Intersections

Writing & Voice

2012-02-03T14:39:00.001Z

Here's a three-minute video with some thoughts on writing with your authentic voice:

Celebrating My Mentor

2012-01-31T18:26:00.002Z

Lynda Mullaly Hunt--the fabulous author of the upcoming novel One for the Murphys (Nancy Paulsen Books, May 2012)--included an essay I wrote about my mentor, Mr. John Robinson, on her blog Mentor Mondays. Check it out here.

Actually

2012-01-30T14:06:00.003Z

Jennifer and I first watched the film, Dinner with Friends, four years ago, when we were living in Flagstaff. No one had told us about it--we just saw the cover and we both thought Dennis Quaid was kind of a neat guy. The kind of actor you think would be your friend if he ever got to really know you. And hey, the movie was based on a Pulitzer-Prize winning play.

Must be good.

But after two hours of watching with our jaws hanging off the bottom halves of our faces, we knew it was beyond good. Better than great, even. It was into that realm of Stuff-You-See-That-Speaks-Beneath-the-Seeable, and yet it doesn't make a whole lot of pretenses about doing so.

There's a scene at the end of the film where Dennis Quaid's wife, played by Andie MacDowell, asks him how they can keep a marriage going: How can two people continue to love one another amidst the battles that daily life confronts them with--everything from the tiny tussles to the most massive hardships? How does love survive and grow and withstand it all?

Dennis Quaid (in that Quaidish way only he has) thinks for a moment and then says, Uh-oh.

And what happens next is mythic.

Beautiful.

Profoundly moving in a life-altering, universe-shaking kind of way.

What happens next is more complex than any algorithm, more true than any time-tested theory, more authentic than any super-authentic quote from a human being / fount of wisdom.

He tickles her. This husband answers such a profoundly poignant question with a tickle.

Because, actually, that's how love survives.

Lately, Tyler has been using the word actually a lot. And when I write a lot, what I actually mean is all the time. And when I write all the time, what I actually mean is in every single sentence he utters.

"Tyler, do you want to have some juice cool dude?"

"Actually, Daddy, I would like to have some juice AND a cheese stick!"

Or this:

"Hey T-Man, do you want to play with the Gruffalo?"

"Actually, Mommy, I think I want to play with the castle."

And when I contemplate Tyler's usage of the word actually, I've got to admit that I'm kind of inspired myself.

See, WB Yeats wrote this incredible poem about love, entitled "When You Are Old," and in the poem, there's a middle stanza that articulates a vision of love unlike anything the synapses in my mind have ever before encountered. Yeats claims that love isn't seeing someone's "glad grace" or "beauty" and loving them for it. Instead, it's seeing someone's "pilgrim soul" and someone's "sorrows."

Actually loving is about seeing the authentic person--the self that is yearning to grow and change and journey forward. Love is about seeing someone's sorrow, and loving them not in spite of it, but rather because of it.

So tickling one's wife in the face of an insurmountable question is an act of love which Yeats might watch and get giddily gleeful about. It's the thing in motion--the truth in practice. It's the saying and doing what you actually mean rather than settling for a generality or a mixed-truth.

Yeats might see that scene from Dinner with Friends and nod his head.

Then, if he bent down to say hello to Tyler, the great poet himself might grin and say, "Actually, poetry that doesn't become life isn't poetry at all."

To which Tyler would say (respectfully), "Actually, Mr. Yeats, I would like to play with my Gruffalo now and drink some juice."

Dance Party (and Stashes of Peanuts, Becoming Content)

2012-01-23T15:53:00.001Z

Jen started it.

(And for that, I'm immeasurably thankful.) It was one night when she realized that music hadn't been a very prominent part of our lives lately. Without a stereo system or CD player, we hadn't been as quick or keen to open up the laptop and insert CDs into it.

But after Christmas, when some friends gifted us with a CD player, we went bonkers.

Nuts.

Jen pulled out the Forest Gump soundtrack CDs, and she flipped until "Turn, Turn, Turn" by the Byrds was on. Tyler and I listened, watched as the music thumped through our kitchen, and then, the three of us joined in. Arms flailing, bodies turning (and turning and turning), mouths singing the words with the letting-go kind of glee.

It is interesting to note what improves or enhances what.

For instance, take an elephant. If that elephant has a large stash of peanuts which he can madly devour, but you tell that elephant that you have seven more stashes waiting for him if he'll leave the current stash of peanuts and follow you to the seven more, he'll probably tell you, "Dude, knock it off. You're whacked. I am thoroughly enjoying my current stash of peanuts. Take your other seven stashes and go bother some other elephant."

In other words, he'll be content. Happy with gorging his trunk on the present peanuts available in plenty.

For a long time--more months than I would care to admit--I looked at this England adventure as a growing season, yes, but as a growing season that would unfailingly involve those beautiful pinnacles of success and perhaps some cha-ching. I imagined the England journey as a letting go of all our American possessions, living by faith, loving by faith the new vocations Jennifer and I were each stepping into, and then kind of having everything fall into place.

All the tangibles, see.

But the the tangibles didn't fall into place. All the material stuff got, well, thinner, less, more stretched. And as the months ticked past, I tried to remind myself of the lesson we had hoped to learn: it's not about the stuff. Not about the success, the praise, the kitchen appliances, the various pairs of jeans, the massive home library of books. And consciously, I got the message.

After ten months of lean living, I got the message.

Sure did.

Except I didn't. I mentally got it, but my heart wasn't in it.

And then we hit month 14 of our adventure. And the thin living suddenly felt....full. Fat. The not-having-much-stuff felt so incredibly like this uncanny generous heaping-over portion of stuff that I began to look at it all and say, "Dude. DUDE! There is a whole load of stuff here."

Walking everywhere became less about not having a car and more about having legs.

Holy crap! Legs. TWO of them. They move back and forth--they do what I tell them to do--go where I tell them to go! HOLY CRAP!

And then came the dance parties. Now that we're on month 16, the dance parties have taken off, see. It's not just "Turn, Turn, Turn" anymore. It's "Come On, Eileen," and "Rock around the Clock," and especially "Eye of the Tiger." And Tyler knows all the words. And Jen knows all the words.

And I know all the words.

And our arms flail and our bodies lunge and our eyebrows rise. And the guy telling us that there are SEVEN stashes of peanuts elsewhere suddenly seems kind of puny and a little bit sad. And I am thinking, Dude, this is one amazing stash of peanuts right here.

Running

2012-01-19T22:41:00.001Z

It was a remarkable day in the city with Tyler. Going to visit DIG! and watching Tyler use his trowel to unearth ancient artifacts from the Romans, Vikings, and then the Victorians. Onward to Pret for a cup of coffee (me) and a VOLCANO smoothie (Tyler). Then the public library--the greatest and most sacred place of any city.

After five hours in the center, Tyler sat in his stroller and we began the forty minute walk home: content father, content son.

And then the words.

"Daddy, I have to do some poops."

I conduct some immediate calculations: 24 minutes from the city; 16 minutes from home.

I look around, hopeful eyes. Cars everywhere, the sidewalk we're on, and a small aisle of grass separating us from them. Dig a hole? But as soon as my mind even tries to go there, I realize that my daddyhood does not ever want to include in its memory the picture of my three-year old son crouching while a steady stream of cars flood past.

So I run.

Tyler hangs on to his stroller, gripping as we hop over bumps and curbs, take turns, swerve.

"Daddy, my poops are saying, Tyler, we are coming out of you!"

"Tyler, can you tell your poops, No, you cannot come out of me yet, Poops! Hold on for seven more minutes?"

Tyler is quiet. I run.

"Daddy, my poops said, No, we cannot wait. We are coming out RIGHT NOW!"

Passers-by hear the poop-impersonation-voices of my son and I and then eye us suspiciously. I smile at them widely, as if welcoming them into our little saga. And they smile back. They do.

But then I run faster.

We turn the corner onto Broadway, run two more minutes, then onto Lesley Avenue. The back door. I carry Tyler up the stairs, laughing, Tyler holding it in, and we make it to the toilet.

A bit late.

It's my first run in about five months. And it feels great.

Tyler's face heaves with relief. And all I can think is, this is the life I want.

The Most Beautiful Morning of My Life

2012-01-13T14:22:00.001Z

It began with--of all things--sleeping in. Tucking my head deeper into the pillow after checking my cell phone and its mocking numbers, "4:42" didn't apply to me this morning.

See: tag-teaming. It's the approach Jennifer and I finally realized would lead to an exponential increase in sanity with the early wake-ups. So we've been going back and forth for a couple of months now. One morning I rise at five and do stories about the Gruffalo and the mouse and the cow and the panda bear with Tyler; next morning, Jen assumes Gruffalo-central.

But the most beautiful morning of my life occurred a few weeks ago, when I got out of bed around eight to the sound of swishy-swashy, swishy-swashy, swishy-swashy. After realizing that I had not been transplanted into Michael Rosen and Helen Oxenbury's beautiful We're Going on a Bear Hunt, I snuck out of bed and walked down the stairs.

Slowly. Ears perked.

Again, the sounds came: swishy-swashy, swishy-swashy. And then this: "Ah! You be a monkey and I will be a lion Mommy!"

Then, super fast swishy-swashy-swishy-swashy-swishy-swashy.

"ROAR!"

I entered the kitchen to find Jennifer and Tyler running, roaring, laughing through what must have been a galaxy of plastic grocery store bags. A universe of them. Every grocery bag we had ever used and save in our last sixteen months in York.

Jennifer's face was drawn wide, her mouth letting the giggles fly with reckless abandon. Tyler's face mirrored Mommy's. Together, the two of them--indeed--had ceased to be Mommy and Tyler. Instead, they were inhabiting a jungle of wild grocery bags--a jungle kitchen where anything was possible.

I stood in the doorway watching the two of them, and it was one of the moments that I wanting to continue endlessly. I wanted to freeze it and yet draw it out at the same time.

Billy Collins has a beautiful poem entitled, "This Much I Do Remember." In it, he describes a simple moment in which he looks across, over the fruit bowl, at the woman he loves, and he realizes that as she is talking, it's a moment he wishes he could mint and carry around as a coin in his pocket.

My poetic prowess doesn't hold a candle to Collins, but watching Jennifer and Tyler, I could say with the poet, "Word up, Billy. I know exactly what you mean."

And I carry that morning in the pocket of my soul--I reach in and listen to it jingle. The most beautiful coin I keep.

Synthesis (Or, 4:30am; Revision; Shaving)

2012-01-11T10:48:00.001Z

When I taught Freshmen Composition at Northern Arizona University, I loved the Synthesis Essay. Teaching the Synthesis Essay was like letting my hands sit under a waterfall of endlessly flowing, gentle, warm, slightly-sudsy, lavender-smelling water.

Consider: synthesis is all about taking one thing and adding it to another and then saying, huh, check out what happened when we did that. But synthesis doesn't stop there. Synthesis--like a true champion--goes the extra round, It says, let's add a third thing and see what that does to the combination of the first two.

Synthesis then amazes even itself by saying (sometimes) let's add a fourth thing. Or a fifth. Or--gasp--a sixth. And in the process of adding all these new entities, the property we began with changes entirely, takes on new meaning, new symbolism, new smell.

Now that Tyler is in the midst of a nap, after waking at 4:30 this morning, and I have a large mug of strong fair-trade Sidamo beside me, I'm in the mood for Synthesis. I turn to Synthesis like you might turn to a good friend and put your arm around his shoulders, then stick your index finger inside of his inner ear, wiggle it around. When he turns to you and says, Dude! I asked you not to do that, like, seven times already! You respond, with that knowing smile, Ah! Yes! But those other seven times, I was using a different finger, so I have not used any of those other fingers in this most recent inner-ear wiggling. It's a new finger!

So: sleep-deprived and ready for the great nature of our friend Synthesis, let's begin.

Synthesis: Thanks for that introduction, Luke.

Me: You are welcome, Synthesis. It's nice to have you here in our kitchen. Would you like a cup of coffee?

Synthesis: Don't mock me. You know I have no throat. Or intestines.

Me: (Nodding gravely and with respect.)

Synthesis: So. You asked me here to do some work for you. What are we using me for today?

Me: Three events. Small events, really. First, waking up at 4:30 am. Second, the nature and act of revision. Third, Shaving.

Synthesis: Okay. Just three?

Me: Yes.

Synthesis: Okay. Easy as making a Jell-O mold with no artificial flavoring and adding some finely chopped, then ground, walnuts to the top in the shape of very tiny hearts. Then, applying a thin layer of peanuts--also finely chopped and ground--on top of those walnuts--just to say, hey, Walnuts, it's not always about you. Learn to play the FOUNDATIONAL role too, not just the role of glory. Haven't you ever heard that moving line from "Eye of the Tiger": you trade your passion for glory? Walnuts, you are seriously in danger of doing so.

Walnuts: Hey, I wasn't bothering anybody. I don't want to be a part of this whole Synthesis thing. Just let me go back to sleep.

Me: If I can't sleep, nobody gets to sleep.

Walnuts: Tyler is sleeping.

Me: I meant, nobody in this kitchen gets to sleep.

Walnuts: (Nods knowingly, respecting the authority of the master-of-the-kitchen-at-this-moment.)

Synthesis: Okay, here we go. Waking up at 4:30 is hard. I'm not going to lie, Luke. It's tough stuff. Your body craves more sleep. You count the four hours of rest you've gotten, and your mind rightly declares: No. No, I will not move forward in this state. And if that were all there was to it, your mind would win the day. Game over. But to your mind's declaration, you add Revision. You add the powerful truths so beautifully expressed here, in this blog by children's author Pat Zietlow Miller.

And you realize that the actual waking up at 4:30 am this morning isn't the whole story. It's only one piece of the story. One chapter. The cool thing is, you get to revise it. Even as the day goes on, you get to revise why you woke at 4:30. You get to revise the time you'll go to sleep tonight in order to get a more human quota of hours. 4:30 isn't the final word. It's only a scene from the picture book of your life, buddy.

And then we add Shaving. Yes. How I wish I could shave! But I cannot. I have no throat, after all. And no cheeks. But Luke, you consider the ways in which your three-year old son helps you hold the bottom of the razor, watching in amazement as the hair falls from your stubble-beard and leaves your face looking clean, fresh, exhausted. You watch your sons eyes. You listen to him say, "I do not have a beard so I do not shave. But when I get big like you I will shave too." And you realize that the wake-up doesn't feel as hard. That the revision starts to feel possible, exciting even. The Shaving marries those first two activities and creates a third, entirely feasible, reality: life is about balance. Some mornings, you will wake and feel exhausted. Some mornings, you will wake and feel ready to do one-hundred jumps on the trampoline of your soul. Other mornings, it's an in-between mixture.

But you take what has happened--the 4:30 wake ups of your life--you add the possibility of revision, and you lather a thick layer of shaving cream all over that and say, Yes, there are going to be moments of such startling joy and mundane delight that the balance of it all will somehow work itself out.

And then you go on living the rest of your day. Including me, of course, in everything you do.

Me: Thank you Synthesis. Really. I appreciate your words very much.

Synthesis: I know.

Me: Yes. Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?

Synthesis: Mock me once, shame on me. Mock me twice, shame on--wait a minute, we can add those two instances of your mocking me and...

Walnuts: I feel like I'm invisible, like no one ever really SEES me, you know?

A Call to Creativity

2012-01-06T21:47:00.003Z

Albert Einstein once claimed that "Imagination is more important than knowledge." If you've ever had the deep sense that multiple choice questions, standardized test scores, and an array of rubricalismic tools do little to inspire and authentically grow students, then we've got a lot in common.

A Call to Creativity helps teachers to practically use creative and imaginative writing assignments and reading strategies in the English classroom while also helping students to produce rigorous and skillful writing. The cover has just been finished, and the book will be available from Teachers College Press at the beginning of next month.

Hemojababala

2011-12-26T19:53:00.001Z

Today, we hit fifty-six degrees. In England. In York. On December 26. Fifty-six degrees.

And in honor of this remarkable occurrence, Tyler and I went to nearby Rowntree Park on the bike-and-trailer. While there are swings, slides, rope ladders, more swings, more slides, and more rope ladders at Rowntree Park, Tyler found the most joy in having an intellectually stimulating conversation with an ancient man named Hemojababala.

You may have heard of Hemojababala. He's well-known in many parts of the world. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I had not met him "officially" until today. Yet I always knew he existed. Knew it in that deep place inside of me where oatmeal chocolate chip cookies go to hibernate. Where water evaporates. Where you can stretch out your intestines to incredible lengths.

Hemojababala is known for many sage sayings, such as this one: If you are standing under an apple tree and you are hoping a mango will fall into your outstretched palms, and then you look up at the sky and lightning flashes, and then you hear thunder, then you had better get inside, because being outside in a thunderstorm while standing under an apple tree (or any tree for that matter) is a very bad idea.

But Hemojababala is perhaps best known for his ability to reason with toddlers. Some have called him the Toddler Whisperer, while others have simply called him Weirdo.

I include the following real-action footage of Tyler's discussion with Hemojababala today so that you can make your own, educated decision.

What Did I Do, Daddy?

2011-12-24T19:47:00.000Z

Tonight, during goodnight kisses and hugs, I said to Tyler, "I'm so proud of you son, and I love you so much." Jennifer and I both tell him this every night--we believe that his knowing these two things is essential. That no matter what has happened during the day, we still love him; we're still proud of who he is.

But tonight, the look in Tyler's eyes told me, essentially, this: frontal lobes, dude. Frontal lobes are kicking in. It's true. All the toddler books say that around the third birthday, the frontal lobes of a child's brain really start coming in strong. (The frontal lobes, by the way, are the area of the brain that involve reasoning and step-thinking and action-result analysis, in other words, the parent's Hallelujah! lobes of a child's brain.)

So tonight, on Christmas Eve, as I said the words to Tyler, he looked back at me and I could see his frontal lobes doing somersaults. Olympic rings. Synchronized swimming. And Tyler said to me, "What did I do, Daddy?"

"You mean, what am I so proud of you for?"

"Mm-hmm." Tyler's wide eyes really wanted to know. The lobes had spoken.

I returned Tyler's gaze and said, "Because you are you. I am proud of you and I love you no matter what, because you are Tyler and you are my son."

He smiled, asked for another kiss, and that was that.

Walking out of his bedroom, it struck me as highly appropriate on the night before we celebrate Christ's birth--the fact that Tyler's frontal lobes decided to really kick up just now. Because the Creator of the universe loves me and you and all of us in exactly this way--unconditionally and because we're His kids.

Not because of how much money we have or don't have; not because of the fact that we haven't cursed at all in the last seven years and three months (or because we have cursed every day of the last seven years and three months); not because of our successes or our failures.

There is no other love like this--so unconditional that it encompasses all we have ever done or thought and all we ever will do or think and it fully holds us just the same. Few modern books have been able to really touch the heart of the gospel message in this regard as poignantly and boldly as Francis Chan's Crazy Love or Shane Caliborne's The Irresistable Revolution. They reveal the wonderful absurdity of this kind of love and return a question to us: what will we do with it? How will we receive and use this love to help heal, grow, and restore the earth? How will we use this unconditional love of God to care for the broken, the poor, the hungry?

God's love is crazy because it is freely given with no measures and no standards. A love like that can't be contained--it can't be measured by hours on a Sunday, or group meetings on a Wednesday. Instead, a love like that throws logic to the wind, bids propriety adieu, and says to the status quo, No. Instead, a love that responds to this kind of crazy love does one thing: it keeps going.

This Christmas, I want to look at my Creator and ask the same question Tyler asked me--my frontal lobes kicking in, all my reason, all my logic, all my measure-for-measure standards--What did I do, Daddy? Why are you so proud of me? Why do you love me?

I want to ask so I can hear the words in reply--those glorious, unearned words: I love. I love. I love. You.

You Know What?

2011-12-15T21:51:00.000Z

Sleep, in all its grandeur, has once again become a part of our lives. I'm reluctant to write too confidently, as it is still a new found friend in these last few months, but Tyler had made it straight through numerous nights, and though he wakes up at 5:15 ready for action, still.

Still.

Today, by ten in the morning, Tyler's eyes were rolling around his head like ice cubes in water, and his eyelids grew pink and heavy, so I decided to take him out in the stroller for a walk in order to hopefully lead into sleep. We walked by our church, and Tyler immediately wanted to head inside--to thew warmth of the Village Cafe they run three mornings a week--where great coffee, juice, and biscuits are offered cheaply and a corner houses toys and coloring books.

"Daddy! Let's go to the church and get one juice! It will be great!"

"See, we've got to keep walking right now. We'll go to the church later."

"Then can I get out and walk? I am a good walker."

My mind sees both possibilities--the good in each.

1) Tyler stays in stroller, possibly naps. Sleep = positivity. Positivity = aaahhhh. Aaahhh = happy family.

2) Tyler walks, gets good exercise. Exercise = positivity. Positivity = aaahhh. Aaahhh = happy family.

While my mind plays ping-pong against itself trying to determine which parenting choice is the best one, I trump myself. A third ping-pong competitor enters the match and claims, inside my head, but Tyler doesn't have his winter coat on now. He's buried beneath his go-on-a-walk-and-hopefully-fall-asleep-blanket.

"But Tyler, you don't have your winter coat on now. You're buried beneath your go-on-a-walk-and-hopefully-fall-asleep-blanket."

"Daddy, I have this sweater, see?" Tyler points to his red fleece, gloriously proud that he has found a way to combat each of my initiatives.

"But Tyler, you don't have your winter coat." Broken record, baby. It's all about the broken record.

"Daddy, you know what?"

"What, son?"

"Sometimes sweaters can keep people warm, too." Tyler smiles this glorious smile. The kind of smile that feels like waking up after twelve hours of sleep to a cup of strong Sidamo fair trade coffee with loads of cream.

Checkmate.

He knows it. I know it.

Tyler and I both walk to the church. We get the juice, the coffee, the biscuit. We color. We play.

Afterwards, Tyler climbs back into his stroller, and I tuck him in under his go-on-a-walk-and-hopefully-fall-asleep-blanket.

And you know what? On the way home, he falls asleep.

Early Doors

2011-12-10T10:22:00.001Z

The night began with two of my "woods" going clear off the indoor lawn mat. Usually, at bowls, I can manage to get close enough to the jack--the tiny yellow ball we're all trying to sidle up next to--to make the game interesting. This particular night, though, I was all over the place, unable to find that groove and bowl with a sense of peace.

Tony, a man in his early seventies, comes beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders. He smiles big. We're on opposing teams tonight, though that doesn't stop him from sending a little encouragement my way.

"We have an old saying in South Yorkshire, Luke." He smiles even wider and squeezes my shoulders again.

"Yeah?" I ask, glad for anything to take my mind off my egregious bowling tonight.

"Early doors." Then Tony tilts his head back and laughs like those two words unlock some kind of deep secret of the universe. I laugh, too, even though he might as well have said pumpkin pie for all I can figure.

He notes the quizzical look on my face. Tony always wears a sweater with a collared shirt beneath. As do most of the guys who bowl. They wear ties, ironed and pleated khakis and shoes that shine like the moon on a night that is the purest black we know. I think momentarily of my grandfather, Harold Fenton, who spent his own life building houses all over Bloomfield, Connecticut. Worked from sun-up to sun-down and held a hammer as if it was a permanent appendage. Now, Grandpa wears a shirt and tie every day of his life.

"I never had to wear one in all my work, now it's nice to do so," Grandpa once told me.

And I look at Tony, wondering what he used his forty years of work to do--building, teaching, banking, doctoring, parenting? All the bowling men come dressed like it's a banquet; they bowl ready to meet the most important audience of their lives.

Tony's smile warms me. It welcomes me in like Grandpa's, like grace.

"Early doors simply means that it's only the beginning, Luke. It means, don't worry about it--the game is long. Things change." Tony winks at me, straightens his collar, and collects his next wood to roll it down the mat.

It stops leaning against the jack. He smiles wide.

With my next wood, I end up alongside him, a measure for who's closest to the jack. "There you go, kid," he tells me.

Another wink.

As we walk to the other end of the mat, I take stock of my own sweater and collared shirt beneath it. My own khakis. Granted, mine are un-ironed, and purchased from a charity shop for about four pounds in total. But these guys are rubbing off on me. It's a long cry from when I came to bowls dressed in my pajama pants, a T-shirt and hiking boots.

Something about them suggests that every moment is important--and why waste a single one not preparing for the banquet, not preparing for the finest introduction you might ever have?

Early doors.

And throughout the rest of the evening, each time a wood rolls away off the mat, it's all I can think. Early doors. And the truth is that it's all early doors. Even late in the game, there's still time. It's something a guy like Tony--in his seventies, knows.

It's something I imagine all these bowling guys know: that's it's never too late. Never too late to turn the game around with a wood that saunters up to the jack and hangs close. Never too late to become the kind of father you always wanted to be. Never too late to write the kind of book you always hoped you had inside of you. Never too late to start believing that the mistakes of our pasts don't need to be imbibed for the duration of our future.

Or, as George Eliot put it, more eloquently, "It's never too late to be what you might have been."

As I consider the wonder of whether a book I write will ever make it out into the big wide world, doing well enough to help support our family, or whether I'll learn to be the kind of father who discerns those two poles of love, grace and truth, with great clarity, or whether this journey we're on is more logic than craze, more faith than fear--as I consider all these possibilities, I know Tony's words are true. Early doors.

No matter how much time passes, the thing is to keep playing, to keep believing that this next time down the mat, you just might dance with the jack. And if not, there's always another bowl inside of you. Inside of me. No matter how many chances we've squandered before.

Each time down, hope beckons us to consider the possibility anew.

How We Know

2011-12-08T15:40:00.001Z

This is the sound a poem makes:
Flapping wings pushing air;
But the air, too:
Fleeing for new space.

A poem aches
With the kind of grace
That arrives only from
Suffering we can taste.

Because our hunger is so acute.
So finite.

In one number,
A poem moves a thousand ways--
Dancing not just for me or you.
It has to: unanalyzed.

We know when we meet it
Because its stubborness
Is quiet, unrelenting--
As our stomachs, hearts.

A Safe Place

2011-12-01T21:37:00.001Z

Tonight, during the tea break at Bowls, I sat next to a man named Trevor who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's. He smiles. he looks at me when I ask questions--watches my forehead, then my eyes. His face searches, and then he answers, sometimes with the same responses over and over.

Each time, I give him a thumbs up and smile wide. Trevor returns the thumbs up to me.

Around us, older men and women drink their tea, take small bites of their biscuits. The heating in the church hall is on. Strong. Tonight, we are forecasted a freeze.

In a few minutes, when we all rise from our chairs and play the second hour of Bowls, the subtle teasing begins. If I am playing well, it's "Let's buy the American a ticket back to his own country." If I am playing poorly, it's "Square woods tonight, oy ay?" And then a chuckle.

A chuckle that is safe.

Safe for a man like Trevor.

Safe for a man like me.

Safe for a whole army of the elderly who gather here each Thursday to send a ball down an indoor lawn mat, fully knowing that with each bowl, they affirm their belief in the power of life moving on. The power of themselves, to keep believing in the beauty even after knees are replaced, bones are mended, brains slowly fail.

They gather like a crowd around a fire on a cold night camping. They warm their hands on the hearth of camaraderie and fun. And I'm grateful to tag along, a few decades early, and be a part of their circle.

Charlie McNarry Has a Query

2011-11-28T22:18:00.001Z

Yolanda Mews has exciting news:
"Anything times zero is zero!"
The teacher nods, munches pretzel rods,
Says, "But don't think you're some kind of hero."

Beatrice Shelly has a pain in her belly.
"I need to go to the nurse!"
The teacher's head shakes, he eats his cakes,
Says, "Not until you're much, much worse!"

Charlie McNarry has a query:
"What makes the sky so blue?"
The teacher sighs and east his fries,
Says, "Does the sky ever ask about you?"

Phil Brigands has a worm in his hands:
"Look, it's so slimy and cool!"
The teacher yells, belches taco shells,
Says, "Touch it again and you're out of this school!"

A few weeks pass; teacher has gas.
"Oh, my poor poor belly is aching!"
He falls to the ground, sees a worm sitting down.
The ache makes him cry, look up at the sky.
He pleads for a hero to make the pain equal zero.

Charlie and Beatrice, Yolanda and Phil
Go down to the nurse and get him a pill.
Teacher says thank you, teacher feels great.
That night, at home, teacher stays up late.
A book lays on his lap as he falls asleep:
The Science of the Sky is one he'll keep.

Staying Burned IN

2011-11-22T19:44:00.001Z

A few years ago, I became consumed with the question, how do we stay "burned in" to our work as teachers? I wanted to get a feel for what others had to say about sustaining energy, joy, and hope in a profession that carries its share of obstacles and challenges.

The result of that question was a volume to which many of the educators I most admire contributed: Burned In: Fueling the Fire to Teach.

But I see that the question of staying "burned in" is a question that applies to all of us--whether we are teachers or writers or parents or chefs or postal carriers or pool cleaners or salmon fishers or scuba diving instructors or sculptors. How do we all stay burned in?

So it was with tail-wagging glee that I read my wife, Jennifer's, latest blog: "Getting Lost in the Creativity of Work." She includes some pretty potent wisdom, as well as two awesome YouTube clips. Well worth reading!

Alternate Mapping

2011-11-17T16:30:00.001Z

It's one of those things
You can't control:
What tides bring, how sun sings.

Content to settle with clouds,
To leap from pavement,
Or lay in valleys, pool unproud.

