Keep Calm, and Catholic and Write On

It started with reading a piece by a favorite Catholic writer and fellow mother of ten, Is Catholic Publishing Sexist?  I can't speak to that reality, but the discussion of women having to be "sweet," hit a nerve. 

Wrestling with joy isn't that what having a faith is? Isn't that what we're called to be?  To Live with hope despite all the proof over prof of our great and seemingly constant fallen nature?  I thought, "Have I become a Parody?" The charge that women's literature in the Catholic realm had to be 90% sweet/affirming I admit, scratched my own soul.  There is always a danger when writing narrative memoirs or blog pieces or articles infused with Faith of sounding either Sound of Music sweet without the trials, or like a white hot mess who needs serious intervention. 

I know, if we don't write works which are infused with blood, sweat, tears and more than a few bruises, psychological and otherwise, we fail to present the reality of any faith life. We lie to ourselves and set others up to fail if our testimony is anything but true. The trial and the question for a Catholic writer, for any writer, but particularly, one writing about one's beliefs is, how to write of a faith infused life without sounding like a parody of one's self? 

The Small Success Thursday series I write every Thursday at Catholicmom.com is designed to uplift, to remind us to remember all is grace, all is a gift, and for all, we should give thanks.  Had I become a sugar version of myself?  Had I failed to give an honest account of my reality or of living the faith, either in an attempt to amuse, or to enlighten?   Had I become a Kinkaid version of my own faith life in my writing, light without purpose?   

I pushed myself to ponder, was I being too sweet?  Was I somehow giving off the whiff of not being not real by seeming to be too kind or too prayerful or too whatever.    I understood the concern.  A witness who seems too much like only dessert  is not a healthy model for the spiritual life.   We need the balance of meat and vegetables, water and want, to appreciate when we receive the grace of feasting.   Did I do enough, was I examining enough?  Had I failed?

There are over 250 Small Success Thursdays I've written for Catholicmom.com over the course of many years.  I read through some across the years.  They affirmed life and faith.  They also read true. In the course of the work, I acknowledge fatigue, clutter, craziness, frustrations with fights, lost shoes, schedules, adolescence, finances, lack of sleep and the constant churn of homework and housework and everything else.   In short, one can't write about counting blessings without recognizing the reality of when the dog bites, the bee stings and I feel sad. 

I'll say to anyone who asks, I don't remember my favorite things. I feel bad.  I struggle.  I crumble. I fail.  I shout.  I complain.  I grouse.  I resent.  I overspend and overeat and under exercise. I use the TV as a babysitter when I don't want to deal.  I order fast food.  I leave dishes in the sink. I pretend I'm too busy.  These were just the physical trials of the day.  We haven't touched homework or melt downs or remembering to fill out the seventeen bajillion forms each child needs done two weeks ago but I didn't get to it.  We aren't mentioning the basketball or the CCD or the meeting on Thursday I'm going to skip because I won't be in town. We hadn't discussed the nine light bulbs which need replacing in the back basement which serves as my oldest son's room or the reality, we need to repaint the upstairs and re-carpet because my daughter decided to paint in her room on the carpet.   Christmas is coming and we've already spent too much and have very little.  There is too much in the house and none of it fits.  I need to give away and give away and give away and still, we need to do wash and fold and put away and sort.

There are a thousand reasons in each room of my home and my interior life to  either rage and/or despair. I can find them all if I want.   I can refuse to see them all if I want.  Neither answer is correct.  Count the blessings why?  Because I sin and I sin and I sin, and if I don't count them, I won't see them, I won't see beyond my own failings. I'll only find the clutter. Everyone writes their own version of Confessions, of messiness, of dealing with the knives and the scrapes and the swearing and fighting of the will to respond to grace internally and externally. 

What does it mean? It means keep at this mess and ask for grace and respond. 

2010 Resolutions

I've never really gotten into resolutions, but then I don't like budgets and diets either, and usually January 1st is about restraint, moderation, about self discipline. Already, the animal part of me can feel the presence of a proposed bit and bridle, (to use the Aristotle image) at the mere suggestion of eat less sugar and fat, exercise and cut up the credit cards. Even though I know intellectually, these would be helpful to my well being and long term goods, the horse chafes at the prospect, stamping, snorting and glowering at the would be charioteer in me proposing such a crazy idea.

I've never had much luck with all things in moderation and my chariot is the proof. I haven't asked in prayer for that assistance, and more so, I haven't asked because it isn't my heart's desire. I guess having nine children makes it obvious, mine by nature, is not a moderate soul.

But I know it is not what we do but how we do it that makes a day full, makes a life sparkle. In writing, what determines a writer from a person who writes as a hobby is BIC time. (body in chair). A hobbyist writes when they get to it, when they're inspired, when the ideas are crackling and popping like bacon. When the muse is with us, the very smells of the ideas jazz us to want to do more. But when there are no lines in our head so good we keep repeating them until we can find a crayon and torn envelope to write them down, the blank page of a word perfect program feels like a K2daring the unprepared hiker to take the first step. A hobbyist will wait for inspiration, a Sherpa to guide. A writer starts up the hill daily with or without one.

Now my sister is the introspective one in the family; she is also a natural rider and an expert on horses. She understands what goes on in her own head and heart immediately, intuitively; and she rides magnificently. My charioteer's a bit slow on the uptake and my capacity to ride a horse; it's shamefully amature and worse, seasoned with my own Texas bravado. I can do it, but anyone who knows anything, knows I know nothing but that I think I know what I'm doing.

The one thing I can do, is get on a horse and go VROOM. I love that flying feeling until I remember, I'm not entirely in control and we're going way too fast and man am I an idiot who is going to break her neck if she doesn't pull up, whoa, Whoa, WHOA! It's probably why when I was at camp, they put me in horse musical chairs with the oldest horse in the stable. But I digress.

When I write things, I usually go VROOM and then pull up and have that "Whoa." moment about whatever it is I've been hashing over on the page about my own life after I've written at least 1000-2000 words. She half jokingly told me, "You should write more."

So it is, that I had the "Whoa" moment that writing, like jogging, like riding, budgeting, is a process of being first and foremost, willing to take on whatever it is, to start, and then to edit and refine as you go and keep doing it every day. That whispering to the horse how the chariot could go VROOM if only she submitted a little, might be the charioteer's best bet. The horse might not be receptive to being attached to a chariot via a bit, bridle and all of that, the chariot could use some care and a bit of paint and trim, and the charioteer should get more willing to practice and become more educated about the whole direction they need to be going, but being allowed to run full throttle once they get started, that they all three understand.

So this year, I resolve to stop treating any of my life like a hobby. Every day is a new document demanding my attention and dedication, and every day is also, an old piece requiring editing and refinement. This year, I resolve to go Vroom and learn to say Whoa before I come close to breaking my neck, and also to talk to my sister more often.