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A Chronicle of my Story Turns

Posted on May 15, 2012 by Danielle Harris

In doing this exercise, I reminded myself that story turns are not just positive and negative experiences, but doors through which I could not return. I’ve had other positive and negative experiences, but they proved to be enjoyments or obstacles that did not necessarily change my course.

1) Positive turn: 9 — I began with Bible stories. In middle school, I discovered Shakespeare, Lord Byron, and Tanglewood Tales. C.S. Lewis describes this powerful love for stories and words as “northerness.” I read fairy tales, poems, novels and short stories and the northerness ushered me to the stars. I wanted to write since I was little.

2) Negative turn: 8 — I got involved with a rowdy boyfriend. We had some good times, but the relationship was sooooo consuming. I dissuade my daughters from making the same mistak. Don’t waste your time on boys during high school. Relationships are difficult things. Why spend your time on a difficult project when you’re not ready for a lasting relationship? Wait until a relationship makes sense. Wait until it can actually go somewhere worthwhile. In high school, it’s a farce, blunted from the beginning.

3) Negative turn: 10 — While living in Costa Rica, I had another negative relationship with a man in Costa Rica. The harrowing experience brought me to a crisis of faith.

4) Positive turn: 2 to infinity — I committed to a relationship with God that was no longer consumed with doubt and questioning. I emerged from the (Costa Rican) relationship sort of sick and weak and tottering. I felt … shaky. So the beginning of my positive turn was not accompanied so much with joy as much as relief. The rating of a “2″ has to do with my feelings. To use an analogy, I felt pursued by something terrifying only to discover that I was being chased for my own good. The Hound of Heaven had terrified me away from danger. Not exactly a “10″ experience. I look back and shiver at how close I tottered near the cliff in the fog. The “infinity” rating has to do with the practical implications of my choice. My decision to commit to God laid the foundation for everything else in my life. It doesn’t have to do with joy or pain or feeling. It just IS. It is definitely the hinge of my life, but feelings have little to do with it. It’s like rating air as a positive or negative experience. It’s definitely a positive but … duh.

3) Positive — 10: Met Paul. I’d never been in love before. With my other relationships, I lit fires and watched others burn. Relationships were interesting to me, but I was thoroughly detached, shrewdly (or so I imagined) trading things.  With Paul, I felt deeply. He could hurt me. He could heal me. I held nothing back. For the first time, I risked the deeper parts of my being by involving myself wholeheartedly. Being in love is soooo frightening and enlightening. When love is returned, heaven nears.

4) Negative — 8: I left writing to get my master’s in teaching.  Answering the beckoning of “practical,” I sold out for a “real career.” It put us in debt for the rest of our lives. All I learned went out of vogue long ago — a very expensive, impractical insurance policy for something to “fall back on” while raising children.

5) Positive — 10: The babies came.

6) Negative — 4: We wandered from job to job. Portland. Eastern Oregon. Texas. Central Oregon. Washington. Central Oregon. Before Elsa turned 6, she had moved 12 times.

7) Positive — 8: We decided to homeschool. The children reaped incredible benefits. The one-income family stretched us terribly. Difficult, yes. Worth it, hell yes.

8) Positive — 1: We built a log home, a long-standing dream. Paul did a beautiful job.We lived four good years in it.

9) Negative — 8: When we finished the house, we earned a sweat equity profit that equaled the cost. By the end of the year, the house wasn’t worth its cost in materials. I decided to work full time to save the house. We borrowed money to save the house. Lost it anyway. Hindsight’s 20/20. Considering the outcome, wasn’t worth it. It set us back further.

10) Negative — 8: Both Paul and I were riffed due to budget cuts. I embarked with a team of people to start a school. It failed. We wandered in unemployment for two, long years, working small project jobs to get us by.

11) Positive — 9: In the face of all this, I (with Paul’s encouragement and support) decided to turn down two job offers, start a blog, and go to Italy instead. Though this act of defiance didn’t help our financial position, it caused me to a) declare my desire to be a writer b) to write and c) to go on an adventure. I was tired of allowing external circumstances keep me from doing what I deeply wanted. The time to live is now.

11) Negative — 6: We lost our home. This is probably directly related to my not taking those full-time jobs. Even admitting that, I’m still glad we did what we did. I would have always wondered. I would have always despised my fear to take a risk. I’m proud of us for taking a chance. If we don’t take them, how will we ever know?

12) Positive — 7: In spite of busyness and rejections, I keep writing and submitting and querying. I am happy. I believe I’ll break through someday. I believe I’ll win. We’ll see.

 

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Negative Turns and Redemptive Explanations

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Danielle Harris

Donald derived much of his Storyline material from the ideas of Victor Frankl, an Austrian neurologist and psychiatrist as well as a Holocaust survivor. Frankl was the founder of logotherapy, introduced in his most famous book, Man’s Search for Meaning, where he outlines how his theories helped him to survive his Holocaustexperience and develop his ideas about meaning.

Man's Search For Meaning by Viktor E Frankl

Frankl posits one aspect of experiencing meaning is to have redemptive explanations for our suffering. These ideas began before the Holocaust, but Frankl further developed his theory while in a concentration camp. Having lost his parents and his wife, he certainly had to test his own theories. He speaks, not from the comfort of his office, but from the very limits of human suffering.