You don't want to, anyway.
You know it's not to know,
But to live the unknown
In ways steady and new--
Dancing barefoot on soft grass,
Rain the only room around you.

Gratitude lives a life hidden.
Old habit, really.
But your knuckles at his door,
Then a warm cup of tea:
Better than knowing more,
Stronger than what you see.

The Freedom That Awaits Us

2011-11-14T14:33:00.001Z

(Note: Ammi-Joan Paquette is my literary agent. She's a fabulous agent AND she is a remarkable, fascinating, stunning writer.)

The odd thing about reading a book in which a teenage girl escapes the Thai prison where she was born and where she has lived her entire life: it’s you.

Even though she speaks Thai, gets stuck in the prison bars when she’s little, finds a gruff mentor in the Warden, and has a veritable treasure trove of secrets concealed from her like good counsel from George W.—it’s still you.

A.J. Paquette’s mesmerizing story of Luchi Ann—a blonde American girl born in Khon Mueang Women’s Prison—is a vivid novel that offers one journey towards an openness that is more real and more filling than all the certainty we’ve ever before known. Nowhere Girl speaks to us in powerful, profound ways. Once Paquette’s protagonist is released from prison at age 13, we read:

Emptiness, that’s all I can see right now. Roads that lead to the mountains, mountains that scrape the sky. It’s all strange and huge and wild. Of course, I have seen it all before, but that wasn’t me; that was a girl with my same name, some creature of mud and bone who had never felt the lick of true freedom on her skin.

When she shares that she has “seen it all before,” she refers to the television which she is allowed to watch in the prison—the dead colors of recorded life. But seeing life firsthand, along with the terrifying sense of freedom that accompanies Luchi Ann’s view, aptly defines our own existence, too. The bars behind which we often wait, thinking we are held beyond our own power, resemble a kind of pre-existence that we accept. The television occupies us and shows us any color we wish to find. Our lives can be full in prison: there is plenty to eat, stability, organization, clarity.

Once Luchi Ann is released—after her mother’s death—a new emptiness affords a different kind of food, however. So it is with us.

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave helps to make the case. Essentially, Plato (really Socrates talking through him) claims that we’re all in prison. We’re trapped there because we grow up seeing the world a certain way, and when some new person or perspective or event comes along to try and dissuade us of our loyalty to what we’ve always known, we freak out. Plato (Socrates) goes so far as to say we attempt to kill whoever’s is trying to break us out of the prison from which we’ve come to view the world, but I’m not sure I’d go that far—perhaps we just go to the mall and buy a latte and a new shirt to forget about the encounter?

Maybe Plato (Socrates) is on to something: the vision we learn to cling to desperately is often the same one that drags us blindly past any kind of authentic freedom. By walking outside and allowing the sky to lick us a bit, we find that a different kind of living waits. The kind that has loads of space, little certainty, but fills us nonetheless.

The kind of living that Paquette's gloriously courageous and admirable Luchi Ann learns to find.

When I was seven years old, I was terrified of vans. Any van came down Alcott Drive, and I would run, screaming wildly, back inside to my mom, claiming that the killers had come to get me. That year of my life, I watched the movie Cobra with my two older brothers. Cobra in brief: Sylvester Stallone plays a cop who must find a group of men who drive a van around town finding people, kidnapping them, then killing them up in the back of the van, then finding more people and killing them as well. In a sense, I had power as a seven year old—I had my fear. When I saw a van, I knew exactly what the people inside were going to do: kidnap me and kill me. So I ran from the vans. My running from the vans gave me a certain ability to order my life—the fear helped to provide some sense of safety.

When we cling to our fear, we feel safe. But this kind of safety is not much different than a kid who hasn’t turned in his homework claiming that the salmon took it upstream. As a thirty year old man, I am no longer afraid of vans. But I am terrified of leaving my three-year old son in the hands of a babysitter. New fears replace the old; new prisons replace the ones we’ve worn out; new visions to which we adhere loyalty rise up in the place of those we’ve outgrown.

What A.J. Paquette reveals so wonderfully in her lyrical novel, Nowhere Girl, is this: they don’t have to. Following the journey of Luchi Ann, we experience that cathartic passage from a familiarity of fear and organization to a foundation of emptiness and freedom. Safety exists, too, where colors are alive—where the sky reaches down to touch us, and we feel it fully for the very first time. Paquette’s remarkable novel shows us the freedom we long for ourselves, and which we too may find if we are willing to courageously leave the prisons we’ve so long inhabited.

Read this book, and be inspired to find your freedom as Luchi Ann finds hers.

Apostrolies

2011-11-10T16:46:00.001Z

While only three, Tyler has taken an active role as a writer. Some days, he can scribe twenty pages. His words are always typed with enthusiasm, energy, vigor--as if his hands are daring the keyboard to reject what his brain conjures--things like "AAAghtyTT6777343890lklklAAA."

Profound stuff.

This morning, as I was finishing up some work on the computer, Tyler pushed open the door to our bedroom and said, "I want to do writing!"

We opened up a new Word Doc, and Tyler set straight to work. No hesitation. (He must have already learned the wisdom of that Chinese proverb, "He who hesitates is lost.")

And then Tyler found--for the first time in his young writing life--the apostrophe.

Ah, the Apostrophe.

I wish I could recall my first fling with the Apostrophe. But, alas, it's lost. Now I use it to conjoin words, to reflect dialect, to report time. But I wonder what I might once have used it--and a small spark of that ancient love was rekindled as Jen and I watched Tyler serenade the Apostrophe this morning.

"Apostrole! I like this Apostrole!"

And the document on the screen corroborated his claim: "AAAA''''''''''''''''Jujghfyt52111'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''AA"

Jen and I smiled. Our little man wrote.

Dust Mites Must Die

2011-11-03T17:06:00.000Z

I have always had an allergic reaction to dust mites. The dust mites themselves are infinitessimally small and infinitessimally gross. They crawl; they're alive. They make me sneeze in an ongoing succession that rivals the sound of a locomotive.

But after almost a year I was still joyfully free of allergy attacks. Perhaps there were no dust mites in York?

And then suddenly, as we hit our one year anniversary of our little experiment abroad, bam. The dust mites moved in. They must have been migrating here.

Coming to find me.

From America.

I'm no purveyor of conspiracy theories. But consider the facts: one year of dust-mite free living. Every season, no dust mites. Now, the dust mites are building paved roads in my nose. They're digging trenches and they're settling in for the long battle.

Today, as Tyler and I had a playdate, small drops of mucus continually fell from my nose--even right after I had blown it. When allergy attacks strike and I do not have a playdate, I am able to expertly stuff wads of tissue up my nose to prevent the mucus drops from exiting freely--No Skydiving Allowed. But during playdates, or any public appearances, it's hard to discern which is the worse sin: tissue wads in the nose or mucus drops.

Dust Mites love that I feel this ongoing tension. It's a fact little known about Dust Mites that, although they are infinitesimally small, they have enormous brains (comparative to their body sizes, that is). Their brains are extremely advanced, and unlike us humans, Dust Mites use all of their brain capacity.

Trust me; I know. Because I can hear the infinitesimally quiet laughter of the Dust Mites when they watch me battle impropriety.

Oh, really, your daughter is struggling with sleep as well? [mucus droplet, mucus droplet, drop, drop, droplet]

Dust Mites love this. They laugh like I'm Jerry Seinfeld doing stand-up.

To date, Dust Mites have been winning the war in the last few weeks. But they don't know some things. For instance, they don't know that I have been writing a novel entitled Dust Musts Must Die. (Dust Mites, while possessing massive brains, cannot read because they have no eyes. This works in my substantial favor as a writer.)

Dust Mites Must Die is a very serious novel about a single Dust Mite named Finley who decides to betray his clan and befriend the boy who suffers tragically at the hands of the Dust Mite Bullies with No Hearts and Surely with No Empathy (but Possessing Massive Brains).

Dust Mites Must Die could be the most amazing thing I've ever written. It could be the most amazing thing anyone, anywhere, has ever written. Because, see, the whole novel is written in Latin. (I did this just in case Dust Mites ever evolve and develop eyes and are able to read English. I want this novel to withstand the test of Time, and so even if Dust Mites learn to read, it's highly improbable that they'll learn Latin as well.)

I was recently contacted by the estate owner of Leo Tolstoy's literary property. It seems that the estate owner has been planning a new edition of Tolstoy's classic War and Peace. (New chapters have been found, albeit with small smudges across them.) The estate owner asked if I would consider including a small selection from Dust Mites Must Die in the new, revised version of War and Peace.

These were the estate owner's exact words, actually:

"Dear Sir Reynolds,

Word has come along the winds, carried no doubt on the backs of a million infinitesimally small backs of Dust Mites, that you have a novel in the works entitled Dust Mites Must Die. I would be deeply honored if you would consider including a small selection of this novel in the upcoming War and Peace. The Leo-nator, my affectionate name for Senor Tolstoy, had a lifelong vendetta against those creatures. Even when he gave away all his land to his servants, and sought to emulate the life of Christ, he could never learn to love Dust Mites. I think he would very much like knowing your novel is joined, in part, to his.

Sincerely,

Jonathan Jon-Jon, Estate Owner"

As you can imagine, receiving a letter like this was stunning.

However, I need some time to mull it all over. After all, I still have to finish the novel (which is currently at 280,000 words, and I've only just completed the second chapter.)

If I keep going at this rate, Dust Mites may develop eyes before the work is ever complete. And that cannot happen.

So while mucus droplets still fall freely from my nose, the sneezes shout loudly and defiantly, I will not lie down.

(Because then the droplets will merely slide back into my throat, and that is disgusting.)

No, nor will I go gentle into that treacherous night. Instead, I will rage against the dying of my dignity, and I will finish Dust Mites Must Die, even if my fingers become stubs and my keyboard a mess.

I will finish, no matter what.

Dust Mites Everywhere Who Have Already Developed Eyes: consider yourselves warned.

Surrender

2011-10-31T20:56:00.000Z

Is a beautiful thing.

For the past month and a half, Tyler's sleep habits have been as erratic as a moose chewing bubble gum trying to itch his hind leg with one of his front legs while also sneezing into a thin tissue.

The stats:

Last night: four wake-ups at 1:00 a.m., 2:30 a.m., 3:30 a.m., and 4:30 a.m. Each time, he wakes with an incredible gusto, as if he'd been summoned to run with the bulls, climb to the peak of Mt. Everest, or eat a yellow lollipop.

Jennifer and I thought we had left this stage long behind, after we passed babyhood and entered the glorious land of toddlerhood. And now, hitting the big "3" we were sure it was over and done with. After all, only two months ago we were the proud parents of a child who slept from 6:30 p.m. until 7 a.m. every night.

No wake-ups.

Not so much as a cough or a mumble.

Nada.

I used to listen to the other parents at playgroups discussing their problems with non-sleeping children, and I could nod empathetically and emphatically, all the while thinking Dude, we, like so DO NOT have that problem! And I am desperately sorry for you. Yes, I really, REALLY am. But I'm so glad that I am me and you are you. Because seriously: I couldn't handle losing that much sleep.

Now I am the one who gets the empathetic, emphatic nods. And I know what they mean.

Yup: I am the one now. Jen and I are the ones who don't know what it feels like to say goodnight and then wake when the sun is rising. Instead, we hear the shouts from our little man and we half-wakingly mumble to one another "Your turn?" while each hoping it can't be me again!

But then something happened last week to change everything.

The thing that happened is the kind of thing that can revitalize life and goals and dreams and hopes and joys. As a writer, the thing that happened is particularly applicable to other areas of my life.

Namely this: surrender.

Jen and I finally realized that nothing works. We tried letting him cry out the wake-ups. But Tyler only got more and more, well, woken up. He then got scared. Really scared. Coughed. High-pitched screams. Trial over.

We tried talking it through. Dead-end.

We tried eating a lot before bed. Nope.

Eating a little. Zero success.

Drinking a lot? Drinking a little? A bit of Children's Tylenol? A softer mattress? A harder mattress?

No, no, no, no, and no.

And so finally we came to the realization that I think happy parents everywhere must come to: surrender, baby. Surrender is what it's all about.

But not surrender as in, I give up! This is too hard! White flag: wha-la!

No--I mean surrender as in we say: Okay, all my theories turned out to be about as substantial as using masking tape to fix a broken banana.

Jen and I began letting go of the expectation that Tyler was supposed to be sleeping straight through the night. We started to think differently: hey, he's not sleeping through the night now. One day he will. Not this day.

And expecting him to wake up, and dealing with it hopefully, has made all the difference. Surrendering our view of the ways things should be has allowed us not to miss the joy we're experiencing now, when he's AWAKE (instead of walking around the house mumbling, I'm as tired as a donkey who has hiked the Grand Canyon down and up while also contemplating the image of a moose trying to chew bubble gum, itch his hind leg with his front leg...)

We're getting the same amount of sleep, but we're feeling a whole heck of a lot more rested.
As a writer, expectations run the gamut in my head. Before I began sending work out ten years ago, I had an inordinate amount of expectations about what the publishing process is like. Once I began getting back my early rejections on my first novel, I began to develop a more realistic sense of how it works.

But it hasn't been until the more recent close calls on my sixth novel that I'm seeing how dizzying it all is, and how inevitable a part of the process waiting is. We write. We wait. And if we're really committed to being lifelong writers because the thought of NOT writing makes us feel like moose who chew gum while...then we write while we wait.

We see ideas painted in the sky and graffiti-ed on the fences and stamped along the construction sites where we walk and live and laugh.

We hear ideas in the words of a grocery store clerk, a learning baby, a consoling daddy, an interesting bathroom experience.

We sense ideas in a scene that develops before our eyes like it was part of some cosmic movie projected just for us--just for a moment--so that we could be inspired by life to create life that will inspire others to live.

To live.

And isn't that the point of it all? Or, as Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote it, "To live the questions." One way of living the questions--as a parent and as a writer--is to surrender to them.

It doesn't mean throwing up our arms and then sitting on a patch of dry grass sucking our teeth. No. But it does mean letting go of the expectation that things have to progress a certain way, or follow a certain formula.

Because children and books share one beautiful thing in common: neither much likes to be told who it is--to be told exactly how to live, grow, stretch, sleep, wake, breathe, dream, dance. Both need to have the space to learn themselves and find their own ways into the hearts of their creators, the hearts of their friends.

And space, perhaps, is just another word for surrender.

Whether Tyler sleeps straight through the night tonight, or five weeks from now (or more!), I've stopped holding my breath. Instead, I'm learning to enjoy the waking moments, not counting the cost so much of the minutes of slumber lost.

Whether I get a call from my agent tonight with the news that a novel or a picture book has sold, or five weeks from now (or more!), I've stopped holding my breath as well. Instead, I'm learning to throw all energy into the process. More voices clamber for their stories: that seventh novel needs to be written to join his six siblings. That 29th picture book is waiting for an incarnation to join his cousins.

And there's too much to enjoy to count the minutes of waiting through the times that don't follow the patterns of my expectations. Because the living is in the now, the living is all about learning to have real joy and create magical moments even if Sleeping or The Call don't arrive anytime soon.

And if there's one thing I want to teach my son, it's exactly that: don't live your life waiting for the next thing; live your life embracing the present thing. The next thing will happen soon enough--and usually once you stop calculating exactly when.

The Long View

2011-10-22T09:26:00.000+01:00

It had been over a month since I'd been to the Fulford Bowls Club--a collection of men over 65 who play indoor lawn bowling. (And one 30-year old American.) Life has been pretty hectic lately, with Tyler fighting cold after cold, sleeping through the night a thing of legend and lore, and allergy attacks gathering around me like I'm a never-ending supply of sticky notes for a highly organized person.

So attending the Thursday night bowling just didn't make the list of Must Do in Order to Survive.

But this past Thursday, I attended again.

Ten years ago, I ran the London Marathon with my oldest brother, Christopher. By mile 20, the two of us were Jell-O men, stumbling forward under the weight of gravity and lunacy, in equal parts. Walking into Bowls last Thursday, my legs felt similarly. I wanted to keel over a few times--or at least just bowl from a chair.

But as I looked around, I felt heartened. So many older men welcomed me back. Told me they missed me. We shook hands. Talked about the weather. Talked about the wars they had fought in fifty, sixty years ago. Talked about bowls.

Always about bowls.

Ah, good wood there, mate!

Just ease up to the Jack. Bring it straight round there.

Oh, ay! That's a Yorkshireman's delight right there.

Every time down the green fake-lawn mat, these older men smiled with joy at the smallest attempt, the closest call, the possible point.

The thrill. Even of indoor lawn bowling.

And I was struck by something my soul was in desperate need of: the long view.

I talked with Ken, one of the men who landed on the beaches at Normandy when he was only 18 years old as a conscript of the British Army. He was paid twelve pence a day. By contrast, American soldiers during World War II were paid the equivalent of four pounds a week. Ken was making 84 pence a week. And he served at the invasion, then for two years in Palestine during terrible battles there. In both places, he was wounded.

Now, Ken smiles with ease. He jokes. He laughs.

Ken has survived. He has taken the long view of life, realizing that we pass through immeasurable difficulty and confusion and fear and sometimes horror, but somehow, we survive. And when we do, we keep on walking the path that falls before our feet.

I talked with Tony, who described how his four-year old daughter (now 39) would wake up screaming night after night after night. For six months. He and his wife had just had another baby, and between the four-year old screaming, the newborn with terrible colic, Tony and his wife had zero sleep. Literally. I watched Tony's face as he recalled the time.

"How did you make it through?" I ask, wanting to glean some kind of wisdom for our own sleep trouble with Tyler of late.

Tony shook his head, looked at me, and smiled. "The thing is, our daughters are beautiful human beings. You just have to love them through the hard stages and remember that you might always know what the hard stages are about, but they pass." Then, Tony smiled and patted me on the back.

The long view.

During the eight o' clock tea break, I talked with Henry, who lives and breathes bowls now, as a seventy-year old man. His face rose and fell like an ocean of glee as he described the five Bowling Clubs of which he is a part. The different match-ups, the visiting teams, what bowls means to him and how it gives him a place to belong.

And I couldn't help but think, here's a seventy-year old man, and he has passion and joy. He looks forward to waking up each day, playing bowls almost every night. He;s not mourning his past, regretting the past 69 years. He's living his 70th.

The long view.

Walking back from St. Oswald's Church Hall at nine o' clock with the wind whipping cold across my ears, hands, all I could think, over and over, was the long view.

I am often so accustomed to contemplating the short view. What is happening now? What if this or that circumstance doesn't work out? What if this hard stage lasts forever?

Such are questions that the vocabulary of the Long View doesn't know or acknowledge.

In bowls, you might have an incredible turn: your ball might land square next to the Jack, lean against it like there's nothing in the world that will take that point away from you. But then another player gets up and knocks your ball completely off the mat. Your point is gone. Lost.

Alternately, you may bowl a ball that is as far away from the Jack as ice from fire. But then another player takes a turn and inadvertently slices your ball, knocks it square next to the Jack. One point.

You never know. The game changes moment by moment. Like life. And you can't play by giving so much power to each turn that you lose the thread of the game.

You can't live by lending so much significance to every circumstance that you lose the narrative of your own arc.

It's what the men at Bowls are teaching me. It's what I am slowly learning to do--slowly learning how to see. The Long View doesn't throw away the moments, nor does it anxiously plan and prepare for the future. Instead, it simply approaches the present with open hands, receives it, but does not allow any present moment to crush or signify the worth of existence. The worth of a life is much more valuable than any one thing, much more authentic than any sound bit, no matter how treacherous or beautiful.

Because what is most miraculous about our lives of it all is this: the story. It's not the sentence that decides our fate, nor the chapter. These are but a part of the narrative. The story as a whole is what matters. The mistakes I have made before, the patterns of fear I may have allowed to beat in unison with my heart--these do not signify the substance of the novel of my life. Nor yours.

The Long View tells us to wait and see. Keep living. Keep going. Keep bowling. The next time down the lawn mat, we may just end up with an incredible bowl, one that we would have missed had we been caught lamenting our last turn.

Writing with Enthusiasm

2011-10-18T15:53:00.001+01:00

Say that something's in the air: the changing of seasons, exhaust from the cars, baby gifts to the world as strollers (aka buggies) whirl past our little home on Lesley Avenue. Whatever the case, enthusiasm has been my best friend lately.

There are those days when the writing feels hard to begin. When e-mail seems a lot more exciting, or easier, and reworking that MG manuscript or picture book idea for the 21st time doesn't doesn't seem to possess the YES! that it sometimes does.

This past year in England, though, writing has become more of a Show Up endeavor. Specifically, this process of writing not by emotion but by will entails two parts:

1. Show up.
2. Write.

The more I show up at the computer each morning, afternoon, or night (depending on Tyler's sleep schedule), the more the Emotion, the Inspiration, and the YES! decide to join me. In other words, once those Lovely Three start to learn, hey, this guy's going to write his brains and heart out no matter what, it's like they decide, Okay, well, if he's that loyal, let's go give the guy some company.

And lately, enthusiasm has been pounding through my heart and fingers--even when I haven't recently poured myself a cup of strong-beyond-belief coffee.

Take today, for instance. After dropping Tyler off at pre-school this afternoon, I came home and went straight up to the computer. Before I checked e-mail--always the culprit that sucks time like a Hepa-Filter-Super-Powered-Vacuum-Cleaner--I opened up my MG work-in-progress, Fortress (about a Muilsim boy, a Jewish girl, a Christian owner of an old, falling-apart movie theater, a Grandmother with Alzheimer's who, only at three a.m., is struck coherent and relates a story about York, England from 1198 that involves King Richard the First, Robin Hood, the Crusades, and a little girl named Liljiana who loves flowers).

I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

I wrote like my characters were no longer characters. As though the letters of my keyboard were very, very tiny orange lifesaving floats that I had to furiously press repeatedly to get them to reach the characters but then--

Oh no!

Something would inevitably happen and my characters had to find out how to deal with the new storm, the new joy, the new complexity.

All that to say, this afternoon, writing was not writing. Writing was living for a group of people whom I could watch being created by fingers that moved across the keyboard that were not my own.

I wish every writing day could be like today. But the ones that are not hold their own beauty, their own excitement. (Even if that excitement only happens to be a single line that is made right after forty attempts at the sucker.)

But man, I sure an grateful for days like today: when emotion and will mix and create one heck of a little baby.

It

2011-10-16T10:06:00.000+01:00

We cut our fingernails,
Peel back the sleep from our eyes.

We pull the stray hairs off,
Watch them fall.

Crooked eyes make for
The straightest disguise:

We wear the face of humanity--
Our imperfect noises, ideas, cries.

In the face of despair,
We turn our tired eyes towards

Light.

However dark our lives,
We rise.

Against all logic,
all fear,
all confusion,
all despair.

We rise like rain
That bounces off rock:

Too bold too stay,
Too strong to remain.

Made for more than this,
More than superficial bliss,
We rise.

And while we stand,
The crooked of our pain remains,
But the straight of the sun dances
Like it's new again.

Like it's piercing holes in
Despair.

Like the Nothing that we
Worshipped was a sham.

(I wrote this poem while listening to the following song on YouTube over and over, and over and over, and over and over. And again. Hold Us Together by Matt Maher

The Gruffalo and Pees! (Or, Notes on Getting a Toddler Home While Also Realizing You're Not Realizing The Words That are Actually Coming Out of Your Mouth)

2011-10-13T17:59:00.006+01:00

Today, Tyler and I made the trek into the city center to go to the Dinosaur Museum. In reality, its official name is the Yorkshire Museum, which sounds a lot more formal and considerably more dull. So, we've taken to calling it by our own nomenclature.

It was the first day of only slight drizzle which then fading to a Zero Tolerance policy of rain in the late morning. After three days of staying within a five minute radius of home, we had to take the chance and walk the forty-five to the center.

Tyler did puzzles and we watched an endlessly still wolf eating a bunny (poor rabbit--but the little guy is never actually fully eaten, which makes explaining to Tyler, "No, no, the wolf is just high-fiving the bunny with his paw and he's actually smiling, not growling" a lot easier. Once Tyler turns three in a couple of weeks, I may have to add a bit more reality to the scene, but hey, you're only two once. There'll be time enough to learn about wolves and bunnies a bit later, right?).

We also built a few Roman towers that resembled those who once lived in York a thousand years ago. We looked at reconstructions of dinosaur skeletons. We learned our weight in dinosaur-scale: Tyler has recently graduated from a microvenator to a domiceiomimus; and I have remained a Velicaraptor. We played a touch-screen dinosaur game where we learned that Rob Owen came up with the actual name dinosaur and that a T Rex has a very, very, very, infinitesimally small brain.

Afterwards, running around in the massive museum gardens, we noted leaves, prickers, thorns, and nettles (alternately called prickers or thorns). We ran back inside for Tyler to do a poop in the immaculately cleaned Dinosaur Museum bathrooms. (One of the many other reasons I love bringing Tyler to the Dinosaur Museum.)

We ate a couple of samosas purchased at 79p a piece, and then meandered our way through the city and back home.

Once we reached the final five minutes--the long sidewalk that leads to Lesley Avenue--Tyler announced that he had to pee. Announcing a pee-need for Tyler is akin to a sportscaster calling a ballgame and announcing a grandslam. It's no small thing. It's something the world needs to know about.

And so we began to run. But Tyler soon noticed a yellow-berry bush. He stopped. He was intrigued. I wanted to salvage the sidewalk (and perhaps a some dignity) and get home to the potty (or at least our backyard).

We had planned to watch the DVD version of Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler's masterful book The Gruffalo when we got home. (An incredibly kind gift from Tyler's Aunt Megan and Uncle Matt, Cousin Jacob and Cousin Ava in Texas.) We were both thrilled. How can one not love The Gruffalo?

And so it was that I found myself attempting to hurry Tyler along by yelling with glee the following phrase: "Let's get home quick and watch The Gruffalo and do pees! Come on! The Gurffalo and Pees!"

And even though I am a thirty-year old man, and even though I do have some sense (however small) of decorum, something about the words felt right. Magical. Fun. Us.

We made it home; we peed; we watched The Gruffalo. We smiled.

After Illness

2011-10-10T22:19:00.000+01:00

The thing is, there's no way around it. Even though we plan our lives to completely evade it as much as possible, we can't.

No matter how much money we try and insulate ourselves with, bam! It's there like mud after rain.

No matter how many packets of Vitamin C powdery-fizzy goodness we mix into our waters, or how many super-healthy-eating cookbooks and fitness guides we buy with titles like Become a Super Human Android in Five Easy Steps While Eating Only Chocolate Only Through Your Nose, it's there.

It is.

No matter, either, if we stayed inside, never got wet, never touched another human being even. It's still there. We're going to get it.

Illness. Colds. Flu. Diarrhea. Vomiting. The whole gamut.

I started to come to peace with this reality when I began teaching seventh graders. I caught everything they had--and man, they had it all. It seemed every week I was coming home with a new variation on the age-old cold.

Now that I am a home-dad, it seems playgroups and playdates in York, England carry those determined bacteria just as confidently as do public schools in New England.

Tyler has just fought off his third bout with something. Jen and I have stopped trying to label each successive cold. Instead, we've tried to love him through it, help him see that it will pass, put vapor rub under his chin, hold him through the coughing fits, and let him watch as many movies as he wants.

(Meanwhile, we steel ourselves for the undeniable fact: we're next.)

But the thing about realizing that we're all going to get sick is this: after illness comes health. Most mornings, we wake up and start our days. But after illness we wake up and feel like high-fiving the post carrier, doing a flip down the stairs, and eating our bowls of cereal while singing the Hallelujah chorus through every bite--milk spraying, Cheerios flying free.

We get better. Colds leave. Flu hitchhikes out of town. Fevers drop. Coughing stops. Vomiting ceases. Diarrhea slows. It passes.

During my most recent battle with a vomiting-inducing-cold of some strain or other, I sat on the bathroom floor, clutching my stomach with one hand, the toilet with the other. Preparing to retch for the 11th time in two hours (no hyperbole, really).

Tyler was asleep, and Jen was there with me for moral support. (It hadn't yet made the leap to my lovely wife.) I looked up at Jen when there was a break in the vomiting traffic. "I can't do this anymore." Then I took a breath, and then I vomited again.

Jen's reply was as true as true as true: "Yes, you can babe. It's going to pass. I know it's awful, but it will stop and you'll feel better."

And that's the thing. It stops. The better comes.

None of us like to vomit or feel like our heads are exploding or like someone is gleefully sticking their fingers up into our nostrils and poking around trying to find the valve marked MUCUS RELEASE! But we all love the moments when it clears, when we can breathe, eat, laugh, feel what good is, again.

So I'm really only regurgitating here when I write that wisdom is all about--or at least a little about--finding a way to hold onto the it will end! during the it's hurting!

In our illnesses, yes, but also in our work, in our writing, in our relationships, in our wounds, in our confusions. No pain has the power to wield a full attack forever. It stops. Somehow, in some way, it gives up. And what remains are not the trails of bacteria and germs and messy clothes and broken relationships. No. What remains is the way we've grown through the pain. The way we've learned just a little more about love.

Tonight

2011-10-05T18:24:00.000+01:00

Sweeping the kitchen floor,
Washing dishes,
Picking pasta remains off my bare feet:
Singing "The Eye of the Tiger."

A new kind of tiger.
A new kind of eye.

Poem to End the Month

2011-09-29T23:05:00.002+01:00

On the walk home from this week's Public Speaking class, the words for this poem trickled even though the sky was a rare rainless clarity and the stars were bright, and the air--the air!--was unseasonably warm. So: a poem to end the month.

