WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

A well-meaning friend of my mother asked me the question many years ago and I had to think about it. In those days, if you were a boy, the common accepted answer would have been fireman or policeman. More often than not, little girls, being put on the spot, responded with social correctness by choosing nurse, teacher, mommy, or if they were dreaming big, ballerina.

When I was a little older I might have secretly confided that I would like International Film Star or World Famous Explorer added to my resume. But this was a time when I had only seen the movie, Dumbo, and I hadn’t yet read “I Married Adventure” by Osa Johnson (and wanted to be her).

I never coddled my dollies, drilled them on their numbers, or pretended to burp them.

But I did regularly prop them around in a semi-circle, Melsina and Marcella, the large baby dolls, in the choice rocker in the middle.Teddy and Jocko, the Australian koala bear, snuggled at their feet. Nurse Jane had to be propped on the side of the chair because her legs didn’t bend. Leilani, in her green grass skirt, and Elizabeth, the very proper English girl, sat together because they were unlikely but bosom chums. Beloved Belindy completed the grouping with the Raggedys, of course, sprawled in front.

When they were quietly assembled, I sat on a small stool and opened a book. I hadn’t learned to read yet, so I turned the wondrous pages and told the stories of what I saw – tales of being bundled in bed with a stuffy nose, kept company by miniature creatures who trounced among the covers and burrowed about the pillows; the adventures of a golden haired maiden who rode in a chariot pulled by sweet tabby cats, up and over the rainbow; a winter world of icicles ruled over by a beautiful but scary queen.

Eventually I learned to read and write and proudly shared my stories, written painstakingly in pencil on lined notepaper, and as the years passed I filled up many notebooks and read my tales to others beyond my little group.

All these years later, in retirement and after many different jobs and wearing a multitude of hats, I find myself in our upstairs office/all-purpose room, where whatever doesn’t fit in another part of the house is deposited.

To my left sits Melsina and Marcella in a child’s rocking chair, Nurse Jane and Leilani and Elizabeth are propped about, Teddy and Jocko are on the bookshelf and the Raggedys are nearby.

I sit in the middle, typing away on my computer keyboard, telling tales.

     I know just what I want to be when I grow up.

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Posted in enchantment, Favorites Books, IMAGINATION, memories, playtime, STORY TELLING, writing | Leave a comment

HERITAGE – A TRIBUTE

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My Fergus Falls Writers Group (of which I am the noted and most highly enthusiastic groupie) is for people who are writing for profit as well as passion, and the gathering serves as a combination editing, critique team/cheering section. I also belong to Writing as a Spiritual Practice at the Unitarian Church in Underwood. Minnesota, which is all about connecting with the inner self and one another.

Our statement of intent affirms – “We write to break through clichés, to challenge old assumptions, and to step beyond our anxieties and discover what we really want to say. Sometimes it is difficult to uncover the authentic, the true, the spiritual. Other times it is a transcendent rush to find new insights for ourselves and with others.”

This past month the group decided to conduct a church Sunday service and, following the theme presented by the church’s 125th anniversary, wrote about and then presented thoughts on Heritage and Legacy. I was thrilled to see the amazing array of diversity, everyone following their own focus, genre, understanding, and path of discovery. Our writings encompassed everything from a remembrance of immigrant grandparents, a discussion on the provenance of values, poetry about forgotten family farms and towns, personal tales of boyhood, philosophical context, to a humorous fictional yarn about an elderly couple who take “…a long strange trip, worth remembering, but neither will.”

When I first pondered the theme, the first thing that came to mind was the tale of my grandfather who came across the sea from an island off the coast of northern Norway, at age eight with his seven year old brother and Uncle Simon. Simon, who had promised once he had secured good, fertile land, and the boys had helped him reap a crop, that he would send money back for the parents and three sister’s passage. But Simon didn’t keep his promise because he died upon arriving at the Red River of the North and the little boys were left virtual orphans, stranded in a strange land, and were never to see their parents and any of their family again.

A chilling tale with a lot more drama to come and so it began to feel more suited to a novel (there’s an idea) than a short church presentation.

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I thought of my other grandfather who, after a storm dashed his little fishing boat to smithereens on the rocky shore (again in Norway), picked up what boards and pieces of wood were not too shattered and built a small chest in which he stowed his few possessions. He then, too, sailed off to the new land, settling along that same Red River, digging out a crude enclosure into the bank in which to sleep and huddle against the elements, at times skiing or skating over a hundred miles to Alexandria for supplies.

