Kimberly Brubaker Bradley's Blog, page 21
February 10, 2017
Cheating
My dear friend Sarah--one of my childhood friends, a graduate of Yale, and now both an Episcopalian nun and a priest--send me this 17th century nun's prayer awhile ago. It popped back up on my Facebook page, and it's better than anything I have to say today. So here you go:
Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself, that I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful but... not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others’ pains, but help me to endure them with patience.I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessing cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint – some of them are so hard to live with – but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.Amen.
Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself, that I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful but... not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others’ pains, but help me to endure them with patience.I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessing cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint – some of them are so hard to live with – but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.Amen.
February 9, 2017
Eight Years Ago Was a Very Good Day
You know how Facebook likes to remind you of posts from previous years? Today mine recalled a post I wrote eight years ago: "I have been reunited with my luggage, and am about to go riding on a beach in Durban (really!)!"
That was a fantastic day--a fantastic gallop on a bright white entirely empty beach, surf crashing, searing South African summertime sun, my Zulu guide, Cyprian, with his head thrown back, laughing--I remember that day like it was yesterday. I treasure it. Today it was a very good memory for me as I continue to be frustrated by my concussion, because that good day in Africa was born out of a bad day in Bristol, a bad day which led to a lot of good changes in my life.
Nine years ago, nearly exactly, my husband ruptured his Achilles tendon while coaching middle school basketball. The surgical repair did not go as well as we hoped, and recovery was long and difficult. For several bleak winter months my husband thought he'd have to give up his passion, golf, and he wrestled with frustration as well as physical pain. (Being my husband, he took exactly two days off work, for an injury that usually sidelines people for six months or more.) I was just beginning the four-year odyssey that would result in my book Jefferson's Sons, the book that ended up transforming the way I write. Of course I didn't know that at the time.
In recovery my husband spent a lot of time on the computer, looking for websites and chat rooms about golf and golf course architecture--if he wasn't going to play golf he was at least going to study it. I decided to knit a pair of socks. It was January, 2008, a summer Olympic year, and I was sort-of friends with a person who had a shot at making our Olympic team in my esoteric sport, eventing. (Now that my daughter fences, I understand that fencing is much like eventing: even though making the Olympic team in any sport is really, really tough, the number of overall participants in fencing is so small nearly every one who fences knows at least one former Olympian. I had two pointed out to me at my daughter's recent fencing match.) Anyway I sat down and designed a pair of Olympic socks, and they were really cool, and for some reason they pissed my husband off. We'd be at another middle school basketball game, and one of the other parents would ask what I was knitting, and I'd say, "A pair of socks for a friend of mine that might make the Olympic team." My husband would interrupt with, "She is NOT your friend." Dunno why. I had the woman's cell phone number, and if I called her she'd pick up with, "Hello, Kim" because she had mine. That was friendship in my book. Still is.
But I knew my husband was suffering so I didn't let him get to me. Until spring, that is, when he announced that he'd invited one of his new internet friends, a man prominent in golf course architecture, plus the man's entire family--wife, two kids--to spend a weekend with us at our house in the mountains. "We've never met these people!" I said.
My husband said, "SO? You're knitting Olympic socks!"
I sort of got what he meant. Who was I, to knit socks for a famous person? (Famous in a small pond, but still--famous) Who was he, to entertain famous people at our home? (Famous in a small pond, but still--famous).
My friend made the Olympic team. She loved the socks. She made the team again in 2012; not only did I make her another pair of socks, I went and watched her compete. Not kidding.
My husband's friend came with his kids and wife and we had a fantastic time. Halfway through dinner the first night, well into our second bottle of wine, the architecture guy said, "Hey, we've got a group going to South Africa for two weeks this winter--you guys should join us."
My husband and I looked at each other and grinned. What the hell. We'd learned a thing or two. "We'd love to," we said, and we did. We loved every minute of that trip. Furthermore, taking it--taking the risk of taking it--opened our world in a thousand different ways. It made us unafraid of reaching out to people and unwilling to postpone adventure.
