Thirty years after: Challenger

Miss Johnson was trying to get our Algebra II class to simmer down and focus on, you know, math stuff. One of the guys wasn't in his seat when she called the roll, but he appeared in the doorway of the classroom a short time later.

"You'd better have a good excuse," she told him.

"The shuttle just exploded!"

She thought he was kidding at first. We all did; Matt was a notorious jester, who would do anything to break the tedium of schoolwork. It was only the second or third time he said it, with a look of utter horror on his face, that we realized he was serious.

Maybe Miss Johnson knew it was important for us to witness the moment, as terrible as it was. Or maybe she just sensed  that she wouldn't get any work out of us that day. We trooped down to the library, buzzing with morbid curiosity, and stood in a crowd around the TV. Over and over, the news showed that familiar arc of smoke and flame as the shuttle blasted off, and then the moment when the familiar turned strange, the miracle of flight turning to disaster and death. The walk back to Algebra II was a lot quieter.

We were too young, at least those of us who were students, to remember earlier tragedies that marked humanity's ascent beyond earth. The magic had become commonplace, and we'd forgotten the climb has a cost, one that too often has to be paid in blood.

And there's no neat ending to this. So long as we are human, we'll seek to push our boundaries. It may be from curiosity, or necessity, but it will happen. Sometimes, we will triumph.

And sometimes, those who are left behind will watch, and mourn, and strive to make the next leap a little better.

Poem: Blessing

A few days ago, I shared this poem with some friends of mine, people who have been a positive influence in my life as I've worked to make changes and be a better person. Several of them told me I should share the poem with everyone, in the hope that it would be a bright spot for others. With that intent, I'm posting it here. Feel free to pass this on to someone who needs to hear it. All I ask is that you leave my name and copyright information with it.

Blessing

My affection rests like a benediction

on the heads of my friends, kind regard

like a cool palm on a fevered brow.

When life bends you, endless weight

pressing your shoulders, I lean close and gather

it up. You will not stumble, you will not falter,

you will rise up instead, rise as the sun

burnishes the horizon, rise as the tide

sweeps the shore clean at dawn, rise

like the craft of hands or the fortitude of hearts.

I bless you, my friends, with life full of hope

and passion, the fierce bright song kindled

and undying. I bless you to be seen, heard,

beloved. I gift you with the music of infinite spheres

spiraling through the cosmos, endless light

stitched across the darkness, the notes of every song

you were born to sing. I shelter you

in the strength of sisters, the brotherhood

of verse, the family of understanding,

of being known at the core.

I see you, my love touches you,

a finger’s brush to remind you—you are still

all you have ever been, and more. And more.

c. 2015 Jennifer Crow

Faith, Doubt, Certainty, Mystery

I've been reading Thomas Moore's A Religion of One's Own, a heady blend of art, psychotherapy, and spiritual guidance. Moore is a compelling writer, with an interesting history; early in life he pursued a monastic path, then life as a student, a therapist, a father and husband. It's a rich and varied set of experiences, so he brings a lot to the table in any discussion of religion and spirituality.

There is, as Inigo Montoya would say, too much to explain. Let me sum up today's thoughts as I was reading a chapter about creativity and ways of seeking inspiration. As you can imagine, it's the sort of subject that's dear to a writer's heart, especially a writer who's on a quest to grow spiritually.

For a while, I wasn't sure what I believed--wasn't sure I could believe anything at all, any more. Experiences in which my deepest spiritual needs went unmet, as the depression I'd long struggled with grew more and more life-threatening, left me floundering and unable to trust. Coming from a religious background in which there is only one true way, only one source for inspiration, and an established hierarchy to keep order, when that pattern falls apart, it's hard to have any kind of faith at all.

I struggled with that because I've always been the sort of person who seeks a spiritual life. The idea that either I was so fundamentally flawed and broken that no god would speak to me, or alternatively, there was no god to hear was crushing in a way that few other things can be. And doubting the pattern which has been presented as the one true path was like becoming a compass that had lost its link to magnetic north. I was directionless and spinning. Dizzy with sorrow and confusion.

Doubt became my awkward companion. Doubt was not an acquaintance I wanted to make. I liked the comfort of certainty, of belonging. Yet that path had vanished from beneath my feet.

Gradually, I realized something about myself. Though I wasn't sure what to believe, I needed to believe in something. I'd lost a key part of myself, one that played a role in my creative work that I'd only begun to understand. After floundering so long, I realized I needed to do as Christ told his disciples: become as a little child. Accept that I knew absolutely nothing about the divine, or any larger purpose I might have. Take a deep breath, and embrace the mystery.

I'm finding teachers along the road--writers with wise things to say about faith experiences, friends who are on the same journey but see the path with different eyes. And slowly, slowly, that inner sense of what leads me to be better has started to come back. I've had to learn it all over again, now that I don't have to pretend that I feel what others are feeling. It was sort of like getting the perfect house halfway built and realizing the wiring had been put in all wrong. I had to rip everything out and start over . . . But hopefully, in time, things will be much brighter. They're already improving.

The weirdest thing is that I'm starting to be grateful for my own failures and the neglect of others, the things that drove me out of my comfort zone. It isn't the life I planned on, but amazing, beautiful experiences started to show up when I opened the door of my heart. Doubt and uncertainty and suffering were signposts on the path to renewed creativity,

In today's chapter, Thomas Moore talked about the mystery of faith and the spiritual life. Our modern society seeks certainty above all else, whether it's the comfort of scientific reductionism or of religious fundamentalism. And certainty is a sort of comfort, make no mistake. But I've witnessed a growing compassion gap, people unwilling to think or speak or act kindly toward those who were different and thus somehow less worthy. That deficit in compassion affects every strand of society, wherever anyone would rather be right and comfortable than kind. Certainty is a comfort, but it is also a poison. And the unscrupulous use it to gain power, by inspiring fear and a sense of lack in us.