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But that could easily be the tale of almost everyone in our little church.

I certainly inherited my two grandfather’s wayfaring genes, having gypsied up and down the Pacific coast throughout my lifetime, moving every year or so. And then, instead of settling down for my retirement years in my home state, decided to journey again, far across the country to Minnesota, settling not far from that same Red River of the North. Grandfather Jorgen arrived with a handmade chest and a cow and two oxen. I came with a small moving van and a husband and a cat.

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I have told my familial tales many times over. The heritage is ingrained in my DNA and perhaps, my persona. But my contribution to the program that Sunday at the Unitarian Church, I realized, had to be centered on a more present reality, the “who” and the “why” of my being, and it was directly related to the two women who raised me.

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My Grammy Marie sang softly to herself throughout the day, in a sweet Scandinavian soprano, whether she was taking a swipe at some dusty shelf as she passed by, making me cocoa with marshmallows on top, or working her magic in the garden. Our little, white-picket-fenced cottage was crowned with climbing roses on arbors, around the entry walk and clustered about the front door. Each spring daffodils encircled the yard, interspersed by sparaxis and irises and lilies. I played under her giant blue hydrangeas and fashioned ballerinas and Dancing Girls of the Old West, by pulling out all but two of the stamens from the fuchsias. My love and obsession of the garden comes from her. My understanding of sweetness and goodness all stems from her.

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And from my mother. Mom was fond of telling the tale of how she came to California from Minnesota as a young bride and “saw the palm trees and the mountains and the ocean” and thought “she’d died and gone to heaven.”

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But she also liked to reminisce about teaching in a little schoolhouse in Rustad, Minnesota in the early 1930’s and “making $65 a month and buying a fur coat and going to the World’s Fair in Chicago.” Imagine that! She also described the coat as having a Fitch Collar. All those years I knew that she didn’t actually own a full-length mink, and that she must have had a stylish but perfectly nice wool coat with a fur collar. And Fitch, I believed, must have been a style of the times, named after a place or person – like Eton collar or Nehru jacket. Imagine my surprise when I googled “fitch” to discover that it referred to polecat! Yes, polecat – which indeed, was the lower priced popular fur of the early 20th century, and so just perfect for the young teacher who makes $65 a month and goes on a road trip with her chums to the World’s Fair.

My mother was always the Fashionista. Well into her 90’s, whenever the J. Jill catalogue would arrive in the mail, she would say to me – “Look in here and see if there is anything that would look cute on me.” She prided herself on her vast collection of sweaters and earrings.

But she was so much more. I was certain that Mom would make it to 100 and get the congratulatory letter from the president. She almost did. When she died she had no illnesses, took no medication, and looked to be many years younger than 99. It’s true she was way ahead of the crowd when it came to healthy meals and natural supplements and at eighty she was still reveling in daily two mile brisk walks.

She advised my young friends about vitamins and minerals and how to eat for health when Adele Davis was the main and lonely proponent. And she understood ecology and the importance of saving our Mother Earth long before Rachel Carson had written “Silent Spring.”

Growing up I watched and absorbed the lessons of a mother who was often glued to C-SPAN, following a senate hearing, noting the number of each bill, citing the politicians and knowing who voted for or against, and following through by phoning her representatives and taking petitions around the neighborhood. And never with ardent stridency or a sense of harsh indictment, but colored by her Libran nature, perhaps, and with a heavy dash of her mother’s sweetness.

In spite of being widowed at a very young age, and having to struggle financially for a time, she was inherently happy and positive, had more fun and enjoyed life – truly so from the depths of her being – more so, than anyone I have ever encountered.

I had a mother who would teach herself reflexology at eighty, continue to make the best Swedish meatballs, stand up for her principals, truly believe in angles, revel in everything Christmas or Easter, and always enjoy a nice glass of wine.

When I looked back at the Writing as a Spiritual Practice statement of intent, I actually felt a “transcendent rush of insight.” Lucky, blessed me. It was not difficult, nor did I have to go very far, I realized, to “uncover the authentic, the true, and the spiritual.”

