Why I Write

 ​The question hangs in the air whether it is asked aloud or not. It may be my own or that of a friend or family member. Coming to embrace the written word this late in life makes me my most outspoken critic. It is not “Who do you think you are?” but “What do you have to say?" And so I write hoping to find the answer.
    I write to discover what I think. It is here I confront what I thought I knew but is no longer true and what I didn't even know that I knew. It is only when I put pen to paper that I see for the first time what lies beneath the surface, what I have kept hidden even from myself. I am the catalyst and the conduit. It comes through me, not from me, and upon reading the hidden wisdom on the page, I nod in agreement and say amen.
    I write to explore language. It is in the unbinding and juxtaposition of words that I find beauty. They spill out unabated and align themselves in shapes and streams of alliteration and metaphor that I once only knew by definition. And yet, I am constantly discovering that these words, beautiful as they are, can never be enough; they fail time and time again to express my innermost thoughts and emotions and so I keep writing, searching for the right word or combination and somehow always falling short.
    I write to begin to understand how I got to be here in this place in time. I take the journey through my life in words and at long last begin to make sense of it. It is in this long view that I can see the how and why of decisions and dilemmas. Moves were not mistakes but gentle nudges edging me ever closer to where I was meant to be. It is here on the page that I confront the ghosts of my past, both real and imagined and hear the voices of those that have gone before me, each of them clasping my hand and trusting me to tell the stories.
    I write to tell the journey of faith in my own words that may possibly only be understood by one. The summoning lies hidden in my writing. “Go and tell everyone.” I come to witness in solitude but the word seeps into the community; a solo act that when sent out into the world exposes my place on the mountaintop. I write because I can not speak but the written word is more than enough.
    I write to announce to the world that I too am the Beloved. With pen in hand, I begin my morning ritual to welcome the day and embrace the wonders that have been promised. LIfting my head, I relearn again how to hold the loving gaze of my Creator. I write to whisper that love in return, still afraid that it’s all a dream.

Opening the Door to Reading

 To the best of my recollection, I was simply a middle of the road elementary school student; not an especially prolific reader but I did the work necessary to collect my Bs and Cs. That is, until my 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Gammell became my 8th grade teacher. It was in our second year together that he saw something in me that other teachers had failed to notice. He pulled me aside one day after class and asked about my reading habits. The next day, to my surprise, he handed me a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea saying, “I think you might like this,” and a door swung wide open for me. One Hemingway book followed another and then came Steinbeck and F. Scott Fitzgerald. From then on there was no going back to doing the minimum or taking the easy way out for me.

Hemingway’s themes of our human struggle against nature and perseverance were a perfect match for me growing up in the Midwest but more than that, the simple language and sentence structure of this particular selection allowed me access to the first book that led to a deeper understanding of symbolic themes. I finally understood how to answer the question, “What does it mean?”

Fishing had never been a part of my experience but this small Cuban village on the sea came to life through Hemingway’s description. While it was definitely challenging for me as an adolescent to identify someone as a fisherman who had gone 84 days without a catch, Santiago captured my sympathy. I struggled with him day after day and lamented with him at the slow demise of his beautiful marlin for which he had sacrificed everything. The reward that came in the form of the village’s public adulation of the remaining skeleton was something that took me by surprise. Unbeknownst to middle school me, there could still be glory and honor in what might first appear as a personal defeat.

I spent a good deal of my life recommending the book that started me off until I eventually became aware that it wasn’t about the book at all; it was the connection to Mr. Gammell that actually held the fire of this memory. I can still feel that book in my hands today and hear the crack of the cover as I opened it seeing for the first time his signature emblazoned across the front end paper in black letters "Eldon R. Gammell." He was the first to identify me as a reader and thus begin my love of language. He had no way of knowing that I would grow up to become not only an avid reader but more importantly, a teacher that would spend decades doing exactly what he did for me - lead children to that first book that opens the door to reading and the infinite worlds held within their pages.

Being From Iowa

Being from Iowa means many different things to people. When you include it in your self-introduction you can rely on immediately finding anyone else in the room that might also be from the midwest or a descendent thereof. We practically shout out, “I’m from Iowa too!” It is a badge of honor because we know what it is to be of that small state. However, others who don’t share your lived experience will still confuse it with Idaho, Ohio, or Nebraska and sadly, we feel compelled to set them straight for their own good. I suppose now, we could just say that it’s one of the flyover states and leave it at that.

I believe that the 17 years I spent there definitely made me stronger and more persevering than I would have been growing up here in California. In the years I lived there, it appeared to be a harsh and even brutal environment. The questioning adolescent in me wondered why you would be here unless you were a farmer. It was good dirt but what other gifts did it hold? The summers were hot and humid and the winters brown and frigid. Just when you thought things were warming up, an April blizzard would appear on the horizon. The month of May always seemed nice but beyond those few short weeks there was little that was dependable for anything you wanted to do beyond the walls of your home.

I definitely learned about all types of weather in my childhood. There was no form of precipitation or moving air that we didn’t experience. It seemed there were rules passed down through the generations that corresponded to many of them, especially hail and tornadoes. Watching or listening to the weather report was an important start to each day. This too, is something that Californians simply don’t understand and why they are so often surprised by the weather but it is a ritual that I never left behind.

Around election time, every few years, brings up a curious question. Did you caucus when you lived in Iowa? No, I can honestly say I was not a part of this bizarre notion of choosing corners to “vote” in a presidential primary. Luckily, it started the year that I left for college. But the thing about curiosities is that it’s hard to keep from watching them so, yes, I will be tuned in on Monday to see just who shows up to the Republican Caucus and how many layers of jackets and coats they have donned to make the outing because this year they will have the added challenge of snow and frigid temperatures.

So, Iowans, enjoy your limelight this week. I salute all of you for your continued fortitude in eking out a living in the cold and brutal midwest. I am grateful for my time there but am truly blessed to have found a home here in California.

Letting My Field Lay Fallow

Having spent my childhood in the midwest, the sights of empty fields in winter always brought me a sense of peace and comfort. The land had given up everything it had for its harvest of corn, soybeans and alfalfa. Now it was time to rest. The frost covered expanses of brown soil only added to the image of being under the weighted blankets of winter. January feels like that. The darkness of winter solstice carries on for many weeks before we sense any increase in light. And the added chill in the air invites us into the extra weight of fleece and flannel holding us deeper into the couch. We have traversed through the turbo speed of the fall holidays - Halloween, followed on its heels by Thanksgiving and right into the rush of Christmas. And then suddenly it stops without warning. The invitations for holiday dinner cease and we realize there is no plan for dinner without a run to the grocery store. Gradually we come to realize that this is the time that nature has built into our rhythm for good reason. Slow down, breathe, cover yourself in blankets and just sit for a bit. Take a minute and become aware of this moment in time. Give thanks for the slower pace where you can actually plan out the next few weeks or months. Let yourself be reborn into resolutions or a single word to carry you into and through the new year. Take time to be, just to be. Think and ponder who I am becoming. Is it pleasing to me? Am I searching for something more? I am embracing this current feeling of emptiness. For now, I will honor the darkness, the cold and the extra layer of blankets on the bed because this too shall pass. Soon it will be time to plant again and this gift of time and empty boxes on the calendar will have vanished. In its place will be yet another rush to be, to accomplish, to do.