Penny J. Johnson's Blog, page 94
July 16, 2014
One Good Thing Every Day: Good Medicine
A merry heart does good, like medicine,
But a broken spirit dries the bones.
I am counting out my son’s pills for him as I hand them to him. I do this because we are in a hurry. I do this because, if I don’t, he will stare at the seven whole pills and two half-pills for an hour or more. Most days this dilly-dallying irks me. But, not at the moment. Seven whole pills and two half-pills are a lot to take in.
I marvel at his order, his grimaces for some, his non-watered-down consumption of others, his knowledge of names, doses, side effects, and functions. He knows all this, but still struggles with the answer to 7 minus 2. Maybe it’s those two half-pills that together don’t make a whole.
He takes them all, and then it’s off to the shower. I sit at my desk and feign reading. I am praying we will have enough time to get to our appointment an hour away, that we will have enough hot water at the end of the day. I cling to his words as he ascended the stairs, “I did a good job getting up today.”
Coming across Proverbs 17:22 in my reading, the words sound so easy. It is just the first part of the verse I am seeing. I am reminded of my grandmother whose merry heart never left her as her memory did. When I was having a bad day, she told me to look her in the eye, flashed her ever-present smile, and told me to be happy. Honestly, I wanted to stomp my foot harder. I swallowed dry those bitter pills anyway.
Who shows a child his true world?
Who sets him among the stars, and places
in his hand the true measure of space?
What parent or grandparent doesn’t want to protect their children from the second half of the verse? The problem is good medicine often tastes bad. I might joke that the jar in my kitchen is filled with colorful, sugar-coated, melt-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hands “happy pills” labeled with an “M” for “merry.” I can ignore the devastating side effect to my hips. But, the nightmares and day-mares occurring if I forget to take my real happy pill? Or worse, if my son misses his daily doses? For me, it is like taking only half the recommended amount of Proverbs 17:22 and dilly-dallying over the other half left sitting on the table.
One of the pills my son takes–the first and newest one–is Vitamin D. We find out at the appointment he can double his dose in the summer and triple it in the fall. In our non-agrarian society and temperate climate, we need as much virtual sunlight as we can get. Turns out, it will help him sleep better as well as strengthen his bones.
I do believe in the truth of the first half of Proverbs 17:22. My husband recently asked me why we have remained stable through everything we’ve endured. We laugh. We have developed our own form of homegrown silliness. If only it could be bottled and FDA approved!
The truth is, I am a Scrooge some days. Until I wake up and come face-to-face with other Scrooges. Until like Tiny Tim, like Rainer Maria Rilke, like Anne Lamott, like King Solomon, like my grandmother, I can count my son’s pills with him and see wholeness even in the broken ones.
July 14, 2014
Book Recommendation: 2k to 10k: Writing Faster, Writing Better, and Writing More of What You Love
I highly recommend
to writers wanting to boost their word count, finish their manuscripts, or simply be inspired to write. Even though I didn’t accomplish the 10k goal myself, I completed my first draft of a novel while home educating and keeping the house (relatively) clean. A must read!
See what others are saying about it:
Writer Unboxed: Writer Faster (and Better, too)
July 4, 2014
One Good Thing Every Day: On War…and Peace
Occasionally, my husband and I escape daily havoc for a lunch date. This past week, in a corner booth of a restaurant, we discussed familial conflicts, immediate and extended. Just as I checked my phone for the time and my oldest called to see if we were on our way, my husband asked, “What do you think about war?”
After four years of dating prior to our twenty years of marriage, wouldn’t he know my thoughts? But, I recounted them anyway. A lot has changed since 1989!
As I watched the bombs bursting on my black-and-white TV screen in 1991, all I could think about was his excited voice over the phone line. My concerns about a draft or worse—if he volunteered for service—seemed less selfish than oil prices, dictatorships, and big countries attacking little countries. Because, it seemed to me, life and death outweighed any other gains. Why should our dreams die before they had a chance to live? We never had to know because this light show was brief—at least for us.
On the morning of September 11, 2001, innocence collapsed with the Twin Towers. My mother-heart desired vengeance for the lives destroyed. Even as a new battle surfaced in our small family that November, I discovered fighting against elusive terror requires more than a swift responsive surge. It takes decades, even a lifetime.
Today, I admit it. I barely listen to the vacillating political decisions about our military presence in the Middle East. Most of the time, I am in the middle of my own peace-making within our home as a wife and a mother of three boys. I am learning to negotiate my dreams for theirs.
Perhaps I am naive and selfish. Shouldn’t I hope for world peace? But, I don’t. I hope for my world’s peace. That in some small way a piece of my peace will add peace to the lives of others. When faced with personal conflict, I want to say with Abraham Lincoln, “’I don’t like that man [woman, or child]. I must get to know him [or her] better.’” If my life focus is on Matthew 22:37-40—“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ …the first and greatest commandment. And the second… ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ [because] All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.”—, then haven’t I done my part for peace?
What do I think about war…and peace? “In keeping with his promise [I am] looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells” (2 Peter 3:13). “Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way. The Lord be with all of you” (2 Thessalonians 3:16).
