How the Internet occasionally saves my sanity

(Pumpkin spice peanut brittle image courtesy of Target.com)

I enjoyed a piece of pumpkin spice peanut brittle today (go get some at Target, it's really good!), and as I crunched on it a phrase from a book bubbled up to the top of my head -- something about someone buying peanut brittle for an older relative, who would "clatter and crunch" over it later. I knew that particular phrase, and I knew I'd read it many times in the past, but couldn't place it.

People born after 1990, I want you to get a little taste of what life was like in the 1970s and early '80s. Barring my finding that phrase in a book through happy accident, or my subconscious managing to dredge up where it came from, I would have no choice but to let the phrase "clatter and crunch" bounce around in my skull for weeks to months, with no easy way to look it up because there was no modern internet.

As it was, I had my answer within 90 seconds. It comes from an early passage in the book We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson, and it describes the narrator's Uncle Julian messily enjoying his treat.

Once again the internet has saved my tenuous sanity. Thanks, Al Gore!

The deadman switch

HEN I first started writing this blog in 2006, mass social media platforms like Facebook hadn't taken off yet, so it was fairly common for people to read each other's blogs and make comments directly on the site. I had a few regulars who would come by, read the latest post and make a few comments. In turn I would often follow links back to their blogs, read what they were up to and make comments as well. (This was how I got to know Gretel, for instance.) As Facebook and other social media sites took off, however, and as blog-supporting software like RSS no longer received updates, the number of regular commenters on most blogs slowly dropped off. It's now quite rare for me to get a comment on any blog post, old or new.

Social media is now old enough that we're starting to think about the greater consequences of what we say and do online. We think about the future more than we did back when the medium was still a novelty. And one of the things we rarely thought about in the early days was mortality.

Back in the day I had a regular poster on my blog, an artist who lived in middle America, and in return I'd often visit and read her blogs and make comments on her posts. A while back, I realized I hadn't heard from her in ages. So I popped over to her blogs and noticed it had been multiple years since her last update.

Now, it's quite possible that she just fell out of love with blogging. That happens. Or it's possible that she was going through a dry spell. (My last entry on this blog was back in May, for instance.) But I also knew that this particular blogger was past retirement age when we first started exchanging pleasantries online. I'd never met her in person; she lived thousands of miles away from me, albeit in the same country. Blogging was my only connection to her. So it's also quite possible that she stopped posting because she passed away. And other than searching for her name in online obituaries, I have no way of determining what really happened to her.

I'm not much of a musician, but I know how important it is for any musical piece to have a coda. As human beings, we crave definitive endings -- what is sometimes cloyingly called "closure." And I've been thinking about how human mortality fits into online writing. When you know you are sick, for instance, and that your illness is likely to end you, you have the time to think about how to craft an ending and how to say goodbye to anyone who might be reading. But there are many other people for whom death comes swiftly and without warning, as it did for both my parents. Unless you have some real-world connection to such people, there might be no online indication about what happened to them. They just seem to vanish.

So although I have no intention of kicking off any time soon, I now have the literary equivalent of a deadman switch on this blog. It's scheduled to post automatically at a set date many years in the future, assuming Blogspot is still around, to let potential readers know that if they're reading the post, it means I've died. I'll update it every now and then to make sure the particulars are as accurate as I can make them. I'll push the publishing date into the future as necessary. And I'll let CM know it's there so that, assuming he survives me, he can publish it immediately upon my demise if he chooses.

I know this might seem a touch morbid, but the way I see it, it's a good idea to be prepared for eventualities. And whether or not we want to face it, every one of us will die eventually. But this way, no matter what the circumstances of my death may be, my little story online will have the ending I choose for it.

Backdated posts ahoy!

I know, there's been a dearth of posts lately. Just to be clear, I actually did do quite a few things in July; in fact I attended two family reunions, one for each side of the family. But as mentioned in the do's and don'ts of social media, one should not make it too easy for stalkers and burglars. So now that my travels are complete and I'm safely home again, I'll be posting information about various adventures on the days they actually occurred.

Anyway, prepare yourself for a spate of backdated posts!

The Three Pigs: a modern fairy tale

Once upon a time there were three pigs. (They had convinced a few folks that they were sheepdogs, but really, they were pigs.)

Because some folks thought they were sheepdogs, these three pigs had managed to get a sweet gig keeping watch over sheep. They were supposed to treat all the sheep fairly and honestly, but these three pigs happened to like white sheep more than black sheep. And so, one day while they were all hanging out at the donut shop, they decided to have some fun and build a few structures to allow them to take care of the sheep the way they liked.

The first pig got a whole lot of straw. He built a big scary-looking black sheep out of it, which he put on display. This black sheep, he argued, was naturally criminal, lazy, stupid, more likely to fight and harm his own as well as others. He and his brothers had no choice but to crack down on these sheep for the good of the whole community. After a while, he used this straw-sheep argument to convince many in the community that he was right.

The second pig got a whole lot of sticks. Sticks are useful tools. You can use them to beat down anyone who gets in your way, even little black lambs who carry toy sticks in public places. And if you bind the sticks together in a bundle, you can make a very useful tool called a "fasces." This fascist pig used his bundle of sticks to corral black sheep so that they didn't get to go places he didn't want them to go. He could even build little pens and keep the non-white sheep in there for as long as he wanted. The second pig got very, very good at stick-ing it to the black sheep whenever and wherever he liked.