In Teaching

The way, after a good class,
That learning remains

Stays like rain
That drips after it falls

Wetting the ground beneath
Our feet, on which we stand

In all composure,
Compassion.

Shirkshare Dales and the 426 Steps

2011-09-25T08:04:00.001+01:00

Yesterday, the three of us were carried two hours north by a good friend to the magical land of the Yorkshire Dales. I woke with an allergy attack the likes of which I hadn't seen in a year--but which enjoyed making my nose blast as regularly and forcefully as Old Faithful. Tyler woke with a cough. Needless to say, Jennifer got us together, packed a picnic lunch fit for the Queen, and we made it into our friend's car and two hours later?

Magic.

We stopped first at Gordale Scar, which is essentially a massive rock wall enclosure built by years of water wearing down stone. (Analogies ad infinitum ensue: the way persistence wears down resistance; the way faithful work as a writer wears down rejection; the way steady, loving parenting wears down temper tantrums; the way believing wears down doubt; the way humor wears down grumpiness; the way writing wears down not-writing; the way voices that continue to seek justice wear down nay-sayers...).

Tyler loved walking over the many rocks strewn about on the path to the rock enclosure, and at one point, he asked, "Where are we?"

Us: The Yorkshire Dales!

Tyler: The Shirkshare Dales! I like the Shirkshare Dales!

Us: We do too. We like them too!

After Tyler left a fairly substantial water supply by one of the rocks, we made our way back to the Park Headquarters for this area of the Dales, at Malham. We ate a picnic lunch as rain drizzled and three ducks and two roosters sauntered about, ever more boldly requesting various foods from us.

Next, we walked the one mile trek to the bottom of Malham Cove (where we were told, on good authority, that a section of one of the Harry Potter movies had been shot). We learned that 426 steps led to the top of the Cove. The three parents (myself, Jen, and our friend) looked at each other and considered the facts:

Time: 3:30pm.

Who: Three adults and a two-year old, a four-year old

Status: Children becoming slightly delirious, throwing various items in nearby brook (all natural items, of course)

Decision: Go for it.

The five of us began the long trek up the top to Malham Cove. And here's the stunning thing--the really shocking thing: my legs complained more than Tyler's. He climbed those steps like it was part of any two year old's job description--eat ice cream, have the occasional tantrum, look super-cute and say the occasional highly charming thing, laugh like the rain, climb 426 steps to top of Malham Cove in the Yorkshire Dales.

At the top, the five of us sat, sharing three oranges, two granola bars, and a Cadbury milk chocolate dream. While the pieces of chocolate melted, carrying sweetness everywhere inside of us, the view that confronted us was like this: the way you feel when the mail arrives, and there's an unexpected letter from a fabulous source, and just looking at the outside of that envelope--stamps slightly covered in ink, your own name scrawled about the middle, the return address gorgeous ion its corner--gives you the indelible feeling that life is really something. Really beautiful.

And you feel gratitude for the letter that's been sent your way; excitement to open it and learn what's inside.

Prove What?

2011-09-15T08:01:00.001+01:00

When I was in high school, the movie Rudy came out, and it instantly became one of my favorites. The fact that it was a true story. About a guy who had little natural ability, but who worked his butt off harder than anyone could have expected. That he made the Notre Dame football squad at five-foot nuthin;, a hundred and nuthin'...

And what I used to love about the movie, of course, was the final scene in which Rudy runs out onto the playing field for his glorious 27 seconds of actual Notre Dame football. The climax. The moment of victory.

Recently, I found a clip of the film that I love so much to use with my night Public Speaking course. The course explores growing confidence, belief in one's voice, and clarity. And I realized that I wanted the learners in that course to sense that it isn't the result--the official outcome--that matters most, but rather the way we carry ourselves--the way we speak, live, and believe that really matters.

And so I didn't show the final, climactic scene: the 27 seconds of glory.

Instead, I chose the clip where Rudy finally realizes (through the remarkable speech of a friend) that not quitting is the victory. Choosing to keep going is the victory. Realizing that he doesn't have to prove anything to anyone but himself is the victory.

Three minute speech. A lifetime of truth. Check it out.

What English Weather Teaches Me

2011-09-14T19:41:00.000+01:00

In short: you never know. (And that's a good thing.)

Some mornings, I wake up here on Lesley Avenue and look outside to find a mass of dark rain clouds gathered like linebackers, having already eaten their Wheaties, ready to literally let it pour.

And one hour later, as Jen and Tyler and I busy ourselves in the kitchen pouring cereal, yogurt, buttering toast (perhaps, if it's a slow morning, frying some eggs and beans), I look outside to find this blue that makes my heart ache it's so beautiful.

So defiantly itself, saying to the rain and the heavy cloulds that only an hour ago owned the sky, your time is done. It's my time now. I may be a puny quarterback, but I'm calling the shots now.

And Blue does. Call the shots that is. She orchestrates a morning so divine that Jen and I hustle upstairs to grab our laundry basket--overflowing by now because of yesterday's rain--and then launch its entire contents into the washing machine. Smiling. Anticipating hanging up that oversized load of laundry amidst the glory--the sanctity--of Blue.

But by the time our 30-minute wash cycle ends, and the Laundry announces, Let's do this, homeslice! it is too late.

Blue has somehow lost her handle of the morning. Even though it seemed impossible, an interception from the other team just as Blue was throwing to the endzone has happened. Rain has arrived.

Jen and I look at one another. We've been here before. We've seen this kind of game-changing weather. And while, in our first few months in York, it caused indigestion in our hearts, it doesn't any longer.

We ask one another a simple, you hanging it today, or me? And unfailingly, one of us will carry a full load of laundry out into our backyard. In the rain.

In the pouring rain.

And we;ll hang each pair of underwear, each towel, each black or blue shirt, wondering--considering--that maybe it'll clear. Just maybe.

And if Blue should find herself with the ball again, ready to make another game-changing throw, well, our laundry will be ready to soak up the shining that Blue's team holds forth.

And so will we.

Because, hey, you never know. You really, really never know.

One Minute Longer

2011-09-11T18:20:00.002+01:00

As writers, we sometimes fall prey to that most venemous of frogs (or dragons): it ain't gonna happen. The doubt. The nagging, incessant doubt that tries to slowly convince us of its truth.

When I was a high school senior, many (many!) years ago, I recall that our Superintendent of Schools in Windsor, CT was being "asked to resign." I don't remember much about why, but there was loads of controversy, and when he gave his last speech to us seniors as we prepared for graduation, I remember a single line of his: the person who accomplishes what they set out to do is often the one who can hold on for one minute longer."

One minute longer.

When it comes to writing and publishing, 'one minute longer' might more accurately be translated, 'one month longer,' or 'one year longer,' or even (yes, even) 'one decade longer.'

When we first open our notebooks with a smile on our faces, saying to our husbands or wives, "I've got this cool idea for a book," the journey we begin is nothing like a walk to the park. Or a walk to the center of town to make a stop at the local library.

It's more like the Appalachian Trail or a jaunt up Mount Everest.

To see our scrawled bubbles go from notebook pages to hardbound or paperback books is nothing short of a miracle--a miracle which sometimes seems and feels as though it will never happen.

Last night, our son Tyler took an unusual nap around one in the afternoon. He slept for an hour as Jennifer and I walked into the city center of York. We felt the inner angst as we confided in one another, Yup, tonight may be a tough night to get the T-Man to sleep. Very tough. May give new meaning to the word 'tough.' Step aside, Stallone. We're gonna have one heck of a ride trying to get our guy to fall asleep. But we'll stick together. It will happen.

So we enjoyed the hour of magnificent conversation--sharing dreams, discussing our latest story ideas and ups and downs, and considering the journey we're on.

Tyler woke happy. His words were literally bubbles that floating out of his mouth into an open sky all day. We saw some famous people get married at York Minster. (Well, we didn't actually see them get married; we watched them exit the church along with the rest of the large crowd. We don't know who they are. or how they;re famous. But the mob seemed to think so.)

When seven o' clock came, and bedtime along with it, Tyler jumped into his Bob the Builder themed bed, and the saga began.

Story time--which usually consists of a five minute story told by me about crane trucks, ice cream, lollipops, and various friends of Tyler's--stretched itself into about twenty minutes.

Song time--which usually consists of a five minute litany of ice cream, lollipop, crane truck, and Christian songs sung by Jennifer--stretched itself into twenty minutes.

Ten more minutes of lollipop stories by me.

Ten more minutes of lollipop songs by Jennifer.

It seemed that sleep would never come. But then another thought dawned on me. Tyler is tired. He needs sleep. He will sleep. Sometime.

And then I remembered: one minute longer.

It's usually just when we're about to give up that things break loose. Really give up, I mean. When our hearts tell us, Nothing, man. I got nothing. And our souls say, Dude, I'm spent. And our bodies and brains echo the refrains--then it's right at that moment that stuff happens.

And in life, stuff always happens when we wait long enough, focus our hearts on what matters rather than what we think matters, and when we keep the faith.

In writing and in publishing, it may seem like it might never happen. But it will. With enough heart, love, authentic passion, and diligence, it will.

Last night, Tyler finally fell asleep amidst a thousand songs of all his favorite things. And maybe, just maybe, that's what it's all about: learning to tell stories and sing songs--holding the faith amidst the wait. No matter how long it takes.

Firsts

2011-09-06T14:32:00.000+01:00

First article publication.

First day at a new job.

First time watching son using the potty (assisted).

First time watching son using the potty (unassisted).

First time trying fish (for whatever reason, with eyeballs intact).

First time getting dizzy after trying fish (eater's eyeballs not so intact).

First time weeping.

First time laughing so hard milk comes out of your nose (even though it's been awhile since you've had milk).

First book publication.

First child.

First sleepness nights without choosing to have a sleepness night to prepare for an exam which you should have studied for throughout the term rather than on the last (sleepness) night.

First letter from a reader.

First kiss.

First kiss representing a lifetime of further kisses from that one, first forever love.

First time becoming clueless about everything you thought you knew but now know that you really (really!) do not.

First time weathering a severe storm and realizing, hey, it's gonna be okay.

First time realizing, No, it's NOT gonna be okay; I was wrong!

First time getting past both previous firsts to a more substantial first that lasts: yes, it is. But it takes time.

First rejection of a book which reveals that the editor thought it was really, really awful.

First rejection of a book which reveals that the editor thought it was really, really strong. (But still didn't buy it.)

First request to see the book again with revisions.

First rejection of re-considered book with revisions.

First time being without our son at two in the afternoon, as he attends his first afternoon session of pre-school in York, England, with five teachers who seem as wise as Yoda and as kind as Mother Teresa, yet still feeling vaguely filled with terror, worry, fear, anxiety that something will happen, and what if something happens and WE'RE NOT THERE TO HELP and what if he cries and cries because he doesn't realize that pre-school is a good thing, where he can shed his overbearing father for a bit and play with other kids on his own, even though he doesn't know that this is a good thing yet but will soon, but maybe not until AFTER many rounds of afternoon pre-school have already passed and what am I supposed to do about that in the meantime?

First time writing a hard-to-follow, nervously crafted, fingernail-biting blog while our son is at pre-school.

[Breathing. Breathing. Breathing.]

First time realizing, it will be okay. Son will be okay. Letting go a little is okay. Life is okay.

Ladders or Fences?

2011-08-31T21:17:00.000+01:00

Tonight, Tyler climbed the small wooden fence in our backyard to talk to the neighbors' dogs--Oscar and Prince. While the dogs roamed their own yard, looking for a place to deposit the churned up outcome of their day's intake, I peeked out from the kitchen, while heating up some left-over pasta, to see Tyler standing there talking to them.

"Hi Oscar! Hi Prince!"

The dogs look up in wonder, glee.

"I am just talking to you now, because daddy is inside getting my food and his food ready because we going to eat dinner in a few minutes."

Prince gives a single bark. Oscar tilts his head.

"Daddy will talk to you when he comes out with the food. That's okay? Okay. Good one."

Tyler climbs down from the fence and runs to the back door, where I am already waiting.

"I told Oscar and Prince that you will talk to them in a little bit. That's okay Daddy?"

Something about the way Tyler says the words to me, the innocence with which he just climbed the fence to talk to you fully expecting them to comprehend his every word, the way that imagination and concern for others--even for dogs--is etched on my son's face as he says the words to me--something.

Something.

And the something that Tyler has just sparked and touched inside of me suggests I look at the pot of reheated pasta, the mess in the kitchen that we left in a rush this morning, the rejections I receive as a writer, the very hard work Jen has had to do on her literature review, the nighttime wake-ups with some of Tyler's recent bad dreams, the constant wondering if I'm learning enough, living with wisdom, and more importantly, living with love--

All of it.

The something in me that Tyler touches with his feet just a bit off the ground is, in a word, the need to get my feet off the ground every once in a while, too. To remember that climbing fences is always a better pursuit than climbing ladders. For while climbing ladders afford us higher views, perhaps more stuff to surround ourselves with--fences offer us, instead, places to stand from which we might peer over and see other souls, other lives. Places from which we might yell out in a child-like way, expecting contact, communion.

Why We Need Pain to Write

2011-08-27T18:05:00.000+01:00

For the September issue of The Writer, I wrote a piece with the above title. It came out of much of what these past eleven months have taught us, and I thought I'd include the link to where the article appears on the magazine's webpage: "Why We Need Pain to Write."

On Gary D. Schmidt's OKAY FOR NOW

2011-08-26T12:21:00.000+01:00

Wow.

Wow.

(!)

This book both broke my heart and made me laugh hysterically. Often at the same exact moment.

Schmidt tells the story of eighth-grader Doug Swieteck as he deals with difficulties and pain facing him at every turn. Doug's voice is believable, endearing, strong, and hopeful, even as he complains about everything from the town where his family moves, to school teachers and grocery deliveries.

Readers will quickly (read: immediately) fall in love with Doug and root for him page after page. Doug's journey is vividly revealed, and the language makes readers feel as though Doug himself is sharing with them the story--as if they themselves are a customer on Doug's grocery delivery route, and he's decided to tell all.

I read the book in about two days, even though Jen and I were transitioning our little man to a big boy bed and were already sleep deprived. However, I couldn't keep away from OKAY FOR NOW. The book literally squeezed and squeezed my heart and refused to let go. When I finished, tears in my eyes, laughter dancing on my lips, all I could say to Jen was, "You've got to read this book."

It's a book that is impossible not to enjoy. Additionally--and more importantly--it's a book that gets inside your soul and doesn't leave it in the same state once the final page closes.

It makes my list of All-Time Top Six Books (which is a hard feat to come by!).

(The others, for the curiously inclined, are TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD by Harper Lee, THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV by Fyodor Dostoevsky, A RAISIN IN THE SUN by Lorraine Hansberry--I know, I know, a play makes the list of "books", but I can't help it, it's that powerful--MOCKINGBIRD by Kathryn Erskine, and THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain.) I kept my this old list at five pretty tight, but Gary Schmidt's stunning and transforming novel forces the list to six!)

The Thing About Jerry Spinelli...

2011-08-20T20:41:00.001+01:00

Is, in short, that on any page of any of his books, I can find a sentence that I'd like to write on an index card and carry around in my pocket. Just to re-read it and be awakened to the rhythm, power, and redemption in our lives.

Ever since I read Wringer, I was hooked.

I just finished Spinelli's Love, Stargirl, the sequel to his enormously powerful (and popular) Stargirl. I read the original five times a year with my seventh graders, for two years. Ten reads in class, combined with two on my own, and the book still jived with my soul. Spinelli--like Kathy Erskine, Jacqueline Woodson, Gary Schmidt--has a remarkable way of getting to the height of emotion in every scene, without overshooting and without missing any power, however subtle or silent.

Reading the last lines of Love, Stargirl, I felt an immense gratitude: to be able to read a book and be moved to rethink my own perspective; to feel both peace and challenge speak; to be inspired to continue crafting and revising my own novels; to listen to the life of another.

I'm onto Okay for Now, by Gary Schmidt, which, too, makes my heart beat fast. I'm grateful for the words.

Rambo, Conan, and the Impossible Male

2011-08-16T13:36:00.001+01:00

Walking home from the city center today pushing Tyler in the stroller, my eye caught an advertisement for the new Conan the Barbarian movie plastered along the side of a double-decker bus.

Under an image of Conan as biceps-and-pecs-the-size-of-Texas, the movie's slogan was printed in all caps: BORN ON THE BATTLEFIELD.

Immediately,my mind jumped back to four years ago, when Jen and I were leaving the movie theater in Flagstaff, Arizona after having watched The Freedom Writers, and we saw the movie poster for the latest Rambo installment. The slogan on that one? HEROES DON'T DIE. THEY JUST RELOAD.

So, along my walk home, my mind started a little mini-synthesis paper. (Perhaps I miss the classroom a bit, or maybe the rain that had begun pouring made me pensive.) I combined both movie slogans and came up with one that presents a fairly accurate depiction of what many men see as their culture-proclaimed epitome of manhood is: REAL MEN ARE BORN TOUGH; THEY LIVE TOUGH; THEY NEVER DIE (BUT IF THEY WERE TO DIE, THEY WOULD DIE TOUGH).

But when I tried to enter the next layer of synthesis and try to make my slogan fit men generally, or even any man specifically, I was stuck.

Thing is, a lot of men profess drivel like this. A lot of us y-chromosome-wielding guys might claim that toughness, battles, and reloading guns is what masculinity is all about. But the truth is, no man really believes it. (Though he may be suckered into it by the way his dad raised him, one too many Rambo films, video games where you can kill your opponent a thousand different ways, and bully-peer-coolness culture in our schools.)

See, every male student I've ever taught at the middle, high school, or college level has all had one thing in common: a heck of a lot of pretense. (This, by the way, includes yours truly.) In other words, all men learn that sooner or later, you've got to act the part and try to look cool, act tough, and carry a big stick / gun / sword / mouth / name-brand-clothing-that-has-been-advertised-by-a-guy-with--yes--pecs-as-big-as-the-state-of-Texas.

But every man knows, deep down, that this is all one big load of baloney. Because we men know how we feel. We know that we get sad; we get happy; we get lonely; we get scared (even terrified); we get needy; we get contemplative (yup, even those guys who you'd never expect it from); we want to get real.

I think there are a lot of us guys out here who would rather push a stroller than wield a sword.

Writers like Robert Bly, who popularized the notion of this secret, innate-warriorness / wildness / aggressiveness that all men possess and which has somehow been crushed by women, talk a big game. Their words get a lot of guys fired up, thinking to themselves, Hey, maybe Bly is right. I am a warrior. I need a sword! I need a gun! I need to tell this nagging lady to be quiet so I can lead the way! After all, Bly must be right because, hey, didn't they give him a Pulitzer Prize? And didn't John Eldridge translate Bly's notion of the wild man for the Christian male with Wild at Heart?

But in reality, maybe we men are starting to come to some new conclusions:

1. Courage isn't necessarily about one big moment of power and aggressiveness with a sword or a gun. It might be more about the way we live; the way treat people; the way we learn to love when it's excruciatingly hard to do so.

2. I'd just as soon drink a cup of tea and watch a rom-com with my wife rather than kill a thousand people on a video game.

3. It's a heck of a lot more fun to be honest rather than hide. Hiding gets old. Boring. Tired old script; same old hiding places. Ugh.

4. There's got to be something better out there--some better model.

And there is! Men like Atticus Finch present a far more beautiful--and courageous--notion of what authentic masculinity should look like (and could, really could, look like).

In the Acknowledgements section of his bestselling book Guyland, author Michael Kimmel writes movingly about the wish he has for his sons. He quotes a poet and Pulitzer-prize winner (three times!) far different than Mr. Bly. Kimmel cites Adrienne Rich's wishes for her own sons--that they would "have the courage of women" regarding his sons, too.

What a beautiful desire: that we men would learn the courage of women--the courage to love when it's hard, to live not only the moments of glory but also the moments no one sees (that are no less valiant or brave). To walk among the noble souls who live not only for battle, but for peace.

Conan and Rambo may wield power when it comes to the masculine ideal, but men like Atticus Finch have another kind of courage and power entirely: the masculine real. real love; real conviction; real courage for the long journey. And I, for one, am a heck of a lot more interested in that.

Lollipop Day

2011-08-10T07:37:00.001+01:00

Thursday is Lollipop Day.

There is a small, red store about fifteen minutes' walk from our house, right across from the tiny library where we go on, yes, Thursday. We can buy a lollipop for six pence. (Roughly 11 American cents--used to be 10 a few weeks ago.)

The lady within the store knows that Tyler and I stop in to see her every Thursday at 2pm, just before Story Time begins at the library. We choose two lollipops--one for Tyler, one for Daddy. (Tyler picks both colors.)

She takes our twelve pence with a smile and says, "See you next week."

As we leave the store, Tyler inevitably processes what has just occurred.

"We got lollipops today?"

"Yes, because it's Thursday, and Thursday is LOLLIPOP DAY!"

"Thursday is lollipop day Daddy?"

"Yup, Thursday is LOLLIPOP DAY!"

"I like Thursday."

"I like Thursday too."

We walk on in silence for a while, Tyler enjoying his yellow lollipop, me enjoying my blue/purple/red one. The only other sound's the sweep of easy slurp and downy take. The lollipops grow smaller by the second, and soon we're at the library, waiting for Story Time to begin.

Inevitably, the next morning, Tyler will often ask if we can get lollipops again.

"No, only on Thursday, remember? Because Thursday is LOLLIPOP DAY."

"Today is not Thursday?"

"No. Today is Friday."

"We can't get lollipops on Friday?"

"Well, we could get lollipops on Friday, but then our teeth would say, Ah! Too much sugar! Ah, we're melting!"

"They say that one?"

"Yeah."

Tyler stops, thinks for a moment, and then says, "I like Thursday."

It's hard to disagree. On what other day can you hold such joy in your hands--multicolored--as you sit in a library listening to great stories?

The great poet W.H. Auden once write that "In moments of ecstasy and joy, we all wish we possessed a tail we could wag." If Mr. Auden were alive now, I'm sure he'd feel just this sentiment on Lollipop Day.

What She Said

2011-08-08T23:03:00.000+01:00

I just read Jen's latest blog post on commitment--something we've been talking a lot about lately, in all areas of our lives. Hard to say it any better than she did, so here you go: http://asparagusforbreakfast.blogspot.com/2011/08/commitment-move.html

Brief Poem on a Slow Evening

2011-08-04T18:41:00.000+01:00

Wait for the words
That wake like dew--
Whose origin you never see,
Whose presence is always true.

Breaking Some Gender Stereotypes

2011-08-01T20:38:00.001+01:00

Jennifer and I recently celebrated our sixth anniversary. Six big ones. (But only one little one thus far--though at two years old, and consistently in the 99th percentile for height, weight, head circumference, and naturally-released, constant energy levels, he feels like a big (good) one as well.)

For me, marriage has been like teaching: I've always loved it, but I think I learn a heck of lot more about it the more experience I get. And there's no way to learn without doing it. As much psychology, relationship, and literary fiction as there is that deals with strong marriages--there's no substitute for the real thing: learning by doing, as the poet Roethke once told us.

So here is one of my big lessons from year six that experience has taught me: it's good to break gender stereotypes.

Our son is a good example of how breaking gender stereotypes has brought Jen and I a heck of a lot of happiness. Tyler loves two things in life with a passion as deep and as profound as the Atlantic Ocean: his baby doll and his uptrucks. He carries his baby doll (a female whom he named Bob the Builder) around with him everywhere he goes. He pushes Bob on the swings; he gives Bob a thousand kisses a day; a pushes Bob gently down his small backyard slide (and, admittedly, laughs when she falls over and bumps her head all the way down; but then Tyler is there to pick up Bob, caress her head bruises, apply a few band-aids, profusely kiss the injuries, and then continue on).

Lining the fence in our backyard (here, called a garden) are seven yellow construction vehicles--yellow dump trucks; yellow uptrucks (diggers); yellow cement mixer trucks; yellow backhoes. He runs them through the dirt and delights in their carrying capacities.

I think Tyler's passions demonstrate something Jen and I have come to accept about ourselves in our marriage: we enjoy breaking gender stereotypes. It just feels...right.

Case in point: The Plough Pub. It's July 30th, 2011, and we're out for our anniversary night. My mom and two brothers, Michael and Matthew, are babysitting while Jen and I get out for the night. Walking like a couple giddy in anticipation of a full meal without mentioning the words "poopies," "itchies," or "snots," we arrive at the pub barely able to remain calm. But we do. We keep calm and carry on through the beautiful white oak door of The Plough.

We snag a table by the window, discuss what we'll start with for drinks and our meals, and I make my way up to the bar. I order a martini for Jen, a pint of Timothy Taylor's for me. I saunter back to our table, drinks in hand and food order placed.

I am a husband heading back to this wife, thrilled to have a long conversation about dreams, emotions, and emotional dreams. Jen takes a sip of her martini and finds it a bit too sweet, which enables me to gladly switch with her, secretly pumped about a sweet martini, and there we sit, a man drinking his sweet martini; his wife a pint of Yorkshire's finest local ale.

Case in Point (B): Our neighbors let us borrow an electric hedge clipper. Having landscaped my way through high school, I am jazzed about using the thing to trim our relentlessly misbehaving hedges. I work for about ten minutes, then ask Jennifer if she'd like to have a go.

Jen takes the hedge trimmer and Tyler and I watch--in sheer amazement--as Jen goes to town for the next hour, creating a masterpiece of our hedges. Beauty. Perfection. No limb of any hedge a millimeter longer than any other. She's a natural. (Meanwhile, Tyler and I had quite a blast giggling like, well, toddlers.)

Case in Point (C): The obvious, I guess. I like what I'm doing. Really. So does Jen. Sure--we each miss what we were doing before. I sometimes get that longing to be back inside of a high school or middle school classroom; and Jen has that urge to spend the full day with our guy, attending playgroups and chatting about poopie endlessly (that latter part I may have made up). But neither of us would want to change a thing.

It works.

It fits.

Even though people look at us like one of us isn't being honest, or one of us is somehow hiding some deeply honest desire (me to scale cliffs and Jen to nurse a kid till he;s five or something like that), we're not. There's something that just fits together, and in this sixth year of marriage, I'm grateful beyond words for a wife who has both passion and compassion, both strength and nurture, that work all together in this balance that I can only call love.

Cereal

2011-07-23T21:42:00.002+01:00

Currently: eating a bowl of Fruit N' Fibre, Tesco brand (the English version of generic, cheapest of cheap). Here, we can buy a 750g box of fruity, fiber-y goodness for £1.29, roughly the equivalent of two bucks. That's a heck of a lot of fibre (or fiber) and dried fruit per penny.

Cereal has always been an active part of my nightlife. Forget drinking pints. Forget chocolate cake. Forget dried grape leaves dampened with mist and elongated by bruschetta made from freshly picked and diced tomatoes after having been sprinkled with homegrown pressed garlic and a touch of oregano.

No. I'm talking about the milky goodness of cereal--its perfect balance of refreshing, cold taste-thrilling joy, along with all the stability of a full meal (or dessert) in a bowl.

And consider: a bowl is a wonderful symbol of life--its circular symmetry, its concave (or convex, depending on your perspective) presence, its willingness to hold steady in the face of all danger.

When I was in high school, I began eating a bowl of cereal every night. Now, thirteen years later, the habit continues (for which Jen deserves serious commendations for hearing my chomping, slurping, cereal-loving sounds emanate each night of our lives together).

Tonight, I sing the praises of cereal as one of those always-present, seldom-thanked-properly companions. I'm grateful. I'm content. I'm sitting on a couch that is half red flannel, half beige cloth (not joking: this is our couch where we rent) and I'm typing these words as, beside me, sits a bowl of Fruit N' Fibre. Half-eaten. And I'm struck by the joy of small things.

The joy of cereal.

This past week, a deal came through for a book at which I've been at work, entitled Keep Calm and Query On: Notes on Writing (and Living) with Hope. And I can't get a cover image of the original 1939 British poster as the book's cover out of my mind. And it's exciting, and I'm grateful. Very grateful. It's a neat book (well, at least, I think so!) with interviews from writers I deeply admire and am inspired by--people like John Robinson, Jane Smiley, Robert Pinsky, Daniel Handler, Lindsey Collen, George Saunders, and others.

But the thing is this: there's the cereal. Always the cereal, which leads to an important truth: being thankful for the fiber--content with the fiber, really--is what matters most. Everything else is fun and enjoyable as well, yes, but I want to live in that stable place where I can look down into a bowl of cereal, thank God for its milky wonder, and eat while closing my eyes as I slurp (far too loudly) another bite.

Real Voice Percentages

2011-07-22T13:07:00.000+01:00

Three years ago, I seldom spoke in a voice other than my own. Unless I happened to be feeling particularly excitable with my 7th graders (or had consumed far too much coffee), I generally spoke in my own, natural, low, sometimes-sounds-like-I-have-a-cold-even-though-I-don't voice.

Over the last three years I have watched my real voice percentage decline on an almost daily basis.

Case in point: before Tyler was born, I'd say my real voice percentage was at about 97%. Thus, only 3% of the time did I use the voices of cows, astronauts, or trees.

During Tyler's first year of life, that percentage fell to about 70%. I found myself excited to make trucks talk as they drove past us, get the inside scoop from a cookie, or hear from the oft-ignored various furniture items in any given abode.

During Tyler's second year of life, the real voice percentage fell to about 60%, as the need to distract Tyler from things he wanted that would not be safe (i.e. chain saws, various electrical outlets and plugs, sharp objects) grew enormously.