Negative turns happen in every story and in every life.

Finding a redemptive explanation does NOT change a negative turn into a positive. It does not mean putting a positive face on everything, ignoring your grief, stuffing your feelings, or in any way being fake. A negative turn will always be a negative turn. We must grieve each negative turn.

While the suffering is painful, it should not paralyze us or keep us suspended in pain. We must search for a meaning to it. Finding a redemptive perspective is a hallmark of a great soul.

Some of my negative turns and their corresponding redemptive perspectives:

– Getting heavily involved in high school with a wild boyfriend. The affair was time-consuming, all-consuming. It totally distracted from who I was and who I wanted to be. I learned I can’t change people, even if I love them. Some people won’t accept love, wisdom, or help. People have a free-will and they are free to use it. I am free as well. Eventually, a relationship with an unhealthy person just becomes enabling.

– My crisis of faith was an extremely emotional tumultuous time. The experience turned me inside out. I realized the spiritual ramifications of my actions. When I viewed them from this new perspective, I experienced shock, sorrow, fear — even terror, and total subjection. Still, I wonder if I should see this as a negative turn because the redemptive meaning far outweighed the negative experience. It was a death and resurrection, a baptism. I became a new person after that. I accepted a new view on everything. I had new eyes. A new body. A new mind. The transformation, though painful, was so worth it. To me, all redemption stories (including my own) are foreshadowing or echoes of the Christ story — death and resurrection. I’m unsure of how to place this turning point. It was negative and positive … a paradox.

– Getting my M.A.T.  I see this as a definite negative turn. Frustrated and impatient because writing didn’t pay well, I quit my job and went to school. The editors used me as cheap labor as an intern and they wouldn’t take me seriously when openings came up (could it be because I rode my bike, worked odd hours, and dressed like a college student?) I dropped my dream so quickly, so easily. I listened to those voices that said “Do something practical”, sacrificing a great hope.  It would take me years to come back to writing. It would take Paul and I years to pay back the debt (still paying). Turned out to be one of the longest and most painful lessons ever. Being a certified teacher and a home educator has given me a unique perspective on education. People cannot dismiss my point of view as unqualified. Also, I am able to encourage other parents who wish to home educate. I can say with confidence that I had to un-educate myself from the system in order to educate my children. Parents who have not attended a teacher program actually start ahead of someone immersed in the public school system.

– Moving to Texas. Paul and I took jobs as home-care counselors for state-placed kids. Elsa was two. Greta was 6 months. I didn’t realize how time-consuming the job was. I worked so hard. Greta developed health problems and stopped gaining weight. We put her through terrible tests because the doctors thought something was seriously wrong (she had a high metabolism coupled with an extremely easy-going personality. The girl just wouldn’t eat!) The emotional draw upon our family was heavy. A redemptive part of this process was that we were able to support my sister during a separation from her (now) ex-husband. Sometimes our negative turns can be a positive for someone else. It’s important to remember that life isn’t always about us. We’re all part of a greater story. We are a gestalt. 

– We left Central Oregon for a job in my home-town. I was pregnant with Ingrid. Home just wasn’t what I had expected. Isolated and alone, I saw my parents less than when I lived in Central Oregon. I liked being near my sister, but she was busy building a house and lived far enough away to make it inconvenient. The entire school year depressed me. Paul hated his job. We were miserable. This caused Paul to seek a job back in Central Oregon. It led us to eight wonderful years living in a cabin in the Ochoco Mountains. They were golden, delightful years. I formed my homeschooling philosophy. Every night we watched the stars from a hot tub. We snowshoed in the moonlight. We went on forest walks and the girls played in the creek. It was a restful, peaceful, healing time after all the moves and turmoil.

– After building our log home, I decided to work full-time to pay for it. Hindsight is 20/20. I can’t speak for Paul, but the building of our home distracted me from what I really wanted to do. At the time, on the surface of my being, I wanted a home designed for function and beauty. But I was ignoring a deeper part of myself and chasing a wish that was not true to who I am. For Paul, he may have truly wanted to build something. I think the building of a home is closer to his heart. But had I not interfered and, instead, followed my course, he would have built something completely different … more affordable, more reasonable, more his dream. His dream would not have my interference and would probably not be so blighted. We really wanted to build something unique and we did it (I say “we” as the flea said to the elephant). We designed the house. Paul general contracted the house and did most of the actual building of it. Even though we eventually lost the house, we have a confidence that we can do BIG things.

– I went to work full-time to pay for a house that was an escape from my path. I heard rumors of teacher cuts. I decided to work with a good friend and we created teaching jobs for us based on the best educational methods. We founded a school. Perhaps it was self-sabotage. Perhaps, subconsciously, I knew I should write and not teach. Perhaps I was afraid of myself. I don’t know. But (against my poor friend’s better judgment), I tossed the administration job to someone who operated from a controlling, fear-based perspective and the vision was lost. The school collapsed. Again, I learned about what I/we can do. Things are not impossible. I learned to trust my gut about people and to listen to other people’s gut feelings. Hunches should be attended to. If you spend a lot of time in your head justifying people’s actions and words, then it’s probably not a great relationship for either side. It should be severed. Also, you can’t hand off a vision. Visions can only be carried by you. Hand-offs are dangerous, messy affairs.