The third pig got a whole lot of stones. He knew that for his brothers' structures to work, they would need one big structure to keep everything in place. And so he built a huge stone wall for the pigs to hide behind any time the sheep complained to the shepherd that they were being unfairly treated. As long as the pigs stayed silent behind the wall, the shepherd couldn't act to stop them. Stone-walling was probably the best and most useful structure of all for the pigs.

This went on for some time, until one day the pigs got caught on camera, stick-ing it to another black sheep. When all the sheep, black and white alike, saw this, they were angry and decided to protest against the pigs' mistreatment of some sheep. They wanted the pigs to know and respect that black sheep mattered. Little did they know that some wolves, dressed in sheep's clothing, had joined the protest and started breaking and destroying and looting things.

The pigs were furious. Since they weren't really sheepdogs, they couldn't tell the sheep and the wolves apart, so they just started stick-ing it to everyone. But the more angry and violent they became, the more upset the sheep got and the more protests started to spring up. Pretty soon there were too many protests for the pigs to beat down with their sticks. And the stone-walling they were used to doing didn't seem to be working that well.

The sheep decided they had to do something to beat the pigs at their game. So they asked the shepherd to make some new laws taking away the source of the pigs' fun: the straw, the sticks and the stones. The sheep figured that if they de-funned the pigs, they wouldn't be able to mistreat the sheep any more.

Meanwhile the wolves in sheep's clothing were still doing damage and making a mess, and the pigs did nothing to stop it because they were too worried about being de-funned.

So, now the shepherd has given you a chance to vote against the pigs. The pigs keep telling you they'll protect you against the wolves, but is that really what they're doing with the resources at their disposal? Are the structures they have created benefiting us or them? Do they even know how to tell the wolves from the sheep? Have they learned anything at all from this experience?

Or is it time to de-fun the pigs?

You ask me, it's time to yeet those pigs into next week.

Rethinking Titanic

[I first wrote this in... hmm, maybe 2002? earlier? I dunno. It's been sitting in limbo on my computer for some time, but I've decided to give it a place to live on the blog. Because reasons.]

NOTE TO TITANIC FANS: You may not want to read this. It's not pretty.

When first released in 1997, Titanic broke all kinds of box-office records. This love story between two people of different social classes, set aboard the world's most famous doomed luxury liner, seemed to resonate with audiences all over the world. Moviegoers watched the three-hour film multiple times in first-run theatres (some of them quoting lines right in sync with Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio), teenage girls designed their prom dresses after post-Edwardian fashions, college students were compelled to change their majors. Most of Western society was seduced by Titanic; nobody seemed surprised when it swept the Oscars in 1998.

And I have to admit that, at least for a while, I was seduced right along with them. The movie does have its problems -- it's big to the point of being overblown, riddled with tired love-story clichés, and there's one hour of '70s disaster movie plopped right in the middle of the romance. And yet, somehow, the whole appears greater than the sum of its parts. While you watch it, the film works. Your understanding of reality is temporarily placed on the back burner while you are immersed in James Cameron's vision of 1914.

All this, despite the utter odiousness of Rose DeWitt Bukater.

It's true. When you step out of the narrative spell and really think about it for a minute, Rose is one of the most selfish characters ever articulated in cinema. We are clearly meant to identify with Rose and sympathize with her situation -- trapped in a rigid upper-class society, she yearns to be free but seems unable to break the chains of her social strictures. Yet Rose begins as a wholly self-centered creature, and remains so throughout the film. As my sister likes to say, "it's all about her."

From her earliest recalled memories as a 17-year-old girl, Rose is spoiled, self-involved and bitingly sarcastic to all around her. Brooding on her impending loveless marriage to Cal, a wealthy cad (and trust me, they would so deserve each other), she feigns boredom when first faced with the size and grandeur of the Titanic. All she can see is a prison ship, leading her away in the chains of unhappy wedlock. Rose has nary a good word for anyone, tartly smarting off to her mother, her fiancé, and the other wealthy passengers in first class. As we soon discover, Rose has been urged into this marriage by her mother, a widow trying to conceal her penury, who is saddled with her late husband's remarkable debts (Rose's selfish gene seems to have been passed down by both parents). Yet far from owing any real sense of duty to her mother, Rose soon decides to commit suicide rather than marry her odious fiancé. She is only pulled from the brink by Jack, who actually does have a strong sense of duty -- willing to save a total stranger from the icy water, even if it means risking his own life.

Once Rose falls for Jack, she flouts her mother and societal expectations to do just as she chooses with him. She even has him sketch her in the nude -- outrageously, while still wearing her fiancé's engagement gift around her neck. Then she further slaps courtesy and decorum in the face by taking Jack's sketch and presenting it to her fiancé as a gift. As the ship sinks, Rose makes the conscious choice to walk away from her family and friends forever in order to go with Jack. Yet Rose's selfishness extends even further, allowing her to discard the man she ostensibly loves in order to survive. When they find a piece of ship buoyant enough to hold one or the other of them, but not both, Rose does not behave as you would expect a woman in love to do -- wouldn't she have preferred to take her chances in the icy water, rather than watch her lover freeze to death beside her? Yet this latter is precisely what she chooses, and her lover excuses away her self-serving behavior even as he perishes. Rose's utter lack of principles is neatly summarized in her final scene with Jack. Only an instant after she promises, "I'll never let go, Jack," she in fact does let go, so Jack's frozen corpse can sink slowly and prettily into the depths of the Atlantic.