My husband got hurt, and then he got adventuresome. I knit socks, and ended up at the Olympic games. I'm sitting here healing my head, working on my new manuscript, learning to write a movie script, and planning my travel calendar for the year. I can't wait to see what's happening next.
That was a fantastic day--a fantastic gallop on a bright white entirely empty beach, surf crashing, searing South African summertime sun, my Zulu guide, Cyprian, with his head thrown back, laughing--I remember that day like it was yesterday. I treasure it. Today it was a very good memory for me as I continue to be frustrated by my concussion, because that good day in Africa was born out of a bad day in Bristol, a bad day which led to a lot of good changes in my life.
Nine years ago, nearly exactly, my husband ruptured his Achilles tendon while coaching middle school basketball. The surgical repair did not go as well as we hoped, and recovery was long and difficult. For several bleak winter months my husband thought he'd have to give up his passion, golf, and he wrestled with frustration as well as physical pain. (Being my husband, he took exactly two days off work, for an injury that usually sidelines people for six months or more.) I was just beginning the four-year odyssey that would result in my book Jefferson's Sons, the book that ended up transforming the way I write. Of course I didn't know that at the time.
In recovery my husband spent a lot of time on the computer, looking for websites and chat rooms about golf and golf course architecture--if he wasn't going to play golf he was at least going to study it. I decided to knit a pair of socks. It was January, 2008, a summer Olympic year, and I was sort-of friends with a person who had a shot at making our Olympic team in my esoteric sport, eventing. (Now that my daughter fences, I understand that fencing is much like eventing: even though making the Olympic team in any sport is really, really tough, the number of overall participants in fencing is so small nearly every one who fences knows at least one former Olympian. I had two pointed out to me at my daughter's recent fencing match.) Anyway I sat down and designed a pair of Olympic socks, and they were really cool, and for some reason they pissed my husband off. We'd be at another middle school basketball game, and one of the other parents would ask what I was knitting, and I'd say, "A pair of socks for a friend of mine that might make the Olympic team." My husband would interrupt with, "She is NOT your friend." Dunno why. I had the woman's cell phone number, and if I called her she'd pick up with, "Hello, Kim" because she had mine. That was friendship in my book. Still is.
But I knew my husband was suffering so I didn't let him get to me. Until spring, that is, when he announced that he'd invited one of his new internet friends, a man prominent in golf course architecture, plus the man's entire family--wife, two kids--to spend a weekend with us at our house in the mountains. "We've never met these people!" I said.
My husband said, "SO? You're knitting Olympic socks!"
I sort of got what he meant. Who was I, to knit socks for a famous person? (Famous in a small pond, but still--famous) Who was he, to entertain famous people at our home? (Famous in a small pond, but still--famous).
My friend made the Olympic team. She loved the socks. She made the team again in 2012; not only did I make her another pair of socks, I went and watched her compete. Not kidding.
My husband's friend came with his kids and wife and we had a fantastic time. Halfway through dinner the first night, well into our second bottle of wine, the architecture guy said, "Hey, we've got a group going to South Africa for two weeks this winter--you guys should join us."
My husband and I looked at each other and grinned. What the hell. We'd learned a thing or two. "We'd love to," we said, and we did. We loved every minute of that trip. Furthermore, taking it--taking the risk of taking it--opened our world in a thousand different ways. It made us unafraid of reaching out to people and unwilling to postpone adventure.
My husband got hurt, and then he got adventuresome. I knit socks, and ended up at the Olympic games. I'm sitting here healing my head, working on my new manuscript, learning to write a movie script, and planning my travel calendar for the year. I can't wait to see what's happening next.
February 8, 2017
Whose Side Are We On?
So I'm still hanging out with my concussed head. Getting very slightly better very slowly. The pace of change is not within my control, and, I'll be honest, I tend to be annoyed when things are not within my control.
And then there's President Trump.
I've said repeatedly that I have no political home: my personal beliefs don't mesh with either party. Never has that been more true than now. I have friends on both sides of most of the arguments.