– We struggled through two years of unemployment. We fed our family by subbing, writing, illustrating, tutoring, temp jobs, art classes, commercial fishing, construction, and odd jobs. Paul and I spent months apart with him trying to work in distant places. During this time, I spent a great deal alone, which allowed me to reduce my many interests into a few. I was once told, “Most people can only do one thing really well.” I decided to focus intently on writing and allow minimal interruptions to it. I’m going on two years of steady effort.

–  We lost the house in the end. To make matters worse, we borrowed money to save it. Finally, when it went into foreclosure, we were in far more debt than when we began. Never, never, never borrow! Never! I guess I learned my lesson. We’re free from the house, at least. Somehow, not being tethered to it makes me feel hopeful — like maybe we have bigger plans. I’m unsure if it’s true, but the hope is the thing.

– Paul got a tempting job offer which was nothing. One of the most difficult days of my life. I can’t remember crying that hard. It was worse than losing the house. These negative turns culminated. Had it happened in isolation, I would have been fine. It had the humiliating effect of reaching for an offered delicacy while starving only to have it withdrawn quickly as you reach. It came after years of struggle and loss and disappointment. That horrible day I wallowed in self-pity and pointless anger. A definite low-point. We had wandered in the desert, thirsty, and saw water ahead. When we arrived, there was only the sand blowing in our faces. Those months, we despaired. Somehow, hard experiences, if you get through them, gives you a clear perspective. I know what I want. I’ll be fiercer about allowing things to interfere. I feel like a survivor. I feel wary and shrewd — like no one can take my hopes without a fight. I know who I am and I know what I want, more than ever before.

Listing the negative turns in my life reveals some patterns. Some of them, like the economy, were unavoidable. But, leaving Central Oregon, my working outside the home, my doing something else besides homeschooling and writing, my efforts at “productive stalling” (doing good things that aren’t the right things), all seem to send us into a downward spiral. The next post will list my positive and negative turns in chronological order and I’ll rate how positive or how negative they were. Then, I’ll transfer them to a timeline and search for a theme.

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Brainstorming My Backstory

Posted on May 4, 2012 by Danielle Harris

I attended Donald Miller‘s Storyline Conference in Portland on Monday and Tuesday. Paul told me to forget all responsibilities and go.

So, I went.

The title (like many of Donald’s titles) is confusing. It implies that the conference is for writers, but it’s not. The goal of the conference is to use what writers know to write a good life. We started by defining story, which is the account of a series of events. But a story can be hopelessly boring when it doesn’t go anywhere or we don’t like the characters. As the main characters in our life stories, we need to desire something enough to work to get it and take some risks to get there.

My next few blog posts will show my working through these exercises. If you want to join me — great! And post it so we can all map it together. That’s how the big-wigs do it — everything goes up on the whiteboard and they begin to work out the plot points with everyone pitching in to help.

EXERCISE ONE/Your Backstory

This exercise is to list all my “story turns.” A story turn is something that happens to the character which cannot be reversed. Positive or negative, life will never be the same. A person between 30 and 40 experiences between fifteen and twenty story turns. This is not a list of happy or sad events, it’s a record of Rubicons: points of no return.

Some questions that might help me reveal my story turns are these:

1) What three or four people have had the greatest effect on your life? Do you remember them saying or doing anything that changed your life?

* My mother gave me a strong moral compass, a sense of right and wrong. Her sixth sense (which she called The Lord) caused her to catch me whenever I did wrong. Her strong intuition made me afraid to cross her advice. She was smart and convicted. I wanted to forgo college for awhile and travel — either work as a nanny in Europe or on a Mercy Ship. She convinced me to go away to college. No one knows what would have happened if I followed my own wants, but my going to college definitely set me on a course that changed my life.

* Pil was my “tico” boyfriend in Costa Rica while I was on an exchange program. By that time, I had left behind my childhood faith, enamored with some sort of All-knowing Being or Unified Spirit in the world. I enjoyed learning about the Mayan, Aztec, and Incan religions and about anything that wasn’t familiar. With Pil, I had a strange spiritual experience that brought me to a crisis of faith. The experience was so powerful that I accepted my childhood faith and have no reason to doubt it.

* I returned home and got extremely sick. My first day feeling well (about a week later), I met Paul. Though I had sworn off relationships, I fell head-over-heels in love. I still hoped to travel, but I got married and helped Paul finish college. Then, I went back to college. And he continued college. Elsa arrived a month before he received his master’s degree.

* My sister Elida caused me to go to Europe twice more after going with my parents. The first was sort of a bachelorette party before I married. The second happened a year ago September. I turned down two full-time jobs, started a blog, and left for Italy. Somehow, gutsy moves are accompanied by Elida.

* Our best friends, Robin and Jason, have chiseled our dreams with us. These past two years, Robin helped me to stay firm in my decisions to turn down the full-time jobs to write. Both of them have encouraged me to write and helped me to set goals.

* Peter Thomas accepted my first magazine article. He said, “Well, it’s obvious you can write.” Those words meant the world to me. Regardless of his ability to judge, I took those words as a confirmation to follow my dream. Between nursing babies and homeschooling and chauffeuring and being in love, I kept writing.