After her rescue, Rose continues to walk her chosen path of pure self-involvement. She never again attempts to contact her penniless mother, preferring to let her believe "Rose DeWitt Bukater" perished aboard the ship, and leaving Mom to her own devices. Rose marries a man without ever revealing to him her past life, and (as intimated in a sweeping series of black-and-white photos) continues to do exactly as she chooses for years. At the end of her life, when the salvage crew brings her back to Titanic, she gets to spill the beans about the whole event without betraying even a glimmer of guilt about her choices. Finally, the coup de grace -- rather than bequeathing the priceless Coeur de la Mer to her granddaughter, or giving it to Brock, the man who's spent years of his life and millions of dollars searching for it, she carelessly tosses the necklace into the ocean. She even gets to die warm in her bed, just as her sacrificed lover predicted she would.

Yep, it's all about her. And, human nature being what it is, chances are good that you were rooting for the selfish brat all through the narrative. Perhaps that is really what makes Titanic so remarkable as a film -- it features a thoroughly unlovable character who makes you care about her anyway.

Bonus Day

For some time now, I've had this notion to write a story set in the Quadrennial Leapmarket Fair (to which I have referred obliquely on this blog a time or two), a shindig that takes place in an alternative magical (well, OK, more magical) version of Pike Place Market every February 29. It's been on the back burner because, while I have a solid location in the Leapmarket Fair, I haven't created much motivation to spur on my protagonist. But during some downtime over the course of the most recent trip with Miss V, I cobbled together a few more ideas... and while I didn't finish by Leap Day, I have moved the story out of the perpetual holding pattern it was in. So I'm pleased even if I don't have a finished tale to share, because THINGS ARE HAPPENING. Finally.

Also, CM and I went geocaching today, because nothing says "welcome to bonus day" like finding a cache or two. I finally found the cache CM placed back in 2013, signed the log, and then danced a little triumphant jig, because I'm a giant turbo-nerd.

That is all. At least for now. Gotta get back to writing.

A quick announcement

I've been sitting on this juicy tidbit for weeks, but since there was an official announcement today:

Remember a creepy little short story called "Alma Mater" that I first published here?

Well, now it's going to be published again, this time in a light horror anthology called Twilight Tales. Woot woot!

OK, that's it, moment of vainglorious authorial squeeing over. We now return you to your regularly scheduled Internet surfing.

It's April!

(But it's not 1907. Just FYI.)

In fact, we're two-thirds of the way through April and I haven't written here even once.

You may ask, "What were you doing all that time?" I'll tell you. STUFF, that's what. I've been doing errands, baking cookies, making Epic Late-Night Grocery Runs, ensuring the car gets fixed, puttering around the house, and not-writing. I do not like not-writing, Sam-I-Am. It's a bad habit to get into, plus it has the propensity to make me grumpy and short-tempered and generally less Soozcat-like all across the board. And let's be honest, nobody likes a cantankerous laundry faerie.

Trouble is, I'm not sure when I'll have time to do much writing in the next while. V and I will be packing to fly to Utah next week, there to whoop it up for my mom's 75th birthday, get V completely moved out of her college apartment, attend her commencement ceremony, then drag all her stuff back here in a U-Haul. After that we shall continue to sort through her crud and pack her up so she can start her internship -- which is also in Utah -- and drive her down there. I anticipate toting and lifting and generally running around like a madwoman until mid-May or so.

However, due to the froward qualities of my writing muse, I'll probably start getting all sorts of great ideas to write about just when I have little or no time to work on them. (This is generally how it works. My muse is an obnoxious little twerp, and I should kick her to the curb.) In the next few weeks, I expect to be writing down cryptic notes and partly-formed ideas on bits of paper which I promptly lose. Meh. Maybe I'll borrow a tablet from Captain Midnight and keep my mental flotsam in unpublished posts on this blog until they're ready to see the light of day.

How's your month been?

You complete me. Please.

OK, as part of my "do the hard things" resolution, I'm looking to finish a lot of stuff this year. Like most people on the ADD spectrum, I'm really, really good at starting projects, but somewhere along the way my interest peters out, I get distracted by something new and shiny, or I get concerned that I'm going to screw it up somehow, and I abandon them. As a result, I don't need to start any new projects right now, as I already have kajillions of projects around the house in various states of incompletion.

This shall not stand. Most of these were good to great projects before I let them down. And I'm finding that once I go back to work on them, especially after a long breather, I have renewed motivation to see them through to completion. So far I've got three red scarves ready to put in the Red Scarf Box for next year, a fourth scarf so close to done that I can see the finish line from here, and... well, at least three others that will have to wait while I finish a cross-stitch project that's about 60% complete. After a multiple-month hiatus, I've also started writing the next chunk of Moving House. I may even get some forward movement on Unseen (though I'm loath to promise anything concrete on that project, as it's given me a fierce case of writer's block).

It's hard, but I can get things done. I WILL get things done.

SO LET'S GIT STUFF DUN!

And look good while doing it!

Telling myself stories

AVE you ever wondered how a writer's brain works?

Probably not, but I'mma tell you anyway.

So today I was on Twitter and I came across this here Moment. (For those who don't do links: a gang of six guys on four mopeds robbed an Oxford Street high-end watch store in London, in broad daylight, using axes, machetes and hammers to do the dirty deed. Since this all went down on a Saturday morning, lots of people got footage of the robbery on their phones. You can't make stuff like this up.)

