Staying Close to the Shepherd

When I was a wee girl at the tender age of 5, I began my formal education in a small town in the midwest with a population of under four hundred people.

My mother would walk me to school up the hill about three blocks away from our house each morning. I remember bits and pieces about kindergarten, such as the cards with words and shapes on them to learn the colors, and every now and then I can still catch a whiff of what I think my teachers perfume smelled like. I learned to read almost immediately but I was shy and cautious in group settings. Recess was particularly traumatizing and I recall that I spent most of every recess next to my teacher, standing as close to her as I possibly could.What a patient woman she must have been. I only remember once venturing into the mass of children to play 'Red Rover'. I was a little embarrassed about that later, but at the time it was a survival technique.

Years later, I find myself reviewing the 23rd Psalm and during a particularly tough season, I have been learning to practice staying close to the Good Shepherd. There I feel safe, and there I feel protected. He too is patient, and doesn't mind that I need to be near Him. Indeed, He encourages it. And now, as a mature woman, I'm not the least bit embarrassed.

I guess it is true that what we need to know in life, we learn in kindergarten.  

Helping to Lift the Lamp

I distinctly remember the name of my first choral teacher. Mr. Armentrout.

The first song I remember learning in the choir was, "Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor".

We assembled in the muggy, musty gym, a motley crew of teens just getting back to school again in the still hot days of early September. Our small private school had just moved into a brand new-to-us building and my best friend and I had volunteered time over the summer to paint the girls bathroom a faint shade of aqua. If I concentrate, I can still smell that paint job, that building, and I can still remember the excitement, both the agony and the ecstasy of being fourteen.

The words to the song, enhanced by a lovely melody and masterful chord structure, entreat the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free...promising that America, the global mother, will lift her lamp beside the golden door to light the way in. The ideology of that song was beautifully inspiring to me then, and brings a sting to my eyes still, as I type this. And back then, on the eve of my fourteenth year and my first experience in a choral group, it drew me in as well to the magical power of music. In a way, music itself welcomes the tired, the poor, and all of us who need to catch a breath of fresh air in our busy lives.

Today I had the privilege of witnessing seventy-plus middle schoolers in their new choir class as I accompanied what was for some their first choral experience. I listened with an inward chuckle as the teacher, whose name shall remain anonymous for reasons other than that it happens to be just about as amusing as "Armentrout", urged the students to open their mouths and exaggerate their pronunciation.
I remembered hearing that very same thing several decades ago, and thinking I was doing just that, got a jolt when we watched ourselves on video later. I had barely opened my mouth!

So, I must admit to being just a little jealous of these unsuspecting children who do not yet realize what a great privilege it is to be able to sing to the world, to woo an audience, and to learn the language of music. But, the lamp is being lifted, the door is opening for them all.

Although they sometimes look and act as if the experience is not reaching them by maintaining that deer-in-the-headlights look, I know better. Their lives are about to change forever.

Feet up

I Don't Read What Other People Read

For example, I just picked up a book from 1976 by Ann Douglas entitled The Feminization of American Culture. Her scholarship is stellar and I'm getting a view of my own cultural history from an entirely new viewpoint. 

As I scroll through my email and see goodreads and B&N I haven't come across it. 

Well. It's not the first time I haven't followed the crowd. 

Homemade Tomato Sauce

It's almost as if I'd written a thousand words! 

The Writing Process

Processed foods are bad.
Processed novels are good.
.

Let me explain. I've been writing a novel for about 7 years now. I "finished" it a few years back, then let it sit for about a year. Then, I edited, re-edited, and got two-thirds through a different manuscript, and blogged a lot. I also edited several other books and reviewed dozens of books In other words, I did a lot of reading and writing.

Then, I came back to the original novel and after getting input from my writer's group, began a rewrite in first person, which was my original instinct about it. So far I am gathering a renewed interest and vigor in finishing and publishing it. The end result will be far different than my original product, which is, I hope, a very good thing. Without that process I would still be an absolute novice. Instead I am just a seasoned beginner.

If you'd like to read an excerpt, just comment below and I'll send a chapter. I'd love to know what you think.

A Saturday morning is a lovely thing.