O, fie upon thee, strumpet!

Charlotte Rains Dixon is a  writer, a writing coach,  and a dispenser of good advice.  She also has a great web site filled with all kinds of goodies for writers, like retreats and seminars and discussions. Today I am a guest blogger on her site Wordstrumpet (www.wordstrumpet.com), so please, pop on over. Funny thing about that name, wordstrumpet.  I was on the phone with my son, telling him the name of the site and he said, oh, words trumpet, like a trumpet for words. I replied, Ha! I always thought of it as word strumpet,  a strumpet, of some sort, for words.  So, naturally, I had to look it up.  It's a 14th Century Middle English term for harlot or prostitute.  Shakespeare used it in Othello  against  Desdemona,  victim of cruel deception by that villain Iago.

So, whether it is Trumpet or Strumpet, check out Charlotte Rains Dixon page.

Maybe she will let us in on the secret or maybe she will keep us guessing.

I am no strumpet, but of life as honest as you that thus abuse me.  Othello

Light that Darkness Cannot Overcome

It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness At Christmas, New Years, winters solstice there is much talk of darkness and light

The days are short and the nights are long and in this time between Christmas and the new year the trees are still lit and the houses and lawns with their angels and reindeer and wreaths of light still shine in the darkness.

We begin again tomorrow. A fresh start. Take it from the top.

And we carry this past year, and all our past years, forward, with memories, with smiles, with tears, with love and forgiveness and the million moments of grace that once in a while we sit still long enough to feel, and be grateful: graceful.

I have written before of the prayers of monks and nuns whose job it is to keep the lights on. They are professional pray-ers. I am grateful for them and their quiet unseen work, raising incense and chanting prayer with their whole being to God, arguing our case to keep the lights on a little longer. And so far God has agreed.  Despite. In Mercy. In love. In the light that darkness cannot overcome.

In my fivety-five years of living, through all the trials and heartache and joys and uncountable blessings, through loved ones deaths and the miracles of birth, I believe.  I believe in the power of prayer, in the graces waiting to be poured out to us for the asking, and yes, of course, even if we don’t have enough faith to ask, the blessings still flow.

How can I say these things in light of war and starvation and fiscal cliffs and the gunning down of kindergartners and their teachers, and all the misery that only scrapes by the daily news programs?

Because there is love. Love in the little acts of kindness, in the big acts of generosity and heroism. In the blankets wrapped around shivering shoulders. In the gentle touch of my mother’s hand on my cheek, so long ago.  In conversations with my father, who now cannot speak, tethered to a respirator and feeding tube. In the squeals of delight when my grandchildren call out “Mamaw!” when they see me. In the cup of coffee my husband sets up for me each morning.

It is these small acts; all the small acts of love and tenderness, of generosity and forbearance, in kind words and hands held. The list is endless, the love is boundless.  In the face of darkness, we light a candle. And then another and another until we are bathed in the light of love, in the midst of pain, in the midst of tragedy.  It is these small acts of love, of prayer, of faith, of struggle that rise like incense to our God who came to live among us and open our hearts to love beyond understanding.

Keep the lights on. 

Lots to Learn

I thought of you the other day. We were watching the Grinch. Some folks might get insulted by that conjunction. But, I knew that Katie was referring to the line All the noise, noise, NOISE!  Add that to the collection of ways I manage to amuse my family.

I have great difficulty working in a noisy environment. Which is why I find some wry humor in the fact that I am the mother of four children who, over the years, have filled this house with alternative rock band practice, movie making, peals of laughter coming from the game room, wild disagreements between two little boys who knew the best time to escalate a fight was when Mom locked the bathroom door.

Ah, I digress. Which is the problem. I digress. I procrastinate. I find another article to read when there is work to be done. But now my book is out!! Kaloo, Kalai!! and I have another set of skills to learn.

Now I have lots, and lots, to learn about marketing. I spent more than three years writing, re-writing, and re-writing this book that started life as a single line that popped into my head during a writers workshop, something along the lines of she clung to the miraculous medal praying for her own miracle.  That, somehow, took on a life of its own and is now a 328 page book.

Now, I have to set up speaking dates, book signings, advertisements, readings, media negotiations and whatever else there is in this new venture.

So, my fair readers, if you have an event or a book club or a cozy chat you'd like to have a speaker/reader/author present, let me know.  I have to start filling my 2013 calendar.

BTW, my favorite line from The Grinch song is your heart is full of unwashed socks and you have garlic in your soul. Both are the kind of things my very funny father would say.  Love you, Dad.

To purchase a copy of THE NARROW GATE click here.

Excerpt October 11, 2012

Excerpt from my novel.  Setting, 1951. Jimmy was a week old when Maureen had her first day alone with him.

She settled in with him, positioning her arms in the rocker, a pillow supporting the little fellow. This morning, before Phil left for work, she made up a batch of bottles, mixing and stirring and pouring a days supply of ecru colored stuff that made her nostrils pinch when she smelled it. She warmed the bottle in a pan, squirted a little on her wrist to test the temperature and gathered up her hungry son.

She held him, squirming, crying, until he caught hold of the rubber nipple and settled into a rhythmic gulping. Soon, he was satisfied. Not quite ready to give up the bottle, but soothed enough to study his mother’s face.

He held her pinky with his tiny fingers. Strong. What a wonder. Someone so little can grab on so tight.  His lashes were drying from his hungry cries, fanned out like a star. He was content now. With her free hand she stroked his cheek, velvet against her finger.

Mother and son were all there was to the world. The two of them, bound, caught up in larger arms, graced in a haze of violet light.

Something opened in Maureen. Where, she could not say, but somewhere in her body, in her soul; a movement, an enlargement.  The only way to find this place was this, holding her tiny child in her arms, letting him break her heart.

The intensity, the consuming protective passion  for this child, almost annihilated her in its fierceness. It could not be possible for her to love anything or anyone else the way she loves this child. No one’s heart could be that big.

Baptism

When I taught Baptism prep classes to parents and godparents way back when, part of my job was to relate the physical elements of the sacraments to the spiritual gifts. God works through the physical as a means of bestowing grace.  I find this a comfort, a reassurance, a reminder of God in the everyday objects such as water, wine, oil and touch as transmitters of a grace beyond our comprehension. Here's a little excerpt from my forthcoming novel:

“How we doin?

“Behind by four. But there’s time. Ohh!! Make that six.”

Jimmy’s face is pointed toward the television. No reaction to the shot. He holds the coke can in his hand. He’s not watching the game. He can’t. They’re way beyond basketball games in search of common ground. His right hand is getting jittery; the left is tucked under his thigh.

“Need a smoke.”

Jimmy goes through the kitchen to smoke on the back porch. First stop is the refrigerator to grab a beer. The long cold drink rushes down his throat, wave after wonderful wave. It hits his belly in a splash, immediately releasing its magic. There’s his old friend. Now he can relax, get his hands steady. He tosses the bottle cap toward the metal can. It pings and misses. He leaves it in the mud.

It’s dark. He turns right, to the aurora of street lamps along Forest Park Drive, to the diluted light pushing its way through the trees that have arbored this area for generations. Wind whips up under his shirt and slaps his back. Jimmy steps out from the awning. A smoldering cigarette in one hand, an empty beer bottle in the other, he raises his arms over his head breathing in the cold, clear, wet dirt smell. His upturned face receives the sharp needles of rain. A baptism.

The wind and rain pick up. A crackle of light breaks blue deep into Forest Park. Thunder reverberates his thin frame, tolling out the bell of him. Somewhere in there, somewhere in here, I still am. I still am.