I would really just like to write about my horse. Or my books. Or something that is not politics. Anything.
At the same time, this seems to be one of the times when we as a people are going to be judged by our actions. I don't just mean our votes. I mean what we do after we vote.
I didn't march anywhere--honestly, I couldn't have physically managed it. I hate that, but it's true. But I knit a hat that was worn on a march, and I read my sisters' stories of marching. I'm trying to keep abreast of the real news. Writing and calling our congressional representatives--great. Voting every chance I get--absolutely. I support social justice with my money and my time. I'll keep doing that.
My biggest gift is with words. That's where I can make the most difference: the stories I write now, and the ones I'll write in future.
My novel Leap of Faith starts with a girl, the protagonist of the story, stabbing a classmate in a middle-school cafeteria. When I first school-talked this book I was surprised by the number of students who disliked my protagonist at the start, and only gradually came around to having sympathy for her. I always tell the students, "I'm firmly on the side of the kid with the knife." They're puzzled--they understand, and correctly, that Violence Is Bad--but I think that by the end of the book they understand my point of view.
I'm pretty sure I'm not making much sense today. Sorry about that. We'll blame the concussion, shall we? I might as well get some use out of it. What I'm trying to say is that we need to decide who and what we can defend, who and what we can uphold. And then do it. This is no time to be idle.
That's not really about President Trump. There has never been a time to fail to do good.
And then there's President Trump.
I've said repeatedly that I have no political home: my personal beliefs don't mesh with either party. Never has that been more true than now. I have friends on both sides of most of the arguments.
I would really just like to write about my horse. Or my books. Or something that is not politics. Anything.
At the same time, this seems to be one of the times when we as a people are going to be judged by our actions. I don't just mean our votes. I mean what we do after we vote.
I didn't march anywhere--honestly, I couldn't have physically managed it. I hate that, but it's true. But I knit a hat that was worn on a march, and I read my sisters' stories of marching. I'm trying to keep abreast of the real news. Writing and calling our congressional representatives--great. Voting every chance I get--absolutely. I support social justice with my money and my time. I'll keep doing that.
My biggest gift is with words. That's where I can make the most difference: the stories I write now, and the ones I'll write in future.
My novel Leap of Faith starts with a girl, the protagonist of the story, stabbing a classmate in a middle-school cafeteria. When I first school-talked this book I was surprised by the number of students who disliked my protagonist at the start, and only gradually came around to having sympathy for her. I always tell the students, "I'm firmly on the side of the kid with the knife." They're puzzled--they understand, and correctly, that Violence Is Bad--but I think that by the end of the book they understand my point of view.
I'm pretty sure I'm not making much sense today. Sorry about that. We'll blame the concussion, shall we? I might as well get some use out of it. What I'm trying to say is that we need to decide who and what we can defend, who and what we can uphold. And then do it. This is no time to be idle.
That's not really about President Trump. There has never been a time to fail to do good.
February 1, 2017
Nothing To Report Here.
Hi everyone.
I'm back. Back-ish. The head trauma is slowly healing, to the extent that in 20 minutes I will leave for a Beginner Yoga class. Hooray! My third attempt at yoga since my accident, December 17th, and what I've learned is that I'm mostly capable of a Beginner class, but can only do about half of a Room Temperature But Not Beginner class. Apparently my head still doesn't like being moved swiftly in three dimensions, which means sun salutations are no good for you. But it feels excellent to be moving, however slowly, again.
I'm still months away from riding again. I miss it like crazy.
Right now I am full of News that belongs to other people. It's frustrating the way not being able to do your life's work because you have a concussion is frustrating. I could tell you all some really awesome stuff, except I can't, because it's not mine to share.
That's something I've really learned writing this blog. There are stories that are entirely mine, and stories that are part mine, and even some stories that are not mine at all but are okay for me to write about--with permission--and then there's a whole lot that are really great stories, really fabulous, and sometimes I can even see the perfect way to write about them, the structure and the words and everything--and they are not my stories and I don't write them.
