Literary Agent, Bartender or Actress? Hmmmm

The optional theme for this round of posts over at the Southern Authors' Blog, "A Good Blog is Hard to Find," is "What would you do if you couldn't be a writer?"


The first things that came to mind (seriously) were:

literary agent

and

bartender.

But then I thought back to my childhood, and my desire to be an ACTRESS started early... a least in third grade.

And in 10th grade, when I got to play Rebecca Gibbs to my older brother's lead role of George Gibbs in "Our Town."

Read all about it on my post at A Good Blog: "Never Quit Your Day Job."

Hubby and I are off to Denver (and from there, Breckenridge) EARLY Friday morning for a great New Year's weekend of skiing and playing with the grandbabies and kids. (He's skiing, I'm playing with the babies:-)

Happy New Year, everyone! I'll (hopefully) be back on Tuesday, January 4.

Snopes on the 12 Days of Christmas

On the fifth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Five golden rings!

I was thinking of doing a post on the meaning behind the 12 Days of Christmas one day this week, and while researching it a bit I ran across this article on Snopes that pretty much shoots down the traditional beliefs about the song.

The article begins with the CLAIM:

The song, "The Twelve Days of Christmas," was created as a coded reference to important articles of the Christian faith.

That's been the party line for the meaning behind the song, as it had been explained to me a while back. As one of my sources says:

From 1558 until 1829 CE, Roman Catholics in England were not allowed to practice their faith openly. Someone during that era wrote this carol as catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning; the surface meaning, plus a hidden meaning known only to members of their church.

But after reading Snopes' arguments, I'm less inclined to believe this.

Terry Mattingly's post at "Reconnecting to the Truth" back in 1999, "A Christmas Mystery: Twelve Days' Worth," is another good source on the subject, and Mattingly is actually referenced in the Snopes piece.

Your thoughts?

Wherever you stand on this, I hope you're enjoying the twelve days of Christmas, the days between the Nativity and the Feast of Theophany on January 6! Christ is Born! Glorify Him!

My Leaflessness

Christ is Born! And on this, the third day of Christmas, I'll share today's reflection on Alfred Austin's poem, "My Winter Rose," from my work-in-progress, Sleeping With Poets.

My Leaflessness
Day 24—Sleeping With Poets

On the third day of Christmas, YourDailyPoem.com delivered this lovely piece by Alfred Austin (1835-1913) to my email inbox: “My Winter Rose.” I read it twice before deciding to try to memorize (part of) its seven stanzas. And so I guess I cheated a bit by using this poem as the subject of today’s reflection since I truly do not have time, and maybe not enough brain cells, to memorize the entire poem. But it’s just too wonderful not to be included here.

Austin’s peers and critics didn’t deem him worthy of the honor England bestowed on him by naming him Poet Laureate following Tennyson’s reign. He was considered mediocre at best. Just one more reason not to listen to the critics, but to find joy in the art we love, regardless of popular opinion or lack of critical acclaim. (I also love that he quit his job as a lawyer the day his father died, and pursued his art from that day forward.)

“My Winter Rose” came into my life on the coldest day of 2010 (so far) here in Memphis. And so as I recited the first stanza over and over while warming my hands on the portable heater near my computer desk, it seemed appropriate:

Why did you come when the trees were bare?
Why did you come with the wintry air?
When the fain note dies in the robin’s throat,
And the gables drip and the white flakes float?

Right away I thought of the Christ-child, who came in the middle of winter. Maybe this was Austin’s intent, or maybe not. I couldn’t find any written critique of this poem, so I had only my own interpretation to reflect upon. Jesus has been called the “Rose of Sharon.” Sharon was a wild plain in Palestine, where beautiful flowers grew. And the rose is considered the most perfect of all flowers. (I love this icon painting,"Walking to the Rose of Sharon," by Jean Flower) in which she combines labrynth-walking with traditional Byzantine iconography. Nice.) And so, I continued to memorize these beautiful verses:

What a strange, strange season to choose to come,
When the heavens are blind and the earth is dumb:
When nought is left living to dirge the dead
And even the snowdrop keeps its bed!

Austin has yet to say who or what he is referring to. In fact, he saves that information until the very last verse, when he reveals its identity:

So, timely you came, and well you chose,
You came when most needed, my winter rose.

You came when most needed. How true that has been in my own life. When I am most content with circumstances, I tend to turn less to God. And maybe God knew that the birth of His Son would have a lesser impact in the middle of spring, when our human passions are engrossed in the beauty of created things:

Could you not come when woods are green?
Could you not come when lambs are seen?....

And the year, growing confident day by day,
Weans lusty June from the breast of May?

At that point it struck me that my own creativity tends to flourish in the winter rather than in the spring, when the earth offers distractions to all my senses. In the cold of the winter, when my heart is starved for sunshine and beaches and colorful blossoms, then I can best create those things for which I hunger. And since God created us, he knows our nature, and how much more receptive we would be to the Incarnation of Christ in the wintertime. Had Christ been born in the spring or summer, Austin’s concerns were that:

Your voice would have silenced merle and thrush
And the rose outbloomed would have blushed to blush,
And Summer, seeing you paused and known
That the glow of your beauty outshone its own.