Now, in Tyler's third and most vigorous year of living yet, I find that my real voice percentage has dropped to about 40% most days. Considering Tyler's recent acquisition of a baby doll that we purchased for two pounds at an annual fair, this real voice percentage is likely to drop substantially in the days and weeks ahead.

And an eerie thing has happened in the past few days: I almost forget which voice is mine.

Case in point # 2: Tyler and I are walking home from playgroup, only ten minutes away (walking at a normal pace; however, thirty-five minutes walking at Tyler/Daddy-pace).

Tyler: "Flowers, you want me to stop and talk with you?"

Daddy (Flowers) in high pitch: "Yes! Yes! Talk to us about all the trucks and ice cream!"

Tyler: "Okay. I like uptrucks! I like ice cream! You like uptrucks? You like ice cream?"

Daddy (Flowers) in normal voice: "Yes, we like uptrucks and ice cream!"

Tyler: No, no, no, no, no--I want to talk with the Flowers now, Daddy. I will talk to you later."

And so I find myself mixing up the voices of the Flowers, the newly-acquired baby, the various truck-vehicles, and other inanimate objects like favorite trees, certain bushes, and sleeping cats.

But even while the real voice percentage plummets, the opposite trend has been developing in writing. I find myself writing sillier and sillier picture books, stranger and stranger stories and novel ideas, and ever-more-honest journal entries (even when they're really, really hard to write about the tough emotions and the places I'd rather not visit).

Perhaps in losing a bit of my natural voice, there is another kind of voice that arrives, too.

However, I'd be lying if I didn't report that it was beautiful to meet another dad yesterday at the playground and have a normal, one-on-one conversation with another human being who didn't expect me to make the slide sing or the rocks tell a story. I see the need to remember that it's okay to sometimes say, "I'm wiped, man. How are you?"

And in admitting the need to let all of the adventure rest for a bit, it returns later, with more energy, vigor, and--yes--even lower real voice percentages.

Purple Man

2011-07-15T11:08:00.002+01:00

We first met him seven months ago, after we had been in York for only a couple of months. Fraught with the culture shock, not-having-a-car-shock, and a general litany of other shocks (as small as no discussion of American politics to an inability to find a number of American books we wanted to read), our early time in York certainly left us with the lingering question, What in the heck have we done!?

And in response to this question, there was Purple Man. (See his website here.)

He rides an eternally immovable bike. (Purple.) He wears an endlessly blowing necktie. (Also purple.) His face evidences a thin layer of stubble and a massive smile. (Yes: purple.)

We see him most frequently on Stonegate, embodying the very essence of joy as he sits atop his bike, first fixed, then moving to say hello to some tourist visiting York, only to bring them closer, whisper conspiratorially, and then raise his bucket of paint and paintbrush.

"Would you like me to paint your hair?" he asks, in such a kind voice and with such a clever smile that no tourist--or local, for that matter--can resist.

The cameras flash. The Flip videos record. An audience of onlookers raise their hands to their mouths.

It wasn't until after Purple Man had painted Tyler's, Jennifer's, and my hair that we realized the paint on his brush is dry. He smiles with glee at the excitement of it all--the uncertainty as to whether or not you've actually been painted.

After the first time, Tyler began calling for Purple Man every time we went into the city.

"T-Man, what do you want to do in the city today?"

"I want to go see Purple Man."

"And then what?"

"Then I want to see Purple Man."

"And after we say hi to Purple Man, would you like to go to the library?"

"No, I just want to see Purple Man after I go to see Purple Man. We can do that one?"

"Sure."

And thus our little York experiment took on a new life. A new energy. Purple Man came to represent, for us, a kind of living that included telling any setbacks, Hey, Dude! Watch Out! We;re not giving up. We're not giving in. So what if we have to hang our clothes outside to dry in the rain? So what if we have to walk 45 minutes to church? So what if feeling a gas pedal beneath my right foot and getting somewhere--anywhere--fast feels like an impossible dream? We're sticking this one out. We're going purple.

Why else, after all, would someone decide to paint themselves purple, smile at people he doesn't know, and make them laugh? Why else but to share one small piece of something we all know to be true about this thing called life: joy.

Joy. We can most of us complain for hours on end about how hard certain events are, certain discomforts, certain having-to-do-withouts. But in the final analysis (whenever that is, and whether it takes place in a Graduate-level college classroom, or along some distant shore on a beach while the tide comes in) we've got a heck of a lot to be thankful for--a heck of lot of joy to embrace. For one thing: the color purple. (And yes, The Color Purple, too.)

Purple Man never gives advice on how to make it through the tough times. He doesn't wax poetic about the glimmers of hope or the cracks of despair. Nor does he recommend books, movies, or therapists.

He sits on his bikes, paints your hair purple, and smiles. Which, in my mind, is just about as good, if not better, most days.

Thanks, Purple Man.

Beauty

2011-07-07T22:19:00.003+01:00

When I was an undergrad studying in England ten years ago, I had a tutorial in the Romantic poets. Like a lot of young, single, helplessly hopeless college-age students, I fell in love with them and with what they told me about love.

And beauty.

Keats's line, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" stays with me from that tutorial not just because I thought it was a remarkable line but also, I confess, because it appeared in the film White Men Can't Jump. So we begin today's blog with Keats's analysis of beauty: that it lasts forever. Onto that premise, we add Tyler: age two and a half, in two scenes from our day today.

Scene One: The sky wavers regarding its decision to rain. Dark clouds hover like middle-aged men at a poker table, unsure whether to bluff this hand through or fold. Patches of blue open up like doors held ajar for visitors. Tyler swings with abandon. Beside him is Analin, a four year old girl whose mom has brought her to the park after picking her up from nursery school.

Analin's mother and I make small-talk. The usual. Yes, we're from Boston. Yes, I like being a home-dad. Oh? Your daughter has a scrape on her knee? (Tyler announces that he has a boo-boo on his foot, joining the discussion.) Analin's mother blushes. Yes, we call them boo-boos in America. Silly, I know.

Awkward.

The kids swing. Higher and higher. I smile.

Tyler stares at Alanin for a long time as her swinging comes to match his (or vice-versa). Then, he turns to me and says, "Her dress is pretty, Daddy."

Yes. It is . It is beautiful. I smile and Analin's mother reports, "He's already a charmer, isn't he?" When I glance back at my son, the smile he wears charms me and I respond in the affirmative.

Scene Two:

Bath time. Pasta sauce covers Tyler's face, having taken up residence there about twenty minutes ago when Tyler decided that a fork proved too cumbersome a device with which to do all the heavy lifting of his pasta. Instead, his clenched fingers made a much better tool.

Tyler stands naked before the tub, hot water coursing in like our very own Niagara Falls on Lesley Avenue. Then Tyler: "I have to do some poops on the pot!" It is a triumphant realization--a joyful occasion, and not just because he learned that by doing poops on the pot he would be rewarded with a blueberry muffin after he had done a plentiful amount. Somewhere along the line, he came to feel a certain pride about taking part in such an utterly human endeavor, and in doing it so well.

"Okay!" I reply. "Let's do it, dude!"

Tyler hops onto his potty seat, and the plops are immediate. One after the other. And again. And again.

As he conducts his bathroom business, Tyler likes to talk. He enjoys discussing memories from the day, our favorite colors (his: yellow; mine: blue), and generally making observations regarding changes in the general bathroom dynamic ("Where did those stickers go that were right here this morning?").

After pushing and chatting for a while, he lunges off the toilet and then does the inevitable turn to take in the full image of what he's accomplished. Tonight, he is particularly proud.

"Look at all those fixed poops! None of those ones are broken!" (Lingo: fixed = long ones; broken = small bits)

"I know! Wow! That is awesome, Tyler! Well done, son!"

Tyler stares down at the bowl. I offer, "Ready to watch them get flushed down?"

Tyler thinks for a moment, then replies, "No, I want to look at them for a little bit."

Scene Two, Part B: A little bit later.

"Ready to flush those fixed poops down now?"

"NO; I want to leave those poops there so I can look at them some more after my bath again. That's okay?"

I look back at my son. In the same day, he's found beauty in the summer dress that a four-year old girl wears, and in the poops his little body has crafted. I think for a moment myself.

Then I say what any father who has studied Keats would say.

The Places We Pee

2011-07-04T09:04:00.000+01:00

Her face is embedded in my memory: the lines drawn each to the sides, cast downward, the painful look, the awful exposure, the ragged clothes, the loss of what she was--might have been. It was Northern Ireland, 2001.

I was walking near the tragic Falls Road, on a side street, and there she was: a woman perhaps forty, dressed in clothes that wore dirt more than she wore them. Crouching on the sidewalk, as dozens of people walked past--peeing. Her teeth gritted. Her face grimaced.

It's a picture of pain. For her. For me. Though it felt undeniably rude to watch, my eye's refused to move. I could have cried. Her eyes met mine, and it seemed as though the light had left them. The only question I could ask was: When? When? When?

Fast forward ten years. The place: Scarborough, North Yorkshire, England. Jen and I, Tyler in tow, and my brother and sister-in-law, Paul and Diana, are on our way to the beach, having taken the 50-minute train ride from York here. The air is warm, with a cold wind that every once in a while lets us know it hasn't departed the day. The storefronts of the main street are busy with people--coffee shops, fish and chips haunts, knick-knack stores, beach balls and buckets everywhere. And casinos. Small ones, flashing lights, beckoning the weary to make a quick buck--or pound, rather.

And as we pass one such storefront casino, I spot the older woman--perhaps sixty--dragging a young boy--maybe five--by the arm from the casino. She stops him near a large crack in the sidewalk, facing the brick wall.

"Go," she says.

He obeys.

The stream of urine shoots from him fast and fluid.

As soon as he starts, she is back through the blinking doors of the casino, heading towards the slots. The boy finishes, then spends his time chasing the urine as it rivulets and gathers and makes it own river down the sidewalk, heading towards the ocean.

Fast forward one week: ten minutes from Lesley Avenue--home. Tyler can't hold it. We look around, anxious to find a place for him to pee. Anxious to prevent an accident, a setback in his potty training regimen.

Nothing. Nowhere.

A small bike path appears on our left, flanked on both sides by the large military base in York. Tall brick walls make for a shaded, secluded space in which to go for it. Barbed wire rolls in currents across the top of both tall walls.

We find an especially secluded spot, and help Tyler pee on some nettles. (They have given us far too many minor injuries already, I figure.)

Tyler feels better. We feel better. No accident. And the walk home is peaceful, calm.

Today, the questions that linger in my mind and refuse to flee are these: where do we go when our urges cannot be suppressed? How do we deal with the necessities of life that remove every wall we'd like to construct and instead force us to reveal our own humanity? What prevents us from acting in love in the face of exposed humanity before us, within us?

A lot of us learn to hide well. We can build the most elaborate structures around every minute aspect of our lives, often tricking others into thinking that, somehow, we are above the need to pee. Just because you can't find us on the sidewalks of life, painfully doing what our bodies demand while our minds try to make a way forward, however tragically, we are there nonetheless. All of us.

Finding some crack where we think no one can see us. Hoping that afterwards, just maybe, things will be better. Chasing the rivers of our urine to the ocean, hoping that there--maybe there--we'll find a space and a place where we can be free. Protected.

What spaces and places do we hold back from one another, for fear of real trust? What good might we offer, but don't, for fear of real love?

By the Numbers

2011-06-17T19:45:00.001+01:00

Day one: 16 pots, 6 nots.

Day two: 12 pots, 2 nots.

Day three: 10 pots, 2 nots.

Day four: 8 pots, one not.

Yes: we have begun potty training Tyler, officially and with the resolve to not turn back to the species-saving invention of the diaper. (Or, at least, the at-home daddy saving invention.)

We've got a flowchart going on our refrigerator, tallying up the times and substances of what was released by Tyler's bowels and when. It's reminiscent of a March Madness bracket, but with a bit more madness, more disgusting consequences for the loser, too.

Upstairs, the Potty Chart holds a number of birds that Jennifer cut out of wrapping paper, which Tyler is able to place one at a time on the chart each time he sits on the pot and does his business.

The process has been the journey from babyhood to boyhood--especially considering that I recently gave Tyler his first "big boy" haircut--one which shortens his hair with a clipper, rather than scissors which maintain the longish, babyhood feel. Now, when I look at my son, it's hard not to think, Don't go to college yet! and Whoa, curfew is still 6:45 buddy, I don't care if this is your fourth date and that you think this could be the one.

I know. Hold on, Luke! It's a far leap to go from applauding as I would at a Nobel Prize ceremony for every poop's plop to saying goodbye as Tyler heads off to college, but I'm not kidding: it's all fast. And in the moments where Tyler's banter carries me away from any semblance of my own life and engulfs me totally in his world, I want to freeze time and keep that conversation going forever. (Alternately, in the moments where he fights sleep like it's some kind of obscene human rights violation, I say, bring on teenagerhood!)

By the numbers, it does go fast.

Nine months ago, we moved to England. It feels like two.

32 months ago, Tyler was born. It feels like ten.

71 months ago, Jennifer and I were married. It feels like 15.

366 months ago, I was born. It fells like, well, 366 months.

When I was a public school teacher, numbers were important. Crucial, some administrators might say. CAPT and MCAS standardized scores for my students: were they strong? Grade point averages for those students heading off to college: were they high enough? Was each student getting enough one-on-one writing conference time? How many pages should I be challenging them to write?

As a writer, the number again play their crucial role. How many words am I crafting per day? How many manuscripts have I got with viable options to forge lives of their own, outside my safe little study? How many rejections has this manuscript garnered?

The number swarm almost every human endeavor we undertake, from novel writing to potty training to challenging young minds.

But as Tyler has forged ahead in his transition into boyhood, leaving behind the numbers of babydom, I am confronted, too, with another number: one.

As a dad, as a teacher, as a writer, one thing alone really matters: the authenticity of love I give in each of those roles, each of those journeys. No amount of numbers--whether indicating success or failure by the world's standards--can replace that very first number, that one.

It's nothing original, of course, my realization of the one thing that counts--Jesus was saying it to ears that refused to hear a couple of thousand years ago. I'm saying it now to myself as deeply as I'm sharing it with you. Amidst all the numbers that assert themselves everyday, may I remember the most important one.

Maybe We Can Try

2011-06-12T07:13:00.002+01:00

Optimism rocks. Hoping that stuff will be okay, somehow, and doing what we can to work towards things being okay, somehow, is beautiful to me.

So when our toddler, Tyler, started using his developing mental capacity to wield optimism in support of his desire to follow his own inclinations, I must admit: I have caved often.

Just a couple of days ago, Tyler and I were making the twenty-minute walk to Fulford Library. (Actually, we were making the one hour walk to Fulford, as I have recently been letting Tyler walk rather than take the stroller, which gives him some great exercise and also allows us to point out the colors of every single car we pass, read all of the road signs, say hello to every person we pass, and touch nearly ever bush, tree, rock, and stick that rests between Lesley Avenue and the library.)

En route, it started raining. Hard. We popped open our massive umbrella, and we continued our trek onwards. After a bit, Tyler asked to hold the heavy umbrella.

"Daddy will hold the umbrella. It's very heavy. VERY heavy." I made a bending motion with my knees and pretended that the sheer weight of the umbrella was about to crush even me.

"Maybe I can try."

And, yes, I caved.

"Of course you can try! Yes! Let's have you try Tyler"

And he held the umbrella for about ten seconds, then said, "You can hold this one, Daddy."

About ten minutes later, Tyler: "I can jump in the puddles, Daddy?"

"Well, if we jump in the puddles, then your socks and shoes will get all wet."

"Maybe we can try."

I look at him, his eyes focused, believing that somehow we will, indeed, be able to jump and splash in a puddle the size of a paddling pool and somehow emerge dry. And I have to say yes. "Sure, let's jump."

In we go, splashing like a couple of toddlers. Or, like a toddler and his thirty-year old dad who hasn't quite given up hope that, maybe, when we try, crazy results emerge.

Listening to Motion

2011-06-09T08:17:00.000+01:00

Last night, I walked into the University of York to hear a reading given by previous UK Poet Laureate Andrew Motion. Jennifer had reserved a ticket for me to attend the reading, and as I walked in, I felt a fun poetic thrill travel around my head and shoulders.

Okay, it could have been that I was getting a little itchy given I was walkign so fast, rushing to make an evening of calm poetry.

Or it could have been that a totally-adult activity, during which no one in the audience or Motion himself, I could be sure, would ask if somebody had to do poops on the pot, or wanted to go do some swing high! at the local playground.

(But I still think it was predominantly the poetic thrill stuff. After all, poetry was my doorway into writing--my first love of words and the thing that continualloy brings me back to why I keep loving words.)

The auditorium at the Ron Cooke Hub at Heslington East campus (read: really coolm super-sweet state-of-the-art facility with loads of modern looking wood structures) was packed. As Motion began reading poems about conflict, war, and then from the voice of a great Blue Whale, I feel into that kind of reverioe where you're thinking and listening at the same time.

During the Q & A, someone asked him about his goals for his poems, and Motion shared a powerful line which I'm unlikely to forget: "I want my poems to look like water and taste like gin." he shared about how simplicity, for him, rules the day, and yet he wants there to be emotional complexity and truth in his work. I found the line insightfully inspiring.

Afterwards, there was a row of computer son the balcony of the building, and I logged onto one, opened up a novel I'd recently started, and began writing. When I stopped, the sky had grown dim, and I made the long walk home to my love.

In his book Writing from the Inside Out, Dennis Palumbo says that "writing begets writing." In other words, the more we write, the more we'll keep writing. We get into a habit. It becomes a way of life. I find the rule of thumb to be powerfully true. And, I'd add, the more we hear and read what others have written, engaging outselves with themes and ideas that become universal through the very small spaces of our own experience, the more we crave to create, too.

Thank you Jennifer, for the gift of a beautiful night of poetry. And thanks, Mr. Motion, for the words that call forth more words.

Two Ways of Looking at the Event of a Bird Pooping on Your Head

2011-06-06T20:22:00.000+01:00

1) Ugh.

2) You leave for the library with your son in his stroller, eating a homemade, completely-real-fruit popsicle but, as you are just about to shut and lock the door, you decide that you should bring along your baseball cap with you. Just in case, you think. Just in case of exactly what, you aren't sure, but it is worth pushing the door back open, craning over your son in the stroller to reach your cap, grab it, and put it on before making the fifteen minute walk to the tiny, one-room library. En route, you hear it before you feel it atop your head. The slight squirt, then the splash landing. You take off your cap, check out the white poop, and then replace your cap. It hasn't gone through, and you'll wash it off later when you return home, a few picture books heavier. You smile.

Jock, or Jacque, or Joc, or Jok

2011-06-02T09:20:00.001+01:00

He has a dog.

Dog's name is Roger.

Jock, or Jacque, or Joc, or Jok (hereafter referred to as simply "J" to prevent incredibly frustrating redundancy) walks with Roger everywhere. J must clock at least ten miles a day, maybe more.

Originally from Scotland, his accent is thick, his laugh is hearty, and he spits just a touch when he talks, so that after a conversation, you know you've been in his company.

But you're smiling.

Because J is the kind of man who walks through life looking for connections. He stops and talks to everyone--no matter if you're a 95-year old woman or a two-year old boy, like my son Tyler. As soon as we moved into our home on Lesley, J started chatting us up every time he happened to pass by with Roger while we were in the front yard dancing, singing, tip-toeing, or being silly in some other kind of silly way.

Then, at Christmastime, we came home one day to find a massive yellow Caterpillar digger in front of our door. In a plastic bag, waiting. Tyler's head just about fell off in excitement.

Later, a bag of books appeared, after J had heard that I loved reading MG and YA novels.

Now, whenever we see J walking when we're out and about, he has a pound coin for Tyler. Now, with the exchange rate at 1.64 from pounds to dollars (as of today), and with J giving Tyler a pound coin at a very high frequency (at least one every few days), J is seriously investing in our family, and in Tyler's Gingerbreadman-purchasing ability.

In other words: J is a remarkably generous guy--with his time, with his money, with his concern for other people.

I don't know his whole story, but the snippets he has shared with me encourage me to believe that he is, like most of us, a person whom tragedy has touched in various ways, but one who has chosen to grow more loving and kind in the face of struggle, rather than to become more cynical and bitter.

For J, life is about connecting with people in every way possible--and the 12 kids who live on our street and get Christmas and birthday presents every year from him (as well as pound coins whenever he sees them playing out and about on his walks) will tell you the same.

J is a guy who lives through what all of us live through, and he finds a way to love in the midst of it. To care for people with total disregard for what they can do for him, how they can repay him. I think J is the kind of person who operates under an older concept than those currently advised by so many business, self-help, winning-friends-and-influencing people kind of books.

Instead, J simply cares. For people. Come what may.

He's the kind of guy that can tend to make a person see what really matters at the end of the day. Thanks, J.

On Reading The Road

2011-05-27T14:56:00.000+01:00

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy, is more a book you walk than read. On every page, it was impossible not to envision myself as a father in such a place, in such a time: after the sun has shivered away, and the land is filled with never ending gray ash.

McCarthy recreates the world in its end, and reveals the inhumane souls that people it, ravaging the land and one another for any way to stay alive. And indeed, the vision is bleak.

And yet.

There is a father and a son, and they walk the road together, refusing to cave to what seems a paramount fact of life: it's over. But they go on. Always they go on.

This passage, words which the father shares with his son, forced me to read it three times and record it in my journal:

When your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up. Do you understand? And you cant give up. I wont let you (202).

What the father shares here is nothing short of a definition of hope--that authentic hope lies not in dreaming up a world that never was or never will be, but instead lies in confronting the world in which we live, day after day, and refusing to give up in the face of all that we find there. Such hope involves looking at the havoc we wreak upon one another and saying, I refuse to give up. I refuse to believe that this is all it ever will be, and instead I will keep walking in a way that speaks of humanity, love even.

And that is McCarthy's final reflection in The Road: love outlasts. Love outlasts every possible hunger; loves outlasts every vision of pain and tragedy. Love outlasts every offer of quick release. Love outlasts every brutal sin we have created. Love outlasts and it outlasts and still, it outlasts.

When I closed the pages of The Road, sitting in the old archives room at the city center library in York, I cried. For the sadness of what wasn't, yes. But also for the beauty of what is.

The Safety of Libraries

2011-05-26T17:06:00.000+01:00

Today, we've seen switches from sunny skies to thunder storms and then back again. This afternoon, Tyler and I left home to walk to a playground about a mile from home. While I usually am of the mind not to prepare much and to just set off on an adventure, today, I brought the massively oversized umbrella.

Just in case.

After buying two lollipops at the local corner store for six pence a pop, we headed to the playground to swing. Tyler noticed a variety of aircraft wheeling through the sky, and I sang songs about eating lollipops and noticing aircraft wheeling through the sky.

The sunny, blue sky.

And then clouds almost as massively oversized as our umbrella somersaulted into our day. And with the clouds came the rain. And with the rain came the thunder and lightening.

And then the hail.

Tyler and I launched the umbrella, providing a completely new world under which we could walk the five minutes to our tiny Fulford Library.

And this is what I expect Heaven to be like: running from a hailstorm, holding hands with someone you love, and entering into the safety of a place filled with books.

Free books.

Covers which call out stories of hope, betrayal, forgiveness, love, redemption, pain, loss, and joy.

Characters which beckon one to listen, if only for a week or two.

Plots which point back to our hearts.

Rushing into the Fulford Library today, closing our umbrella and leaving it soaking in a corner of the small safe haven, it was difficult not to theorize.

And I think theorizing is a valuable activity if your feet and pants are soaking through and small balls of ice are hanging onto your sandals and socks like the nettles of a pricker bush. Theorizing in a state like that usually leads to joy.

As Tyler and I rushed the children's section, the books indeed beckoned us in. Come on! Warmth! Friends! Hope! Possibility!

Shelter from the storm.

C.S. Lewis once said that "we read to know we're not alone." I think he's right about that one. We read to find the shelter of the stories of other souls, who travel paths not unlike our own. We read to find a place of refuge in which to rest our weary feet, dry our soaking, sometimes threadbare clothes.

At every turn of my life, it seems a library was always waiting to welcome me no matter what storm I find myself facing. Whether it was the John F. Kennnedy Elementary School library of Windsor, CT when I was seven and confused and unsure of who I was (and still sometimes am at 30), or when we first arrived in York and knew of no where else to go on a rainy, cold day other than the city center library--the safe haven of warmth and stories has always been there for me.

Words that make warmth wring out my wet life, and lend hope in the midst of hail. Always.

Date Night (A Bit Differently)

2011-05-16T21:02:00.000+01:00

This past Friday, Jennifer and I had a date night.

Date. Night.

For two parents living abroad with a toddler, we finally came face to face with the stats: seven months, two dates.

Ah!

Sure, we had those long evening conversations after Tyler went to bed; yup, we cuddled while we watched endlessly romantic comedies and a few intense sagas; indeed, we sipped wine and clinked glasses. But all that didn't quite feel the same as getting out.

When getting out as a married couple, it doesn't matter where you go, just the fact that you leave the actual premises of the house you occupy in order to prove a few things to yourselves:

1) The dishes can wait.

2) There is a whole world that exists outside of laundry, online grocery shopping, and toy-stowal.

3) Walking down a sidewalk in a city somewhere--anywhere--is pure magic.

So Jennifer and I were pretty psyched about our date night. We smiled conspiratorially to one another as we put Tyler to bed, singing the song that the Farmer sings in the movie Babe: the Talking Pig and then telling a fantastically long story about a boy named Tyler and his friends Alice, Benjamin, and Edward who go up in a hot air balloon and run into a thunderstorm, various talking birds, and a large helicopter, and then land on the moon and dig a large hole, wherein they find a family of fireflies that have been surviving (magically) in that crevice of the moon for eons feeding only on the light that comes from each other and then Tyler, Alice, Benjamin, Edward free the fireflies into space and they have (magical) wings that allow them to move and direct themselves even in space and then...

Tyler fell asleep.

Jen and I walked downstairs, and prepared to make tea. Herbal tea. (Berry-flavored.) Our date would consist of a long walk to Millennium Bridge, which spans the River Ouse, and then wherever beckoned from there. We would sip our tea, talk, laugh, and dream together.

Now, I've got to confess: I used to love going out to eat. When Jen and I first met, and she offered some coupons for us to go to a sub place for a buy-one-get-one-free deal, I declined and waltzed her off to the nicest restaurant in town.

But I have (slowly) come to see the beauty and power in not going out to eat, and in not going to really cool restaurants (not that there's anything wrong with it, of course!).Where I used to depend on money to create a magical night of romance, now I know that it's about the togetherness that happens.

Thus: our Friday night date. We carried our steaming tea in to-go cups, launched our massively oversized umbrella, and strode forth into the pouring rain of an English night. The sun was shining through a layer of clouds, and we stopped at the entrance to the trail that would lead us towards Millennium Bridge. The vista we encountered was, yup: magical. Rain shot through the descending light like sparks against a dark sky.

We stood shoulder to shoulder watching the scene.

And hour later, we found ourselves walking the 1,000 year old Roman walls that encircle the city of York. Atop the walls, we could look out and see the clusters of homes filled with modern technology, then glance ahead and see the intermittent towers that capped a turn in the direction of the walls.

All the while, we talked of our journey to England, whether or not we are legally sane, life before switching roles, what it means to trust God, and on staying disciplined along the path to dreams.

We we arrived home two and a half hours later, we both looked at each with that same conspiratory glance with which the date night began--that sense that something magical had taken place, and we didn't pay a dime for it.

Well, okay, maybe approximately ten cents if you tally the cost of the tea bags.

Hugging Some Play-Dough Soldiers (Or, Some Notes on Changing the World)

2011-05-07T20:43:00.001+01:00

Yesterday, Jen and I boarded a train from York Station to Leeds, Tyler in tow. It would be our fist time out of York as a family in approximately the entirety of our time here: seven months. Life without a car certainly does wonders to a family's desire to stay local. If we can't walk there, chances are we're not going.

But the Leeds trip arose as Jen and a friend were meeting with an organization called The Joanna Project. The organization works with women seeking to leave prostitution. While Jen and her friend met with the founders of the group, Tyler and I, along with another dad and his daughter, walked to the nearby Royal Armouries.

First of all: metal.

Upon entering the museum, we approached a massive hall that was aptly named the Hall of Steel. It was more like a monument to swords, axes, spikes, jousting sticks, and a whole host of other very sharp, pointy objects for which I knew no names.

I soon saw that the Royal Armouries was just a euphemism for Museum of All Kinds of Killing Objects and the History of How Those Killing Objects Have Been Utilized in Various Wars. Even so, the museum had wide open floors made of strong wood, and very few tourists--and it was also free. Thus, it made for an excellent place in which to allow our toddlers to run free.

To run like the wind.

Then fly like really fast running animals.

Then run and fly and run and fly some more. And then run. And then poop and pee and run yet again. And fly again.

If anything, the sight of so much weaponry sent the following notions drumming in my head: for real? This is what a massive portion of humanity's history is about: who fought who, when, and with what weapons?

Amazed by the extent to which we go to kill one another, Tyler performed the only appropriate act that can be performed in a place like this. On the third floor, exploring modern warfare, Tyler walked up to a mannequin soldier and asked me, "What his name, Daddy?"

I responded, "I don't know his name, son. Maybe it is Sam."

"He can talk to me, Daddy?"

"No, he can't talk to you. He's pretend. He's not real."