* When I was pregnant with Elsa, I thought I’d stick her in daycare like everyone else was doing. I had a great job. Paul just got his teaching degree. We had school debts to pay. It was my mom who said, “Danielle, you’re not going to stick her in daycare.” She says things like that — just sort of speaks things into existence. I knew I couldn’t do it. And when I saw Elsa, when she was there, I didn’t want to. Elsa started me on a whole new course in life — homemaking.

2) What is your single greatest accomplishment? I think of a school I started with Heather. Facing teacher cuts, we decided to found a school based on Charlotte Mason method in the middle of a recession and in a town that was hard hit by the recession. It was a brazen thing to do. We actually succeeded. Everything was ready. The rest is a sad story. The plan was hijacked by the administrator we chose. Even though it wasn’t a lasting success, I feel like the fact that we got it to the point we did was a huge accomplishment. Other things that come to mind are my blogs which were written under extreme financial difficulties and pressure. We risked a lot for me to stay home, home educate, and write rather than work. And my family. I am very proud of who we are, how close we are, the things we find important. Growing a family requires sacrifice and love and courage. I think we have that.

3) What was the saddest day of your life?I was really broken up when I thought I had a path to run on (Bend in the snow) and it turned out to be a disappointment. I was really sad and scared when Greta had some unexplained health problems as a baby. I shed some bitter tears with my sister over the things she’s experienced with the breakup of her family.

4) What were the educational milestones of your life? I graduated from college in 1994 with a B.A. in writing and lit. I went back to school to get my teaching degree and received it in 1996. I wish I’d never done that. I wish I had the courage to pursue the writing. It didn’t seem practical back then. I was making nothing at the newspaper. Still, I wish I had stuck it out.

5) What was your first real job? I worked at a bookstore when I was a teen. When I was in college, I worked three jobs one summer to buy a car — babysat, washed dishes and bussed, and worked on an assembly line at HP. My first real job was a paid internship at the Graphic newspaper as a writer. I worked a bunch of temp jobs before landing my first teaching job as an ESL teacher in Hillsboro.

6) What are your greatest relational memories? Meeting Paul. Marrying Paul. Honeymooning with Paul. We camped all over Washington and Montana and slept in the back of a little pickup. I love traveling with him. We have so much fun. We hike and explore and there is no friction. Everything is so easy. We had our girls, each in a new place: Elsa in Portland, Greta in Kennewick, Ingrid in Vancouver, and Dagne in Prineville. My grandparents took all the kids and grandkids to Chile. That was pretty amazing. Speaking of that, it was the traveling that made my favorite memories. My parents took us on a trip around the states. We backpacked in Europe for a month. Paul and I took the kids to South Padre Island, Texas on an epic trip around half the states. Anne went with us.

7) Have you lost somebody you love? No one to whom we’re very close. Paul’s grandmother just passed away. We were lucky to have just visited her and see her in good spirits. My grandfather died a few years ago. I spent time with him as a child but we weren’t very close. I miss him though. We’ve had loved aunts and uncles go, but they were not sudden or unexpected.

8) What was your greatest mistake?I wished I would have traveled with Paul after getting my B.A. and started straight into writing. I wish I would have believed in myself then. I wish I didn’t feel conscience bound to be “practical,” but just forged ahead with my passion for words.

This was just a brainstorming session. I’ll make the actual list another day. I’d love to read other readers’ answers to these questions. Please share.

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The Greatest Sermon I Ever Heard

Posted on April 23, 2012 by Danielle Harris

Steinbeck wrote the words. Since I’ve no time for reading, I listen to audio books in the car. It’s how I grow in the midst of harried life. At first, I thought,

“I’m including way too much here.”

But then, in the spirit of anti-take-a-section-of-words-you-like-and-make-it-support-your-argument, I decided to copy the words of Steinbeck completely, honoring a man who chose his words carefully and wouldn’t want them sliced and diced for the awkward pleasures of lesser minds. He whittled and sanded and polished this prose until it shines brilliant. To jump to the climax is like taking a helicopter to the summit of a mountain — it’s …

cheating.

One must experience the moods and characters of the speakers. A reader should be present. So, I included the entire conversation.

I refrain from adding explanations or interpretations or commentary on the section. Like Scripture, it is pregnant with paradox. I’d be adding a few touch-ups to a Van Gogh. But I pinged several articles that speak on the matter. Notice how commentary reveals more about the writer than what has been written! Truth is so quickly captured and caged! The wildness is tamed.

Readers should wrestle alone with the words — in their cars and closets, in their shells and hearts, in the mornings and evenings.  Steinbeck writes it with so much gush and restraint that I really believe he crosses chasms on spider web threads — in other words, he speaks truth. I’ll only share my emotional experience with you. This whole week my face has shined with the glory of hearing it. I felt the pulsing of the planet’s core and I heard the singing of stars. The fragrance of lilacs floated by and the saints held their breath. God still speaks through men. We haven’t killed off all the prophets.

Do you remember when you read us the sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis and we argued about them?

“I do indeed. And that’s a long time ago.”

