No More Tears After Makeup

I cried my way through my morning coffee this morning. I'm a girl. Things are hard. Sometimes girls cry when things are hard.  Sometimes girls just cry. It happens.

I cried my way through my morning coffee, with a ragged piece of toilet paper balled up in my fists, making desperate attempts to swipe at snot and tears without ruining my makeup.

Then I cried on my way to work. Same ragged piece of toilet paper clutched in same white-knuckled fist on the steering wheel.

I parked my car in front of the office, shut off the engine, and spent a few, just a precious few, seconds with my head on the steering wheel. I gave over to it, just for a few seconds. Let my shoulders shake. Let my breath come in gasps. Let the tears flow.

Then I picked up that same ragged scrap of toilet paper, one more time, dabbed at my face, and then pulled myself together. I pulled myself together and I walked into work composed and steady. Buttoned up. No one would ever know.

A few minutes ago I walked into the bathroom. I was struck by the face in the mirror. Staring through red, puffy eyes ringed with faint mascara smudges. The shoulders drooping. The smile not reaching the eyes. Bits of toilet paper lint clinging to eyelashes, and stuck in hair, and all down the front of the shirt.

So much for pulled together. Still, it's a quiet day here in the office. I don't think anyone noticed. But from now on, no more crying through coffee. No more tears after makeup.

Froggy Bottoms

He sits at the head of the long oak table, my mother flanking him on his right, me on the left, and throws his head back in a hearty belly laugh. Despite the height of the thirty foot ceiling above us, his laughter shakes the rafters and rumbles through the house, filling it with warmth, with mirth. He is larger than life, my grandfather. He has lived so many different lives, has experienced so much more life than most could even dream of. He has been, and can be, so many different men. A cowboy, an outlaw, a hero, a bandit, a horse thief, a crooner, a two-stepper, a child comforter, a prankster, a side splitter, a story weaver. He moves from one to another fluidly. Sometimes he is more than one, many at once.

It is the story weaver who makes his appearance now. He has a title for the book, he says. Our book, the one we both want me to write. About him. About all of his fabulous, dangerous, adventurous lives. About all of those wonderful, devilish, delicious men he has been, and still is. The book will be called Froggy Bottoms, he says. He asks if he's ever told me about Froggy Bottoms. He has not. And so the tale commences.

From the time that he was a young boy, my grandfather adored Ike. Ike was a black man, a shoeshine "boy". He was friends with every one in town, but like most people, he had a particular fondness for "missah Mahvin" (as he addressed my grandfather). Ike was one of few "colored folk" that lived in the Rio Grande Valley, a place that straddles the divide between two worlds, Texas and Mexico, and as a result has a unique flavor all its own. Ike and "missah Mahvin" were fast friends, and Ike tried his best to warn "missah Mahvin" away from Froggy Bottoms. But there were many adventures to be had in Froggy Bottoms. People to meet. Fun to be had. Strange sights to see.

There were even a few places in Froggy Bottoms where a boy might get into trouble. Like the old brothel. Oh, "missah Mahvin" never actually set foot in the brothel, no, but he and his friends liked to drive down to Froggy Bottoms and park outside the brothel to "hear the colored ladies talk their deep, rich, southern talk." Of course, they only ever viewed these women as ladies, and of course all they ever did was talk to them. The ladies would come outside and beckon with wide smiles and wide arms, offering to "take good care of such handsome young fellas." The boys would grin and make their best attempts to banter back before speeding away, their courage all used up.

One particular night, while several of "missah Mahvin's" friends hung out the passenger side of the car trying to get a better look, a huge, dark shape suddenly appeared outside the driver's window. Time seemed to slow, as if it took hours for the tall frame to bend all the way down and lean in to face "missah Mahvin" who was driving the car. The giant inquired in a thunderous voice just what these boys were doing out here so late at night, and bothering these nice ladies. Suddenly time sped up, and "missah Mahvin" has never moved so fast as he did when he put that car in gear and hightailed it out of there.

Once again, my grandfather's colossal laugh bounces and echoes around the room. He grabs my arm with one huge hand, a working man's hand that can crush or comfort with a touch. He pulls me in close and plants a kiss on my temple before the giggling begins again. The resounding hee-hee-hee-hee of his laugh as he leans back and gives himself over to the joy of living. Then he quiets and leans forward intently, placing one huge hand on his knee and the other on the table in front of him. And he begins to spin another magical tale...

Sprained Ankles Lead to The Happy Painter

I've always been a klutz. I trip, I fall, I knock things over. Sprained ankles were a regular part of my childhood experience. Same goes for burns, cuts, and unexplainable bruises. I think I've mentioned before that I am not allowed to handle the knives in our house. When we first started dating, Keith was appalled by my propensity for sticking bare hands into hot ovens, running into walls, slicing off inches of skin. If you left me alone long enough in a rubber room with a baby's teething ring, I'm sure I could manage some way to do inadvertent and unintentional bodily harm to myself.