Tyler looked at the soldier wearing combat gear, a hard look on his camouflaged face, a gun in his hands.

"He not real, Daddy?"

"No, he's pretend...he's made out of play-dough. He's like a play-dough man."

Tyler looked at me, then looked at the soldier. Finally, he asked me, "I can give him one hug?"

"Sure. Of course you can."

Ten minutes later, after Tyler had hugged all of the play-dough soldiers on the floor, we began to make preparations to leave the museum and meet up with Jennifer and her friend. Ironically, a certain synthesis is possible from the two reasons we went to Leeds: both exist because of the demands and desires of men.

Warfare and the abuse and use of women.

I think my two-year old son had it right--that we could some day learn as men to love rather than kill, to love rather than lust. If we can, perhaps my son will one day take his son to a museum holding monuments to peace, not war, and his wife might visit an organization researching how the use and abuse of women was stopped, rather than why it continues.

Maybe such a day will come.

Middles

2011-05-04T10:30:00.000+01:00

Beginnings rock. I love the way possibility rages like a rhino hepped up on a trough of coffee at the beginnings of things. (Not that I've seen such a rhino.) I love the way everything feels open, plausible, free. In the beginning, the vision counts for everything, and everything can be a part of the vision.

Endings are pretty cool, too. They usually make me cry, or laugh, or nod like I have a secret understanding with whatever ending I am reading, or watching, or living. Yup, my mind offers, you totally get this, man! This emotion and wisdom is so stinking deep and profound, but its crawling into your soul right now, right as you nod and watch, live and breathe, watching the credits roll and the sense of completeness arrive.

But I'll confess: middles and me don't fare all too well together. I think it's because middles are far too independent, far too demanding, and much too stubborn for me to get along with. Then again, I am also all of those things, so blaming myself rather than middles may be a much more realistic and logical idea.

Middles also take work. A lot of work. Work that involves sweat. (Both real sweat and metaphorical sweat.) This work is the kind of work that doesn't get much recognition, either.

When you're just starting out with something, it's really fun to discuss and visualize and people can say, aaahhhhh and people can say interesting! and people can wonder about the journey ahead.

When you're finishing something, there's a consensus: you did it! Holy crap! You finished! You can use the fact of finishing to prove to yourself what you thought you couldn't do. You can use the fact of finishing to prove to others who bet on a much stronger, faster, prettier horse with a better-built jockey riding atop.

But middles don't really get much mileage for you. You can't share glowingly with someone, Hey, I'm in the middle of this cool novel or adventure or journey, and it's really hard and I don't know if I'm even going to be able to finish the thing because, well, it's really stinking hard and I'm am sweating profusely (both literally and metaphorically) and, did I mention that it's really hard?

Technically, you couldshare the above with someone, but you won't get those admiring looks in return. Instead, you'll get the strange, cross-eyed, are you nuts look in return, which doesn't really help you get through the middle of whatever you're trying to get through because then you find that you, too, start asking yourself, Am I nuts?

So how do we come to terms with middles? Okay, sorry, you're right: How do I come to terms with middles? Because you may be reading this thinking, Luke really has a problem. I'm fine with middles. Middles and me dance like we're old friends, cheek-to-cheek, and then we sip champagne and laugh together until an ending comes along, whereby we kiss each other goodnight and think lovely thoughts about our time together.

However, if you're with me on being a middles-struggler, then how do we come to terms with middles? Because, the bad news is this: they're not going anywhere. In the stories we write and in the stories we live, there are always going to be middles.

Middles fraught with tons of confusion, questioning, fear, worry, all-seems-lost-but-it's-not-but-now-all-seems-lost-again-but-it's-not-again-but-now-it-does-seem-lost-yet-agains.

Middles have amazing staying power. In a book I co-edited with Audrey Friedman, Burned In, we explored how teachers can stay motivated, even while the stats say that 50% of all teachers quit within their first three years. But Middles aren't like that. The stats are even more harrowing for middles: 100% of middles remain for their entire life, and sometimes that 's a heck of a lot of years.

Middles never quit.

So if we're going to learn to live well or to write well (and hopefully we'll learn to do both), then we have to learn to love middles. We may not fall in love with middles, but we've got to learn that old-fashioned, deeply true love is a verb kind of love for middles. We've got to look middles in the eyes and say, Alright. You and I haven't always gotten along. Like, remember the time I blindfolded you and set you on fire? Or, like, remember when I blended up jalapeno peppers and mixed them in with your pasta sauce? Or, like, remember when I called you a Squishy Poopie Head? Well, I'm sorry. Really. I'm going to try to love you. I swear. I promise. What? No, that's not me stepping on your face. Really. Oh, you're right, that is my shoe. Let me repeat, then, I'm sorry (for stepping on your face). I didn't mean it. I am going to try really, really hard to love you. I promise. Just have some grace with me, okay?

We're probably still going to want to do some serious fingernail-digging into the flesh of middles every now and again. Maybe more now than again. But if we can somehow keep committing ourselves to love middles, to find that there is beauty and truth and redemption even before the end, and that there is possibility and freedom long after the beginning, then I think we'll be happier writers, and happier people, too.

I for one have got to give it a shot. I've only got so many hate tactics left to employ for middles, after all.

Beah's Book

2011-05-03T21:02:00.000+01:00

I just finished reading Ishmael Beah's remarkable and harrowing book, A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier. So many lines and passages drilled themselves into my heart, but in entirety, Beah's journey as a boy soldier forced into combat during the Seirra Leone civil war is a more a statement of what might be rather than what has been.

After his tragic ordeal as a soldier has come to an end, and he is able to undergo rehabilitation, Beah is sent to new York to meet with other children from around the globe for a UN conference. He writes about the experience, "It seemed we were transforming our sufferings as we talked about ways to solve their causes and let them be known to the world," (198).

The power of words is not lost on Beah. My mind didn't have to work to visualize this bright young man sitting amidst others who were forced to do things and see things and experience things for which language fails--and yet to see hope etched on his face. To see that in connecting with others and in talking about his experiences, he was able to find that preventing atrocity from being visited upon other children was worth the words.

What is worth our words? How often do we find ourselves sending out words as though they were paper airplanes--not caring what they do, or whether they rip or tear as they journey forth? Readng Ishmael's memoir makes it difficult to come to terms with the ways in which we use language--and how we try to bend meaning so that it will bow to control, rather than love.

I thank Ishmael Beah for the courage to share his own journey, and for implicity asking us to join him in using words to forge hope out of suffering the world over.

Two Worlds

2011-05-02T07:13:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, I worked alongside five other people to rework a yard not more than ten minutes from the home Jennifer and I rent here in York. The project originated through an organization in York called Besom, who work with families on state-assistance. Without saying too much about the family, I can share that each time I walked from the backyard to the van in the front to deposit an armful of shrubs or a pile of prickers bushes that had been cut down, I had to breathe deep to prevent myself from crying.

Then, last night, Jennifer and I watched the Oscar-winning film Slumdog Millionaire. We had left for England soon after the film came to DVD and we had never seen it. Watching the film was a powerful experience, and it brought back flashes of when Jen and I had gone to India, staying in the tiny village of Than Gaon in Dehra Dun, many years ago.

Finally, last night, I was finishing up the book Homegame by Michael Lewis. It's a delightful read about his journey as a father of three, and how he copes with the uncertain waters of parenthood. However, what struck me reading last night was a comment he records from one of his daughters, "Daddy, we're poor." The daughter had been watching an interview with Bill Gates, and even though Lewis's family live in a beautiful home in a nice area and can afford nannying help, his daughter assumes this fact based on an interview with one of the richest people alive.

The synthesis of these three experiences kicked in this morning, when I woke up to find that most of us claim to live in a world where we still don't have enough. How else can a family or a person make enough money to go out to restaurants, movies, buy a variety of appliances, replace and fix those appliances, afford clothes within our closets that run deep enough to hide a full-grown shark--and yet still complain that--like Lewis's daughter--"We're poor."

I think one part of the problem is that many of us who have about 90% more than most of the world has aren't often faced with real poverty or real need. In our neighborhoods, we don't have to see it.

For instance, in anticipation of the big tourist season here in York, police recently swept through the downtown city center and "cleaned out" all of the homeless people. Where they were pushed off to and where they went, no one knows. But they were forced out, the prevailing wisdom being that those who travels many miles to spend gobs of money on designer clothes and highly fancy tea meals aren't interested in seeing hungry people along their spending journeys.

Distance.

It's the boundary most haves use to assuage any sense of love or compassion. If we can get ourselves to live in communities with big enough walls that are far enough away from those who are hungry and addicted and afraid and have no family or friends on which to lean, then we can continue a basically comfortable life while convincing ourselves we're doing all we can.

When we lived in Massachusetts, Jennifer and I attended a very large church north of Boston. The church did a lot of wonderful things, but what struck us most painfully was when the church described the great need in and around the city of Boston, saying they wanted to plant a new church to minister to and serve those in need.

And then, they proceeded to plant this new church in another highly wealthy area.

I think, what struck me most regarding the confluence of the work-day experience and the movie and the book was simply this: most of us don't actually want to see what the world is really like, and offer our hands to help figure out how we can love. It's confusing. It's hard. And doing so makes it inordinately more difficult to buy nice bottles of wine or own multiple properties.

But the more the haves journey to parts of the world (and parts of our own towns) to meet with and see and talk with those who struggle to feed their children and to find stability, the more authentic love flourishes. And when authentic love is unleashed in the world, it's a force to be reckoned with.

Muddy Paddling Pool (Or, Joy in Small, Green, Turtle-Shaped Things)

2011-04-26T22:38:00.000+01:00

Two days ago, our neighbors brought us a green paddling pool that is in the shape of a turtle--complete with removable shell and all. It now sits in our backyard (sleeping, of course, since it's 10pm and good rest is highly essential for a long day of being paddled in) awaiting Tyler's pitter-pattering, muddy feet tomorrow.

The heat wave--if it's even possible to have a heat-wave in England in April--broke yesterday. The sun didn't come out from behind his curtains, and I even wore a windbreaker outside. But during the two weeks prior to yesterday, all I could write at the top of my daily journal entries was "HOT" in the space where I record the weather.

Okay--true: it wasn't Florida-hot or even Carolinas-hot. But with was hot for me, which means we had temps in the high 70s with really, really, supremely bright sunshine and no cloud cover.

Perhaps it wasn't the actual temp and sunshine that made me crave the shady spaces underneath large trees, but rather the continual shock of actually seeing the sun so consistently and feeling it so relentlessly that tricked my mind.

One day, on a walk into the city center, I said to Jen, "Whew, it's really hot out here, isn't it? I don't think I could ever live in a warm climate." And then I wiped my forehead even though I was not sweating.

Again--I'm chalking this comment up to the mind-tricking shock thing.

Jen looked at me as if I had grown a large finger off the end of my nose and said, "You're kidding, right?"

And it wasn't until she said it that I realized, yup, I was.

Somehow, we managed to make it through the heat-wave and get back to our normal rain-threatening-cloud-cover-do-we-take-the-laundry-in-or-live-risking-it-all weather for York. But those two glorious weeks of constant sunshine and heat had their climax in, yes, the Green Turtle-Shaped Paddling Pool.

See, it is quite small. And it's also, essentially, plastic. (Actually, it is plastic.) But it has brought untold delight to our lives.

Yesterday, we did nothing but sit in our lawn chair furniture, soaking our feet in the Turtle and watching Tyler create mud for the first time in his life. (Mud! The best invention ever for a toddler! HOURS of joy and possibility unfold.)

Tyler proceeded to use water from the Turtle to water the pricker bushes, the grass, the flowers, and even the mud.

As Jen and I sat with our feet hanging in the Turtle, drinking an orange smoothie out of wine glasses, it was one of those moments that felt as though it just couldn't get any better.

And then our neighbors brought over a trampoline.

The "It" That "It's" All About

2011-04-18T20:44:00.001+01:00

Rather an auspicious title. I know.

The nerve to render language to such a title! After all, our greatest poets claim that "it" simply can't be said. A.E. Housman once quipped, "Poetry is not the thing said, but a way of saying it." Frost told us that poetry is "words that become deeds" -- language that translates into action because we simply do not have more words to express what the "it" of words is, in the first place. Eliot--well, most everybody doesn't have much of a clue as to exactly what Eliot meant, though it's an art in itself to decipher his "it" and to come up with increasingly more ornate and complex language to describe what is already ornate and complex in its original inception.

Whew.

So, then, what is the "it"? What does this mundane blog post really want to claim?

First, let me say I agree with the poets: there are some things in life deeper than language, things that we cannot begin to hold in our hands because they're too inflamed, too deeply real and, more colloquially, devoid of crap.

The things that are devoid of crap don't lend themselves to sitting on some mantle somewhere so we can look at them and remark, Ah! Yes, indeed, the shading there does suggest a bit of nuance.

But another poet made a rather stark and fairly blunt statement of "it." And the "it" this poet articulated has driven the likes of Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Mother Teresa, John Wesley, William Wilberforce, and others who have radically altered everything about what we previously thought possible.

The "it" the great poet claimed was: love God; love your neighbor. With everything. All you've got.

No insurance policy on this kind of love.

No receipt for return of transaction.

No helmet, life preserver, or bulletproof vest.

No back-up plan.

No allowing logic--which Marx called the "money of the mind"--to trump compassion.

No glance to self-benefit, interest rate on giving, APY.

In essence, the love that Jesus preaches is exactly the love with which he lived. That's why Gandhi viewed him as a model. That's why King believed it could be done on this earth. That's why Mother Teresa could live in the slums and wipe the sores of lepers for her entire adult life.

It wasn't because any of these individuals possessed any greater human capacity than you or I. It was, entirely, because each allowed the relentless, unconditional driving force of love to be more important than self.

Conditional love is everywhere we look.

In the middle and high schools where I taught, conditional love is an ever-present reality: look a certain way, speak a certain way, think a certain way.

But I think we all like to play a game: the game is call Once High School is Over We All Grow Up and Become Mature and Act Better. The truth is, I think we operate with the same kinds of conditional love that we became experts at wielding in our schools.

I recently wrote a book called How to Survive Middle School (Without Becoming an Advertisement or Losing Your Inner Voice), and what struck me as I wrote it was this thought: everything in here could just as well be applied to thirty-year-olds.

But I was writing for my 7th graders. I was writing to address all the fears, insecurities, petty competitions, jealousies, and cravings for unconditional love that they felt. So, something doesn't change in us. Some deep need that we all possess doesn't get fed, and therefore what we have to offer others is always and necessarily conditional.

And that is not what it's all about.

It's hard for us to image what unconditional love even looks like, so trained are we in the arts of acting to gain approval of others and living to prevent disapproval. But unconditional love, perhaps, can best be summed up in this pithy gauge: if you earned it, then it isn't unconditional.

If in any way you earned the praise you're getting, then it isn't unconditional.

If your performance, your words, your actions, your decisions, caused feelings of warmth to seep from other human beings to you, then it isn't unconditional love.

Because as soon as you stop making the [all-star-slam-dunk-rock-this-party-live] movements in your life, so stops the love. And if we really think about it, that's an incredibly depressing and demeaning and degrading way to live: nothing is for certain. We can count on nothing. Nothing remains. Everything is always and necessarily a crapshoot in the cosmic game of love-attempt.

Everything becomes a rolling of the dice to see if our numbers reveal that we'll be able to receive some love this turn around.

And if that's all we ever had as models of the possible on this earth, then that would be all well and good. We could straighten our ties, shift our dresses, and get on with life, heads dirt-bent and ready to work to earn as much love as we could before we kicked the bucket and slowly became the dirt that the next slogger would work until he, too, kicked a similar bucket.

But we've seen something different.

We've glimpsed other possibilities.

We've watched the way Jesus did this thing called life, and as scientists tell us, all you need is one instance where the theory doesn't hold, and the law is broken. It can't be a law anymore. Gravity can't be gravity unless all physical objects obey it.

If a rock just started floating upwards to the sky, then we'd be forced (or, rather, much smarter people with a trail of letters following their names would be forced) to come up with a new law because Gravity's turn would be done.

So, if Jesus broke and breaks the Law of Conditional Love, then it can't really be a law.

Furthermore, if Gandhi can look at the life of Christ and proceed to break the Law of Conditional Love, then it takes another serious knock. When King comes along, followed by Mother Teresa, and a host of others...well, the Law of Conditional (or Marketplace) Love starts to look fairly shabby. It doesn't hold up as a law, a scientific theory, or even a good bet anymore.

So. The "it" then.

Unconditional love. Love that we can't earn. Love that results not because of the work we do, the way we make another feel, or the cha-ching we gather like squirrels.

Few things strike us as strange, as rare, or as dang hard to classify as Unconditional Love. Maybe that's why, when we see it, we innately and suddenly know it to be, indeed, the "it" that "it's" all about.

Typing with Unbearable Loudness

2011-04-15T14:02:00.000+01:00

I finally realized it three weeks ago, when I sat typing away in the upstairs room at Central York Library: I am loud.

With most things in life, I am a loud person. I eat loudly (just ask my wife, who must endure my practice of machine-level cereal chomping every night after dinner is through); I speak loudly; I laugh loudly; I perform other certain things done on the potty loudly. And, as an elderly white-haired woman sitting at the computer next to me confirmed at the library, I certainly type loudly.

I am not sure why, but I can't seem to help or change it. Currently, I type these words in a computer lab at the library on the University of York campus. As I look up, I see approximately a dozen other people typing, and it befuddles me how they have come to possess such a marvelous skill as typing softly.

They are all typing things.

Right now.

I can see them.

But the thing is that I can't hear them typing. And when I stop typing, the room assumes a calm, peaceful ambiance of a work-atmosphere imbued with learning, growth, and knowledge.

When I begin pounding the letters on this keyboard again, the steam engine cranks up, the demolition team carries forth, and the noise level shoots through the roof.

The elderly lady who confronted me three weeks ago over my disorder of Unbearable Loudness in Typing (ULT) was quite kind. She smiled, and she even put it to me as a question: "Excuse me, young man, do you realize that you are making quite a lot of noise as you type?"

To which I could only reply, as kindly as possible, "Yes, but I don't know how to type quietly."

She then smiled--a bit less kindly--and returned to the work on her computer screen. Meanwhile, I closed my document and brought up the New York Times webpage in an attempt to salvage my elderly friend's computer time by reading rather than writing.

I am unsure if anyone else has this problem, and if so, I'd be honored to hear of any solutions. Thus far, the only one I can manage is to type unbelievably slow. Painfully slow, really.

Which, perhaps, is a solution in itself: eat slower, write slower, live slower, type slower. I'll give it a shot and see how it goes. If it's successful, maybe I'll be able to locate my library pal and sit alongside her with my head held high and my dignity entact, typing lines that she cannot hear.

On Finishing

2011-04-15T13:36:00.000+01:00

Finish. To finish. Finishing. The more I type and say this word, the more I think of a Finnish man pulling a large trout out of the water, which is an immensely gross and biased interpretation of what Finnish men (or women) actually do. (Please feel free to enlighten me, any Finnish readers!)

But the word is now rumbling around in my brain since I just put the last touches on a manuscript and sent it off to Teachers College Press. A Call to Creativity: Writing, Reading, and Growing with Students in an Age of Standardization (working title) is a manuscript whose pages are filled with all that my students taught me, and so many of the goofy, silly, meaningful, growing, and (yes) weird experiences we forged through together.

And in finishing (at least until the major revisions come back from the editor), there is a certain feeling of lightness, of hope, of belief that maybe something in the book will connect with other teachers who will then use the material with their own students (who will hopefully connect with something, who will then...). In a stage like this--where a manuscript is semi-finished and nothing more can be done until revisions arrive--the room for hope and possibility is large.

It's like arriving at a buffet and looking at the massive table of food while feeling one's tummy groan in gleeful anticipation. Or it's like looking out at a large field before you decide to run wildly across it, pretending first to be an ogre, second to be a superhero, and third to be yourself, strangest of all. Or it's like drinking a very tall glass of water and then putting the glass down on the table in front of you and watching the tiny drops that fall back down the sides.

Finishing feels good. Certainly.

But the learning curve I'm on lately admonishes me to not focus too much on finishing. The character arc in which I find myself in this chapter of life has me headed towards: Focus on delighting in the present, in the journey of the work, the play, the complexity, the hope, the possiblity rather than the finishing of something.

And this is especially difficult for me because I absolutely love finishing. I love getting to the end of something and embraces that feeling of satisfaction that arrives. (Cut to scene: Satisfaction and I run towards one another on a beach, lit by the setting sun, while a powerful yet not too intense instrumental piece comes on background; a lone seagull shoots across the wavering waves of sun-heat; Satisfaction and I embrace.)

But I am seeing more and more that Satisfaction doesn't often linger long. Even though I try to persuade Satisfaction to hang out longer, offering him a cup of coffee, some green seedless grapes, or some yellow construction paper, he always makes some excuse and says he must be on his way.

And then finishing doesn't feel so good. Then, finishing feels more like leaving the buffet, feeling far too full and wondering why you went up for that last plate of green Jell-O. Or it feels like tripping over an unseen mound of dirt hidden by the tall grass of the field through which you were so movie-esquely running. Or it feels like inquenchable thirst even after that tall glass of water.

Once Satisfaction departs, the old longing to finish something else arrives. That inexhaustable voice of What Now?

So into this realm of finishing-related-emotions-and-thoughts, I was deeply grateful for the interruption of Dallas Willard. Not the writer himself, of course (though that would indeed be fantastically cool to receive a call from a great writer who began our phone conversation by uttering, "Hey, Luke, I just thought of calling you because I wondered if one of my ideas might offer you some food for thought in this character arc of your current journey...").

But Willard spoke nonetheless thorugh his volume, Revolution of Character. In an insightful chapter entitled, "Educating Our Emotions," Willard offers the insight that pleasure is fleeting; satusfaction arrives and is connected only to specific events, actions, or circumstances. As soon as those circumstances change, said pleasure and satisfaction changes, too. (Read: finishing!)

However, Willard continues, joy is something much more definite, much more associated with perception and permanency than with circumstances and situations. Joy is characterized as the choice to see the good. To see the good. Love, then, becomes the decision to act for the good of another outside yourself. (Whoa! I'm just trying to get beyond the circumstantial satisfaction of finishing, and here you are bringing up LOVE?!)

Joy doesn't fluctuate. Its life is more like the trunk of the tree than its leaves. Seasons come and go, but that stable body looks the same no matter how much snow or sun surrounds it.

When I watch my son Tyler, I see something of joy in him. Beyond the momentary and characteristic toddler tantrums (which, I am learning are indeed an important part of human-being growth, thank you to Mike Dunn!), Tyler displays an uncaany abillity to not care in the least about finishing something.

If Tyler is digging in the soil, he doesn't remark how good it will feel when all of the soil is finally dug up and he can go inside and sit at the kitchen table with a nice, cool drink.

If Tyler is cutting paper (as Jen has so expertly taught him to do), he doesn't discuss how wonderful it will be to finally cut all of the paper stocked in our entire home so that he can finally be done cutting paper and instead sit down and kick up his feet.

Finishing means nothing to my toddler. Not a thing. (Including such items as Finish your dinner! and Let's finish changing your poopie diaper before you jump on the bed!)

So, as I sit here having sent off my manuscript to the press, I'll conscientiously work to not feel too good about simply finishing it. Instead, I'll be trying to see this state as a step along the journey towards seeing what is good. A step in the journey of joy. And, God willing, this is how I'll respond tonight should Tyler wake up at two a.m. screaming because of a nightmare, or gas pains, or growing pains, or any number of other indecipherable reasons why a toddler wakes at two in the morning.

But I'm not finished with my need to work on re-defining finishing. Not by a long shot.

And hey, maybe that's a good thing after all.

Early

2011-04-11T12:14:00.000+01:00

The word early has become something of a trickster to me. One of those manipulative kinds of people who constantly make you guess what they're really thinking yet never let on that--even if you guess right--you are any closer to deciphering where they are, in fact, really thinking.

Early used to be a straight shooter with me.

Twelve years ago, in college, Early and I had a very normal, healthy, clearly-defined relationship. I had an eight a.m. class one semester. Early was forthright with me. He said to me, "Yeah, man, that's me. That's Early, alright."

When I began teaching English at the high school level, Early was still striaght with me. I never had to guess what he was thinking. He told me, on the very first day of teaching while I walked fake-confidently into the classroom with sweaty palms and an itchy belly button, "Yeah, man, I'm back. Seven-thirty is me, Early."

But lately, in Life with Toddler, Early has thrown me for a loop. He started off decent, telling me, "Yup, I'm back, buddy. Six-thirty in the morning is certainly me, Early."

But then, my beloved son started waking at five-thirty. Then five. Then (and I wouldn't kid about something so deeply meanigful as sleep) four-thirty.

4:30am.

And Early just plain stopped talking to me. As if I had somehow offended him. As if I had somehow jeopordized our previously clear, straight-forward, delightfully honest relationship.

Now, I was left a bit clueless as to where Early was, and whether or not he was in league with one of his friends, Ludicrously Early, to try and get a rise out of me.

Thankfully, in the last couple of weeks, Ludicrously Early has relaxed a bit, and Tyler has been sleeping in late again.

Or, rather, perhpas I should say that Tyler has been sleeping in early again. That clear, straightforward kind of Early that sounds like seven.

And I have never been more thankful to get up at seven.

Defiance

2011-04-05T15:37:00.001+01:00

It seems like the word should be the name of a cologne, or a perfume, or a mixture of both. Defiance: the new smell for men and women who like to live defying everything, and for men and women who like to live defying defiance, even. From Calvin Klein. And from Other Famous People who Create Smells that are Encapsulated with One Word Nouns with Super-Strong Ties to Verbs.

But no.

I must defy that possibility of today's theme. Defiance, I am learning, is instead the name of the game when raising a toddler. Tyler is now just about 2 and 1/2 years old, and Defiance has emerged in all its glorious, confusing, hair-raising, skin-tingling, tear-producing manifestations.

And I will confess: I wasn't ready for it.

I was still patting myself on the back a bit for a semi-smooth switch to stay-at-home parenting and writing instead of making my way into the public school each day to work with my lovely seventh graders. I missed teaching--yes, deeply--but I was ecstatic to have such intense time with our son. To watch him laugh, smile, dig, point out uptrucks, point out colors, point out people, point out people's hair, and point our people's various, multi-colored shoes.

Enter Defiance.

Where our days once progressed with ease and the (only) occasional refusal to comply, they now progress with multiple battles proceeding in ever-more-embittered struggles for power. Where once the marvelous technique of distraction could be employed to swiftly overcome most any problem--Oh, you wanted to wear a diaper on your head? Hey, look at that dog walking down the sidewalk, let's go see it!--now Distraction has been bypassed for, yup, Definance.

Then: Oh, you want to eat lollipops for dinner? Hey, check out all this ketchup we can put on your Veggie Nuggets! Whoa, Dude! Ketchup everywhere, quick, eat the Veggie Nuggets before they drown in ketchup! [Problem solved]

Now: Oh, you want to wear the same Thomas the Tank Engine shirt that you have been wearing for two days straight and which is now covered in a mixture of dirt, various sauces, mucus, and pesto? Hey, check out this SUPER cool Bob the Builder shirt you can wear instead! No? Really, no? You sure you don't want to wear this BOB THE BUILDER SHIRT while I pick you up and swing you around while I sing the theme song for BOB THE BUILDER and then jump up and down pretending to be a kangaroo who is looking for lollipops in the MAGICAL FOREST?

No?

Really?

Did you hear all the things I said?

And so, Defiance has entered the game. It was a late substitution, as I honestly thought we were going to skate through the toddler stage with our greatest difficulty being a few borken bananas here and there that we could not glue together.

But then the buzzer sounded, and the opposing team put in the sub from the end of the bench. He's a little guy, but the thing is that he's that kind of player who will dive for loose balls, smash his head into the bleachers to keep the basketball in bounds, and toss up a shot from half-court to send the game into overtime (and swish it.)

Defiance is a scrappy player.

And he lets nothing pass, no matter how small.

You want to take a bath?

No.

You want to take a shower?

No.

You want to take a bath and shower at THE SAME TIME? SO COOL! RIGHT?

No.

All the parenting books I have been reading (and there are a lot of them out there) tell me this is completely normal. They say that every toddler has to pass through this stage where they want independence but they don't really want it, no, yes they do want it, no, actually, they don't. No, yes, they do. I mean they don't.

The books assure Jen and I that this stage will pass, and that the important thing is to remain calm, to be firm but loving, and to try not to make a big deal over small things--to let go of the battles that really aren't that important. The books tell us that not fighting your toddler over every little thing will help the stage pass more quickly, and things will begin, again, to resemble that peaceful euphoria for which I had been on my kness praising God.

So, My List of Things of Late That We Have Chosen to Not Fight:

1. Spaghetti sauce in the hair (What's the worst that could happen? It will come out in the bath, later, right?)
2. Spaghetti sauce in the nose (Hey, maybe it smells good)
3. Granola Bars (Cranola Bar! I want one Cranola Bar! Hey, there's some good protein and carbs in those things, right? So, logic goes to figure that TWO or THREE of those things will have twice as many good carbs and protein...right?)
4. Clothes (Okay, you want to wear pyjamas all day? Fine. On second thought, I'll join you.)

My List of Things That We Have Chosen to Fight For:

1. Sleep
2. Sleep
3. Sleep
4. Sleep

I now take a breath, dive into some more reading in Toddler Taming by Dr. Christopher Green, and I will continue to hope that memorizing 1 Corinthians 13 (the "Love" chapter) will help sustain a calm but firm stance amidst this new stage.