As I read more of the story, I thought, "Hmm, that's odd." Because a different branch of the same high-end watch store got robbed by a moped gang several weeks ago -- again, right in the middle of the day, only this time they were armed with sledgehammers and A FRICKIN' SAMURAI SWORD. That is not in any way a normal heist.

So, as often happens when I come across something a little off normal, my brain started spinning up a story. Goes like this:

Imagine you're the owner of a chain of high-end watch stores in and around London. You do business with a number of people of considerable wealth and influence, selling them Rolexes and Cartiers and other expensive, quality timepieces.

But you have a problem. You've just discovered that the deal you cut with a supplier really was too good to be true, and now some of your inventory is made up of fake watches. They're cleverly-made fakes, to be sure, but not clever enough to fool a professional. You can't sell these; sooner or later someone will figure out that you charged them top dollar for a knock-off watch. You can't get your money back without taking the suppliers to court, thereby losing face with your peers and clientele. How do you unload the fake watches without losing your reputation or a buttload of money?

Well, you quietly hire some folks to steal the problematic inventory, in the flashiest way possible. (Anyone can knock over a store with guns in the dead of night. Bring in machetes or a samurai sword, in broad daylight, and you've got yourself some showmanship!) That way, when you file an insurance claim for the stolen articles, you'll have no end of people who "saw the whole thing" and documented it on their cell phones -- providing reams of proof that it happened. And the insurance company will likely compensate you for the cost of actual Rolexes, not the fake ones that your fake thieves stole. You get to keep your reputation, the thieves get to keep their stolen goods and sell fake Rolexes out of the back of a camper van somewhere, and you all get to make some money. Win-win, except for the insurance agency.

I doubt it really happened like this. But most of the time, that's how my brain works. It sees something a little off or unusual, and immediately it shifts into Story Mode, trying to determine what sort of event or events occurred to bring this unusual something into being.

Does your brain tell you stories? Have you written down some of the more entertaining ones?

The nest, or looking for everyday magic

The day started out with rain, switched up to hail, at some point this evening began to sleet, and is now gamely snowing. We can hear people honking and cussing each other on the state highway outside, and the occasional ambulance going by. Captain Midnight will probably telecommute tomorrow. It's just another February evening in the Pacific Northwet.

I almost didn't go to church today. I'd been up later than usual the previous night and I didn't feel up to it, but CM waited patiently for me as I found a clean dress and shoes and ran a brush through my hair. Off we went through the hail to our local meetinghouse, which is about a 10-minute drive from our place.

Ever the gentleman, CM dropped me off next to the south side door so I wouldn't get overly pelted by hail. I waited for him there in the shelter of the doorway as he parked the car, and as I was waiting, I just happened to look up. There are two trees flanking the doorway, and in the one to the left, sheltered in the crook of a branch, was a bird's nest.

We'll have attended church in the same building for eleven years this March. And in all that time, walking through this door every Sunday, I'd never seen it before.

Now it's quite possible that there wasn't a bird's nest in that tree for all or even most of that time. And right now, with all the deciduous trees bare of leaves, objects like birds' nests are a lot easier to see. But even a cursory glance at that nest was enough to reveal that it had been there for some time. I'm sure I've walked beneath it before, sometimes empty as it was today, sometimes filled with new eggs. I just never thought to look up before. And as a writer, it's my job to look up.

It's easy to notice unusual things. I saw a little bird in the supermarket last week, right next to the entrance, perched on a box of Lucky Charms. I've seen birds in airport terminals before. But I rarely see a bird in a nest unless the nest is in an unusual place, like the one tucked under the eaves of my mailbox shelter. A bird's nest is so commonplace that it's nearly invisible. It's not easy to notice precisely because one doesn't ordinarily bother to look for it.

Bird's nest in nettles.

In line with that observation, here's my current theory: I believe that life is full of magic. We often experience magical things, but they're designed to fade from our minds quickly unless we take the time to write them down. So I picked up a little pocket-sized notebook and a fine-lined teal pen from my friendly neighborhood Daiso, and for the last little while I've been scribing down everything I see that strikes me as magical in some way. It's surprised me, even with my teensy-weensy eyestrainovision handwriting, how quickly the notebook is filling up.

How often do you notice everyday magical things? Do you keep track of them?

New Blessing Journal entry

Something new went into the Blessing Journal a few days ago. Here's what I wrote:

You have a home.

It isn't something you think about often. You tend to take it for granted. But serving dinner at the emergency women's shelter was a wake-up call to remind you of what a blessing it is to have a permanent home. Your things are secure, not subject to the elements, highly unlikely to be lost or stolen. You can depend on getting a hot shower, three good meals and a warm bed every day. You can sleep and wake on your own timetable. You can wash your clothing whenever you need to do so. You have private transportation you can take nearly anywhere. Your money is safe. You have privacy. You are protected and cherished, not yelled at and beaten, by your wonderful husband. And the spirit of God can reside in your home, improving every aspect of your life, helping you with spiritual and mental stability and growth. Having a home to come back to has also blessed Miss V, Captain Midnight, even Roxy. It's a calm, comfortable, warm and lagom sort of place where love is expressed often and in many forms. What a blessing it is to have a home!

Need to update...

...but can't. Gotta write a Holler first. (I've put it off long enough!)