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 Harriet Sylvia Pederson Johnson – with Fitch Collar

 

 

Posted in Family, favorite things, HEALTH, Immigration, In Memorium, memories, minnesota life, Norwegian, spirituality, writing | 1 Comment

HOW THE PALEO DIET SAVED OUR SON

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(NOTE: When my good friend, Beth Rose, who is a writer and reflexologist living and working in Central Minnesota, shared the following story with me, I couldn’t help but think of the trauma I endured a number of years ago when my daughter developed “projectile vomiting.” She was just a baby at the time and her only nourishment was from milk. But as it turned out, she was lactose intolerant and we immediately switched to a soy product. These days she is able to indulge in a bit of whipped cream on our Christmas brandy spice pie, and nibble on cheese and crackers. But she selects carefully and pays the price for overindulgence.

Beth’s story in an important one. It seems that more and more children are developing food allergies, and whether that ties into my favorite rant about the overuse of herbicides and pesticides in Big Ag or validates the fact of the many additives that we subject ourselves to on a daily basis, it is crucial to our children that we arm ourselves with knowledge. Thank you Beth.

                         How The Paleo Diet Saved Our Son

                                        By Beth Rose

     The change in our household food habits began when my eleven-year-old son, Vincent, started having trouble with gas. It wasn’t just ordinary little Poofs! and then it was gone. No, this noxious odor caused people to express their frustration at the dinner table when it happened, or we rolled down the car windows in any kind of weather. We joked that we could offer him to the government as a secret war weapon, but deep inside my husband and I were frustrated that we didn’t know how to help him.

     An adult would find problem gas disconcerting enough, but to an eleven-year-old boy, the embarrassment is overwhelming. In school, he prayed no one would figure out the owner of the smell that wafted over the classroom. He sunk lower in his seat when he rode the bus, hoping no one realized that he was the reason for the, “Oh my God, do you smell that?” Sometimes the students did figure out who had caused the stink, and he was further alienated in a school where he already felt like an outsider.

     Fortunately, a client of mine mentioned that she had found a local homeopathic physician’s assistant who helped her with a variety of health issues. Encouraged by the possibilities, I called and made an appointment.

     The homeopath, Kelly, worked with private clients from her own office. The problem, she explained, had to do with gluten. “We’ll put him on a Paleo diet,” she said. For thirty days, no sugar, corn, white potatoes, or wheat products. Vincent looked at her skeptically. “It’s just for a short time,” she added. “After that, you can add one thing at a time back into your diet and see what agrees with you and what doesn’t.”

     Vincent was the only child I had who loved potatoes, and bread was always on his plate. How on earth could we take away so many of his favorite foods?

     To his credit, Vincent was a trouper. He and I diligently looked at labels in the store, went through the pantry and discussed which food had gluten, plus he sought out various recipes to make his culinary experience on par with the rest of us. We filled out the proper paperwork, and met with the head cook at his school to help her figure out what he could eat for lunch.

     “I feel so bad for him,” the cook confided to me two weeks into the diet. “I try to give him an extra piece of meat, and of course, he has a salad almost every day. But he never complains.”

     “Does he ask for more?” I asked. She shook her head. “Then I would bet he’s fine.”

     That’s not to say that we didn’t make mistakes in this culinary adventure. For example, we forgot to take corn out of his diet the first month. Fortunately, his physical issues began to go away. After two weeks, the two of us got together and assessed how he was doing.

     “I feel better!” he said. My intestines don’t hurt anymore.”

     “And the gas?”

     He shook his head. Nothing more at school.”

     I noticed he hardly ever blew us out of the car or the room anymore either. But the total surprise was that a mild psoriasis around his body had disappeared completely.

     It wasn’t a surprise to Kelly. “When the skin develops psoriasis like that,” she said, “it’s often a sign of some kind of food intolerance.” She was pleased to hear of Vincent’s progress and scheduled a follow-up in six months.

     And what a change in those months! Vincent grew three inches and lost all of his baby fat around the middle of his waist. Family and friends often mentioned how tall and thin he was getting. In fact, he hadn’t lost a pound from the first day of his diet.

     What changed was that we determined what he should not eat. White potatoes made his intestines so sore that he had no trouble eliminating them from his diet. Corn, he discovered, was still fine, as was oatmeal and barley. He could eat pizza one day for a special occasion, but the next several days needed to be gluten free entirely. While the rest of us continued to use our usual food, we added gluten-free products into our pantry such as pastas and bread. We were very pleased to find gluten-free Chex cereal. Since we had always eaten fresh, the rest of our diet didn’t have to change much.