(And I'll also be hoping that Defiance soon becomes a cologne. Or perfume. Or a mixture of both.)

The Glory of Dirt

2011-03-21T21:57:00.001Z

It gets in our fingernails and it won't come out. I'm not talking about the kind of dirt that gathers in corners of our hallways and lightly sits on window ledges, hanging out until someone comes along with some Pledge and a disgusting rag or some old Hanes underwear (as was the custom ion my house growing up) to whisk such dirt away.

That kind of dirt only wants to be dirt.

Really, it's dust. It's like the five-year old dressing up as Superman or Cinderella or Super-Cinderella.

No; today's blog is about actual dirt that is thick and everywhere and underneath the grass and when you hold it you feel the weight of it and you sometimes have to say, Wow, that is some serious dirt right there.

I'm writing about dirt today because Tyler has been having a love affair with the stuff lately. For a total of two hours and 25 minutes today, we sat in the backyard and dug in the dirt. Some neighbors were kind enough to bequeath us a large pile of dirt left over from their garden, and Tyler and I put it to excellent use.

We dumped it on the path that Jennifer had cleared away yesterday, and then we went town building Muddy Monsters, towers, large piles and small piles, and also sifting through it to find worms of various sizes. Each time we spotted a worm, Tyler's delighted voice rang out, "I hold that worm on my finger, Daddy?" and my voice rang in response, "Yeah!"

Many worms and ladybugs later (yes, we took some brief breaks from the dirt to explode the grass, and it was certainly amazing to watch how the weight of a ladybug tips a blade of grass back on itself at the median) we went inside for some juice, crackers with humous, and a nap. Well, Tyler napped, and I tried to organize our little study a bit.

But I couldn't stop thinking about dirt. I still can't.

And there indeed plenty of other stuff to think about. There are books to be written, projects to tackle, things to fix, financial situations to worry-over-but-then-pray-and-remind-myself-not-to-worry-over-them-and-keep-working, dishes to be cleaned and generic-brand Lego blocks to be picked up from the living room floor.

But dirt.

Man. DIRT.

See, the thing about dirt is that you never have to question whether it's there. You get your hands in the soil and you know it right away. It's there. You feel it, to see it, its dirt-ness gets right in through your skin and into some part of you that feels stuff like, well, dirt.

In a world where so much is in our minds--where so much is talked about, written about, discussed, and conjectured, I notice, today, how good dirt feels. How real. How tangible. How here.

For my current writing project, I have been allowing Robert Frost's definition of poetry to knock me upside the head as many times as I can let it without going blind. Frost wrote this: "My definition of poetry, if I were forced to give one, would be this: words that become deeds."

Words that become deeds.

Dirt is like that. Dirt was once a word. When God said, "Let it be!" and it was, the dirt became deed. It became real and earthy and thick and the way it is today, and the way we are today.

We live in a culture where it's so easy for words not to become deeds. We live in a society where we can say and write a whole lot of things but never really back them up or believe them or make good on the promises they hold within their letters.

But how do we live like poems? How do we allow our lives to be so imbued with action that the words we form in peace and silence and rest are not the Forewords of what we hope to be but the Afterwords of what we already have been becoming? How can we use words that begin as seeds but, by the time their meaning breaks free, become the very fruit that feeds us?

One humble suggestion is to go back.

To the dirt.

To go outside, roll up our sleeves, dig away a patch of grass and then plunge our hands right into the earth, worms and all. Let the dirt get in under our fingernails. (We can wash it off later, before dinner.) Grab a couple handfuls and roll that dirt around like it's as precious as the money we've got in our wallets, the dreams we've got in our hearts, the peace we so deeply fear.

William Faulkner said in his 1950 Nobel prize acceptance speech that "the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart, which alone can make good writing." Instead, Faulkner says, we're writing about lust and glands rather than the conflict that arises out of really trying to love.

One might say our tendency is to ease into grabbing the fruit without ever acknowledging the soil from which it came. We might honor Faulkner and Frost both by trying to remind ourselves of what matters--that before the words, there was the faith, and after the words, the deeds that remain for our progeny are those that were written not with our lust, but with our love--not with our hands scrubbed clean, but with dirt beneath our fingernails.

Storytelling

2011-03-16T07:19:00.000Z

As someone who loves stories and believes deeply in the power of words, I am so incredibly proud of my son right now. (Well, I am proud of him no matter what, but right now, my pride in him wants to swing dance around the tiny study in which I write.)

It is 7:12am now, and my two-year old has been telling a story in his crib for a while now. I will share his story, as it comes from his mouth (at the risk of including far too much information):

Look, everybody! Wow! Water coming: shusshhh shuussshhhh shuuusshhhh! Here you go, Karate Kid and Mr. Han. I found an uptruck for you. Mr. Han...I know Karate Kid and Mr. Han, you on DVD! Eat some food, yup we can do dat one. Let's go! Let's go Mr. Han and Karate Kid, let's go! I know, look! WOW! Oh, look, there's one! Daddy and Mommy coming in everybody, they wait at door, and come in a minute. OKAY! Let's go, everybody! Let's go! WOW! OKAY! You ready for DVDs? Yeah, I ready for DVDs! Whhooooooo! Ready, Daddy? Let's go!

Tyler's words, above, are the most beautiful ones I've encountered in a long time.

Being a Daddy has been teaching me to see the story in our words, the words in our hearts,a nd the joy that dances within both.

Boxing Out

2011-03-10T21:16:00.000Z

In basketball, it's when you vehemently use your body to prevent the guy on the other team from getting the rebound. My high school basketball coach relentlessly drilled into us the importance of boxing out. It was one of those hard-work-without-glory type of skills, and most guys just wanted to leap for the ball rather than find their man first and use their butt and legs to move him backwards away from the hoop.

In high school, I worked hard to box out.

But I haven't used the skill since my most recent pick-up games which (I;m ashamed to admit) were more than a couple of months ago. Okay, more than a couple of years ago.

Until yesterday.

Tyler and I were at a playgroup at the church, hanging with the Bob the Builder trucks, pushing dolls in strollers, and making choo-choo trains...well...say Choo! Choo!

It was all great and fun and delightfully giddy and imaginative. We even had tea (for me), juice (for Tyler) and chocolate-covered biscuits (for us both!).

It was great fun, indeed, until I had the relentless urge to urinate. Usually, I can plan my events and outings with Tyler so as to minimize my own need to pee while we're out and about. I found, early on, that he was far too curious about the stream and, generally, about touching everything in the bathroom-covered-with-a-thousand-germs.

So, I have designated public bathrooms for a Tyler-diaper-changing-only visit when he and I are out together.

But yesterday, I just couldn't hold it. It was impossible. It was like trying to hold back Niagara Falls. Or something else really forceful that is very hard to hold back.

So Tyler and I made a trip tot he men's room at the church once the playgroup was over.

Needless to say, my boxing out skills were put to use diligently, and they came back in full force.

Tyler's trying to go for the stream from the right side! Quick--keep your butt low and BOX OUT! Good...whew...oh no! Tyler's coming from the left now, butt low, BOX OUT...whew. Now he's going for the toilet seat--quick! Dig deep and BOX OUT far, far left and low!

When Tyler and I left the men's room yesterday--my need to relieve myself, well, relieved--I also felt this incredibly odd sense that everything does somehow connect. After all, I never thought my bench-ridden time as a high school ball player would one day grant me a small victory while urinating with my two-year old in tow.

But it did.

(Not that I'm in any rush to box out again.)

Relentless Sunshine

2011-03-09T08:07:00.000Z

York has thrown us for a loop lately.

Pulled a fast one on us.

Gone and made a game-changing bucket from the cheap seats in overtime.

Jennifer, myself, and Tyler have come to know York, England as a place where the rain falls liberally and the clouds consistently hang out overhead like a group of kids gathered over a massive worm crawling slowly towards another massive worm that is waiting for the initial massive worm so that they can then crawl to a new location.

(Or something like that.)

But lately, the gray skies and the rain have been nonexistant. Instead, as I type these words at 8 am, we're in a phase of what I'll call Relentless Sunshine.

It just won't stop.

Constant sun shining is a really wonderful thing. It's especially wonderful when you open your bedroom curtains and remark, Holy crap! Another sunny day!? And then you kind of close your bedroom curtains and then open them again just so you feel like you actually have TWO sunshiney days instead of one.

And it works!

We're now going on day number four of Relentless Sunshine. Tyler has been to the swings often in the past four days; he has run around in our backyard; he has dragged an old broom across the grass in the backyard (for some reason, a favorite activity of his); and he has done a skipping-dancing-jig thing that looks kind of like running with a severe limp on the sidewalks of our neighborhood.

All in the name of Relentless Sunshine.

I haven't grown to expect it (yet). But if this keeps up, I'll start to wonder what in the heck is happening to the weather patterns to make it so.

I'll also start to wonder if, perhaps, Tyler will need to learn a rain dance. After all, one can take only so much Relentless Sunshine.

Not that I'm complaining. But there's something fun about being able to say, Yup, got another rain today, but then the skies opened up something fierce and this blue burst through and it was like, WHOA....and then it rained again.

Right now, this is what I'm saying: Yup, another Relentless Sunshiney day today. The blue was there and it stayed there and the sun was there and it stayed there and it was all like, WHOA....and then it stayed there and then the moon plopped itself onto the black and then we went to bed.

I guess, in a weird sort of way, when it rains often, the sunshine feels like an extraordinary and remarkable friend who you know loves you and will always come back, even if he is away for a while. And maybe being away makes you appreciate a loyal friend like that more than you would if he was always just hanging around, finding massive worms.

(Or something like that.)

25 Pence (!)

2011-03-07T22:00:00.000Z

About 34 cents, if Google's currency exchange is accurate. It was the price, recently, of the movie The Shawshank Redemption at a charity shop in the center of York.

I was in town to have a morning coffee and get as much writing done on a new project as I could. I woke excited, revving those writer engines of Just Get It Down On the Page and You Can Always Revise Later! As I opened up my tiny, (miniature, really, but I love it) e-book and began where I left off in Microsoft Word, I was already relishing the second-hand book-store crawl I knew was coming.

Three hours later, I breathed deep, rubbed my eyes, leaned back in my cafe chair, downed the last of my coffee, and re-saved (for the umpteenth, yes, obsessively umpteenth) my work.

Then, it was off to the bookstores.

I found Zadie Smith's White Teeth, a novel I have wanted to read for a while, and was delighted to see it for 2 pounds. Then I found Selling Your Father's Bones by Richard Scofield, a non-fiction volume about the flight of the Nez Perce against the onslaught and terror of the Westward Expansion in America. At the next shop, I found the social justice rallying Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger by R.J. Sider (had heard of this from Jim Wallis's The Call to Conversion and was excited to find it waiting on the shelf for a couple of pounds) and also Equal to Serve, about the quest for women's equality within the Church. At the last stop, I found a puzzle for Tyler, and four films, including Shawshank for 25 pence!

Last night, as Jennifer and I heard the beautiful lines about hope narrated by Red (Morgan Freeman), it was hard not to realize that when we cease to hope, we cease to live. A powerful reminder for only 25 pence (or, rather, 34 cents!).

Poop Never Fails

2011-03-03T12:00:00.000Z

When I began this blog a couple of years ago, I never intended for it to become a dumping ground for poop stories and experiences. But when you're a stay-at-home father of a toddler, and you already have a proclivity for poop (when I was in college, I wrote a short story called "The Wad"--though not for any class, of course), well, I guess some things just happen.

As a middle school teacher, poop was a wildly popular way to rivet attention of my students. I could use poop to get my students interested in a book, a story, a thesis essay, or even a grammatical exercise.

As a high school teacher, poop was, undeniably, still a valuable go-to player when the class seemed to be sleeping no matter how hard I tried to build a bridge between my passion and theirs.

And as a college instructor, teaching an 8am section of Freshman Comp, yes: even there poop could perform wonderfully to suggest to my students that if they arrived within the first three minutes of class time, they might hear a funny (and true) story about Mr. Reynolds and poop.

So, call it like-father, like-son, or just call it what it is. But, today, the nap saga continued. Tyler may be going through some growing pains, he may be having some nightmares, or it may be some separation anxiety he's developing when it's time to bid goodnight for a late-morning snooze-a-roo. Or, alternately, he may just be moving out of the nap phase.

Whatever the case, today was shaping up to be another battle. His shrieks were telling me: Daddy, please, for the love of all things beautiful in the world, DON'T MAKE ME DO IT!

As I once again sang the sweet syllables of that classic hymn "Amazing Grace," Tyler's contribution was, well, not quite as amazingly graceful as has been the pattern prior to the past few days.

So, when I finally plopped him into his crib, and he stood there looking at me with a face drizzled with tears and red eyes, I caved.

Call me a softie. Tell me that Tyler has me wrapped around his littlest finger.

This may very well be so.

But instead of closing the door and dealing with another twenty minutes of shrieking, I decided to try my old ally, my longtime companion, my great friend who has never before let me down.

Poop.

I left Tyler's room and told him that I had a surprise coming back to him to help him feel happy-happy-joy-joy while he went to sleep.

He caught some of his tears and responded, through heavy sobs, "What--sob, sob--is it--sob, sob, sob--Daddy?"

"You'll see!" I said with evident glee at my opportunity.

I went into Jen's and my bedroom, opened up my sock and underwear drawer (no, this isn't going quite where you think it is, but not too far from it...) and I grabbed one black sock. It was from a pair that had been given to me by our neighbors as a Christmas present. The sock has a graphic of Bart Simpson on it wiping his bum with a long piece of toilet paper.

I went back into Tyler's room, the coveted surprise in my hands.

I proceeded to bend down, give him the sock, and then tell him a very detailed and vivid story about a young boy learning to use the potty for the first time, as his Daddy and Mommy watch him. Many plops and splashes later--and after some of the movement falls ont he floor--the boy's tummy ache is all better, and he smiles with pride as his newfound skill.

Tyler: laughing like crazy.

Me: Goodnight, precious boy.

Tyler: calm.

Me: Thank you, Poop.

Butterflies Shrieking

2011-03-02T14:09:00.000Z

This morning, Tyler and I went along with another stay-at-home parent and her daughter to Tropical World. Just outside of Leeds, the place is packed with butterflies, meerkats, turtles, parrots, and snakes. Tyler darted from one display case to another, while his friend, Alice, did the same.

Every view of every new animal was a magical one. Whoa! Meerkat eating something!

Hey! Butterfly on pineapple!

Yellow snake sleeping!

Turtle playing hide-and-go seek!

It's hard to watch two kids so amazed by animals and not also be amazed, too. It's hard to watch two kids jumping, smiling, laughing, and not be amazed. It's hard to watch two kids and not be amazed. Period.

But after we had made it back home to York, bid farewell to our friends, and made the five minute walk back to our home, the amazement turned into...well...not so much amazement.

Nap time, you see.

Tyler and I both tend to need our naps. Him because his little body is so frantically engaged in any activity while he's awake that it needs a little snooze to help him get through the full day and continue on his endless path of amazement. (Yesterday morning, for instance, he spent a full twenty minutes hanging off a green bench in the park trying to see if he could reach various branches. All it takes is a bench and a few branches and voila: a magical game.) I need the naps because they provide those pockets of time to flip open the miniature screen of my e-book, open up the current writing project (or this blog, or, okay, e-mail) and type away. Bang the keys. Watch the words form little congregations and then watch those congregations sing some songs.

But today, the transition from butterfly kingdom to nap world wasn't so smooth.

The shrieks started when we began singing our nap-time songs. As I attempted, "Good Night, Butterflies," Tyler's acapelo version sounded more like: "Aaaaahhhhhhhhh! EEeeeeEEEEAaaahhhhhhh!"

Me: A-MAZE-ING GRACE, How sweet the sound...

Tyler: EEEEEaaaaaHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOO! No!

And so we sang.

When I finally gently placed him into his crib, said I loved him and kissed his forehead, it felt like the battle was already lost. As he gripped my hands (No, don't make me lay down on this pillow and sleep! How COULD you!?), I silently prayed, Lord, help! Him! Sleep!

Twenty minutes later and and two texts for support and prayer to my wife, Jennifer, Tyler was sleeping peacefully.

Dreaming, perhapss, about butterflies.

Amidst the naptime saga of today, beauty emerged. Yes, I am going to write that (perhaps) over-dramatic, corny-ish, tending towards making the microcosm of Tyler's room in York a macrocosm for understanding something bigger about life and about the world.

See, I can't help it. Because one of the things my remarkable wife write in a text of support was this: "Dreams do not have to be perfect bubbles floating just beyond our reach, but rather can live imperfectly among our daily realities."

I know. That's what I thought. Pretty stinking cool words.

She doesn't know I'm sharing them with you all right now. But I know that she won't mind, because I think they can bring the same kind of encouragement and support to you as they did to me.

So naptime didn't go great today. No perfect bubble floating there.

But the saga of struggle for napping doesn't diminish the beauty of the butterflies. And in fact, it may even do the opposite: it may make the beauty more real, more authentic. Indeed, such moments may help us allow our dreams to live imperfectly among our daily realities.

Perhaps that's a pretty darn good definition for life. After all, we're going to encounter butterflies and shrieking, no matter how much we try to avoid either. Some of us cloak ourselves with cynicism, thinking it's all going to be hard; none of it matters; and none of it changes much, anyway. Others of us cloak ourselves with denial, refusing to embrace the difficulties we come up against, thinking every challenge is somehow a personal attack.

That middle ground--where dreams are authentic and life is beautiful--seems to somehow embrace all that we experience and allows it to teach us for the journey that still lies ahead.

Walking to See Atticus Finch

2011-02-28T21:34:00.001Z

This past Friday evening, I walked into the city to see an adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird at the York Theatre Royal on St. Leonard's Place. I first read the book when I was teaching at Farmington High School, and a colleague of mine, Russ Crist, was surprised that I had never before read Harper Lee's classic. So he gave me a copy of the book, and I read it with my lower jaw hanging off my face the entire time.

Among other things, I had the distinct impression that a question had been answered in my heart.

Namely: What does it mean to be a good man?

Atticus Finch was my answer. When I read the book for a second and then, recently, a third time time, I saw more and more to the character of Atticus Finch.

But walking into the center of the city where I live to see a real, live Atticus recite the lines which have been committed to my heart was an expedience unlike any previous play or movie had offered. The streets into the center were calm, and the occasional car whizzed past, but mostly the quiet, cool air encouraged me to think deeply and wonder willingly.

Even in the center of the city--where the Viking Festival was in its climax and an estimated 40,000 tourists were visiting--it still felt calm, quiet, almost like I wanted to ask, This is York, right?

I arrived to the theater twenty minutes before the show was to begin, and just reading the title To Kill a Mockingbird was enough to give me goosebumps. I already began to feel sorry for my friend Phil, who would meet me to view the show. He was rushing into the city on his bike after giving his young daughter a bath.

When Phil arrived, we made our way through the throbbing crowd within the entrance of the theater and found our seats in the gallery.

Now, I thought a gallery was where art was displayed, and also something that could be used in the phrase "peanut gallery" which meant, loosely translated, "a place high up or behind." The gallery where Phil and I sat was both very high up and very behind all of the other seats. We were in the front row of the gallery, which I thought was wise of me to select, but when I saw the front row, I realized that we would have to lean forward, our elbows planted on the rail in front of us, to be able to see the whole show.

But I would have sat that way regardless.

From the moment the curtain rose to its decent, my eyes were wired to the stage, listening to Scout tell the story of her father, and the story of her own journey towards Experience, by way of a crash course in courage and justice.

I cried.

Yes.

Multiple times.

And when, at the close of the play, Scout remarks to her father, "Boo Radley is actually a pretty nice man," Atticus replies, "Most people are, when you really see them."

That was it.

Man, that was it.

The tears flowed like the River Jordan. (Or like, here in York, the River Ouse.)

The thing about Atticus Finch is that he fought the case that needed fighting. He didn't take it because he thought he could win. He took Tom Robinson's defense because it was the right thing to do.

So much of the ways we live is based on results: what will happen; what our chances of winning are; what the expected yield is; who will see what we do; the praise we might garner; the pats on the back we might earn.

More important than worrying about how we'll be received or what we'll accomplish, Atticus Finch knew that the way WE see others matters more.

Much more.

Walking home through the quiet streets of York, my mind played the line again and again.

And when I walked through the door of our rented home on Lesley Avenue, seeing my wife in our living room, peeking into Tyler's room and praying over him as he slept peacefully in his uptruck pajamas with footies, and climbing into bed myself, the only line written on my heart was, indeed, his.

When you really see them.

Oh, to see that way. To see through eyes that hold out hope and push away judgment. And to fight not because our chances of winning are good, but because the truth behind the battle is worthwhile.

What a way to see. What a way to live.

The Purple Man

2011-02-27T00:07:00.001Z

York is currently finishing its annual Viking Festival. Essentially, it's an extravaganza whereby tons of booths selling international food are set up, and then a whole bunch of actors dressed up as Vikings walk through the streets and pretend to fight one another with heavy swords.

Jen and I and Tyler walked into the city centre today to explore more of it, and what most fascinated our son was not the Vikings--although he did get to hold one of the heavy metal swords, which he immediately termed The Sword in the Stone--but a purple man.

After strolling side streets and saying hello to people, Tyler asked repeatedly to see the purple man again.

The Purple Man.

He sits on a bike in the middle of a shop-laden street, frozen mid-motion and covered in purple paint. His shoelaces are painted as thoguh fluing backwards from the wind--as is his tie, strings from his hat, and the lapels of his coat.

The only thing that isn't purple on the Purple Man are his eyes.

Tyler stood (and then sat) transfixed by the Purple Man, and all he could ay was, "Purple Man! Purple Man!" When thew Purple Man gave Tyler a high-five, we had thought every uptruck in the vicinity had come to do a choreographed dance.

Such was the excitement, wonder, and awe on Tyler's face.

A man. And some color.

The day also held some baklava, an apple cream-filled turnover, and a grande coffee with cream from Starbucks. It even held a visit to the library bookfair and a trip to the Yorkshire Musuem (where Tyler was more fascinated by the leaves he could see through the window than historical dates)--but of it all, the Purple Man was hands-down the coolest thing we saw.

Writing (And Living) Through

2011-02-23T12:14:00.000Z

Sometimes, the only thing worse than making a mistake is doing nothing.

In writing, yes, and in life.

As writers, we often find ourselves stalled at important moments. A character just had an epiphany about how she has allowed herself to be controlled by others. Another character has finally admitted the fear and lies he harbors within. The story's climax is approaching, the action climbs, the mystery mounts.

And we stall.

In life, we also tend to stall right before the biggest moments of opportunity. Right before our own stories are about to break open, break free, break the rules, and break barriers.

What connects figures like Nelson Mandela, Mother Teresa, Mahatma Gandhi, Atticus Finch, Lisbeth Sanders, Mark Twain, Sojourner Truth, King Arthur, and John Prendergast? My list--randomly chosen figures whom I admire for their commitment to justice and truth--is peopled by fictional and real-life heros and heroines. Each one of them possesses a single characterteristic that, I think, is essential to be who we truly are as writers and as human beings.

Each one of these people does not stall.

This does not mean that they haven't faced the same kinds of crises we all face. It does not mean that they have not fallen on their knees or felt their souls crumble in heaps as they cried out, What's the point!? Indeed, many of them have, and for the real-life figures, it has often been well-documented (as in the case of Mother Teresa, who reveals in her posthumously published letters and journals, Come Be My Light, that she often felt God was absent from her life, even as she chose to continue doing the work He had called her to do).

There is a very big difference between stalling and resting. Or, perhaps a better way to phrase that asserttion would be to borrow a line from Mr. Han in the new version of The Karate Kid: "Being still and doing nothing are two very different things."

As we write or as we live, we need to be still. We should take the time to listen, think, pray, recollect, prepare and all of those other things that lend energy to our pursuits.

But once we stall, the fight is over. The Chinese have a proverb for it: "He who hesitates is lost."

Living through the confusion, the pain, and the uncertainty does not mean that we deny the fears we feel or the failures we face. Instead, it means that we look these foes in the eyes and speak honestly and authentically, growing those muscles that gather invisibly to push our voices out from our mouths and into the world.

The only way to go through something is, in fact, (and rather redundantly) to go through it.

As writers, we may need to write through scenes time and time again. We often find the paths our characters need to take by watching them walk down one and then realizing, Nope, that ain't it.

The same is true in life.

But making a mistake is a far better choice than doing nothing. We learn from our mistakes; our souls grow and our voices learn to speak more boldly. From doing nothing, we learn only how to continue to do more nothing (granted, in more modern ways perhaps).

The journey towards going through has certainly been a long one for me--and it continues to get longer when I stop and view the trail ahead each time I take a water break. But when I look back at the path I've already walked, I can smile and see that, at the very least, I don't stall my way through life or writing nearly as much as I used to.

I still do sometimes, and indeed, old habits die hard.

But when I'm writing a character now, and I find him getting close to the climax of the novel, I push him forward on his dragging feet--sometimes kicking and screaming the whole way. He argues with me, and he often offers an excellent list of reasons why I should let him stay the heck where he is.

But my characters aren't winning those arguments nearly as much as they used to.

And I sincerely hope that the same is true of my own life.

On Missing Sleep

2011-02-18T14:07:00.000Z

In the past week, Tyler came down with a cold. It's nothing like the Winter Vomiting Virus that Tyler, Jen, and I all battled a couple of months ago, but the current cold was enough to wake Tyler up more than a few times each night, mucus attacking his throat and nose like angry red ants attack the kinds of things that angry red ants attack.

Thus, Jen and I have been lovingly batting our eyelids at that incredibly attractive persona: Sleep.

However, sleep has eluded us. We are both coming more and more to accept this as a somewhat stable truth: in the due course of parenting, Sleep is never a guarantee.

But I've had another reason to miss even more sleep than I should have this past week. A friend let me borrow Steig Larsson's Milennium trilogy, and I have been utterly and completely absorbed in the life of Lisbeth Sanders.

In the third book now, The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest (after having skipped the first of the three books because we had watched the Swedish film adaptation before leaving the States in September), it's hard to stop reading.

Lisbeth's journey is harrowing and tragic and sad and the part of me that won't stop turning pages keeps saying, She has to get justice! Someone has to do something...it's going to be okay for Lisbeth, right? Right?!

And so, the pages turn and I keep hoping.

It strikes me now that Lisbeth's journey is far too familiar to many women the world over: at the mericless hands of players far more powerful than they, be they police officers, government officials, or men who happen to be on the same trains or streets where they walk, late at night.

What makes Lisbeth's story so fascinating, and yes, stand-up-and-cheer-for-her-ish, is that she sees the corruption within the system--she sees how despicably so many men behave, and they way so many wield power to abuse. Patriarchy, too often, is synonymous with misogyny. And so Lisbeth acts.

What stands out, of course, if the reticence and passivity of so many of us men. A recent book published by Lisa Shannon entitled A Thousand Sisters details the author's account of her transition from comfortable life to getting involved in the fight for justice for Congolese women. Shannon leaves a comfortable life in Portland, Oregon to travel to the Congo to work with women there, and she realizes what is at stake, and what atrocities are being committed against women every day, every hour, every minute, yes, every second.

Shannon's work is remarkable, powerful, and a model.

But what the fictional character of Lisbeth Sanders and the real-life journey of Lisa Shannon ask us is simple: Where are all the men?

Where are we, men, when women are abused? Where are we, men, when power structures that oppress women are held rigidly in place? Where are we?

The answer is, sadly, all too clear: we are often absent from the picture. As bystanders, we might like to claim, Hey, I'm not the one doing any injustice! But this line is woefully incompetent. Did such a claim work for those German citizens who sealed their lips during the genocide committed by the Nazi regime?

Before Jen and I and Tyler left for York, my brother Chris and I went to Washington DC. During our trip, we visited the Holocaust Memorial Museum, and I was struck--as most are--by the gruesome atrocities committed during the Holocaust.

However, in one area, I found myself standing facing a wall with a quote written on it in massive letters, taken from Elie Weisel's harrowing memoir Night. The line said, "God is dead."

As a Christian-male-feminist-teacher-writer--husband-father-Democrat, I stood looking at the quote for a long time.

A long time.

I asked God, How am I supposed to read this, Lord? How could I ever say to someone who has experience such horror that such a claim is false?

I stood there and asked God as tears came down my cheeks and my heart burned inside of me.

And then, God spoke.

I heard this small voice bubbling up, and the words that became etched in my mind and soul were: "I am not dead, but my people have remained silent."

The words shocked me at once in their simplicity and their truth.

And in every great tragedy--even and especially those tragedies committed in the name of God but really nothing more than mass murder at the hands of men pretending to claim God as an excuse--the above line has been true.

In the Rwandan genocide, where were we?

In the current genocide in Darfur, where are we?

In the destruction and violence against women in the Congo, where are we?

In the systematic oppression of women in every country on the globe, where are we?

It has become painfully obvious that men--even good men--would often prefer to remain passive on the issue. And it has also become painfully obvious that those who profess to follow a faith don't see any of Christ's numerous class to action on behalf of the oppressed as reason enough to look outside the walls of their own church, and try to find something meaningful to fight for.

Sadly, for many in the Church, protesting gay rights seems to be the only rallying cry to which they respond.

But Christ, if we read what he's said and done, does something far different. He fights for those who are oppressed. He stands with the persecuted, the defeated, the weak, the poor, and the needy.