ETA: HOLLAS AWAAAAAY! Be prepared for incoming mayhem in your mailbox or inbox!

Plaaaaaaaague...

Well, I'm now convinced that the 11th Commandment is "Thou shalt not be smug."

See, Captain Midnight picked up this nasty bug on our last day in California, and I managed to stay healthy and not contract it from him. For two days, anyway, and for those two days I took garlic and vitamins and swished with Listerine, and generally felt pretty smug. Until the Karma Faerie showed up and RAN ME OVER. So now I have the ick too... just three days behind CM. He seems to be on the mend, but if he suddenly keels over, I'll know my days are numbered. (That would be three days, for those of you with twenty-eight browser windows open right now.)

We'd previously been invited to Thanksgiving by the ever gracious Fen and Mitch, but since we weren't keen to share our leprosy, we decided to stay home and have a little mini-Thanksgiving instead. We had ham instead of turkey, made our favorite sides, heated up some rolls, took it easy, played with the cat, that kind of thing. Any chance to enjoy time together is good.

But now Thanksgiving is over, Black Friday is over (whew), and that can only mean one thing:

I GOTTA WRITE A HOLLER!

No, that sentence doesn't count. I mean the Holiday Holler, our annual newsletter/tissue of lies. I need to get it finished and out the door in time for the Christmas season. And I have no idea what nonsense to write this year. Hmm.

Hmmmmmmm.

Maybe I'll just take a dose of NyQuil and let inspiration strike. Couldn't be a whole lot worse than what I've written in the past while not under the influence of cold meds, ne?

It's a sight better than taking this stuff.

This is a dog, or why SF is hard to write

As I've stated before, although I enjoy reading science fiction, I'm not very comfortable writing it for a number of reasons. One of them is that I don't have a sufficient background in the sciences; although I know some laws of physics, for instance, I don't really understand all their implications. But another reason is that well-written science fiction, especially SF involving alien life, requires the author to think as an alien might think. And that means trying to unlearn things almost every human being over the age of five has learned.

For instance: this is a dog.

(English Bulldog)

This is also a dog.

(Chow Chow)

So is this.

(Great Dane)

And so is this.

(Pomeranian)

Even though they have radically different sizes, shapes, fur patterns and colors, and even if you don't know one thing about breeding, you can probably tell at a glance that all of these animals are dogs. Humans and domesticated dogs have been companions for thousands of years, and it's common for humans to keep dogs as pets or as work animals all over the world. As a consequence, we almost have pattern recognition of dogs wired into our DNA.

Now consider this furry creature.

Is it a dog? Well, it's about the same size as a dog. It has upright, triangular ears, four paws with exposed claws, a long muzzle, and a long, furry tail -- all traits visible in some of the other animals shown above. But even people who don't know the name of this animal can say with certainty that it isn't a dog, and they're right. It's a common fox.

So how do we automatically know the difference?

And more to the point: how could an alien, with no special connection to either species, be expected to know the difference? How could an alien tell that the first four animals are all dogs, even though there are such striking differences between breeds; or that, even with all its visual similarities, a fox is not a dog?

This is what I mean by having to try to unlearn things. We are human, so we think like humans, and we tend to assume that aliens would relate to each other and to us as though they were humans too. But being human means carrying around a HUGE volume of knowledge and assumptions -- some global, some culture-specific -- that aliens wouldn't have had a chance to accrete. Instead, presumably, they have their own volume of knowledge and assumptions which might be quite different from ours. And trying to think like an alien -- to create an artificial set of knowledge, culture, behaviors and mores not completely based on human knowledge -- is hard. Our cultural assumptions and all the things we instinctively know keep tripping us up.

What do you think? Have you written any SF stories involving aliens, and if so, what are your tips and tricks to create a truly alien point of view?

Starting a Blessing Journal

ATELY I've been carrying a lot of stress and anxiety, for a number of reasons that don't need to be articulated here. It's not easy to live with a constant, sore weight of fear in your belly. So today I picked a blank book given to me by my sister, opened it up and wrote the first entry in what I am calling my Blessing Journal.

I'm not the first to come up with this concept. It goes by other names as well -- often it's called a Thankfulness Journal or a Gratitude Journal -- but because I believe in God, and further believe that God is the ultimate source of all good things in life, I perceive such things to be blessings. Besides, it's my choice. So a Blessing Journal it's gonna be.

The concept is pretty simple: cast about in your life for something which is a blessing to you, especially if it's something that's easy to overlook or take for granted, and write it down. The act of writing solidifies the blessing in your head, making it less easy to ignore and increasing your feelings of gratitude for what you've been given. You can keep it very simple or go into detail, as you feel inclined. (I'm sure you don't have to guess how I'm inclined.)

Here's what I wrote for today:

You can speak, read and write English.

Two of the world's most difficult languages to learn are English and Chinese -- Chinese because of its complex writing system and the language tonality where a slightly different tone can drastically change the meaning of a word; English because it has borrowed words from so many other languages that it seems to have no rules. But English is the de facto language of business, communication, art and science. Much of the world speaks English as a second language. Your early command of both spoken and written English has been an enduring blessing in your life. You can readily express your thoughts and feelings, and you have had free access to the thoughts and feelings of others, from autobiography to fiction to scripture. Because you know English, you can easily drive to a new place by reading maps and signs, pick up the items you want at the store, watch copious amounts of Hollywood movies, vote in elections, and otherwise participate in daily life in the United States without the need for an interpreter. Further, your English literacy allows you to be of service to others for whom English is still difficult. It is a great blessing, one not to be taken for granted.