And that is not how I want to live. I want to marvel at the mystery of it all. I want to end this war against myself and be whole, knowledge and creativity and passion feeding the spiritual, and the spiritual nourishing all those other parts of me in turn. Being sure of anything is too high a price to pay, if the cost is a loss of wonder and hope.

Mary Rickert on a Life of Devotion

I was going to rant today about the general lack of respect people in my life show for my space, and my needs as a writer. And then my friend Virginia posted a link to a Locus interview with Mary Rickert. The whole thing was interesting, but here's the money shot:

‘‘I have had times in my life when I questioned whether I should continue writing. I love to write, but I wanted very much to have a career that sup­ported my lifestyle financially. My big takeaway during my most recent time thinking of this was that I’d chosen a life of devotion. Devotion is an old fashioned word, and it’s a long game. When you live a life of devotion, the point isn’t what you get. The point isn’t any kind of result other than – did you devote yourself that day? When I put that new frame around my life and the choices I made, I became much happier. The devotion: did you write, did you listen today, did you read, did you think of stories today, did you practice? . . . There’s a beauty in that, and a benefit. I’m devoted. I can be happy in that circumstance. In the end, everybody’s life is devotional. At some point it’s the end of life, and you ask, ‘What have I done?’”

And that is a terrific way to think of the writing life. It's just the kind of thing I've been looking to put into practice myself. So thank you, Virginia, and Mary. You've made my world better and clearer today. I can always rant tomorrow.

Brief update

I'm not sure if this is the beginning of a trend or just a joyful moment of creativity, but either way I'll take it. Two thousand words on a story, plus another thousand on backstory/worldbuilding. Not something I can share just yet, but it's good to do something that makes me happy.

And now we celebrate with baby alpacas!

Story brain

This year is all about feeding the story brain good stuff, getting it back into shape, maybe reaching the point where I can love writing again for itself, without all the baggage that comes with trying to find a publisher. So far . . . so not sure. But that's okay, because I went into this process knowing it wasn't likely to be easy, or quick. Maybe it's not even possible, but I want to try. When it works, writing is the most healing thing I know of.

I'm having hints that it's working. No words yet, but I'm starting to notice the weird stuff again, the things that make me wonder and ask 'what if?'

Like this, for instance (in case you're curious about how story brain works): I was reading an online article about the likelihood of the Cleveland Browns and Johnny Manziel parting ways, and I figured it would be pretty safe to read the comments. So I'm scrolling down through, and I see one that I think meant to accuse the football player of either being a chronic liar, or a pathological liar. But what it said was, 

"That guy is a chronological liar."

Which made me think time travel. I mean, what kind of guy is a chronological liar? Whereabouts in time would you find him?

I don't know yet. But I'm starting to get curious, and that's a very good sign.

New issue of Mythic Delirium out, with a poem by . . . me!

Mythic Delirium on Weightless Books

Isn't Anita Allen's cover art fantastic?

In other news, my second crockpotting experiment of the week went much better. I made anafre for game day--also known as Honduran bean fondue. It's black beans, cheese, pork, with garlic, onion, and jalapeno for flavor. Mmm, good stuff. I threw everything in the pot around 11 p.m. Saturday night, on medium heat, and it was all set for the early game on Sunday.

We're finally getting winter weather here, in spades. Snow all day yesterday, and while today started out clear, after ten minutes at the library in town I walked out into sudden whiteout conditions and crept home very carefully. (Though caution may not be enough to save you, if you meet a reckless, careening Jeep trying to speed through a yellow light on slick roads. The guy *justbarelymissed* my front fender. Not a nice feeling, sitting at a light and seeing a big ol' four-wheel drive vehicle skidding toward you. Blue the Civic and I survived intact, though, for which I am thankful.)

I'm taking a brief break from my radio silence since I actually have good news to share. But I'm also really enjoying the quiet, and getting a lot of reading done, so I'll probably be scarce for a while longer. Be good, and joyful, and don't hesitate to let me know if you need me.

A brief squee, before I return to crockpot blogging!

Publisher's Weekly mentions me by name in their review of Hadley Rille's new anthology, Ruins Excavation. A mixed review in general, but it was nice to not be ignored or vilified.

Amazon link for Ruins Excavation

This is why I'm a writer and not a chef

It’s good to learn something new every day, and yesterday I learned that I can’t (yet) make split pea and ham soup. I soaked the peas, threw all the ingredients in the crock pot on high, and let it cook all day, but the peas never mushed down the way they’re supposed to. It’s . . . edible? Barely? I wouldn’t eat it a second time, though.

So, yeah, my culinary skills are a work in progress, as are so many other elements of life.

(You're about to say something about fish, right? I've got fish!)

And now I’m taking a much needed break from the family, hanging out at the bookstore café. I want to write, because writing makes me happier, but I’m not sure what to work on. For a while now, nothing has pulled at me the way a story needs to, compelling me to show up and tell it. There are nibbles. I feel like I’m trying to bare-hand fish in a slow stream, just moving my fingers a little and waiting for something to get close enough to nab.

It will happen. That’s something years of disappointment and failure have taught me: there’s always another story. Be still, listen, keep your eyes open. It will show up, in its own time. In the meantime, I plan to do some blogging, some verse, some studying and research. I want to look more deeply at how other people put stories together, the way they knit character and action and theme together. 

That’s the great thing about this work—there’s always more to learn.

If I have an overarching goal for 2016, it’s to reach the end of it feeling more whole, and strong, and hopeful than I’ve been before. Maybe take a look at life and see that if it hasn’t taken the road I planned, there might still be some interesting destinations on the route nonetheless.