     Now Vincent is a happy and healthy thirteen-year-old. All of us are grateful that his gas in gone, and that he feels better. We hope his story can spark other people to consider how food intolerances might be affecting their lives, and perhaps even how a Paleo diet can help them feel better.

Posted in education, Family, food, HEALTH, Paleo Diet | 1 Comment

THE WINTER OF MY DISCONTENT

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In the past I’ve written about “the wonder of wafting flakes, the cushy clumps of white upon the evergreens, the comfort of saying the word, “brrrr” as I peek outside, simultaneously rubbing my hands together as I smell the bouquet of baking ginger cookies.” And I have referenced the Snow Queen, surveying her wintry domain, here on her/my hill, looking out at crystals and icicles. All the Minnesota novelties to a California girl.

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Silly me. It’s our third winter here on Mt. Faith. And it is no longer thrilling, definitely not poetic, absolutely over-the-top ridiculous, are you-kidding-me absurd, what were we thinking, and frankly – I never knew Midgard, our mother Earth could be such a bitch. Sorry.

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It has been weeks with below zero temperatures (read that 40 plus below with the wind chill) and not much hope in sight. As I write these words the blizzard is in full force, the Frost Giants hurling the storm with a vengeance. And I can only ask myself – how did my darling Grammy Marie and Grandma Pauline and Great Grandma Elin survive in this land?

If I am inside with central fuel oil heating, and no need to regularly traverse the frozen slopes to the designated outside “bathroom,” and not dependent on long, arduous ski runs, over a hundred miles away, to Alexandria for basic supplies, then how indeed can I complain and whine?

How did they do it? How ever, these ancestors of ours on the upper plains, did they live in log cabins and holes dug into the ground until they could construct a proper structure? How was it possible to stay warm and sane when all hell broke loose and the Gods reigned havoc upon this land?

I can’t even get down my driveway (actually, not back UP again) and it is making me crazy. My calendar is loaded with appointments – meetings for planning 1 Vegetable/1 Community (beets this year), Lake Region Writers Network task force for conferences, Master Gardener information booth at the mall, Unitarian group facilitators meeting, fiber day potluck, book launch party, garden club program, Someplace Safe benefit tea. And that’s all in the first two weeks of February.

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And no. We’re not contemplating moving back to California. But we have new respect for our fellow Minnesotans who manage to go on with life and laugh about their homeland and say “Uff Da” a lot. It must have been bred-in by the likes of Grammies Marie and Pauline and Elin, and if that’s the case I guess I need to practice dredging up my inner Norwegian.

For one, I’ve made a promise to myself to begin to sort through seed catalogues (note: ONLY those on the Monsanto-Free list!) and plot out the new garden that I pre-prepared last fall, focusing on bee and butterfly friendlies – monarda and asclepias, sunflower and cosmos and goldenrod, Joe Pye weed and salvias.

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And whenever I look out the window, instead of cursing and focusing on the dreaded driveway, I must envision all the promises of the spring to come. Especially the peonies which we separated from the Clara and Hemnes cemeteries and the old home at Hickson, and that represent my personal heritage, thanks to Marie and Pauline and Elin. 

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And last – T.M. must order new snow tires. 

Posted in bees, Claustrophobia, COMMUNITY, Gardening, minnesota life, mythology, Norwegian, SNOW, storm, WEATHER | 3 Comments

THE DOCTOR IS IN

I have a theory, for what it’s worth, that there are two emotional scales and we are genetically, intrinsically born to one or the other. I first began pondering this paradigm the day I realized that my good friend who constantly succumbed to bouts of depression, was just wired that way and I was not.

That’s not to say that I am better. Just different. I am fortunate, it’s true, to have been blessed with tons of seratonin from both sides of my family and that means that on one end of my personal scale I am easily tickled by the robin hop-bobbing across my grass, bemused by a clever choice of words, and likely to hum a tune while chattering aloud to the plants in my garden. But given a twist of fate or a frightful life turn of events, as I swing to the other extreme of the scale, I don’t sink into depression. I become anxious, anguished, a mass of mental turbulence.

That’s when my husband usually shouts – “Go to your room!” which refers to my meditation aerie at the top of the stairs. And he’s right, and I do, and I try to achieve, then, a semblance of serenity.