In writing this, I'm not trying to suggest that other languages are inferior to English. But in the United States and other primarily English-speaking countries, it is a huge advantage to be fluent in the most commonly recognized tongue. Most of my maternal relatives had to work very hard to gain some fluency in English, so I was very fortunate to grow up learning it. And reading, primarily from English-language literature, has been the joy of my life.

Not sure I'm going to do this every day, but I do want it to be a regular habit. It's easy to forget your blessings, especially when you're stressing over something, but that's when blessings can be a great strength and comfort. Here's hoping the practice will help keep me sane and grounded.

My inherited magical power

Well, I can tell Mom is feeling better, because for the last two days I've sprung her from the clink to go on outings in the car. Last week she wouldn't have had the strength to go out. However, I've been pushing Mom around in a wheelchair in 80-degree "it's a dry heat," so I think I've lost some five pounds in water weight. Mom is very motivated to bring up her strength in rehab so she can go home, so she's getting a little stronger every day. (And so am I. Wheelchair pushing burns calories!)

I have mentioned in the past that Mom has this magical ability to get strangers to tell her their life stories. I don't think I've explained yet that this ability apparently runs in the family. I look (and sound) enough like my mom to have the same kind of friendly, familiar, approachable, pretty-but-not-intimidating face and manner, and many's the time I've been sitting in a public place, minding my own business, when A WILD STRANGER APPEARS! and tells me all sorts of stuff. Since I fancy myself a writer, this ability is a godsend for gathering stories.

"Your thoughts to my thoughts..."

Sometimes this magic power can be amusing, as when I offhandedly asked the driver at the rehab center how he got his job, and was regaled with a long and adventurous tale of employment woes for the next twelve minutes. And sometimes it just comes out of nowhere.

For example: I was waiting in the local pharmacy to pick up a prescription for a family member (I swear, I spend about half my waking life in drugstores) when this guy came in and sat down next to me. He cut quite the figure: big, muscular, bald, with a black eye, a padded brace on his right arm and a couple of notable stitch clusters on his right knee. He was wearing shorts and a grey muscle shirt printed with the words "OBAMA CAN'T TAKE THESE GUNS" and two large arrows pointing to his biceps. Mr. Guns listened to the piped-in music ("All About That Bass" by Meghan Trainor) for a few seconds, then turned to me and said, "Pfft. She ain't all about that bass."

"That right?" I asked noncommittally.

That was all that was necessary for Mr. Guns to launch into his tale. He told me about how he'd just had a knee replacement, about how he'd put it off for years because he was a bodybuilder and his doctor had warned him that after a knee replacement he wouldn't be able to lift more than 200 pounds, but finally it got to be a necessity and he was incredibly pleased with the results. Except... the first few days he was recuperating from surgery at home, he was all hopped up on Percocet for the pain and thought he was a superhero. The phone rang downstairs, and instead of letting his wife pick it up he decided he'd just run downstairs and get it. Well, he did get downstairs... the hard way. Which is how he picked up the arm brace and the black eye. (Remember, folks, despite how it makes you feel, Percocet does NOT give you magical powers of flight.)

I think Mr. Guns was all geared up to share another story, but just then the pharmacist called my name and I had to break things off gracefully to pick up the prescription. He gave me a cheery "Take care!" in parting, and I thought but did not say, "You too. Really. And lay off the Percocet."

Heh. Maybe I really should have gone into journalism. I wouldn't even have to ask nosy questions -- I'd just show up, smile, and let people tell me EVERYTHING.

Thank you for your patronage

HERE are few things more dispiriting to a bibliomaniac than a closed bookstore.

In the last few months I've seen lots of storefronts around my area go dark for good, many making their final bow right after the Christmas season. Sporting goods stores, fabric stores, paint emporiums, cramped and dusty little discount shops, corner restaurants -- all faded away, with little signs on the doors reading "Out of Business" and "Closed for Good" and "Thanks for your 23 years of patronage" and the like. And each one of these is sad in its own way, if it represents the death of someone's dream.

But a shuttered bookstore represents the death of many dreams -- not just of the people who run it, but the people who patronize it, browsing and reading and loving the work of the people who take the risk of writing their dreams down and sharing them. Yes, I know there's Amazon.com and Powell's, and there are certainly other brick-and-mortar bookstores in my area. But each time we lose another one -- especially one which, in better times, was considered to have regular, healthy patronage -- it makes me wonder how long it will be until the neighborhood bookstore goes the way of the neighborhood blacksmith.

Like most Americans, I've bought my share of books online. But online book sales are most useful when you already know what you want to buy, or if you're willing to purchase a book based on what everyone else is reading. Real bookstores encourage you to browse, which is a completely different experience. You may spy something with an intriguing cover, pluck it off the shelf, lean against a wall or sit in an overstuffed chair and read a paragraph or two, and after further perusal the book may fizzle -- or it may explode in your mind like a firework or a hand grenade, and you have to have more. The books I've loved the most dearly were the ones I found while browsing.

