checked in to this hotel of sorts, feeling rather down, and I noticed the others in there with me suffered from similar struggles. Being in this place, this boarding house of sorts, elevated us and helped us feel more cherished in the world.

Then I stepped out of the movie for a moment and said to my husband, who watched the movie with me (at a bed-and-breakfast, incidentally) “Watch what happens” in the most cynical tone of voice.

When I returned to the movie, one of the people running the establishment had added a month’s supply of some sort of supplement to my bill. And then the other residents started objecting to the new residents who had come in — from what a sputtering man said, his children should not be exposed to what he called “girly-boys”.

In a state of being blessed, we too often ask God to bless people like ourselves, not who we see as our enemies. We’d prefer it if God smote our enemies, like He did in the Old Testament. After all, they’re evil. They’re our enemies. We are the chosen ones, after all. We are Christian.

Actually, that’s not Christian. We are supposed to have evolved from that when Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount and when He gave his one Commandmant: Love your God above all and your brother as yourself — and note that he specifically gave an example of the Other — the despised Samaritans — as our brother.

If you are blessed, bless others. Bless those not like you. Bless your enemies. Blessings are not an economic good — that is, there is no finite amount of blessings such that blessings to your enemies or strangers detract from yours. It may be that your blessings to others soften their hearts or soften yours.

At the very least, blessing your enemies takes away the constant tension of hating your enemies and wishing them bad. You will find that a blessing.

Day 24 Reflection: Understanding

We nod our heads and say “I understand.”

Do we really understand those around us — friends in crisis, strangers in need, people surrounded by injustice?

Too many times, we use the words “I understand” to mean something quite opposite — something along the lines of “Please stop talking, I can’t really handle this.” It’s easy to tell when we are saying “I understand” to stop the flow of a difficult story, because the words come out of a sense of rising panic.

We can’t understand until we open up and sit with someone’s words and feelings. We need to listen without prejudging to get the message. We need to make meaning of their words to understand. If we can’t do this, we need to find someone else to listen.

We might be tempted to offer solutions — we can’t truly understand if we’re doing this, because we’re searching for the problems to solve. We’re not using the silence between words to understand, but to select what we think is the big problem to solve.

To truly understand is to accept what the other says — not accepting it as universal truth, but accept it as that person’s truth. This can be sobering, frightening, or terrifying at times. But understanding is the first step to bridging the gap between people, to healing hurts, to changing the world.

Day 23 Reflection: Dust

I associate dust with death. It must be my Roman Catholic upbringing and the rites of Ash Wednesday: Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return. I prefer my father’s tongue-in-cheek version: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; if the Good Lord don’t get you, the Devil must.

The Biblical metaphor does capture a truth: Life does come from dust. Dust contains numerous forms of tiny life: mites, bacteria, mold spores, plus specks of amino acids. The primordial ooze that begat the first life on earth was dust mixed with water for life.

When I die, I want to be cremated and scattered in a peaceful garden. I want to become nutrients for the grass and flowers. I want to scatter in the wind, become one with the soil.

I cannot think of a better thing to be than dust.

Day 22 Reflection: Safety

In my undergraduate economics class, my professor explained the relationship between speed and safety for consumers. Consumers, he said, didn’t want a completely safe driving, but a moderately safe driving experience. Which was why, as car manufacturers introduced safety innovations like seatbelts and antilock braking systems, people drove faster. My professor drew a graph to illustrate this, a supply/demand graph with the axes labeled safety and speed, and there was the answer in mathematic black-and-white.

People don’t want to be too safe. They relish the feeling of speed, and will drive faster if their cars are safer. Think about that.

Conversely, when safety decreases, we take fewer risks. Perhaps this is easier to imagine. People who grow up with abuse live in a miasma of implicit danger and don’t take the risk of reaching out for relationships. Authoritarian states silence the huge majority of dissenters because the stakes are too high to dissent.

We need to take risks to love, to create, to move forward. To become more human. Ironically, to do so, we need more safety. Those of us who feel safe must take the risk to address the unsafe conditions for others — the LGBT community, people of color, people of different religions. We need to stand up for others’ safety not just so they feel safe, but so they can move forward.mj

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.