Serenity isn’t an easy state for me, and that’s not to say I have never attained a deeper meditative awareness, a spiritual poise in my lifetime, but I suspect that my friend who suffers from depression can get to that place easier than I can because serenity and depression are both points of stillness. A good quietude on the one hand and a paralysis on the other end. 

The two ends of my emotional scale are all about movement – happy chirpings and murmurings on the one hand, and hand-wringing, floor pacing fear on the other. My hope for myself, is the truth that in movement there can more easily be change. In other words, an object already in movement can be nudged and re-directed on a different trajectory. An object that is static takes much more of a push to redirect.

That’s my wish for my personal attainment of happiness.

That will be two cents please.

Posted in emotions, introspection | 1 Comment

IN ONES OWN HAND

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“A national fight is brewing to keep cursive writing in U.S. classrooms.”

What? I had no idea it was out. But, yes. According to an Associated Press article last week – “When the new Common Core educational standards were crafted, penmanship classes were dropped.”

And now, seven of the states in this country are fighting to restore cursive instruction. Why? For one thing, proponents argue that scholars of the future will lose the ability to interpret historical documents, not to mention old familial correspondence. Can you imagine a child of the future on holiday at the Smithsonian, dumbly staring at the Declaration of Independence as if it were written in Mongolian or Persian? Or stumbling one day upon an ancient chest in the attic of the family homestead which contained letters written home by their great-grandfather who was to soon die at the Battle of the Bulge? And miss the personal significance and not be able to read one word.

It is an important point for teachers and parents to note that recent brain science shows that fluid motion employed when writing script enhances hand-eye coordination and develops motor skills in general. And many educators have come to believe that writing by hand helps students “to slow down their thinking, encouraging deeper and fuller thinking.”

Thanks to the influence and passion of a personal mentor, Dennis Patrick Slattery, I would have to plunk the whole issue into a far greater bag of consequences and implications. In “Riting Myth, Mythic Writing,” and repeatedly at a workshop I attended last year, Dennis suggested that “there exists a deep psychological, even mythic magic in these cursive letters.” He writes of the “ceremonial enactment that allows a more meditative, meandering, spiraling back, down and into the story, to the energy that provides its life force, so to animate its design and discern its shape and focus of interest.” 

At the workshop and in his writings, he also encouraged us to keep a daily journal where “the slow looping and curving of the letters in one’s own hand is essential to slowing and often thereby deepening the quality of expression.”

I have years of old journals sitting upon my bookshelf where I once did just that, scribbling across each page with abandon if not always with something I might today describe as “quality of expression.” I wrote about passion and pitfalls, foibles and folly. I wrote about the mundane and the magnificent, petty concerns and youthful enthusiasms, things of the sea and thoughts of the spirit. And I got used to the sound and the rhythm of words in my head and the swirls on the page.  

Of late, however, I have been primarily writing on the keyboard, letting my fingers rat-dat-a-tat out the words on the screen, hurrying through ideas, scurrying onto the next thought, anxious to post. Or make a point. And I would never, ever, abandon my AOC and my COMPAQ and my HP DESKJET, my modern friends at the desk with my Roget’s Thesaurus to the left and Webster’s New World to the right. But the Common Core and Dennis Patrick Slattery have a point and now set me to wondering about my own depth of thinking and the spiral and the curve, the sweeping back, that might lend my writing “it’s own ritual gradient, its own energy field.”

Consider the instinctual ways in which we use movement and rhythm throughout our lifetime. It begins with the comforting of a fussy baby, the rocking back and forth, or side to side, patting and cooing “There. There.” all the while. It isn’t something learned or taught. We just do it.

When in stress we walk or pace back and forth, as if trying to recapture a state of balance, Or, I do.

Movement plays a major role in so many spiritual disciplines – Sufi Dancing, twirling about with the right hand raised to the sky and the left toward the earth; T’ai Chi, bringing the energy into focus and harmony; and the Garuda practice from Tibetan Buddhism which balances and taps into new life, mirroring the Phoenix rising from the ashes.

Walking the pattern of the Labyrinth has been a tradition throughout the ages, revitalized in modern church settings, and is thought to enhance right brain activity while establishing a meditative state of mind. And in Greek drama there is the inclusion of Strophe and Antistrophe where the chorus chants while moving from east to west, or left to right, and back again. But never back to the exact same place.