So it should come as no surprise that moments after hitting publish on my last post, I managed to horribly wrench not just one, but both of my ankles. My sweet brother had picked me up at the hotel and we were on our way to lunch and an afternoon of hanging out and catching up. We were leaving a restaurant with kind of "leveled" parking. There was a big (read: three foot) drop from one level to the next, which my buff little brother (he was in the army, and he works out every day, and drives a pedicab) neatly stepped over. Rather than go all the way around to the stairs, I attempted to follow him. The next thing I know my dress is up nearly over my head and I am on the ground, both ankles rolled underneath and throbbing in pain, hands scraped, knees bruised, pride absolutely demolished.

It took a few moments to gather my composure, another few to convince myself that my ankles would actually bear weight, and then another few for my sweet brother to assist me in hobbling to the car. Once he had me settled safely inside and taken care of he turned to me and said, "Why would you even do that? You should never do anything like that!" To which the answers were obviously "I have absolutely no idea, because you're right, I totally shouldn't ever do anything like that!" I just wasn't thinking beyond the fact that, my brother had just made it look so easy and it would be so much shorter than going all the way around.

It wasn't long before he had me on his couch, swollen ankles propped up on pillows with a big bag of ice. We chatted for a while, then started channel surfing, and finally landed, riveted, on the man we call The Happy Painter. Anyone who hasn't lived under a rock for the past thirty years or so will instantly know who I mean. The Happy Painter, Bob Ross, the kindly man with the 'fro who taught painting on PBS, who painted "happy little clouds" and "happy little trees" on his show, the Joy of Painting.

I remember loving The Happy Painter as a kid. I don't know if it's the calming manner, the soothing voice, the rhythmic brush strokes, or just his incredibly optimistic point of view, but I was always entranced when The Happy Painter came on. And it turns out, I still am. Hunter and I got completely absorbed in his show, watching him transform colors into forms and shapes while dispensing wisdom like, "Don't worry about exactly how the paint goes on, just let it do what it wants to do," or "Even if you mess up it's okay because we learned something today."

I think watching Bob Ross may be one of the best forms of therapy available. I know that if I watched his show every day, I would be a much better, calmer, kinder, and more patient person. So I started out bummed over a sprained ankle that meant no fun time outdoors, and ended up so thankful that I got to spend half an hour with The Happy Painter. I guess Bob was right, "Even if it doesn't turn out the way you meant it to, it's okay. You'll find something beautiful in it."

Telling Stories

I made it through the last (and biggest) of our annual sales meetings today. Another two days solidly packed with crucial information, another two days attempting to equip our representatives with all the knowldedge and all the tools they will need for the coming year. It went really well, and I have a good feeling that everyone involved would heartily agree this was our best one yet. And that's what we strive for every year. To do it a little bit better, perfect it just a little bit more than the previous one. To always be learning and growing and striving and reaching.

We had an exceptional guest speaker, one we will invite back year after year because he is so good. He keeps our audience entranced an energized. He is so relevant, so timely, so sincere and so relatable. I've always been impressed by the way he customizes his delivery, the way he makes everyone in the room feel like he's sharing something that is meant just especially for them.

Something else I noticed for the first time this morning was his use of story. At first I thought it was just that his presentation was peppered with stories, just chock-full of entertaining anecdotes that kept our attention and made his words memorable. But then I realized it was more than just that. The stories weren't side notes to highlight the points of his presentation. Instead, the story was the presentation, and the information and points just helped to serve the purpose of the story, in a way that made it actionable and inspiring. Normally, attendance at one of our meetings is a lot like trying to drink from a firehose. It's just a crazy, intense, non-stop spew of information, information, information. Our guest's presentation created a wide river that we could all jump right into and follow the flow.

I am so committed to the value of Story, the importance of it. I feel driven to tell stories, called to relate that way. I am fully convinced that Story is the most effective means of human communication and connection. I know this, I believe this, I am passionate about it. And yet, I have never thought to put this into practice in my presentations, never come at things from quite that angle. I normally focus so much on myself and on the information- what do I need them to know, how can I state it clearly, how can I keep it brief and to the point. He does something naturally that I've been completely neglecting. He tunes in to that deeper and essential Story aspect and lets the information work for him. And I keep wondering, how did I miss that? It's seems so very clear and obvious now.

So that will be my goal in the future. To sit with the information and figure out the story it's telling, to flesh out that story, and to tell it in a way that is meaningful and memorable. To take Story, that thing I love and believe in so much, and make it more a part of my actual life. To embrace Story in a new way that allows me to really live it out.