“Ten years nearly,” said Lee. “Well, the story bit deeply into me and I went into it word for word. The more I thought about the story, the more profound it became to me. Then I compared the translations we have– and they were fairly close. There was only one place that bothered me. The King James version says this–it is when Jehovah has asked Cain why he is angry. Jehovah says,”If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.’ It was the ‘thou shalt’ that struck me, because it is a promise that Cain would conquer sin.”

Samuel nodded. “And his children didn’t do it entirely,” he said.

Lee sipped his coffee. “Then I got a copy of the American Standard Bible. It was very new then. And it was different in this passage. It says, ‘Do thou rule over him.’ Now this is very different. This is not a promise, it is an order. And I began to stew about it. I wondered what the original word of the original writer had been that these very different translations could be made.”

Samuel put his palms down on the table and leaned forward and the old young light came into his eyes. “Lee,” he said, “don’t tell me you studied Hebrew!”

Lee said, “I’m going to tell you. And it’s a fairly long story. Will you have a touch of ng-ka-py?”

“You mean the drink that tastes of good rotten apples?”

“Yes, I can talk better with it.”

“Maybe I can listen better,” said Samuel.

While Lee went into the kitchen Samuel asked, “Adam, did you know about this?”

“No,” said Adam. “He didn’t tell me. Maybe I wasn’t listening.”

Lee came back with his stone bottle and three little porcelain cups so thin and delicate that the light shone through them. “Dlinkee Chinee fashion,” he said and poured the almost black liquor. “There’s a lot of wormwood in this. It’s quite a drink,” he said. “Has about the same effect as absinthe if you drink enough of it.”

Samuel sipped the drink. “I want to know why you were so interested,” he said.

“Well, it seemed to me that the man who could conceive this great story would know exactly what he wanted to say and there would be no confusion in his statement.”

“You say ‘the man.’ Do you then not think this is a divine book written by the inky finger of God?”

“I think the mind that could think this story was a curiously divine mind. We have had a few such minds in China too.”

“I just wanted to know,” said Samuel. “You’re not a Presbyterian after all.”

“I told you I was getting more Chinese. Well, to go on, I went to San Francisco to the headquarters of our family association. Do you know about them? Our great families have centers where any member can get help or give it. The Lee family is very large. It takes care of its own.”

“I have heard of them,” said Samuel.

“You mean Chinee hatchet man fightee Tong war over slave girl?”

“I guess so.”

“It’s a little different than that, really,” said Lee. “I went there because in our family there are a number of ancient reverend gentlemen who are great scholars. They are thinkers in exactness. A man may spend many years pondering a sentence of the scholar you call Confucius. I thought there might be experts in meaning who could advise me. They are fine old men. They smoke their two pipes of opium in the afternoon and it rests and sharpens them, and they sit through the night and their minds are wonderful. I guess no other people have been able to use opium well.”

Lee dampened his tongue in the black brew. “I respectfully submitted my problem to one of these sages, read him the story and told him what I understood from it. The next night four of them met and called me in. We discussed the story all night long.”

Lee laughed. “I guess it’s funny,” he said. “I know I wouldn’t dare tell it to too many people. Can you imagine four old gentlemen, the youngest is over ninety now, taking on the study of Hebrew? They engaged a learned rabbi. They took to the study as though they were children. Exercise books, grammar, vocabulary, simple sentences. You should see Hebrew written in Chinese ink with a brush! The right to left didn’t bother them as much as it would you, since we write up to down. Oh, they were perfectionists! They went to the root of the matter.”

“And you?” said Samuel.

“I went along with them, marveling at the beauty of their proud, clean brains. I began to love my race, and for the first time I wanted to be Chinese. Every two weeks I went to a meeting with them, and in my room here I covered pages with writing. I bought every known Hebrew dictionary. But the old gentlemen were always ahead of me. It wasn’t long before they were ahead of our rabbi; he brought a colleague in. Mr. Hamilton, you should have sat through some of those nights of argument and discussion. The questions, the inspection, oh, the lovely thinking–the beautiful thinking.”

“After two years we felt that we could approach your sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis. My old gentlemen felt that these words were very important too–’Thou shalt’ and ‘Do thou.’ And this was the gold from our mining: ‘Thou mayest.’ ‘Thou mayest rule over sin.’ The old gentlemen smiled and nodded and felt the years were well spent. It brought them out of their Chinese shells too, and right now they are studying Greek.”

Samuel said, “It’s a fantastic story. And I’ve tried to follow and maybe I’ve missed somewhere. Why is this word so important?”

“Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and one can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel–‘Thou mayest’–that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’–it is also true that ‘That mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”

“Yes, I see. I do see. But you do not believe this is divine law. Why do you feel its importance?”

“Ah!” said Lee. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. I even anticipated your questions and I am well prepared. Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph.

Adam said, “Do you believe that, Lee?”

“Yes, I do. Yes, I do. It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, “I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. And do you know, those old gentlemen who were sliding gently down to death are too interested to die now?”

Adam said, “Do you mean these Chinese men believe the Old Testament?”

Lee said, “These old men believe a true story, and they know a true story when they hear it. They are critics of truth. They know that these sixteen verse are a history of humankind in any age or culture or race. They do not believe a man writes fifteen and three-quarter verses of truth and tells a lie with one verb. Confucius tells men how they should live to have good and successful lives. But this–this is a ladder to climb to the stars.” Lee’s eyes shone. “You can never lose that. It cuts the feet from under weakness and cowardliness and laziness.”

