Stretching out the fingers...

I should be more prolific.

Somedays I am overwhelmed with creativity.

I sit and sew and sew until my fingers are dry from the textiles and burned from the iron. If I didn't have a job that required me to go to school with the little ones at 7:45 in the morning, I would sew until the hours of the morning when everyone else in the house is sleeping soundly and unaware of the humming of the small machine that has stitched together the pieces of quilts and purses and clothing and pillowcases. And it feels like I just keep the thread running, much like the sentence before that describes it, while my eyes watch the magic of the machine shape usable things.

Or, maybe I'll sit and knit and knit until my thumb is bruised for pushing the needles back and my wrist hurts from the twisting. But I can see the single strand become something strong and useful--something important for the winter chill that is sure to come. Just yesterday, I made two hats that will be gifts on Christmas morning, and I began work on a scarf.

I don't always sit, sometimes I stand and bake until my feet hurt and the house smells like cupcakes or brownies or cookies. These things take little time, and I can watch them rise in the oven. Others may smile as they bite into one even as they reach for another.

These things are my therapy. If I really want to feel better about whatever might be dragging me down, I need to set creation-idle hands to work on a new project. These things I can watch form and see to completion.

I'm still not writing the way I should be. I'm not always making myself present. Because, honestly, most days I get home from the school with the little ones and I just want to sleep or do nothing. I find myself drained of creativity...and I'm not moving forward like I want to be. I can't see the pieces of my own quilt coming together, or all the stitches in my scarf, or the ingredients in my cake to see what flavor I will be. My life feels like it's standing still.

As my life is still, so is my writing. When I create the words come easily, something about the workings of my hands activating the workings of my mind. And then I run into the issue of time.

I should be more prolific.

I say this despite the two unfinished quilts strewn about the living room and the unfinished scarf in my bedroom...and the several unfinished stories on my hard drive.

I should be more prolific and finish these things to make room for new things.

What can men do against such reckless hate?

This may be a little late in coming, nearly a week after the fact. Forgive me for the delay, but I've been mulling over the shooting that took place in Aurora, Colorado. Mulling and chewing and praying and...and wishing for peace.

Events like this always seems so far away from my home, the heartland of this nation.

When 9/11 happened I was safely tucked away in my fifth grade class at a rural school--it wasn't until later that I found out President Bush had taken refuge in Omaha.

The Von Maur shooting was closer to home, my cousin worked in that Omaha mall, and I believe she was working when it happened. Even that wasn't home though, and my head keeps saying that this kind of tragedy would never happen in my center of the heartland.

Aurora though... that should feel far away, but it doesn't. My brother is moving down there in less than a month now to go to school. There were kids from the school he will be attending in the Theater that night. A friend from college calls Aurora home and she knew one of the victims well. One of my dad's cousin's sons was in the theater that night. I know people who were there. People who know people who died.

And all I can think is, "How could this happen?" I have a hard time understanding how a man can come to the conclusion that the only way to fix whatever pain he is experiencing is to shoot down people--to fire over 70 rounds into an unsuspecting crowd of late-night movie-goers. How am I supposed to react to such "reckless hate?" I find myself wondering what I would have done had I been there...how would I have reacted? Would I have tried to save those around me with my body as a shield like so many mothers, brothers, and friends?

It's funny, I had almost let it go--the worry and self-questioning. I was on the phone last night with my German-praying friend when he asked, "How is the Colorado situation? Are you still thinking about going out there? I just didn't know how your parents would feel about everything with your brother moving out." I had long made my decision to not to move to Aurora with Josef, and I knew that Mom and Dad were worried. But we can't let things like this keep us from moving forward. (Now I don't know if this friend was concerned beyond the general niceties, but it was sweet of him to ask how my parents were feeling about everything.)

So, I guess to answer the question of "What can men do against such reckless hate?" we just keep moving forward. We can't let the hate keep us from doing what we know is right and true and just. We push forward.

"By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand!" [Aragorn, Return of the King (movie adaptation)]

You love me in my weakness...

So, I'm writing tonight--shoving another scene in where one didn't exist before. But the space was aching for something so of course I had to close my eyes for a bit while I was showering and think about what was needed.

What came out?

Self-doubt in my lead female.

A voice that has no body. (Two words, folks, not nobody but literally lacks a body. Or does it?)

Frustration.

The waking of a companion.

Strong arms.

Weeping.

An emotionally drained writer. But in a very good way.

You see, there was something building between these two characters--some tension that would need to be addressed at some point anyway.

Really what my lady-character is learning is that she is loved even in her weakness--even when she's a blubbering mess and doesn't have everything put together. Even when she thinks she's going crazy.

But don't we need some encouragement like that took some days?

It's been a while since I cried a good cry. Did you know that crying is healthy? It's good for your emotional state to alleviate some of that pressure. mmhmm. It's not for lack of reason that I haven't cried--it's for lack of strong arms. (Not that I don't think someone would step up if I needed....I just feel rather disconnected right now, and that's my own fault.)

Anyhow, this is basically me saying that I wish I was in my book and able to have a break down and my guy would just hold me until I stopped beating on his chest.... uh........ yeah. Don't misunderstand me, I really am content to just be single right now.

Oh boy. This is why I don't blog casually at 1:06 in the morning... Forgive me for how disjointed this is.

I was going to make an obvious connection and say that of course God is always there to hold me when I'm having a break down. But really, as I started going I realized that I just want a hug. And while God can give me metaphorical hugs, it's not quite the same as a physical friend hug. (And I think He can speak through friend-hugs.)

I should go to bed or go back to writing. Writing it is!

"I fall at Your feet and worship You with tears." [Danny Oertli]

What's that smell?

Sometimes, there are things I wish I could snap pictures of. A moment in time that just seems perfect, right, comfortable. Sometimes, I wish I could capture a smell and keep it with me forever. Have you ever been somewhere and come across a smell you weren't expecting? And suddenly you're elsewhere.

Well, I'm visiting a friend's home this weekend. Her family is lovely, and they are very accommodating. (And I love her mom's style of decorating.) Beauty.

We made red velvet cupcakes (without the red) with cream cheese frosting. It was so much fun, and they turned out great. We took turns decorating the tops with the frosting and sprinkles. Her dad did the last one. Perfection.

I washed my hands in their bathroom and used their soap pump. Wild Honeysuckle. I was suddenly home with my mom, giving her a hug. It was wonderful. And I couldn't stop smelling my hands. I may just go wash my hands for the smell now. Comforting.

And I'll be meeting a friend at Borders for coffee and book perusing. The smell of coffee and books shared by good company. Simplicity.

"I spent all my childhood pretending I was off somewhere else...off with you on one of your adventures! My own adventured turned out to be quite different." [Frodo Baggins, movie]