Inception

I loved this post from The Rabbit Room about Inception, so I wanted to share it with all of you.

AUG

3

2010

Lessons in Shared Dreaming

POSTED BY Sarah Clarkson

“This is your first lesson in shared dreaming.”

Talk about a line to get a writer thinking. The minute Dom, a major character in the movie Inception, said it, I sat up straight and wished I had a pen in hand. I went to the theater expecting an action flick, I came out feeling that I had taken part in a swift, sparkling debate; the sort you have late at night with best friends, drinks and elbows on the table, eyes alight with big ideas. I love a movie that makes me want to be a philosopher. I love it even more though, when the movie is philosophizing about what I, as a writer, love best: the telling of a story.

Inception, I realized, is a conversation in the art of imagination. This is a movie about the making of dreamscapes - worlds made in the mind of one person and offered to another. As a writer, this captivates me. Isn’t story the same thing? What is a novel, but a dream world built in the mind of an author? What is a storybook but a wide, new space of imagination into which a reader is invited? Inception is an excellent movie for writers. With this in mind, I returned, late last Thursday night, notebook in hand, to jot down a few of the ideas flung to me by the movie. Perhaps they will spark a new debate and keep the ideas flowing…

I was struck first by the movie’s emphasis on the architecture of the imaginative world. In the beginning of the story, a brilliant young architect is hired to construct the landscape of a dream. As she begins her first exercise in creation, she is cautioned: the dreamscape must ring true. If it is to be accepted by the mind of another, it must taste and smell, feel and look, real. This is a challenge faced by all crafters of story. The scene must be set, the reader brought by words, almost unaware, into a world as personal, touchable as our own. We all have those books we have read where the scenes were so vividly wrought, we feel we lived rather than read them. Twenty years after reading it, I still remember a scene from The Wind in the Willows, where Mole finds his old burrow. The musty scent of his abandoned hole, the ache of homesickness suddenly relieved, the hominess of his fireside and newly swept rooms, I can see it all still because the imagined world was masterfully made.

Yet a story world must also ring true to soul. There is a straight-shooting sense in our hearts of what is true about existence; hunger for beauty, need for love, our own frailty, the crying need for redemption. If a story lacks that truth, my heart will write it off as a dream not worth pursuing. I wonder sometimes if this is the element so many find to be missing in modern “Christian” stories, both in literature and film. They portray the good of Christianity, but neglect the dark that makes faith necessary. The world is thus incomplete. All elements of reality must be included in the soul world of a story, salvation and sin, grace and guilt.

I found next that story is, truly, a shared dreaming. The dream worlds in Inception may be created by one person, but they are peopled by the subconscious of the others who enter them. I had never considered the idea that what I create as an author is, to an extent, unfinished until it is met by the imagination of a reader. I cannot transmit my creation, with all my own images intact, into the brain of another. To enter my dream, my reader must begin to dream himself. He brings his thoughts, the faces formed by his brain, his memory, his desire to the making of the story I have begun. Can a story be fully realized in isolation? I begin to think not. Inception reminds me that storytelling may start in solitude, but its end, its goal, is only realized in community. A shared dream.

And what is the purpose of this dream? What do I offer the soul of a reader through my gift of story? Most authors write their stories with some idea in mind, some truth, some knowing they feel they must communicate. An idea for “inception” if you will. And so, I have always thought that some nugget of truth must be one of the main gifts I give in any story, even if it is subtly or symbolically given.

While I can’t say much lest I give away the plot, I will say thatInception broadened my understanding of this gift. It helped me to see that sometimes the gift is simply the space of the story itself. An imaginary world creates a new room in the mind where the boundaries of material life fall away. In the reading of a story I inhabit someone else’s world. In it, perhaps I am freed to confront and recognize my own emotions and desires more clearly, as they are sparked to life and bumble into the story I am reading. Perhaps the gift of a good tale is the space in which to find and realize truth, to see it afresh, not merely have it imposed. Or perhaps, I make room so that another, more powerful Creator can implant an idea.

Is it possible for one human to plant an idea, untraced, into the mind of another? Inception asks this question, and I don’t know about a human being able to do that. But the Holy Spirit sure could. The whole time I was watching the expert “dreamers” in the movie struggle to implant an idea in their subject’s mind, I thought of God, sparking knowledge in us as we are unaware. God creates ideas, as he does worlds, out of nothing, he is the kindler of every act of creation. He is the silent partner in every “dream” we create. What if God himself joins writer and reader to bring a new idea into being? What if our stories, our shared dreams, offer a space wherein God can bring about the inception of his own perfect ideas?

So there you have it. Hamlet said he would “sleep, perchance to dream.” I think perhaps I’d rather write, for then I’m sure to dream, and the world I make is one that I can share.