June 26, 2014
Infographic: How to Focus
Great ideas!
Originally posted on Hunter's Writings:
For all the writers who write alongside a pet, here’s the ratification (also: food!)
by annavital.
Explore more infographics like this one on the web’s largest information design community – Visually.
Posted with Blogsy
June 25, 2014
Recommended Reading: What I Talk About When I Talk About Running
Excellent insights! They relate to my own blogging about the writing process–even how it relates to running. I have not read Murakami’s book yet, but I may need to add it to my summer reading list!
Originally posted on The Daily Post:
Much of the writing process doesn’t involve writing. That’s how it feels for me.
In some comments I read across the WordPress.com community, and in our current Writing 101 challenge, I notice that bloggers can be really hard on themselves.
I’m so behind.
I can’t think of anything to write.
I didn’t publish anything today.
Writing isn’t automatic; it’s not a mode you turn on and off. Think about our daily prompts, or our free-write challenges. You can’t always sit down and write. Writing is about much more than the physical act of writing — there’s a lot of thinking, observing, and simply being involved. I’ve been pondering this in the midst of Writing 101, in which we ask thousands of participants to experiment daily with their writing and respond to various scenarios. In many cases, the process itself — not the end product — is what really matters…
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One Good Thing Every Day: June 24, 2014
Today my devotions led me into quiet places, like Dickens’ countrysides, where contemplation and rest are found. Mark 6:31 says, “Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, ‘Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.’”
Yet, they also took me to what precedes rest. Paul Horgan says “Every imaginative production must contain some element of risk.” If that is true, what of the unimaginative, the elements of life that drain us of energy, stamina, and resolve? Emily Dickenson comments on this journey.
He — would trust no stranger —
Other — could betray —
Just His own endorsement —
That — sufficeth Me —
All the other Distance
He hath traversed first —
No New Mile remaineth —
Far as Paradise —
His sure foot preceding —
Tender Pioneer —
Base must be the Coward
Dare not venture — now —
Reading this poem I am reminded of my journeys. I am Hezekiah turning to the wall and crying out to God (2 Kings 20:2). Still, my Psalm 23 valleys and my Mount Horebs (1 King 19:1-12) seem trivial. Eden’s communal walks give way to lonely betrayal in Gethsemane. The Tree of Life transforms into a crucifixion crossbeam. The Word’s last words are screamed at His Father’s back. For three days, Life and Death are one in the same. Imagine living in the formlessness of those days—as before God calls out the Light of the World and the unseen Spirit hovers over the deep cavernous expanse of sin’s darkness. Hear the stone cry out as it rolls away! The Gardner replants His feet on the earth and His hands reveal His labor’s wounds.
So, when He asks for hands to harvest (Matthew 9:35-38), I must dig in. Yet, when I weary, I can find Him in the garden, and go to Him alone.
June 23, 2014
Writing 101: To Whom It May Concern
Dear Slayer of the Jabberwock,
Come be my beamish boy and slay all my fruit-less words. These fantastical monsters haunt my mirrors with their backward images. Their message I misunderstand. But, not the fact they must be cut down. So, pray, dear boy, take up your blade to snicker-snack and slash away!
Callooh! Callay!
Penny
June 20, 2014
One Page at a Time: Maintaining Discipline, Forming Habits, Establishing Rituals (Part Three)
Part Three
Establishing Rituals: All the Nuts and Bolts without Going Nutty
“I had a ritual once of lighting a candle and writing by its light and blowing it out when I was done for the night….Also kneeling and praying before starting (I got that from a French movie about George Frederick Handel).” Jack Kerouac as quoted in A Year of Writing Dangerously.
“If you don’t do ritual things in order, the paper doesn’t read as well, and you’ll be thrown off the whole day. But when you can sit for a while at your table, reach for your coffee, look out the window at the sky or some branches, then back down at the paper or a book, everything feels right for the moment, which is maybe all we have.” Anne Lamott as quoted in Stitches.
In my first post of this series, Maintaining Discipline, I mentioned the role my father played in mentoring me. On Father’s Day, I snapped this picture of him.
He is reclining on the deck platform in front of my camper. Undaunted by torrential rains, he remains determined to help my husband complete the deck staircase by the end of the day.
I note the logo for the Ohio company he ran. He wears his Penn hat, a symbol of the doctorate of education he earned after “retirement.”
He removed his NFL players’ ring and his wedding ring for protection. Although he maintains several friendships with coaches and players in the NFL organization, the relationship of import is the one with my mother. Tenacious in spite of her rebuffs in grade school, he won her heart. They will be married forty-three years this August.
Just as he sets his mind to a goal and remains tenacious, he daily follows his life-long habits. Jack Kerouac may have gotten the idea of kneeling in prayer before writing from a movie about George Frederick Handel. But, throughout my childhood, I witnessed my father kneeling in prayer. So constant was this ritual at home that I know he continued it when he traveled. I am certain he continues this practice.
How do I know? The knee pads. They remind me of how my father’s work life began and how his own father provided for his family.