Christ never says, blessed are the rich and he never says blessed are those who judge others.

No.

It's time for men and for Christians to redefine--no, reinvent--the roles we have enacted for far too long. If we need a model, look at Jesus himself, who is startlingly different than most Christians I see today.

Jesus didn't dress in three-pieces suits, hang with the wealthy, and oppress women.

So, all of that to say that missing sleep is sometimes necessary when a voice of justice begins to creep into one's heart.

Perhaps we'll see a book like Lisa Shannon's come out which accounts for the way men will begin to stand up for equality and justice and oppose the oppression of women the world over.

Call me an idealist, but yeah, I'm holding my breath for this. It happens when those of us born into privilege are willing to peer out from behind the walls and see life as it is lived for the other 95% of the world. I've got a heck of a long way to walk on this path, but I want to try and follow the trail as best as I can.

The Way We Walk

2011-02-11T12:07:00.000Z

Today, as I made my way in the city center (or, rather, the City Centre as it's written on all the signs from Fulford Road on into York) I tried to really look at people as we crossed paths. Their faces so often seemed etched with concern. Most of us, I realize, look down as we walk, bundled up with our scarves, our coats zipped up to just beneath our chins, considering how we'll make it through the day, what we'll do about the problems that face us, how we'll find some way of living with freedom and hope.

As I passed the huge diggers that line a section of Main Street, I recalled how Tyler and I stood in front of them only yesterday, his eyes gazing on them as though they were a gift from God, placed there with their metal shovels, mounds of dirt, and massive wheels for his viewing pleasure.

Where are the diggers for us adults? What are the visions that call our eyes to look up and out upon something that warms us?

I think that for most of us, we reach a certain age and the idealism, perhaps, kicks off. Change the world? Naw. Too difficult. Too complicated.

Love in freedom? Hah! Impossible. Too many problems. Too many people telling us it's not that easy.

Do what brings joy to your heart? As if! Anyone who thinks it's possible to live in a world where capitalism is king and still follow your dreams--well, you haven't woken up yet. But you will. (Voice furrows eyebrows and nods slowly) Oh, you will.

Whatever reasons we have for letting go of simple joys like seeing a digger on the sidewalks of our lives, we do. It happens to us all. It's the time-tested and impenetrable subject of all great literature, from Homer to Shakespeare to Harper Lee to Toni Morrison.

Our English teachers (including myself, here) call it The Journey from Innocence to Experience, and I'm sure many of us have filled in flow charts and graphs finding the precise points when characters let go of Innocence and claimed Experience as their rallying cry.

And right they should. There is, truthfully, no other way.

But the question that ping-pongs itself back and froth across the gooey web of mess behind my eyes is: Whoever decided Experience would only have one face?

When we walk, most of our hearts are heavy for two reasons, I would venture: money and success. We have neither and want both. We have one but not the other. We have both but want more.

We tell our wive or husbands to wait. We tell our kids to hold on. We laugh our hearts down and we bully our souls. Not down, dang it all!

Instead, we must get a little more money, a little more success.

We convince ourselves--like heroin addicts--that one more hit will be enough. Just one more promotion. One more sale. One more account. One more title.

Just a bit more money. A touch more for retirement. A few extra dollars in this account. A bit more spending cash. Then--YES! THEN!--everything will be good and there'll be time to hug our kids and talk to our husbands and wives and listen to our hearts and remove our hands from the mouths of our souls.

Yes: Then there will be time and there will be space. Just let us finish our checklist of Capitalism's Approval! Is that so hard? Sheesh!

But then, there's the way we walk.

That stubborn demonstration of what's really going on inside us. Who we really are.

See, we don't walk like a free people.

We don't walk with our heads facing up and out.

We don't walk with a sense of authenticity about us.

We don't walk like people who feel pain but band together and somehow make it through.

We walk like people who live in captivity, constantly reminding ourselves that one more slice of the pie will bring us just enough freedom to let go of the whole game, once and for all.

But the truth is: no one wins. None of us, no matter how much we dedicate our lives to the gods of money and success, ever win.

And that, I think, is the real reason we walk the way we do. Deep down, we know it. We know we can never win. But, what would everyone think of us if we stopped playing the game?! How could we!? They'd think we have gone mad!

But maybe we'd walk a little freer. Perhaps we'd hug our kids a little tighter, listen to our wives and husbands a little more, laugh a little easier.

The interesting thing about walking is that you can do it differently every time out. Just because we may have walked a certain way into work today, doesn't mean we have to walk that same way home. There are countless ways to watch your feet slap the pavement of time, countless paths to take, countless visions to behold.

Maybe it's time to try something different. After all, who knows what diggers may sit on the sidewalks we have yet to discover.

The Diaper Bag / Writer's Backpack

2011-02-02T21:53:00.000Z

Before Jen and I and our little man moved to England, we worked pretty hard to narrow down our possessions. At the time, working as a teacher and also writing on my own and being a dad, I had quite a few bags.

Now, in the time of As Few Possessions as Possible, I have one.

The bag I have is a backpack, black with Swiss Army emblem on top (purchased at target a few years back for a cool $29.95 and holding up quite well still), and bright silver zippers crossing all over the thing, with hidden pockets just in case you want to practice the art of storing things in a new pocket each time out of the home.

Often, my bag holds assorted diapers (size 6), a variety of butt creams (currently, we've got a bit of Desitin left along with the actually-called Butt Paste), three extra pairs of toddler's socks, a Winnie the Pooh sweater and tiny jogging pants (just in case Tyler and I are out and about and he gets wet/food all over his clothes/has a bowel-explosion/other unforeseen circumstance).

Tonight, I did what I normally do on my writing afternoons or nights: I removed all above materials and into my bag went my big blue journal, a few pens, my tiny laptop computer, and my flash drive.

There it is--the transition from Daddy to Writer.

But then again, as I thought about it, it's really no transition at all. It's what we all do. No matter what we've chosen to do with our lives, we're always turning to different things, listening to different needs, and using our hearts to work towards a whole host of possibilities.

What makes me tick as a Daddy is what makes me tick as a Writer, and vice versa. I bring my daddyness into my writing, and my writing life into my daddyness. I have a heck of a lot to learn about both roles--but every time I make the switch from butt cream to laptop, I tell myself, You're learning, man--and isn't that what this whole thing is all about: learning how to love no matter what we do?

I'm about to pack up my Writer's Bag and head homeward, while it will once again become my Diaper Bag. But maybe, just maybe, it's always both.

You Be Mr. Han

2011-01-25T11:31:00.000Z

A little under a year ago, one of my 7th grade students and I went to see the new Karate Kid, starring Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan. Sitting in the theater together, my heart went out to this kid beside me--a young man who has energy, joy, and hope, but who also seemed to be constantly misunderstood.

I kept hitting his knee--a bad habit of mine when I watch a movie with someone--saying, Wow! Check that out! See what he just said there?! I don't know why, but it's like when I watch a movie, I want to constantly tell the other person what amazes me, and I want their eyes to glimmer and glow and say, You're right! So cool!

In any event, we watched the movie and I loved it. Now, I am completely against male bravado. I hate the idea of male toughness. And my all-time most noble example of what it means to be a man lies with Atticus Finch, from To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

So what I love most about Karate Kid is not, in fact, the karate. Instead, it's the relationship of a boy who doesn't have a dad and a kind, wise, older man who society sees as something to laugh about. But their relationship infuses a sense of purpose in each and, eventually, love.

A month ago, Jennifer had surprised me with the UK DVD of the new Karate Kid--the same version I had seen with my student--for my birthday this past December. Like his Dad, Tyler started enjoying watching a clip of the training scenes with the karate kid and Mr. Han--his mentor and father-figure.

Tyler loves it. He loves watching the breathtaking clips of China in those training scenes, and the way the karate kid falls asleep on Mr. Han's shoulder on the train ride home from their day training in the countryside.

Before Jen left this morning, she helped tie a swath of toilet paper around Tyler's head. "Now, you are karate kid!" Jen told Tyler with excitement. His reply: "I karate kid!"

Then, Tyler walked over to me and said, "You be Mr. Han."

Now, readers of this blog will already know that my heart jerks around far too easily, and this moment certainly provided a wave of emotion through my heart. Tyler then went back to Jennifer and said, "You be Mr. Han too, Mommy."

Before long, the three of us sauntered around our home wearing swaths of toilet paper on our heads: one karate kid and two Mr. Hans.

And this morning--now that T man is sleeping peacefully after a bit of a rough go of it to get into the nap-stage--one reason why I love the Karate Kid story so much crystallized in my mind: because it's like Mother Teresa.

If you're still with me, you're probably saying, Hey Luke, buddy, I know you titled this whole blog-thing Intersections so that you could make connections between all kinds of stuff. But Karate Kid and Mother Teresa? I don't think so, bro-ster.

But here's the thing: Mother Teresa said, "We can do no great things, only small things with great love." And in this new version of Karate Kid, there's a great scene where Mr. Han makes his mentee practice taking off his jacket, dropping it on the floor, picking it up, then hanging it up. he practices it thousands, hundreds of thousands, of times. Just when he starts to lose it, calling Mr, Han and his methods stupid, the great teacher shows him what, in fact, he has already learned: powerful methods for the art of karate.

A small thing. Very, very small thing. With the jacket. But its effect was to teach, through repetition, a beautiful ability.

I wonder how often I refuse to do small things with great love because I think they are insignificant, or because their worth seems infinitesimal. Mother Teresa always did the small--the tiny--things, and she did them with great love.

As Jennifer and I chatted last night, so many of us claim that we want to do big things. BIG things. If we're following faith, then we change it a little and say, we want to do big things for God.

But Mother Teresa's plea was different. her goal--her only goal--was to "do something beautiful for God."

It's not about the size of the result; in fact, it's never about size at all. It's about the great love that propels any tiny thing we do in this life. And the only actions that ever change hearts--whether one heart or a million hearts--are those actions that are done with great love.

However infinitesimal they may seem.

A Way How

2011-01-22T13:06:00.000Z

You fear the sun will never rise--
You sleep beneath covered skies
And your mind rages with love's loss, the lies.
Child: be.

Open your eyes where they have not opened before.
Will your heart to see the shining all around.
Stand and speak aloud against
Every despair that crowds
Like an angry leech, like the thundering leak.

Your words can call forth
The most humble of all glories:
They can paint the sunrise
God first gave us.

Woman, Man: tell your stories.
In so doing, cast darkness aside.

Dreaming after Dreaming

2011-01-20T12:58:00.000Z

In early morning mumbles,
Before reason asserts its measurements,
Allow your heart to playfully tumble
Upon its miasmic sentiments.

Walk softly where the ground has cracked;
Kiss the feet of those who weep.
Their laughter, one day, resembles
All the sleeping visions your soul keeps.

Broadway All Around Us

2011-01-17T12:59:00.000Z

The other evening, I ran across the street to the Co-Op, the little grocery store where we get those last-minute-whoops-we're-almost-out-of-baby wipes-apples-or-coffee supplies. A man named Ian with a kind face and a longish gray beard was at the register. This time, I happened to be buying some Calpol for Tyler (essentially the equivalent of Children's Tylenol in the states).

Ian and I chatted about when his daughters were young--now 23 and 25--and he used to give them Calpol when they were sick. I asked him if the time went by fast--going from two years old to 23 and 25.

"Faster than you can imagine," he told me, with a small smile and a wink. As he moved on to the next customer, I found myself thinking this as I walked out of the store: Ian is so...well, he's so Ian. He has an uncanny Ian-ness about him that no one else could possible show.

I'm not sure why my mind started thinking this, but then it started saying: No one could ever act the part of Ian better than Ian himself could. He plays his role perfectly--better than any Broadway actor could perfect it.

As the evening closed, and the next day opened, I found myself still thinking those same kinds of things--though not about Ian only. When Tyler and I passed a lady walking her dog--as we sought out dog poopies to look at and say, Whoa! More dog poopies!--I found myself thinking: That lady, too, plays her part perfectly--better than any Broadway actress could perform her role.

And on and on.

Granted: I have a lot of time to think during the day while Tyler and I gallop around the Fulford area of York, searching out dog poopies, building Gruffalo-Snow-Men, hugging Lightning trees, and jumping around like we're kids. (Well, technically, he is a kid. I consider myself an honorary kid. Maybe one day, universities will hand out "Honorary Kidships" the way they hand out Honorary Doctorates. If so, throw me on that list, Home Slice!)

So, some of this "thinking time" has been devoted, lately, to recognizing that it's kind of like there's this Broadway show happening all around us. And every day, we get this chance to see actors and actresses playing their parts perfectly--to an utmost precision that even the best performers can never quite muster.

These people aren't winning Academy Awards for their work, and they're not receiving rave theater reviews in the New York Times, but nonetheless, they're perfecting their roles--speaking their lines and communicating their movements with grace and hope and fear and anger and joy and love, all the same.

How will your life--how will my life--interact with these other Broadway stars today? What lines will we recite? In what scenes will we find ourselves?

When we walk into the grocery stores and down the sidewalks of our lives, even though no audience leans in to hear our words, may they still be laced with all the passion, verve, and hope which imbues the lines of our greatest performers.

And may we keep learning to be more, well, more us than ever before. After all, isn't that what the Great Director of our stage asks of us in Micah 6:8?: "Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God." By playing the Broadway roles we've been given--however humble, however loud, however soft, however fearful we are--we give to the world a part (yes, albeit a small part) that no other human being could ever play. No matter how talented they are.

The part is yours, and yours alone. Play it with everything you've got.

We Can't Keep Them All (On Writing as Practice)

2011-01-13T20:56:00.001Z

Tonight, as I walked into the University of York to do a nighttime writing session, I passed by a well-lit soccer field and watched four guys doing intense goalie drills. Two of the guys would kick soccer balls to the two guys opposite them, who would catch the balls, roll them back, do a foot-fire drill, then change locations and do it again.

It looked riveting.

It looked exhausting.

It looked like it probably felt: grueling without recognition or reward.

But when gametime arrives, those hours spent drilling at night when everyone else was watching TV or eating cheese curls (nothing against cheese curls here--I actually ate a bag myself earlier today, as did Tyler), these guys were practicing.

Practicing.

In sports, we don't find it odd to think that athletes spend countless hours practicing something that they do, in real game situations, a relatively small percentage of the time.

In music, a similar fraction holds. An orchestra might spend hundreds of hours rehearshing for a single, two-hour-long concert.

Yet in writing, many of us convince ourselves that we've got to have the perfect words, the perfect lines, the perfects plots all in place or else the idea isn't worth birthing into reality.

But the truth is, those athletes and musicians can't keep those countless hours--those are all preparation. And in writing, neither can we keep all our words. We need to free ourselves to start practicing.

Have you ever sat down and said, "Okay, today I am going to write A LOT. And I am going to write a lot that will never see the inside of a book or a magazine or even a blog. I am simply going to practice"?

Ever wonder why we don't let ourselves think this way as writers?

I'd venture that it's because somewhere along the way, we learn that writing is supposed to be different. It doesn't play by the same rules. If it's worth writing down, then it should already be perfect. It should be clever, witty, wise, worthwhile, and all without taking too much work.

But this kind of thinking gets us into massive amounts of trouble. It makes us think, Who am I to write? A thousand people can do it better than me!

Probably.

Because you're not letting yourself practice.

You're holding that violin in your hands, then jumping onto the stage and visualizing the crowd wince when the notes won't dance the way you want them to.

If you can teach yourself that it is okay to practice--that it is okay to write and write without any of it being publishable--then the lines you write when it's gametime will be that much more honed, clarified, and strong.

The words you craft in the light will hold power and meaning because of the practice you allowed yourself to conduct in the dark.

So come on. Open up a new document. Crack open your notebook. Write something without worrying who will see it. Write something for no other reason than to strengthen the muscles in your fingers, and the muscle in your heart.

In time, you'll live along the lines of practice into the game. But for now, allow yourself to believe that we can't keep all our words. In fact, the only way we imbue them with beauty is, indeed, when we let them go.

Holding the Moment

2011-01-13T10:13:00.000Z

The confirmation of a call cannot
Be known in the outcome alone--
Not in reactions,
Not in hungers or satisfactions.

Uncover more soil.
Peer below and roll the roots
Across your soul's fingers.
Imprint the image of a larger view
Upon the sky that blankets you.
Contentment never breathes within perfection,
But dances in what is far more real, true.

From Verizon or God?

2011-01-12T12:33:00.000Z

Tyler loves getting the mail when our postman, descending from his red Royal Mail bike, saunters to the door and pushes a few letters through the mail slot each day. Tyler's two-year old feet pitter-pat themselves to the floor where the letters fall, and he picks them up with glee, commencing to rip them open with joy at the hope of finding a cool picture, the letter "O," or, at the very least, various colors.

His love for the mail began with Christmas, when picture cards from people began arriving. Tyler loved learning the names of these people, and helping us decide where to tape them up on the wall. We even had to tape up a brochure sent to us from our bank because, after all, there was a picture of a man on it, and surely, that man from the bank would want us to have a Merry Christmas (as well as notify us about added security measures for online banking).

Today, a letter from Verizon flitted through the mail slot, and Tyler ran to retrieve it. Ripping it open, he cried out, "OH! OH! Look at 'dis one!"

He then put the letter on the ground, traced the words with his finger, and smiled.

"What does it say, T-Man?" I asked him.

Without hesitating, he began again at the top of the page and read aloud to me, "Dear Jesus, Thank you fo' Mommy-Daddy-Tyler...Gruffalo...Blue's Clues...Bob Builder Ball...O...O right here...THE END."

I laughed, and saw that the letter actually came from Verizon, alerting us to the fact that our American phone lines had been disconnected satisfactorily, and that, when we should need American cell phones again, would we please contact Verizon?

Hands-down, I like Tyler's version of the letter far better.

Don't Think; Begin!

2011-01-11T13:43:00.001Z

If you're anything like me, beginnings can be tough.

I am unashamed (okay, I am a little bit ashamed) of my bashfulness when I first knew that I wanted to date Jennifer (and eventually, marry her!). I had been visiting her, and at every turn, I planned romantic moments where I could tell her how deeply I cared for her. I took her to a beautiful lunch where we clinked glasses full of Chardonnay.

Even though the sun streamed through large windows across her face, urging me Come on, buddy, I'm doing my part...Tell her already, won't you? I had trouble getting the words out.

Then, as we walked beside a pond, skipping stones and watching light reflect on the shimmering water, my old pal the sun spoke again, Alright, man, I am really working hard here to give you some major opportunities...Tell her buddy! Yet I still had trouble getting the words out.

Finally, I was able to blurt out a (fairly) non romantic and harried "I like you" -- probably making Jen wonder if I was still in middle school rather than a 22 year-old high school teacher myself.

But I recognize something that I couldn't see before: beginnings are tough. It's hard to really put ourselves out there, say what we feel, what we believe, what we hope for.

I sometimes fall into that pattern where I start thinking a whole heap about ways to begin something, without beginning it. This is a dangerous zone, because thinking is, in fact, a good thing.

It's a great thing. We would save ourselves a whole lot of foot-in-mouth moments if we thought a little before we spoke or acted. But there's a lot in life that doesn't follow the notion of thinking for long, long (way too long!) periods of time before we begin.

Writing is like this. When we sit at our computers, staring at that white screen with it's tiny cursor flashing repeatedly before our very eyes, then we need do only one thing: begin.

We've got to write something--\anything--to get us going. Because writing is like running. You can't stand on the side of the road thinking about how exactly you're going to move your legs, what strides you'll make where, and when exactly you'll turn a corner. (Well, I guess you actually can do this, but you might look fairly odd dressed in your running clothes, standing outside for an hour, then going back inside without sweating.)

No. We've got to sweat, and with writing, that sometimes means sweating over some fairly awful prose.

I recently began a new novel, and the vision of this book in my head was remarkable. I smiled whenever I thought of the book's premise, givign myself imaginary pats on the back for thinking up such a cool idea.

Then I started writing it.

Part of me almost didn't want to write the thing, because keeping company with Premise was such fun! After all, Premise was a pretty non-demanding buddy. Premise even suggested I grab a bag of chips (or crisps, as I'm learning they're called here in England) and put on a great film clip whjile Tyler naps. Premise often told me, Hey, Man, aren't I enough for you as I am? Why you got to go and try and make me, like, 40,000 words long or something? The relationship we've got now is pretty sweet, right?

Sadly, I had to tell Premise to beat it. It was fun hanging out with him for a while. But I knew I needed to begin.

And so I threw up words and sentences onto my screen and winced as I wrote them. I felt like some very mean-spiritied doctor was continually poking me with a Hepatitis A vaccination, then hiding the needle quickly when I took a sidelong glance.

But I kept writing.

I wrote through my halthing, confused Chapter 1.

Ouch.

Then I started another halting, albeit-less-confused Chapter 2.

Ouch. (But less ouch.)

Finally, I made it to the end of Chapter 2, where I found one line I had written, and I leaned back in my chair and I said out loud, "Thank you, God. Thank you for this line. This one line."

Because, see, that was the line.

The line.

I had written many pages, but most will probably be chucked when all is said and done. But I will keep that line. That one line.

Living, too, is a lot like this. I wonder how often we stop ourselves from doing anything because we're so afraid we're going to get it wrong. We're so afraid that we don't have it just quite right, so we counsel ourselves that it's okay--better, even--to wait it out. Think some more.

The sad part about making little choices like that every day is that it leads to one rather big choice: we never do the thing that makes our hearts beat fast. We have a vision--a dream, a hope, a cool idea--but we don't allow ourselves to just begin it and make mistakes along the way.

Yesterday, as I was doing my morning devotion on the porcelin potty (well, I think ours may actually be a very, very hard plastic-type material that only looks like porcelin...in fact, is anybody's porcelin? If you're still with me, and you know for a facvt that you have a porcelin potty, send me an e-mail at LWReynolds@gmail.com as I'd love to hear about your porcelin potty. If you don't have a porcelin potty, but you have factual knowledge of your potty's substance, e-mail me and let me know what it is), I came across the book of Jonah in the Old Testament.

I said to myself, Hhhmm, I've heard a lot about this Jonah character, but I don't know that I've ever actually read the book in the Bible.

So I read it then and there.

And I was blown away by it. I was blown away by a lot within it--but two things really hit me like something heavy and big (but something that doesn't leave any pain or aftereffects).

Two verses, really, which said, essentially: "God changed his mind."

Whoa! So God had planned on one course for the Ninevites, but their repentence provoked his mercy, and he changed his mind!

Jonah was pretty bummed about this whole God-changing-His-mind-and-having-mercy-thing.

But hey, the point is that if God can even change His mind, then why do we pretend we can't?

Why do we so often walk through our lives telling ourselves that we must get it exactly right on the first try, every time and all the time? That's a pretty high and impossible standard that, essentially, accomplishes one thing only: it prevents us from beginning something that could be really good, really beautiful, really important.

So, since my son Tyler is waking up from his nap, and our local library is calling both our names, I'll end with this question today: What dreams are bouncing around in your heart right now? Have you dreamed of starting a non-profit to help reform schools? Have you dreamed of doing the Peace Corps? Have you dreamed of writing a novel, running a mile in six minutes, or visiting all 50 states? Have you dreamed of living abroad, telling people that you love them, learning to play the gutiar, or writing your own song?

Whatever the dream, begin it.

And don't think too much about it; just start.

You'll find that when you begin, the pace is plodding, and the voices that seek to nag you back into inertia are loud. But keep going. After a while, I promise your heart will start to beat a little faster, and the excitement that leaps around inside that central organ of yours will slowly but surely crowd out the fear, criticism, and worry.

Begin. Now.

Believe

2011-01-10T21:52:00.000Z

Francisco X. Stork has written that "Faith is this two-chambered heart of giving up and going on."

He's right. When I read those words (check out his piece here), I had one of those moments where you sit back in your chair, maybe touch your forehead, exhale, and say, Yup, that's it, man. That's what it's all about. That's the deal, right there.

Word.

Faith involves giving up because faith trusts. Believing in something also means that we're able to say, with honesty, "I'm not in total control. It's not all up to me, and it's not about me." That's a tough thing to say. It's tough to admit that we can't always manipulate experiences and people to work together to produce the results we'd prefer.

I learn this lesson anew almost every single day.

When Tyler doesn't want me to change his diaper, or put away a toy, or leave the library (which we never would, if it didn't close...), he listens to what I tell him to do, then gives me a pretty good eye-contact stare-down for a two-year old and replies, "How about..."

What comes after his "how about" is always the exact opposite of what my "how about" was originally all about.

And I see the truth: I can't always get Tyler to think he really wants to do what I want him to do.

Grown-up people with hair on their faces and legs and other various parts are like this, too. We can't always get them to do what we want. So that's where faith comes in. We've got to let them go. Love them, care for them, but we can't control who they are and who they want to be.

But we always give up our dreams when it comes to faith. If we never release our dreams--those visions of who we could be, what great things we could accomplish--they become stagnant and selfish and prideful. When we release our dreams, we often find that they return to us, then whack us upside the head and say, Alright now, while I've been away getting free, what have YOU been up to? Not just sitting there watching television, I hope...or else we are going to have some major words.

When God calls us to something, it's seldom about results. More often, He's calling us to journey somewhere--whether to some new physical place, or some new place inside our hearts. He's calling us to take a journey that involves risks, uncertainty, and a whole lot of hope.

So when we let go of our idea that we control others, and when we loosen our grip on the dreams and visions we imagine ourselves the protagonists of, we actually find the faith that allows us to carry on.

It's in walking that we find the strength of our feet, after all, not in visualizing the journey. Believing can live when it moves.

It's probably fitting that I close this little ramble with a link to Mary Oliver's powerful poem, "The Journey." her words fit well with Stork's in that they both suggest a way of moving through life that allows us to keep faith and use our voices--not to overpower others, but to find out who we really are. I leave you in the capable hands of the great poet herself: Mary Oliver's "The Journey."

Getting Back to Play (Or, On Using Different Voices as Coolness Personified)

2011-01-09T21:11:00.000Z

Having the chance to spend tons of time with Tyler, I find myself regularly employing four different voices, pretending to be an alligator, Bob the Builder, Baloo the Bear, or any number of uptrucks (commonly referred to as "diggers").

It's hard to imagine what life used to be like before this kind of playfulness--before it became 100% acceptable to talk about poopie in public constantly, to shout to the moon in the sky, and to pretend that a lady bug has a mission that Tyler and I need to help her accomplish.

So it was with joy that I read Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovitch's recent contribution to the Spilling Ink website, entitled "Playing Ourselves into Wide Open Spaces." It is a beautiful piece, filled with awesome ideas for writers and artists--and people who want to live life remembering that's it's still important to play (which is all of us). Check out her this incredible treat by the author of 8th Grade Superzero here! I promise you'll feel wildly inspired to live better after you finish it. (And, you may even find yourself dancing to the music in your head.)

Hard to Say It Any Better

2011-01-07T13:02:00.000Z

My wife, Jennifer, recently wrote a remarkable blog about the need for all of us to fight more than the daily frustrations of our lives--and instead to fight the oppression that exists in the world. She focuses on human trafficking, but provides a powerful call to do what we can in any avenue. Check it out here: it'll knock (and rock) your socks off.

Seven Poopies

2011-01-06T11:51:00.000Z

At the risk of writing yet again about poop, I begin this blog.

See, in our home, we have a quote up on the wall by Marianne Williamson which says, essentially, that one must write from the deepest truth of who they are--"from the pulse"--or else it's not worth writing.

So, as Tyler now naps and I sit in the study-not-much-bigger-than-a-miniature-closet, I must write about poop.

Seven poopies, to be exact.

Late this morning, right before I was set to put Tyler down for his nap, my thought process went like this: Hhhhmm, Tyler hasn't pooped yet today. He normally poops right when he wakes up--like me--but today, no dice. When he doesn't poop in the morning, his naps are somewhat sketchy--seems his tummy has trouble resting peacefully when there's waste to be excavated from the intestines. And Jennifer did just get that gloriously blue new potty-training seat. Maybe time to have a go before his nap?

So, we crawled into the bathroom together, grabbed his gloriously blue potty-training seat that Jennifer has recently ordered from amazon.co.uk, and Tyler hopped on.

He had gone poopie once before on the potty--a joyful occasion when Jennifer and I were there to cheer him on and laugh and celebrate--and so I was hoping luck would strike twice. We began by clenching our faces. We closed our fists tightly, then furrowed our eyebrows.

Nada.

Tyler hopped off, and we checked the bowl.

Clear, clean water.

"Try to do more poopies?" I asked Tyler.

"Yes, I do BEEEGGGG poopies on blue potty," he replied.

(Which, I might add, struck me as a highly detailed account of what he was going to do.)

This next time up, we both heard the plop. Our smiles cracked at the same moment.

Tyler hopped off, and we both peered over the lip of the blue potty seat to see one small poopie floating beautifully in what used to be the clean, clear water.

I began applauded with reckless abandon, and Tyler's smile grew wider.

"I do more BEEEGGG poopies on blue potty!"

And up he went again.

Round two came and went fast: the clenching--hands on our faces this time--the eyebrow-furrowing, then the plop.

This time, the poopie was even bigger, and as we both peered over the lip of the blue potty seat yet again, we were both kind of proud--I of him, and he of what his body could produce--something you could actually see with your own very eyes!

Tyler began to reach into the potty to attempt to touch this second, larger poopie. I caught his hand in time.

"Yucky, dirty...but YAY! You did BEEEGGGG poopies! Two BEEEGGGG poopies!" I said, with joy in my voice.