Adam said, “I don’t see how you could cook and raise the boys and take care of me and still do all this.”

“Neither do I,” said Lee. “But I take my two pipes in the afternoon, no more and no less, like the elders. And I feel that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing– maybe more important than a star. This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed–because ‘Thou mayest.’”

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Cultural Disobedience

Posted on April 14, 2012 by Danielle Harris

And now the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermination on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerblows of conditioning, the free, roving mind is being pursued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken. Steinbeck, East of Eden.

Nineteen years ago, Paul and I met at the Virginia Cafe in the heart of downtown Portland, the halfway point between our colleges. Leaning against his Land Cruiser, we lingered, hunger gnawing. Eventually, we had to go inside. We bought tea because that was all we could afford. Then, we spoke our lives into existence, eyes locked, soul-to-soul, sharing the glory within us, all through the night. The waitress smiled, poured more tea, and accepted our meager tips.

Toyota Land Cruiser (BJ40LV)

young love

Glory and more glory. We knew each other. Thoughts blended and swirled. Paul finished my thoughts and I prompted his. We couldn’t tell who said which. Ideas sprang from a common heart that beat one rhythm.

We promised to live differently. To live a life without hurry. Our worship blossomed, unforced. Yet, we’d work too. We’d work our garden. Till, weed, and rest in season. Soil and goodness. God and man working together. We’d grow a garden of wildflowers and rare plants. We’d turn the sand and clay into loam. Between us, under us, existed promises backed by discipline, willingness and goodwill.

Promises are cheap and the real work swept up like a white squall. What does it mean to grow up? What is “real life”? Must we seek the American Dream? Is it our dream? Who are we? Why are we here?

We defined it in the negative. We didn’t want to live like everyone else.

Television set for Wikipedia userbox icons, or...

The never-seeing eye

As we drove through the night, we watched the blue-light of that never-seeing eye flickering inside houses. Voyeurs! Philistines. You’ve sold your birthright for a bowl of stew. Paul said:

Life is like the freezing river touching your ribs. It’s clear and painful and sharp. Some people recoil and never want to feel it again. Some people give into it and it gets in their blood. They seek it forever after.

I remembered the ecstasy of bathing in an early morning river. The sharp intake of breath, needles of pain, washing up, dressing, shivering, tingling skin returning to its warm state. Joy. I said:

We insulate ourselves with food and warmth. We create a bubble without pain, devoid of joy. It hangs heavy in our skin. It protects us from intimacy. From knowing. From being.

Birding. Paul and I sprang from the earth as second Adams naming the creatures we saw. Paul expanded it to flowers and trees and plants. It was spiritual work, an act of worship, an effort at knowing our creator. From these ancient rituals our souls soared. A glory lit up within us.

I’d hear or read words that tumbled over me like a tsunami. While being washed away the beauty of the words quelled the fear. I loved.

Paul saw a painting and traced his finger over the lines. Sometimes, in a masterpiece the blood sweat of martyrdom sings to you. The forearms tingle with electricity. The skin bursts into swords. The earth moves.

From this love comes the reason of life, the gushing of why.

Our girls arrived. Consecrated to God, a pearl of great price, a hero’s daughter, and the fire of day. Crinkled little eyes in sleep. Naughty eyes peeked from under a chair. We kissed dimpled knuckles and warm feet. We cared and caressed and spoke and lifted and loved, oh! how we loved. We were not diminished. We grew in stature. We partnered in creation and saw that it was good.

Though prophets spoke against the coming age we had not read them. But we felt their words and knew their thoughts and listened to the warnings. A war on the individual had long raged in efficient patterns and economic factories and bland products for masses. Patterns of nothings, bric-à-brac, garbage, rubbish, knickknacks, collecting in corners of houses, things of no account. Designed for glory, people insulated lifeless shells and lived a farce. We swam in an ocean of flotsam and jetsam.

Children leaving the school. Montgomery County...

Since it is not natural for us to live this way, we must be educated into it. We must be taught to need what we do not need, to want what brings no joy, to buy what destroys pleasure. We buy discontent. We must not know too much. Like cows, we eat the hay dumped from the end of the truck, chewing placidly until the slaughter truck comes.

We hid from the destruction. Commercials reached other eyes, but not ours. The factory bells rang in other children’s ears, but not ours. Our daughters did not stand in line. Nor did they obey without love. They did not think without ideas. Probing questions were left unasked. Not until the undulations of thousands of years and billions of lives passed over them would they have to answer. We hid them. Placed them in the basket of home. We washed them in words and stories and poignant flowers and the study of a beetle painfully making its way across the sidewalk. We watered them with moonlit walks and snow angels and the whispers of a mountain creek.

This is our supreme act of cultural disobedience.

We did it while poverty howled at the door. Mold, rust, and beetles threatened. Blight. Too much rain. Not enough. Transplanting.

But we’ve still hung on. We have a beautiful garden.

For us, this is the only way to live.

How do you fight the extermination of the individual? How do you keep the glory alive? What is your supreme act of cultural disobedience? Share it. From one battle-weary soldier to another.