The other thing bookstores provide is a gathering place to discuss what you've read. Some book groups meet in private homes, but others congregate in bookstores to sip a hot drink and talk about the latest shared novel. And again, I'm well aware of Goodreads; it has its place. But like Amazon, it is a social media site that works best when you have already made your selection of friends; it's not very good at helping you find new ones. Further, our society is in desperate need of shared spaces where we can talk to each other in person. I'm not talking about avoiding the panopticon our government has become (although that's fodder for a whole different discussion), but I believe our culture is unhealthily proceeding backwards from bloom to bud, shrinking back into ourselves to cocoon rather than reaching out to connect. It is what allows us to scream at each other online, when we would never do that in person; it is also what allows us to ignore people we don't already know, because we never let ourselves see them.

About the only place now where you can get the pleasure of discussing or browsing books in a comfortable public location is at the library -- but this institution, too, is at the mercy of financial pressures in the form of tax cuts. And as local libraries cull their less-popular texts and cut their costs by laying off librarians, I wonder -- what is our society going to look like a few years from now? Will physical libraries and bookstores be dead, banished to the online world? Will people cease to value real books over the convenience of e-texts? Will the desire itself to read for pleasure slowly fade, drowned out by other forms of entertainment? I hope not. But if the future of reading and sharing is to be dictated by the recent past, it will be dark and have a hand-lettered sign hung on it, reading "Thank you for your patronage."

Unless, of course, we choose to do something about it.

Scars (a Sacrament Meeting talk)

[For those of you who are unfamiliar with the way Mormon church services work, a word of introduction. Latter-day Saint congregations do not have a pastor. There is a local leader known as a bishop who makes sure the congregation runs smoothly, but he doesn't give sermons every week. Instead, members of the congregation are asked to give talks on various topics. Recently I was asked to speak on the topic "Strengthened by the Atonement." Here's my talk from today.]

Today I'd like to talk to you about scars.

My guess is that if you're over six months old, you probably have some kind of scar. I have a small circular scar on my arm, where my pediatrician gave me the very last smallpox vaccination of his medical career. There are a few striped scars across my knuckles to remind me of the time I absent-mindedly leaned up against the red-hot grill of our family's kerosene heater. My brother Tim has a small crescent moon-shaped scar above his left eye, where a German shepherd bit him. And my husband has a scar on the back of his knee, where he impaled himself on a spear-tipped fence.

Most scars happen by accident, or as a result of necessary life experiences, as with my smallpox scar. Other physical scars are more problematic. That amazing tattoo you got at age 19 might not be quite as amazing when you're 45. Or you may wear long-sleeved shirts to deflect difficult questions about the marks you continue to bear from past traumatic experiences you would rather not discuss.

Then there are the scars no one else sees – the marks we wear on our hearts as the result of physical or mental illnesses, the scars left on our souls from wrongs done to us by others, the scars of remorse we bear from having done others harm.

Regardless of what manner of scar we bear, we tend to think of such marks or disfigurements as permanent and immutable. We may believe they are part of us and can never be wiped away. But as partakers of the restored Gospel, we should come to understand that this belief, no matter how deeply seated, how often reinforced, is an illusion. For we live with a hope and a promise that all scars, no matter their type or origin, will at some time be erased by the sacrificial tokens in the hands, feet and side of Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

The Atonement – although it is a core tenet of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and the central event around which the Plan of Salvation is based – is not as well understood as perhaps it should be. Because I don't claim to have any unusual knowledge of the subject, I have looked to the words and writings of others with greater insights into the Atonement – what it is, what it does, and what that means for us.

Beginning at Gethsemane and continuing with his crucifixion on Golgotha, Jesus Christ took upon himself the great task for which he was born into the world – the Atonement, the means by which mankind may be reconciled with God. We do not know precisely how the Lord took on this burden, but we do know some of what that burden entailed. Speaking of the Savior, Alma taught:

"And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities. Now the Spirit knoweth all things; nevertheless the Son of God suffereth according to the flesh that he might take upon him the sins of his people, that he might blot out their transgressions according to the power of his deliverance; and now behold, this is the testimony which is in me." (Alma 7:11-13)

Here, Alma partly defines the Atonement of Christ, and teaches us that the Atonement covers more than just suffering for sin. He tells us that Christ would suffer temptations, but also that he would take upon himself pains, sicknesses, infirmities, even death, in order to blot out all these things suffered in mortality so that he might deliver his people unto eternal life. Alma also says that Christ will know how to succor his people – "succor" being a word that means to bring aid and assistance in times of trouble or distress. And "his people" are any and all people who come to Christ seeking deliverance.

Elder Dallin H. Oaks stated, "[B]ecause of His Atonement, the Savior has the power to succor – to help – every mortal pain and affliction. Sometimes His power heals an infirmity, but the scriptures and our experiences teach that sometimes He succors or helps by giving us the strength or patience to endure our infirmities." ("Strengthened by the Atonement of Jesus Christ," October 2015 General Conference)

Enduring an infirmity, as Elder Oaks puts it, can be extremely difficult. [Here I made reference to two people I know, true disciples of Jesus Christ who have endured many years of ill health and debilitating pain.] Not only physical and mental imperfections, but feelings of doubt or deficiency are also covered by the Atonement of Christ. I have spoken to a number of people in the Church – some truly amazing people – who suffer from depression and discouragement because after having done their best, they feel they are still not good enough. If you ever feel this way, I hope you will consider the words and actions of the Savior. He knows what you are going through. His Atonement also applies to your feelings of discouragement. He does not expect you to do everything perfectly in mortality. All he asks of you is to come before the altar with a broken heart and a contrite spirit, and this sacrifice will be counted worthy before him.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell – himself slowly succumbing to the ravages of cancer at the time – said, "While so striving daily, we will fall short. Hence the avoidance of discouragement is so vital. So where is the oft and much needed resilience to be found? Once again, in the glorious Atonement! Thereby we can know the lifting tide flowing from forgiveness." ("Apply the Atoning Blood of Christ," October 1997 General Conference) Or as my mother, a wise woman, puts it, "If we truly understood the power of the Atonement in our lives, we would be the most joyous people on the face of the earth."