I've come to realize that the job of a novelist is to take all the other stories and mix them up with your own, and use the feelings you get from them to write about some completely other fictional world in a wholly authentic way. When I talk to schoolchildren about The War That Saved My Life--which I do a lot, thank you email and Skype--they want to know what parts of the story are based on my life, or on anyone's actual life. I tell them, almost nothing. For starters, I wasn't alive in WWII; my parents were, but only barely. (My mother was born on the one-year anniversary of Pearl Harbor.) But the emotions are real; I know about them either by feeling them or by paying very close attention to other people's feelings.
So anyway, here's today: full of joy and happiness, and glad to be feeling that way. It's not my story, but it is my joy.
I'm back. Back-ish. The head trauma is slowly healing, to the extent that in 20 minutes I will leave for a Beginner Yoga class. Hooray! My third attempt at yoga since my accident, December 17th, and what I've learned is that I'm mostly capable of a Beginner class, but can only do about half of a Room Temperature But Not Beginner class. Apparently my head still doesn't like being moved swiftly in three dimensions, which means sun salutations are no good for you. But it feels excellent to be moving, however slowly, again.
I'm still months away from riding again. I miss it like crazy.
Right now I am full of News that belongs to other people. It's frustrating the way not being able to do your life's work because you have a concussion is frustrating. I could tell you all some really awesome stuff, except I can't, because it's not mine to share.
That's something I've really learned writing this blog. There are stories that are entirely mine, and stories that are part mine, and even some stories that are not mine at all but are okay for me to write about--with permission--and then there's a whole lot that are really great stories, really fabulous, and sometimes I can even see the perfect way to write about them, the structure and the words and everything--and they are not my stories and I don't write them.
I've come to realize that the job of a novelist is to take all the other stories and mix them up with your own, and use the feelings you get from them to write about some completely other fictional world in a wholly authentic way. When I talk to schoolchildren about The War That Saved My Life--which I do a lot, thank you email and Skype--they want to know what parts of the story are based on my life, or on anyone's actual life. I tell them, almost nothing. For starters, I wasn't alive in WWII; my parents were, but only barely. (My mother was born on the one-year anniversary of Pearl Harbor.) But the emotions are real; I know about them either by feeling them or by paying very close attention to other people's feelings.
So anyway, here's today: full of joy and happiness, and glad to be feeling that way. It's not my story, but it is my joy.
January 14, 2017
Jesus and My Effing Socks
So on Wednesday I went off to do my usual job of data entry at Bristol Faith in Action, for the first time since getting thwacked on the head a month ago. It didn't go well. Apparently shifting between several computer windows and scrollboxes and handwritten interview forms, is not something my brain is up for at this time. I left FIA after an hour with a headache, and slept all afternoon.
The next day I had a small work crisis when I discovered that the proposals for next year's NCTE were due at 8 AM P.S.T., not PM as I'd thought. Fortunately I am on E.S.T., so I had 35 minutes to write up my kick-ass proposal, once again needing to pull together information from several open computer windows and my handwritten notes, and once again I slept all afternoon, and I was cranky at my exhaustion and felt sorry for myself.
I am blessed with so many good friends. I may have sent one of them a sad little text. This was a friend I ride with, and it happened that yesterday was the day she was moving her horses down to Florida for a few months. I will not be taking my horse down to ride with her this year, because it doesn't look like I'll be in any way cleared to ride until spring, if then, and of course this is a minor problem on the grand scale of my very privileged life, yep, I recognize that, and I am still allowed to be sad.
So yesterday morning I started out feeling sad. I recognized that it was a fine day for my new socks, the ones my editor gave me for Christmas. Intarsia knit, with bright flowers in bold colors, and the caption, "I'm A Delicate Effing Flower" in big letters on the side. Only they don't say Effing.
They are the best socks in the world. The only thing I love more than these socks is that MY EDITOR understands me well enough that she sent them to me. They were perfect for yesterday, and I put them on my feet.