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Coffee Talk

Posted on April 5, 2012 by Danielle Harris

“We need to forget this idea that something is going to open up,” I said. “Nothing is going to open up. It’s just you and me and the universe. There is no rescue. No ta-da ending. This is it. This is our life.”

Paul nodded. “I worry that I’ve been missing it all along.” He was talking about his occupation. Teaching hasn’t proved to be a confirmation of self-actualization for Paul. Two days before he goes back to work, he gets grumpy — which means he’s grumpy every weekend. But it’s a Catch-22. Saddled with debt for getting the education to become a teacher, nothing else will pay like a teacher’s salary to get out of debt. We brainstorm all the time about how to get out from both — teaching and debt. That’s why we built the house. We were trying to escape all our past mistakes.

In this unforgiving world, fat chance.

Paul is a good teacher. The kids love him. He loves the kids. They learn. They grow to be friends. Still, the long hours inside a building, the conviction that these long hours are harmful to kids, the belief in children’s  humanity and freedom, the pressure from the state to comply to meet their demands, the pressure from administration to perform to meet standards that have little to do with kids’ happiness or well-being — all these conflicting ideals wage war inside a person and a house divided cannot stand.

“I have less energy than I used to. The idea of doing something new … of starting over … of striking out — it sometimes makes me want to give up,” he said.

We talked like this over coffee — me, leaning against the door jam, and Paul seated at the kitchen island.

“This is it, Paul,” I reiterated. “There are few choices before us. We can continue on like this feeling regretful and doubting our choices. We can change our attitudes about our circumstances and be thankful for what we have. We can embrace what is before us. Or … we can change it. Changing has risks. We could end up better off. We could end up worse. What we have to decide is — is it worth it? If we don’t take a risk, will we always wonder? Will we always regret? If we do take a risk and fail, will we squander our years away paying for it? We took a risk on building the house. I’m still glad we did. But it wasn’t easy. It hasn’t been easy.”

Paul nodded.

We sipped coffee and thought… and thought and thought and thought.

Then, we grew tired of thinking and went about our day.

I can’t think of anything to solve our issues. I just know this:

This is what life should look like:

Birding at Basket Slough

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Blue Like Jazz

Posted on March 31, 2012 by Danielle Harris

Paul and I attended a screening of Blue Like Jazz on Friday. We give it two-thumbs up. This movie covers new turf and constructs a bridge for those who find themselves on one side or the other on spiritual matters to begin peace talks. Not in an invitational, come-to-the-right-side kind of way, but by sharing an authentic journey that asks real questions and confronts real issues. Themes covered include: coming of age, disillusionment, convention and rebellion, self-discovery, forgiveness, and redemption. Noticeably left out is good vs. evil which is soooo refreshing in a movie which touches Christianity on any level. Aren’t we all tired of the moral at the end of the story? This movie doesn’t attempt to answer all the questions. It asks more than it answers — and some questions may provoke party lines. By carefully probing our personal beliefs, Blue Like Jazz calls us to an authentic journey of self-discovery.

Check out the trailer: 

Come and see the movie the weekend of April 13th!

P.S. Look for the long list of associate producers in the credits. The film was killed after an arduous search for investors. People responded with a burgeoning movement to resurrect it. The making of the movie Blue Like Jazz is a miracle story in its own right.

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Nature Study as a Cure for Teenage Hormonal Freak-Outs

Posted on March 21, 2012 by Danielle Harris

Last week, I asked Elsa a harmless question that brought her to tears. I can’t recall what the question was. I remember only feeling startled at the intense reaction to a seemingly innocuous question.

Teenagers.

Beneath the arranged hair, the washed face, and the selected clothes, roaring lava bubbles and burns.

Hormones transform a girl into a woman and the sometimes painful process erupts in bursts of emotion.

Walking anywhere with four daughters attracts notice. When they were little, we received praises of their beauty and compliments on their sweet manners. Paul or I smiled and thanked. But we wouldn’t reach the door without hearing the oft-repeated warning:

Just wait ’til they’re teenagers!

We swore our girls would escape such prophecies. Paul and I promised to front-load our efforts so we wouldn’t suffer it!

In general, we’ve lucked out. Our 14-year old is respectful, kind, and obedient — in spirit and body. She allows us to hug her, she responds to our questions, and our conversations are not stilted or flung back at us. We don’t compete with phones and boys or battle over power.

Still, inexplicable reactions do spring up. We cannot escape all clichés about parenting teenagers.

The harmless question hovered and Elsa held back her tears.

I left the question hanging and gave her time to compose herself. I guarded her from her sisters’ inquiries.

Elsa swallowed. She breathed deeply. The uncomfortable moment passed.

To give her more time, I flipped on my audio book, The Scarlet Letter.

Hester Prynn stood alone on the pillory with the flaming letter burning on her breast when …

“Look!” Elsa exclaimed.

Her arm extended full-length and her eyes widened in excitement.

“What?” I asked.

“Go back,” she said. “Turn around. It’s a new bird!”

I wheeled across the highway, reversed, and straightened. Following Elsa’s directions, I pulled up beside a flock of Canada geese. Another type of goose mingled with them– smaller with a brown-gray body. The defining feature was an orange-pink bill outlined in white, the white extending up its forehead.

White-fronted Goose One of the illustrations t...

White-fronted Goose One of the illustrations that Hume considered as exceptionally good. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“Greater White-fronted geese, girls,” I said.