When we come to the Savior asking for help, the Atonement covers the whole of our sin. When I was young I believed the way the Atonement worked was that we would have to do everything we could, and the power of the Atonement would then cover the rest, but I was wrong. As imperfect human beings, we cannot do anything to atone for our own sins other than to come to the Lord asking for help. At that point, the power of the Atonement covers EVERYTHING. Our responsibility then becomes to turn away from our past sins, ask for forgiveness, follow the Savior and keep his commandments.

There may be someone here currently thinking, "Well, that's all very well and good, but I've done some terrible things in my past. The people I've hurt can't forgive me, and I can't forgive myself. The Atonement cannot possibly apply to me."

All right, let's talk briefly about serious sins. In the Book of Mormon, the People of Ammon, after being converted to the Gospel, decided they would lay down their weapons and never fight their brethren again. As their king stated: "And now behold, my brethren, since it has been all that we could do (as we were the most lost of all mankind) to repent of all our sins and the many murders which we have committed, and to get God to take them away from our hearts, for it was all we could do to repent sufficiently before God that he would take away our stain – Now, my best beloved brethren, since God hath taken away our stains, and our swords have become bright, then let us stain our swords no more with the blood of our brethren." (Alma 24:11-12)

These were people who, in the words of their own king, "were the most lost of all mankind" and had committed "many murders." But they had great faith that the Atonement of Jesus Christ – a being who, at that time, had not yet even been born – would save them from all their sins, even the sin of murder, if they would only turn away from what they had done. Such was their faith in that salvation that they would not even take up their arms in self-defense, lest they should lose the precious gift they had obtained through the coming Atonement.

If the people of Ammon believed that the Atonement made it possible for them to repent of the sin of murder and to be right before God, should we not have that much more hope to be cleansed of the various sins which we may have committed? I think we should. Even the most serious of sins, although they may call for Church disciplinary processes, can also be repented of through the power of the Atonement.

As King Benjamin, who must have been a powerful speaker, gave his farewell address to his people, the influence of the Spirit made them keenly aware of their own fallen state. The Scripture states: "And they all cried aloud with one voice, saying: O have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; for we believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who created heaven and earth, and all things; who shall come down among the children of men. And it came to pass that after they had spoken these words the Spirit of the Lord came upon them, and they were filled with joy, having received a remission of their sins, and having peace of conscience, because of the exceeding faith which they had in Jesus Christ who should come, according to the words which king Benjamin had spoken unto them." (Mosiah 4:2-3)

Elder Kim B. Clark of the Seventy states: "There is no sin, no guilt, no shame, no fear, no loneliness, no heartache, no loss, no depression, no sadness, no terror, no pain, no challenge, no weakness that Jesus has not experienced and overcome. He has all power over all things. If you turn to Christ and repent of your sins, He will forgive you and cleanse you and change your heart. This is the redeeming power of the Atonement. If you turn to Christ when you face challenges and need capacity beyond your own, He can strengthen you and magnify your capacity. This is the strengthening power of the Atonement. If we come unto Christ and are faithful to our covenants, Jesus will sanctify all of our mortal experience to our blessing both now and forever. Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we may become more and more like Him – we may walk in the newness of life, His sons and daughters, clean, pure in heart, filled with the pure love of Christ, blessed with joy and happiness and peace in this life and eternal life in the world to come." ("The Redeeming and Strengthening Power of the Savior's Atonement," April 2016)

Brothers and sisters, I testify to you that as you not only believe in Christ, but also believe Christ and come to rely on the power of his Atonement, your hearts will truly be filled with the joy and peace the Lord's servants have promised. I promise there will come a day when all your scars, both outside and within, will be stripped away by the power of the Atonement. These things I leave with you in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Happy blogiversary! Plus an awesome Halloween giveaway!

N this day 10 years ago, I opened a Blogger account, chose a goofy blog name, doodled a Cheshire cat avatar on the back of a tithing donation slip, and immediately began to ponder, "Great. What to write, what to write... I know! I'll answer the question I've handily put into everyone's mind: what the heck's a laundry faerie?"

Over the last decade, Confessions of a Laundry Faerie has become my de facto home online; while I've been blogging in some form or other since the late '90s, this seems to be the place I've stuck to for the long haul. And as long as Blogger chooses not to turn out the lights on me, I'll probably go on another 10 years.

So, what gift do you give a blogger for a 10-year blogiversary? Tin? Aluminum? Diamonds? BZZZT WRONG. Answer: you don't! Instead I give something away to you, because that's the way we roll around here.

Halloween is coming, and I'm in the mood to make some handmade origami cards with a Halloween theme. If you'd like a chance to be gifted a set of faerie-made Halloween cards, send me a comment with your mailing address (fear not, comment moderation is on, so your address won't be published) and if I pick your info by random drawing, all manner of origami goodness shall be bestowed upon you!

Aren't blogiversaries nifty? I think so.