My grandfather died when my father was twenty-seven and when I was five. Yet, I remember those knotty, farm-worked hands. I still see the stitched scar on my grandfather’s knee from a nail piercing it. My grandfather’s earthly heart may have been weak, but there was nothing feeble about his spiritual one. He taught my father how to bend his knees at seven in the morning and at seven in the evening every day. We didn’t quite live up to that regimen when I was little, but we were taught to have our own personal bent in prayer and devotional readings.
Those knee pads remind me of the humility required for success. While struggling with the warp and knots of the pine boards, my dad says, “It’s because of us.” I know what he means. God made the world perfect, but sin caused the warp and knots of imperfection that daunt us. Even so, Dad shifts each board and fits them together until they mesh.
“How much do you put into a job?” he asks me.
“One hundred percent,” I say. “There’s no such thing as one-hundred-ten percent.”
“Correct,” he says.
Did I mention he used to be a math teacher, too?
What does all of this have to do with rituals? The examples of discipline, habits, and rituals I learned from my dad proved an outcome of success whatever the endeavor.
The Anne Lamott quotation above suggests there are some things that give us the right setting and mood to begin each day. When I read that, I was actually at my camper with my coffee in hand looking at a tree outside my window. But, I could have easily been at home at my grandmother’s secretary with my crab-apple tree in my periphery vision and my blue mug on a coaster nearby. I begin each day with reading a devotional, followed by inspirational quotes, and ending with poetry. Sometimes the three mesh together. I do all of this before I work on my novel and my poetry book. Why? It is my warm-up to the day’s marathon.
So, how to maintain ritual without becoming obsessive? Mix it up. Within the same time frame, holding the same mug of coffee, seeing the same crab-apple tree, I read and write in various ways. It keeps me limber, humble, and diligent even on cloudy days. I mix it up because I know getting into a too-rigid ritual can cause a rut.
I do the same thing with my house cleaning. I let my boys assist. No, they don’t always clean the bathrooms as well as I would. But, they know how to clean a bathroom. They know how to get down on their knees. They see devotional readings at the top of the daily reading schedules, too. They remind me to pray with them before bed.
It might look crazy to those watching from windows as my dad and my husband build a deck in a thunderstorm. They may not see, as I do, the wizened carpenter encouraging the reluctant apprentice. The end result is a solid platform on a firm foundation and a flight of stairs inviting others to enter. That is the crazy I want to live and write.
June 19, 2014
Writing 101: Size Matters
Tell us about the home where you lived when you were twelve. Which town, city, or country? Was it a house or an apartment? A boarding school or foster home? An airstream or an RV? Who lived there with you?
Today’s twist: pay attention to your sentence lengths and use short, medium, and long sentences as you compose your response about the home you lived in when you were twelve.
My youngest son turned twelve on Sunday. He has lived in the same house his entire life. By the time I was twelve, I had moved three times, though only one I remember. The year I was twelve, I moved a fourth time.
I was in sixth grade that year. I attended the middle school in Anoka, Minnesota that was my paternal grandmother’s high school in the early twentieth century. We lived in the house my dad helped build by the Rum River. Lily pads lined the backwash. Mallards nested in the peninsula’s brown river grasses. Dad’s row boat basked upside down at the water’s edge. Marigolds outlined Mom’s garden in spring and summer. The woods colored themselves in September and October. One year the snow drifted halfway up our front door.
The carpet in the bedrooms matched our favorite colors. Mine was a deep wine. My sisters was a smoky blue, and my brothers was a molted white-green. Mom and Dad’s was eighties gold. We had a blue bathtub and blue double sinks in the kids’ bathroom. I took showers in my parents’ three-quarter bath. One Saturday night, a hot air balloon blew off-course into our woods. The passengers in the basket, too concerned with getting out of their predicament, didn’t see naked me gawking through the steamed-up window.
I loved that my room faced the trees. I searched out my favorite branch, the leaves mimicking a bird in suspended flight.
Unfortunately, life is not a suspended flight.
We moved to Chesterfield, Missouri in March. I went back to elementary school and recess for two months. Somewhere during the move I forgot—or became rerouted in—math. I learned girls in Missouri are just as mean as girls in Minnesota. I discovered, after playing basketball since fourth grade, I wouldn’t be able to play on a another team until ninth grade. I won the relay race in the school track meet. I realized I was good at running.
All the carpet in this house was neutral, the woodwork painted white. I liked my window shutters. They opened on the scant grove of trees growing along a red-clay basin. We tried sledding into the basin when snow closed school. But, there was less than six inches by afternoon. We did play baseball there. I became a Cardinals fan in 1985.
When I talked “about” (a-boat) “pop” instead of “soda,” my Missouri friends laughed at my northern accent. When I visited Minnesota and said “It’s good to be home,” my grandfather claimed he heard a drawl. When Mom said, “Home is where you graduate from high school,” I groaned.
In 1987, I became a Minnesota Twins fan. I went from being a ninth grader in junior high to a freshman in high school before Christmas. I started playing basketball again. I groaned when the orchestra conductor announced the destination for the spring trip. At least, I would have a second chance to go up in the St. Louis Arch.