More shy than Canada geese, they fluttered to the far end of the group. Silence filled the car. Absorbed, we watched their graceful movements as they picked through the marsh. Taking turns with the binoculars, we each obtained a close-up and noted all distinctive markings. Then, spurred by some unknown signal, the White-fronted geese leaped into the air as one body and flew to another spot beyond the marsh.

That was that.

Our thoughts followed them and landed in soft mud on the other side of the cattails and reeds.

I marveled at how that moment solved so much.

I didn’t have to pry, explain, apologize, lecture, sermonize, or correct. The shy geese, infused with the power of a pilgrimage across the tundra, gathered together from Nanavut to Siberia, swept Elsa’s self-absorbed concerns away in a breath-taking second.

Peace rested upon us.

We parents equip ourselves with self-help books to parent our children. We cajole, pray, cry, beg, plead, discipline, shout, ignore, and manipulate our way through those teenage years.

I wonder if these methods affront the human spirit?

A long walk with an identification guide may prove more effective.

A new bird could suffice. Examine the tiny parts of a flower and I find my teenage daughter…

beside me,

looking out,

admiring,

and self-absorbed thoughts migrate far away.

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Birth Order Discord

Posted on March 14, 2012 by Danielle Harris

After Ingrid turned double-digits, she informed Dagne that she was too old to take baths with her anymore.

Dagne cried.

This is her taking a bath… all alone:

It isn’t the first time she’s cried about her birth order.

How come the older girls get to …?

Why can’t I go?

I hate being the youngest. Everyone gets to boss me around! I don’t get to boss anyone!

Of course, she doesn’t recognize the amount of petting and caresses allowed her because she’s the youngest. She believes her good looks and endearing personality entitles her to these benefits.

I walked in on an argument between Ingrid and Dagne and refereed. The point went to Dagne.

Ingrid cried bitter tears.

It’s so hard being in the middle! Mom always sides with Dagne because she’s the youngest. The middle never gets to be first. It’s always youngest to oldest or oldest to youngest.

(I’ve tried to exterminate the words always and never from the children‘s vocabulary. I am a failure.)

Greta sidled up to Ingrid and commiserated. Middle children are second-rate. Middle children are slighted.

Elsa intervened.

It’s not all that great to be the oldest. I had to sit in a car seat ’til I was like… twelve! I got spanked way more often. You guys get away with way more than I ever did!

I agree with Elsa. Being the oldest carves the wake for the younger children’s smooth ride. On the other hand, I’ve never been left behind.

Dagne is the only one left in fairyland. Of course, just because Ingrid turned ten doesn’t mean she is forever excluded from childhood where the imagination governs benevolently. A girl alternates for several years– dipping back into childhood and trying on womanhood. It is anything but fluid. She wakes up a lady. By the end of the day, she dissolves into tears, melting into a little girl in a tumultuous puddle. Hug her and hold her. Little girl again. Ten minutes later, I argue with an adult. She oscillates, oscillates ’til  I’m dizzy.

Who are you in this moment? Girl or fiercely independent wannabe adult?

I wonder.

But as Ingrid enters this new world, I sympathize with the littlest. She who is so little used to being alone must now bear it once in a while. And she is so little used to bearing anything at all.

We often quote an argument she had with her younger but bigger cousin, Weston:

You need to share because I’m the baby!

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Turning Double-Digits

Posted on March 5, 2012 by Danielle Harris

For several weeks, Ingrid reminded us she would be “turning double-digits” soon. Her days in single-digit land were numbered — the end of an era.

We practiced spelling “diez” in Spanish, instead of “nueve.”

Once, I took the girls to a park. They all assembled with friends in chatty groups. One lay in the grass, one cuddled near the slide, and another cradled in the swing. I couldn’t find Ingrid. I called to one of the girls to ask where she was.

For answer, Ingrid dropped from a tree, followed by a couple of boys also dropping from the tree, and sped across the playground.

That explains Ingrid.

I check her neck for ticks. I shake my head in disbelief at the bruises and scrapes and cuts on her legs. I buy extra jeans because she wears them out. I throw away shoes instead of passing them to Dagne — they are too “Ingri-fied.”

For her birthday, she requested a day with her dad.

“I want to hunt and fish and hang out around a campfire with Dad,” she said. “We can eat sardines and beans from the can.”

A girl after her father’s heart. They did just that.

Our friends showed up at her volleyball tournament with her birthday present — several pieces of chicken that she could tear at with her teeth and greasy hands while she bossed kids around.

Of the four girls, she’s the most like me. I remember “hanging out with Dad.” When he worked on the car, I handed him the tools he needed. I built a fence by his side. I played soccer with him.

I chose boys for companions because we liked the same activities.

I argued, I talked back, and I had a quick temper. So does she.

I experience meltdowns when tired.

Ditto for Ingrid.

I picture the girls and Ingrid like the puppies in Lady and the Tramp. The three lovely, lady-like puppies sit in a row and say, “Yes, Mr. Trusty” … but the little Tramp tears across the carpet and attacks Scottie’s sweater.

She’s double-digits now. These moments won’t last forever. Soon, she’ll be an engineer, or something like it. I’m going to miss the little girl in those single-digit days.

 

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