April #WIPMADNESS Week 3 Check-In: Legacies

I've had my head buried in the day job and in some serious revisions all month, but I came out of the hole this weekend long enough to enjoy a little Native American culture. At times, I get so frustrated with this crazy passion that has me bleeding in pixels and slaughtering my darlings on a daily basis. Nevertheless, I cannot keep myself from it. I must write. And occasionally, I must find inspiration in diversion.

As I arrived at the festival Saturday morning, a Cherokee man was telling one of the great stories of his tribe. Lessons of compassion and violence and justice and tradition. A little while later, a family raised in the Aztec tradition danced a welcome to the day. Among them, two little girls who shook their rattles and blew the wind whistle right along with their parents.

As the young father spoke his invocation and taught us about the significance of the dance, he also spoke of raising his children in the Aztec culture and keeping their traditions alive through the generations. The most beautiful moment came as he referred to his two young daughters and how he wanted to teach them the ways of their ancestors, a task which required a lot of patience from the whole family. Then, with the youngest fussing a bit behind him, needing something at that moment, he calming explained, "She is instructing us now...."

Perfect. We often forget that children teach us. If we listen, if we watch closely, we can learn volumes from them. As a writer of fiction for young readers, I often struggle to remember what it felt like at their age. I try to draw on my own experiences and relive those tangled emotions. At best, success comes sporadically. If I watch my son and daughter, however, I read the emotions in every word, every little gesture, every exasperated sigh and crazy riff of laughter. Even those moments of conflict can teach us if we remember to look at with the eye of a student rather than a dictator.

We often think they just don't get the world as it is. This is just a phase that will pass and we all just have to survive it.

It is so much more. I hope that I am awake enough and thoughtful enough to keep learning from them, to see the world as they see it. To see the world as it is and give them what they need.

So how about it, Wipsters? How are your April goals going? Any epiphanies or fabulous diversions that got you back on the writing track this week?

Thank You.

This summer, Ghost Daughter attended a fabulous American Girl Summer Camp at Darton College.  As they learned about Kit and what life was like during wartime, they thought a lot about the service men and women who are protecting not only our freedom, but that of others around the globe.  To learn more about money, the girls put up a lemonade stand and used the money to put together CARE packages for some troops stationed in Afghanistan.

Not too long ago, we received a lovely surprise in the mail.  Warrant Officer Phillip Kelliher and his troops were so touched by the girls' notes and cards and thoughtful gifts that they dedicated a mission to the girls and sent along the flag they had flown over that mission as well as a certificate the named the date of the mission and its dedication to the girls.  The flag and the original certificate will be displayed in the Office of Continuing Education at Darton.

Reading the personal note from CW4 Kelliher touched both me and Ghost Daughter so much and inspired us to do a little something more.  It's not much, but Ghost Daughter wanted it to be personal and hand-made, so I knitted a couple of little soldiers to send CW4 Kelliher.  Perhaps I'll make some more.  I just know that whenever I think of him and his troops, I wish I could hug each and everyone of them and send them a little piece of home.

I have met a girl who truly knows the value of what these troops are doing.  A young woman who had to be smuggled out of Afghanistan before her mother's traitorous act of educating her daughters got them all killed.  She started her senior year (at a high school where I once taught) labeled simply as "home-schooled" and soared to the top of the class.  Other students were upset that based on only one semester, this stranger uprooted a classmate from the top 10.  It wasn't until the Senior Honors dinner that these fortunate young people learned what they really had.

Each student took a turn to stand up and introduce their special guest at the dinner.  Some of them brought teachers, some brought family friends.  This young woman brought her savior.  When her turn came, she stood and told a cynical public how her mother had hidden her and her sister away and educated them in secret because to do so openly could mean death.  That everyday, her mother had risked her own life to give her children a better one.  That this man, her dear honored guest, had risked his life to smuggle them out of the country just so they could be free to learn and live.  This is what an education meant to her.  Something worth dying for.

So for all those men and women who serve, thank you.  Forget all the political diatribes and posturing.  Think of those who lay their lives on the line everyday to protect our lives and our freedom.

Love is an Action

As a writer, you hear it all the time: "Show don't tell." Think about that when you consider what love is, in your book or in your life. Last weekend, I was away at a fabulous writers' retreat. Of course the only date we could get this time around happened to fall on my 16th wedding anniversary. I thought about Ghost Hunk a lot and missed having our "date night," but he knows I love him. And I know he loves me.

Sure, he tells me a lot and I tell him, but that's not what really convinces me. It's the way he never complained about the fact that the retreat was scheduled on that day. It's how he went ahead and moved us into the new house while I was gone, kids in tow and all. It's the little bits of dark chocolate he snags for me just because he happened to be at Walmart. It's the 4 oz. of my favorite tea from my favorite cafe that he bought as he headed out of East Petersburg for the last time.

But it is so much more, this love thing. 15 months ago, he told me he would have to look for a new job (please don't ask me to explain why). That we would almost definitely have to leave our home in Central PA. That he might even have to leave academia, for which we sacrificed more than a little. Did I cry? Of course. But in that moment, it was less about my loss and everything about what that meant to him. What would he be losing? It broke my heart to think of it.

Was I angry? Absolutely. At him, at his boss, at the whole situation. But that wasn't going to make things right. Somehow, I knew what I had to do. There was a certain unexpected grace that kept me from crumbling, that spared us from feelings of resentment and bitterness (and believe me, I was no stranger to those dark friends). When a job finally came, it meant six months as a single mom, dealing with the kids' separation issues, mourning, and immeasurable sense of loss all by myself while he tried to concentrate on his work and continued to hunt for a decent place for us to live 600 miles away.

Through it all, there was a sense of us. No matter how desperate it got, there was no question. It surprised even me—a little. This grace, this larger than life drive that carried us through some of the scariest moments of our married life. Forget the fluttery feelings, the wild sexual tension, the stumbling around for the right words because you're so afraid of the wrong ones. None of that means squat. Love is an action. It's when you can do things you never thought you could do, without question, without resentment. You DO them. Show, don't tell.

After my grandfather died, my grandma used to wear his watch all the time. And when it got chilly, she would fold herself into his sweater. There was no maudlin display. She never thought about what she was doing or even why. She just did it. She just loved him...all day long.