When I pull out some of my tattered journals, all sizes and shapes, fanciful and business-like, and dare to reread the entries, I can trace personal  movements – the inside and out, left to right and back again. But never back to the exact same place.

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Only one is fairly new and was purchased with new-found enthusiasm one year ago after the workshop and quickly abandoned. On the front it is titled “Decomposition Book, 100% Post-Consumer-Waste Recycled Pages, Made using Bio-Gas, Processed Chlorine Free, Printed with Soy Ink, Made in the USA.” This says something about its modernity.

On the inside covers are fanciful drawings of the solar system, the life cycle of the soy plant, a map of the Mississippi River, stages of the common garden ant, the Great Sphinx of Giza compared to the Blue Whale and the tallest dinosaur, and a representation of someone trying to peek into the universe and see “what is behind the stars.” It appears to be a nod to stimulating one’s imagination.

At the same time I also purchased a fresh bottle of Parker black ink and unearthed my cherished and lately unused Mont Blanc fountain pen and placed the three items by the chair in my meditation aerie.

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And on the first day of the new journal I wrote – “All Hallows Eve. A good time to start.” And two weeks later, ended the last entry with – “Hope the weather will bring a white Christmas, but not hamper driving to the airport.” Left to right and back again. But never back to the exact same place.

Back to the original question: Will our schools in this digital-heavy age continue to turn out master computer keyboard kids? Or will they reintroduce the old, familiar lined pages and encourage a slow looping and curving of letters about Blue Whales and dinosaurs, life cycles of garden ants and soy plants, and the mythic magic behind the stars? In the classroom and in my meditation aerie. I hope so.
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Posted in education, favorite things, IMAGINATION, STORY TELLING, writing | 1 Comment

WRITER’S BLOCK – BUILDING BLOCKS

“Give yourself to the child until you have something on the page. Then let the adult critique.” That’s my new motto, and I painstakingly scrolled the words with my Mont Blanc pen upon pale blue copy paper decorated with a rainbow. I pinned the dictum above my computer in case I might forget the wise words of Judy Wilson, professor of creative writing at Southwest Minnesota State University (SWMS), the founder and editor of The Yellow Medicine Review: A Journal of Indigenous Literature, Art and Thought.

On a recent weekend in Ortonville, Minnesota, she kept forty plus writers rapt, elated and emboldened at the Lakeside Writers Workshop, and I can only imagine the lucky students who enroll in her creative writing classes at SWMS. I’ve been rummaging through my notes, sorting through the gems of advice (and there were many), striving to retain the clarity and momentum of enthusiasm.

But, it is within the above quote that I found my personal touchstone. Writers block must be the singular most debilitating hindrance to the craft. And for me it seems to arise more often, stay longer, strike deeper and do more damage than it did in the beginning of my writing life. No longer can I riff along on the keyboard, content with my cleverness and call it good.

I can see now that previously my inner child tootled on, playing with words, having fun. Now the adult voice chastens, reciting the rules in my head, tsk-tsking that I’m liable to fall and bruise my self-confidence. The more I learn and the more skills I acquire, the greater my fear that I am not measuring up. That thought inevitably leads to a kind of paralysis, and I turn away and busy myself elsewhere. And the next thing I know, weeks have elapsed, and I am numb to my words.

When I was perhaps five, I received a pair of roller skates. The kind with the leather strap that goes around your ankle and side clamps which were tightened with a skate key. No amount of scraped and bloodied knees, head bumps and shoulder twists could deter me from fearlessly flying down our sidewalk, ka-chum ka-chum over the lined pavement. And eventually I reveled in my magnificent (I thought) backward figure eights down the side alley. And even won a free admission pass or two for winning races at the local roller rink.

My other childish passion was writing and starring in neighborhood backyard productions. I penciled the script on lined 8 X 10 paper, giving myself the starring roles, and audaciously sold tickets to all the parents, neighbors and local merchants. It didn’t occur to me that my enactment of “Dance Hall Girls of the West,” chosen specifically because I had recently received a Dale Evans cap gun, or what I believed to be a great knock-off of Betty Grable singing “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” was less than professional and not worthy of twenty-five cents. I never made it to the Oscars, but I did later star in a high school play and received applause upon my exit.

Upon reflection, and thanks to Dr. Judy, I’ve decided to let Little Diane out to play. Big Diane and my writer’s group can pick up the pieces.

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Posted in favorite things, IMAGINATION, memories, playtime, writing | 1 Comment