Tyler hopped on a third time. Yes: same result,. with the size of the poopie growing, seemingly, exponentially with each successive round.

Lest I bore you or supremely gross you out with each step of the process, allow me to bring this story to its beautiful close: Tyler and I standing, peering into the toilet, watching seven uncanny poopies dancing amidst the murky water.

"I do it! I do it!" Tyler shouts.

"Yes! Yes! YES!" I shout in unison.

His wide smile is like some beacon on light, and as we both stand there, dirty, spots of urine covering both of us, I feel cleaner and fresher than I have ever felt stepping from a shower.

Now that he sleeps soundly, I wonder what it was that sent such rivets of elation through me, and through him, as well.

And the answer rises up inside me like--well, I'll spare you the analogy that first danced in my mind--though it rises up fast. Teaching.

The reason the seven poopies were so miraculous to me is the same reason I love teaching. It's that moment--watching a student, when you see that something is beginning to clear in their minds, something is starting to click for them. It could be a grammatical rule, the motivation for why a character has been hurting others so deeply, or something about their own heart, but it happens.

And when the plop sounds in a student's mind, and the path opens up, the teacher, for that momentary explosion of insight, becomes unimportant. In that single moment, all that matters is that the student has glimpsed a part of what life is all about, in whatever small way, and the student is filled with pride, joy, excitement, possibility, and gratitude.

Tyler had that moment today.

Granted, it came at the hands of seven ever-growing poopies.

Nonetheless, I'd still be lying if I didn't say that, as I was saying goodnight while he started his nap, I started to tear up.

Not Exactly a Snowman

2011-01-04T13:21:00.001Z

Last night, a coating of snow crawled across the grass in our backyard (and everyone's backyard in York, for that matter). So, this morning, after Tyler and I had eaten our Fruit 'N Fiber cereal, done a few puzzles, and practiced a new dance he affectionately called The Uptruck Dance, we layered up and went outside to build a snowman.

Well, not exactly a snowman.

Me: T-Man! Let's build a cool snowman!

Tyler: No, no, no, no, build, build Gruff-a-lo!

Me: You want to build the Gruffalo instead of building a snowman?

Tyler: Yay! Build BEEEEG Gruff-a-lo!

And so, we set to work, rolling three large balls that would make up the body of our Gruffalo. In case you're reading this entry, wondering what in the heck a Gruffalo actually is, then you're in for a treat.

A real treat.

I'm talking about the kind of treat that makes your mouth water.

Your knees tremble with ecstacy.

Your jaw plummets in wonder and awe.

Your arms flap wildly as if you were a bird trying to fly far far away from wherever you are, now.

Your legs bounce rapidly as if you were a kangaroo, bounding across the terrain of sheer beauty, while a light rain drizzles softly on your cute kangaroo-head. (You cutie, you.)

See, we were introduce to an amazing little picture book written by Julia Donaldson and illustrated by Axel Scheffler, entitled The Gruffalo. (Check out the book here.) We hadn't heard of it until we moved to England, but when we first read it, it was all Tyler wanted to talk about, think about, read about, or consider. Indeed, the Gruffalo became a close confidant, and helped us navigate the meaning of life for at least a month.

the phase is now passing, but this morning, as we heading into the new snowfall, Tyler--for whatever reason--longed to bring the Gruffalo back to life again.

Maybe he missed that old purple-prickled, green-warted monster; or maybe the snow inspired him to ask himself, What truly amazing thing can we build? A snowman is too easy! Far too easy! let's make it a Gruffalo!

Whatever our two-year-old son was thinking, as we rolled those large balls of snow, he was excited. He relished the chance to build something with his mittened hands. And when we took a short break to kiss his mommy and the love of my life goodbye as she headed off to work, it was hard not to smile and think to myself, Isn't this a small part of what it's all about? In life, we create things that, hopefully, keep creating. And we sometimes stand back and say, sweet.

Granted, the snow-Gruffalo we built this morning looks basically like a glorified snowman with two large feet attached the his bottom ball.

But in Tyler's mind, it's one heck of a Gruffalo.

Okay, fine, you got me: it's a Gruffalo in my mind, too.

The End of Anxiety

2011-01-03T22:16:00.000Z

It sometimes seems that our society has been built upon one single, driving-like-stinging-rain, relentless, underlying principle: BE ANXIOUS!

About everything.

Is your hair too fizzy?

Is your belly too flabby?

Is your belly feeling fizzy?

Is your hair flopping flabbily?

Do your flip-flops feel frumpy?

Does your face look fat?

Do your feet feel frictous?

Have your foes gotten friendly?

Have your friends become too familiar?

And, of course, [most importantly] how much money do you have?

The endless cycle of anxiety is played according to these following steps:

1) Be convinced you are not good enough

2) Buy products to help you become good enough

3) Do what other people tell you that you need to do to become good enough

4) Worry about whether or not you are (finally) good enough

The truth is much simpler--yet a heck of a lot harder to hear. It's this: the whole thing isn't even about being good enough. The anxiety we feel when we wonder whether or not we're good enough comes from images to which we compare ourselves, others to whom we compare ourselves, and messages under which we allow ourselves to be crushed.

Instead of playing the games which are constantly garnering new support, why not make this year your END OF ANXIETY year?

Just this morning, Jennifer read a sentence aloud from a sweet book, Streams in the Desert by L.B. Cowman. The line, essentially, said that the beginning of anxiety is the end of faith.

I can see how that's true. Once we start believing the limitless messages we're told about who we are supposed to be, and what we should be doing, we stop believing in ourselves, God, hope, love. We instead turn to find some kind of reason to exist which lays outside of the real pulse.

Our conversations with our souls, and with one another, should we be willing to enter into real dialogue, might begin more like a game of charades. (For a beautiful rendition of how Jennifer and Tyler had a charades-like conversation, check out this blog post of Jen's here.)

But the more we try to really listen to one another, and really talk, we find that we don't really want to mimic the advertisements we see, or the idea that buy, buy, buy! is what it's all about.

No, I think we're all after something a little more authentic, a little more profound,and a little more natural.

We're after people who will look us in the eye and see us as we are:no more, no less. Then, we'd like to laugh with those people, cry with those people, dance with those people,l hope with those people.

In fact, there's no better definition of life that I know of.

So as this new year gets rolling along, why not pronounce anxiety's funeral, and try playing a game of charades or two while you look into someone's eyes? If nothing else, you'll save a butt-load of cash.

When Words Mean

2011-01-02T06:19:00.000Z

Words without roots
Sometimes flower.
They may pass from
Mind to mouth and back
With all the splendor
Of an hour.

But they carry no power.

In silence, should you
Plant the seeds of action,
The words that grow
Do more than birth faction--
Like food, we feel their weight,
Warming us against despair, hate.

Go See Dog Poopies

2010-12-30T13:24:00.001Z

York is a magical city--one of England's most sought after tourist destinations. There are ruins hundreds of years old. There are the Roman walls that surround the city, whose stones still tell the stories of centuries past. There are Viking remnants and festivals. There are museums, statues, shops, cafes, tiny cobblestone streets and even an ancient castle.

And there are dog poopies.

Yesterday, for Tyler, dog poopies were what it was all about. After being couped up indoors for a couple of days playing with new presents and having long talks (that part Jen and I did when Tyler was sleeping), we decided it was high time to get outdoors again.

So Tyler grabbed his large uptruck, held onto the shovel, and we went for a long walk up and down our street. We saw old people and young people and middle-aged people--all of whom received a warm "HELLO!" from Tyler and he and I and his uptrucks strolled past them (sometimes, but infrequently, forcing them off the sidewalk in order to allow his uptruck space to drive past).

We saw Christmas trees in windows with a variety of lights--some red, some blue, some white.

We saw the morning mist mixing with the beginnings of early afternoon fog.

And we saw two monstrous dog poopies.

Tyler stopped dead in his tracks, released the shovel by which he had been pulling his uptruck, and he reached out his mittened hands and proceeded to grab the dog poopies and try to pick them up.

"Whoa! Tyler--no, no very yucky dog poopies. No picking them up...yucky, dirty, eeewwie." These were the first words my mouth could utter while I watched my son grab hold of the dog poopies.

Tyler immediately obeyed (yes!) and dropped the dog poopies. Then he looked at me with a quizzical visage, as if wondering, What's really so bad about dog poopies?

Then, Tyler began to translate his thoughts into words, and he said, "Hold it right here." He pointed with one hand to his other hand.

"No Tyler--no hold dog poopies. Dog poopies stay on ground. Right there. Yucky, dirty, eewwwie." I pointed to the spot on the ground where the dog poopies sat.

Tyler thought for another few moments. Then, out he came with, "Eat it."

I couldn't help the bursting laughter.

Then: "No, Tyler, no eat dog poopies. Yucky, dirty, eeewwwie. Your tummy will say, YUCKY YUCKY YUCKY OWIE! if you eat dog poopies."

Tyler thought, then said, "Daddy eat it."

"No Tyler, Daddy's tummy will say YUCKY YUCKY YUCKY OWIE! too."

After another moment, Tyler finally tried one last time: "Hold it?"

"No...remember: yucky?"

Tyler bent down to pick up his uptruck shovel, then said, in farewell, "Dog poopies stay right there."

And off we went, back towards Lesley Avenue.

Later that day, after Tyler had finished his nap and we had all eaten lunch, Jen joined us for an afternoon walk. We said HELLO! to people, we saw the lights on the Christmas trees, we found a variety of trees.

And, indeed, in Tyler's own words, we made sure to "go see dog poopies" one more time.

We didn't eat it, though.

Our Longing

2010-12-26T11:45:00.000Z

I'm not sure why it is that whenever life grows calm, and quietness saunters all around, I turn to poetry. If I sit long enough in a chair, or on a couch, or on the carpet, or on half of a pillow, or even should I lean (for a long time) against a wall, it's like my fingers start itching and I wonder, Do I need to apply some lotion? Lotion-y goodness? Slimy slippery stuff to the rescue?

And sometimes, indeed, it's true: my skin has cracked a bit from the coldness, and lotion is what it's all about, Home Slice.

But other times, in these quiet moments, when the need for lotion is quelled or calmed, my fingers itch for another reason. And they creep towards that fountain pen Jen bought for me for my birthday, and they whisper, Poetry! Poetry! We want POETRY! (Okay, it's kind of a loud whisper--more like a chanting kind of whisper, I guess).

This morning, they did the itching thing, and here's the poem they crafted:

Our Longing

Power is more parasite than partner--
This, we know.
We don't crave control:
Crushing dead leaves yields
Only the sound of a show.

Longing for voice,
We walk the long way
Round the world's stage.
Should one, even one,
Meet our eyes and hear our words,
We'll spend our lives
Singing that reprise
In a theater where
Power is absurd.

On Not Missing the Bus

2010-12-22T12:53:00.001Z

Before this year, the last time I remember missing the bus was when I was 11 years old and in the seventh grade. It's a vivid memory: me dragging my backpack behind me, running wildly after the bus, screaming out, "Wait, wait, PLEASE!"

But Mrs. Burgee--kind bus driver as she was--had a policy. And that policy was: if you weren't waiting in the line when her bus came to its squeaky halt, you weren't getting on the bus.

I hated missing the bus. Watching that yellow ride traverse forward without me, chugging along, thinking, If only I had spent less time putting glops of gel in my hair, I would have made it!

So when I started high school, I felt waves of relief each morning as I hopped on my bicycle and rode the three miles to school. I never had to worry about missing the bus--and if I was really running late, my dad loaded my bike into his trunk and he would kindly drop me off on his way to work.

So, it's been years since I missed a bus--18 years, to be exact.

But this past October, when Jennifer and I and Tyler began our new life in York, England, that seventh-grade trauma came back to haunt me as a grown man, husband and father.

Like anything bad that happens in middle school, some experiences are hard to forget. Missing the bus in York is especially hard to forget because we didn't just miss one of them.

We missed three.

It was October 9, and we were finally going to do it: after a little over a week in our new home, without a car, Jen and I had decided it was high-time we start exploring. So, we asked our neighbors where the buses can be caught near our area. They told us the # 7 Bus gets you most places you'd want to go, and it stops about a five minute walk up the road.

So, we got the diaper bag set, extra juice, snacks, and our camera, and out the door we went in search of the # 7 Bus.

And what great timing!

Just as we arrived at the bus stop, we saw a glorious # 7 Bus come streaming towards us. I smiled wide. This is going to be no problem at all! Living without a car will be easy--maybe even more fun!

I held Jen's hand, looked her in the eye, and smiled. Tyler was excited, too. "Beeeg Bus! Beeeg Bus!"

My smile feel flat off my face at approximately the same moment that the # 7 Bus flew right past us, not slowing in the least.

I turned to Jen. "Hhmmph. Maybe that one was full or something? Or maybe off-duty?"

Jen responded, "Yeah, that could be. But it looks like another one should come soon. It says here the # 7 Buses come every ten minutes or so."

My smile returned. Surely, I thought, the next bus will have room, or will be in functioning order.

Ten minutes later, another # 7 Bus made its way down Fulford Road towards us.

Tyler: "Beeeg Bus!"

Jen: "Let's hope this one stops..."

Me: Of course it will, it doesn't even look half full, there's no way it isn't going to--"

And as this second # 7 Bus whooshed past us, I can't lie to you: I was starting to get kind of ticked off.

As we waited, I started thinking to myself, Maybe there is some kind of secret code? Or maybe we are on some British version of Candid Camera, and someone is filing this whole thing--just to see how we're going to react...no, no, that can't be. Maybe I just need to sort of flag down the bus--make sure they know that we ACTUALLY want to get on it...yes, yes, surely that's it.

Ten minutes later, as a third # 7 Bus came rushing towards us, I held both my hands up over my head and started jumping up and down.

The driver smiled wide as he hit the gas and streamed past us.

Almost entirely out of ideas, and getting ready to hang our heads and walk home again, I decided that it was better to ask than to stew. So I started asking everybody who walked by.

"How do you get a bus to stop and pick you up?"

The first two people had no clue.

The third--an older woman wheeling some sort of bag along--responded with a warm smile, "Why, just stick out your hand like this." She proceeded to stick out her arm perpendicular to her body, and hold it politely there.

When the fourth # 7 Bus came roaring towards us, I didn't jump. I didn't wave my hands. I calmly and respectfully held out my arm--perpendicular to my body as the woman had shown me--and tried to look as British as I could.

The driver hit the brakes and stopped perfectly in front of us.

Flash forward two and a half months: it's December 22, and Jen and I decide we're going to head into the city with Tyler to do some last-minute Christmas shopping and visit the Yorkshire Museum (which we affectionately call the DINOSAUR MUSEUM! for Tyler's sake).

It didn't hit me until we were already on the bus how comfortable we've grown with living in a new place, and doing without many of the comforts we had come to previously depend on and think of as so essential.

We talked with excitement and we flagged down the bus, hopped on, and got off at the exact right spot.

After all, we had made this trip more than a few times in the last two months.

And as we returned home, Tyler atop my shoulders, regaling all who would listen with his vivid memories of the dinosaur skeletons and the video of the Golden Frog, I had to smile again.

This time--and hopefully never again--no bus has passed us by to wipe that smile off my face.

Indeed, my smile remained as I fed Tyler lunch and put him down for his afternoon nap. And the single line running through my head that tied itself like a thread to my smile was this: We live here; this is our home.

And man, does it feel good to be home.

Keep Calm and Query On!

2010-12-19T19:39:00.000Z

If you've read much of this blog, you know that Winston Churchill's slogan during the war, "Keep Calm and Carry On!" has become a rallying cry of sorts for us here.

Going through intense withdrawal from the car, the job, the microwave, the drying machine?

Keep calm and carry on!

Winter Vomiting Virus come to hang out with you for a bit?

Keep calm and carry on!

Your boiler breaks in the middle of the frigid winter, leaving your home heat-less and forcing you to camp out within your walls for a night?

Keep calm and carry on!

And it strikes me, now, that this is also excellent advice for a writer.

If you want to write, if you've dreamed of writing, or if you love the way words sweep, sleep, or creep together, then chances are you've hit your moments of crisis.

Perhaps you've hit that wall where you sit down at your computer, and all your brain can say to your fingers is: It ain't happening, today, man. No way, no how.

And even though you respond to your brain by saying, Hey, I promised myself I was going to at least get one page a day, no matter how terribly awful and dreadful the writing is, your brain simply lays back and falls asleep, while the little blinking cursor of Microsoft Word still mocks your efforts in perfect rhythm.

Or, maybe you've gotten those glorious 200 pages of a novel, and you've revised it, and you've reworked it, and then you've revised some more, and you've asked a friend who is also a writer to read it, and you've incorporated her revisions into further revisions, and then you look at it and you speak to it as if it were a real, live human: You exist! YES! You are here, all 200 pages of you!

But then, perhaps, agents and editors aren't--for some strange reason--as thrilled about your 200 pages as you are.

Or, perhaps you've crafted two novels, and both have been published. Yet you sit down again at the computer, and your brain still won't release the critical voices that would prefer you sit quietly and do something else with your time. For goodness sakes, clean out your belly button lint already, will you!?

Whatever form your writing foe takes, Keep calm and query on.

No matter how little you feel like it, no matter how futile it sometimes seems, you must keep writing. You must continue to send out queries. You must continue to make contact, believing that the words you scribe do possess all the possible power and beauty in them to affect one life.

One small life.

In one--just one--possibly big way.

When I was in my third year of teaching, I gave a novella assignment for my 11th grade students to complete. Over the course of three months, they would be required to write 70 pages of fiction.

They flipped.

I relished the chance to challenge them with something of which they thought themselves incapable.

But every one of them rose to the challenge. Week after week, they crafted their pages, brought them into our classroom, and we shared our woes, joys, hopes, and fears about writing with one another. I gave them the challenge because, Lord knows, I needed it myself.

Sometimes, the process of writing can become so mystified and covered in an aura of secretiveness, or placed on the top of some hierarchy, or portrayed as only accessible by the smartest, or the most educated, or the "talented" or the "gifted."

All of that is one load of crappola.

I would have to side with Toni Morrison on this front, when the Nobel-prize winning author powerfully claimed, "If anything I do, in the way of writing novels (or whatever I write) isn't about the village or the community or about you, then it is not about anything."

Some of the best stuff I have ever read wasn't produced in the highest escahalons of society, or by those who would seek to make a name for themselves for that purpose alone.

Indeed, to this day, the best poem I have ever read was one written by a previous 7th grade student of mine named Mike. He called it, "Walking at Night," and it moved me more deeply even than my other favorite poem, "When You Are Old," by the great Yeats himself.

All this is to say that to write you only need two things: a heart and a pencil. (Well, maybe a pair of hands and some paper would help. And while we're at it, throw in the brain, and a desk, maybe a room with a view...)

You do not need a degree. Indeed, one of America's greatest authors, Gore Vidal, never even graduated college.

You do not need permission. Indeed, many of the world's most powerful works were written by people who had teachers that told them they would never do anything of value.

You do not need money. Look at the words of Anne Frank--they burn with the fire of redemption and love, yet her room certainly had no veranda.

You do not even need praise (though if you are a writer, you certainly think you do). No matter what anyone says about your writing, there is only one person's opinion and voice that truly count: your own.

And should you choose to wade through the waters of fear, worry, criticism, and lack of discipline, you may find that the words you craft do, indeed, end up making a difference in one life.

And that life may be your own.

So yes: keep calm. When it seems a hopeless endeavor, and you're onto your fourth novel, and you feel like something isn't clicking...keep calm! Just keep writing. Keep reading. Let yourself continue to believe you need to create, and that the words you craft may, indeed, reach the village one day.

And yes: query on. When it seems that little you write makes an entry into the world, remind yourself that this is the case for all writers--even the truly remarkable ones. They craft pages and pages and pages that will never see the outside of a desk drawer, or a hard drive. Keep writing, and keep sending your work out into the world, whether to magazines, publishers, agents, or even the trees and the birds (more than a handful of poets have honed their own lines reading them aloud to, yes, the birds and the bees). Query on!

You never know when one word may meet another and start a relationship that just won't quit, and hey, don't you want to be around to watch what happens from there?

On Walking

2010-12-19T19:05:00.000Z

Before England, the longest winter walks I did were from our apartment to the car.

Apartment to car. Drive to work. Walk from car to school. Teach. Walk from school to car. Home. Walk from car to apartment.

And that ultimately included most of my outdoor time, except for the occasional play-time in the snow. But if there was ever a place to go, amidst 20-degree weather, there was no way I was going to actively choose to walk there.

Now, all that has changed. In the absence of a car, our feet must bear the brunt of most travel.

And I love it.

Last night, Jennifer, Tyler, and I all took the 25 minute stroll to the Fishergate area of York, to visit another couple with a young child. It was an evening outing, and the icy air combined with the pitch-black sky (already!) made it feel like something of an adventure.

By the time we arrived to the other family's home, being welcomed in and served tea and crumpets while our children ran around, playing with toys and other objects-that-could-become-toys, the warmth that engulfed us made the walk there that much more special for some reason.

To go from the coldness of the outdoor air into the warmth of a home is, perhaps, one of life's greater joys.

As the evening progressed, Tyler became ever sillier, shouting out, "I like cows!" to which he wanted Jen and I to respond, "I like cows, too!"

Tyler: I like couch!

Luke: I like couch, too!

Jen: I like couch, too!

Tyler: Kate?

Kate: (the mother of the other child): I like it, too, Tyler.

Tyler: Phil?

Phil: (the father of the other child): Yup, me too.

Tyler: May?

May (the one-year old daughter): Aaahh!

Tyler: I like cookies!

(etc.)

By the time we said goodbye, and entered the frigid air again, the walk home felt, well, kind of giddy. At 7pm on a Saturday night, here was my wife, myself, and our son walking along Fulford Road in York, the large busses streaming past, the night sky sparkling, the moon fresh and full.

Arriving home, yes: we cranked our heat.

Tyler built with his blocks while Jen and I talked about how much stinking fun it was to walk.

Just to walk.

Then, this morning, as we all arose to go to St. Oswald's church, we layered ourselves for another walk.

And finally, this afternoon, we bundled up once more for a trek to a local farm to get our Christmas tree. Tyler knew exactly which tree he wanted. He pointed to it, and even though its top was sparse, Tyler was assured it was the best one of the lot.

As we wrapped it securely in the stroller, and Tyler hung out on my shoulders, the walk home felt good. It felt fresh.

Yes, it also felt incredibly cold.

But entering our warm little home, I felt the rush of gratefulness that comes when you travel from one extreme to the other, and I wouldn't trade anything for such a journey.

Especially not a cold walk or two.

(Or three.)

Rambo Vs. Atticus Finch (Part I in FIGHT THIS! NOT THAT!)

2010-12-17T12:33:00.001Z

It is a cold morning. Snow lays heavy on tree branches. The sun has not yet risen. A solitary bird (yes, a mockingbird) sings sweetly. Front doors are just starting to open for the morning paper. On a sidewalk, the silhouettes of two men can be spotted, talking in low voices.

Rambo: Atticus, I'm glad you agreed to meet me here this morning. The siuation could not be more dire, and we're in need of every good man who can hold a gun. And let me tell you, word has gotten around that you are a remarkable shot--the way you killed that rabid dog and all.

Atticus: Mr. Rambo, it's nice to make your acquaintance, and I've always said that it's best to meet with someone face to face, no matter how you think you may disagree with them. In meeting, one often finds that the human heart is more similar than not.

Rambo: Huh?

Atticus: What did you want to ask me?

Rambo: Good--I like a man who gets straight to the point. I want you to join my army.

Atticus: Which army might this be, Mr. Rambo?

Rambo: Well, it was originally the United States military, but they refused to fight the war that they needed to fight--the war that basically said Yo, Wussies, fight this war or else! And the military wouldn't let us fight the GOOD FIGHT, you know? All those feminists, equal rights people, and civil rights groups getting in the way of WHAT WE NEED TO DO AS A COUNTRY, and as the human race.

Atticus: Allow me a moment to catch my breath, Mr. Rambo. And, as a personal request, would you mind putting down the AK-47 as we speak?

Rambo: I don't put this gun down for many men, but because I respect you, Atticus, I will.

Atticus: Thanks.

Rambo: But only for three and a half minutes.

Atticus: Then let me ask you this quickly: who do you want to fight?

Rambo: Sweden.

Atticus: Sweden?

Rambo: Yes.

Atticus: The entire country, or just someone named Sweden?

Rambo: The entire country.

Atticus: Can you share your reasoning behind this desired assualt, Mr. Rambo?

Rambo: There are a lot of reasons, Atticus, most of which I can't go into. But I will share these three: 1) I have so many huge guns (both on my body and actual weapons) that I feel this insane craving to use them fast. I haven't gotten to employ them since, like, a long, long time ago; 2) Sweden is always so annoying, you know? Just kind of sitting there pretending like it's all friendly and everything. But I'm thinking, What if it's not? You know? Sweden could be preparing a massive take-over of the United States, which absolutely NO ONE would ever expect. Except for me, that is. Finally, 3) All of my guns have been loaded and then reloaded thousands of times, and the process is becoming very boring without anyone to shoot at.

Atticus: I see. Have you slept recently, Mr. Rambo?

Rambo: I don't need sleep. I just reload my guns whenever I get tired.

Atticus: I see. Have you recently read a good book, or visited with friends

Rambo: The way I see it, books are for people who don't know how to reload their guns. And friends are for people who need help reloading their guns, which I never need help with.

Atticus: Have you tried putting your energy and strength towards something which doesn't require shooting a gun at someone?

Rambo: Why?

Atticus: Have you ever tried it?

Rambo: Guns solve problems. This is my war. I have the guns. I must solve the problem--if only the wussies would get out of the way and let me do it!

(In the distance, the mockingbird sings sorrowfully, flying closer to where Atticus and Rambo speak.)

Rambo: Excuse me, Atticus, let me take care of this measly little creature...

(Rambo picks up his AK-47 and begins firing. Atticus Finch--with a strength no one, and certainly not Rambo, would ever have guessed--grabs the gun from Rambo's thirsty hands and empties all the cartridges from it.)

Rambo: (In shock from the strength of the older man) What did you do that for?! The stupid bird is getting away! Look!

Atticus: (Shakes his head and offers up a silent prayer) It's a sin to kill a mockingbird, Mr. Rambo. And it's a sin to kill for courage, too. Courage is more than a man with a gun in his hands.

Rambo: (Utterly confused) Then...then...what is it?

Atticus: Follow me; let me tell you about it.

(As the first shafts of sun peek through snowy tree branches, Atticus and Rambo walk off, talking deeply. Rambo's gun remains on the ground, empty, already becoming buried in the light dusting of snow that begins to descend. Fade to black.)

The Return of Remarkable Rain; Starbucks; Poetry!

2010-12-16T18:28:00.000Z

Today, we were graced with the glory of rain.

Rain!

It was the first of the wet stuff we had seen in three weeks, and as we watched it wash away the final remnants of snow, we felt giddy.

Kid-like, really.

Goofy with excitement that it felt like March and yet it is only mid-December.

Everywhere we could see green grass, revealing itself more and more as the day wore on until, finally, at around four in the afternoon, as I walked next door to pick up a Santa Clause outfit in preparation for my first official appearance as old St. Nick, all I could see was green.

As lovely and playful as it was to live inside a snow globe, it feels just as lovely and thrilling to see gobs of green everywhere we look.

The appearance of Spring in December called Jen, Tyler, and I out of our house--which felt marvelous after being cooped up with the three-way virus for a while--and we went on an adventure.

To Starbucks.

I know what you're thinking.

You: Starbucks, man, really? That's an adventure?

Me: Heck yeah!

You: Why?

Me: Because, now that we don't have a car, going anywhere outside of a twenty minute walking radius of our house feels like, well, and adventure.

You: Ah.

Me: Yes.

You: Anything crazy happen on your adventure?

I'm glad you asked! It was an adventure filled with mechanical bears in the mall-area that houses the Starbucks where the bus takes us. But not only mechanical bears. Our little outing also included: books (books!), puzzles, running laps around Christmas trees, huge boats hanging from ceilings (well, one huge boat, hanging from one ceiling), and a Really Cool Moment.

This was the Really Cool Moment: As the three of us sat in Starbucks, Jen and I sharing a venti Christmas blend coffee, Tyler guzzling down his Naked blueberry juice, I just kind of looked up at both of them and thought, Man...whoa...they rock. Jen and Tyler are awesome.

And for a guy on his 30th birthday, I can't imagine a better gift than this realization--than knowing that I am thankful for my wife and our son, and that they make me want to be a better man.

Okay, if you're still with me, I'll now ask forgiveness for the cheesy line above, and I'll ask for forgiveness for borrowing it from Jack Nicholson's character in As Good as It Gets. But as cheesy and as plagiaristic as it is, I have to report it because, well, because it's how I felt watching Jen and Tyler.

And since this blog has already begun waxing sappy / poetic, I'll take this opportunity to lean into a poem I recently scribed, thinking about what a son or a daughter really wants from his or her parents. (I'll also thank Ernest Hemingway for letting me borrow one of his titles for a line of the poem!) And here we go:

The Unspoken Plea

When fears abate
A certain reality arises:
The recognition that the moon glows,
And the sun also rises.

The rain of terror
Never lasts long on our hearts;
When the gathering grace speaks,
The Wizard of Oz departs.

Look, then, at your son, your daughter:
Fill him with the words of yes;
Surround her with the words of hope.
With your voice, destroy regrets.
With your eyes, forgive distress.