I didn't get a text back from the friend who was driving her rig from Kentucky to Florida, and I understood, of course. It wasn't until about 10 o'clock at night that I noticed I actually had a voice message from her, sent very early in the morning, encouraging me to phone her anytime. My friend said, "This is just what the Lord has in store for you right now."
Somehow it was exactly the right thing to say. This particular friend has a rare gift for saying the right thing. I took a deep breath, and I let myself understand that I can not in any way control my recovery, and that I am not the sole author of my own story, and that it was all actually okay. I've got amazing friends, a fair bit of faith, and fantastic effing socks.
The next day I had a small work crisis when I discovered that the proposals for next year's NCTE were due at 8 AM P.S.T., not PM as I'd thought. Fortunately I am on E.S.T., so I had 35 minutes to write up my kick-ass proposal, once again needing to pull together information from several open computer windows and my handwritten notes, and once again I slept all afternoon, and I was cranky at my exhaustion and felt sorry for myself.
I am blessed with so many good friends. I may have sent one of them a sad little text. This was a friend I ride with, and it happened that yesterday was the day she was moving her horses down to Florida for a few months. I will not be taking my horse down to ride with her this year, because it doesn't look like I'll be in any way cleared to ride until spring, if then, and of course this is a minor problem on the grand scale of my very privileged life, yep, I recognize that, and I am still allowed to be sad.
So yesterday morning I started out feeling sad. I recognized that it was a fine day for my new socks, the ones my editor gave me for Christmas. Intarsia knit, with bright flowers in bold colors, and the caption, "I'm A Delicate Effing Flower" in big letters on the side. Only they don't say Effing.
They are the best socks in the world. The only thing I love more than these socks is that MY EDITOR understands me well enough that she sent them to me. They were perfect for yesterday, and I put them on my feet.
I didn't get a text back from the friend who was driving her rig from Kentucky to Florida, and I understood, of course. It wasn't until about 10 o'clock at night that I noticed I actually had a voice message from her, sent very early in the morning, encouraging me to phone her anytime. My friend said, "This is just what the Lord has in store for you right now."
Somehow it was exactly the right thing to say. This particular friend has a rare gift for saying the right thing. I took a deep breath, and I let myself understand that I can not in any way control my recovery, and that I am not the sole author of my own story, and that it was all actually okay. I've got amazing friends, a fair bit of faith, and fantastic effing socks.
January 10, 2017
Not Quite Back...
...I'm working on normal, or at least as normal as I usually get. Nearly four weeks post-concussion, I'm still not there. I get a bit closer most days. It's been Christmas, of course, and family came to visit, and then we went to Florida to see more family (it's a convenient place for them to live, this time of year), and I had a quick trip to Nashville and we celebrated my daughter's birthday a week early before she headed back to school. I'm deep in Revision Nine of TWIFW (that would start to sound like a bad joke except I'm really happy about it) and I'm reading books for the Golden Kite Awards and for review, as usual, so it's not like I've been doing nothing, but also, there have been an awful lot of naps. Sometimes three a day. I'm not really cleared for exercise yet--couldn't be, as I'm still waiting for my neurology appointment--but everyone seems to think I shouldn't be doing any serious exercise--weight lifting or hot yoga or anything that gets my heart rate high--until I quit having symptoms, and people seem to feel that several naps a day is a symptom. So there you are.
Even using a computer is a challenge. Something about how the screens work, especially if they're scrolling. I wrote my two post-concussion blog entries really quickly without revision, and still had to go nap afterwards. It's only in the last 10 days I've really been writing, and still not for very long at a time.
I'm trying to sort this all out. I hope I'm blogging normally soon.
Even using a computer is a challenge. Something about how the screens work, especially if they're scrolling. I wrote my two post-concussion blog entries really quickly without revision, and still had to go nap afterwards. It's only in the last 10 days I've really been writing, and still not for very long at a time.
I'm trying to sort this all out. I hope I'm blogging normally soon.