Ah, there’s the rub. The beauty of Summer would have paled in the presence of God Incarnate. And perhaps mankind would have been less receptive to something that outshone his earthy delights.

And so:

So, timely you came, and well you chose,
You came when most needed, my winter rose.
From the snow I pluck you, and fondly press
Your leaves ‘twixt the leaves of my leaflessness.

My leaflessness. Those are my two favorite words in this beautiful poem. Because it is only when I withdraw my attention from the world’s distractions that I can see my own leaflessness—my need for God.

I was not tempted to stroll down the street and gaze upon my neighbors’ barren lawns and empty flowerbeds on this day of sub-freezing temperatures and bleak cloudiness. Instead, I was content to huddle inside my writer’s closet (we literally turned a closet into a writing space for me in the house we purchased a decade ago) and pen these words today. And now to move on to the creative work of the novel and its characters, who are waiting, this strange, strange season, for me to direct their lives and to color their world.

On the Eve of the Nativity

It’s Christmas Eve morning and the sky is gray. We’re hoping for a white Christmas while also praying for safe travels for our loved ones en route to share the holiday with friends and family. In the midst of cleaning and cooking and all the preparations for tonight (Nativity Feast at St. John Orthodox Church here in midtown Memphis) and tomorrow (our Christmas dinner at home, with Jonathan and a few friends from St. John) I’m pausing to share a few favorite Christmas videos. Enjoy!

MY FAVORITE CHRISTMAS VIDEO EVER: Serbian Christmas carol video.

Actually, that was the "rehearsal" for this video.

Romanian Nativity Hymn with talanton—the wooden boards that are “played” before the bells are rung at the beginning of worship services.

Arabic Byzantine Hymn (chanted) of the Nativity.

Russian Orthodox Christmas celebration in Moscow (January 7)

I love the ICONS in this Ethiopian Orthodox Christmas Story.
Be sure and keep watching… about 4 minutes in, the story is told with the folk icons.






This is the style I was copying when I did the painting with my Goddaughter, Sophie, of Ethiopian folk art.














And finally, an entry from one of my favorite secular artists—Sting: “If On a Winter’s Night.”















As I suspected, more beautiful Christmas cards have arrived since my last post, and I’d like to share two very creative ones with you to end this post. (And yes, two more that aren’t hand-crafted but are beautiful, so I put them in with this post, here...




... and here.






















First, from Sarah and Joel Finley in Nashville, this hand-crafted card (that unfolds to reveals a Christmas letter on the back) was lovely. The Finleys have a CD out and you can buy it on their Facebook Page, or their web site: Lulu Mae Music.



And the final card I’ll feature this year is from our friends Michael and Margaret Elliott (Margaret is our fabulous choir director at St. John). The card features their sons, Paul and James, and it’s in the shape of a Christmas ornament, complete with string for hanging. If you listened to some of the Orthodox Christmas music in these videos, you can appreciate Margaret’s talent and hard work that she contributes to our worship at St. John. Thanks for helping us make a “joyful noise unto the Lord,” Margaret!

Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!

And to my Orthodox friends: Christ is Born!

Greetings: A Few of my Favorite Christmas Cards

I love old-fashioned Christmas cards. There's something warm and fuzzy about the illustrations on those cards with the Victorian and Americana images. But I've never bought any of those or sent them out. Not sure why.... but I tend to either make my own cards or use family photos.






The photos cards are definitely on the rise... over half the cards we've received so far this year are photo cards. Here's ours, which I created online with Vista Prints. Since we weren't with our Denver family at Thanksgiving, we had Kevin (our future son-in-law) set up his tripod and take a picture of Jason, See, Grace, Anna, Beth, and Kevin on Thanksgiving day in Denver and send it to me by email. Then we had someone take a picture of me, Jonathan and Bill at Thanksgiving in Birmingham, where we were visiting Damon and Weezie Boiles.

(Jon had just returned from Afghanastan, so we were toasting his return.) And then I had some personalized stamps made online, using this picture of Beth, Jason and Jon, riding on a car they made from the OMAGLES they got for Christmas in 1985.










Our friend, Ethan VanDrimmelen, is a photographer. This is the card he and Claire sent us, with the photo he took of his daughter, Zoe. Ethan has been doing photos for family Christmas cards as a side business this Christmas, and we've received several that feature his work. (Of course he had quite a photogenic subject to work with in Zoe!)

But some of my favorite cards that we've received (and sent) have contained original art, or have been hand-crafted.

Like this one that our friend, Ashley Newton, made from craft paper and string. I just love it!















And on the inside she used an old-fashioned stamp to create her personal message to us.

















I think my favorite two cards this year were created by two very talented mothers who made use of their children's art and literary skills. First, from Erin and Christian Moulton, this wonderful card featuring the artwork of their oldest son, Alexis (9) and poetry by their middle son, Simeon (5).

She included a wonderful photo on the inside.










Anne Marie and Josh McCollum sent an original art card, with this fabulous drawing by their 11-year-old son, Justin. (Anne Marie took an icon class with me once, and her talents are obviously being passed on to Justin!)


Pictures of all their kids and a nice little newsletter are on the inside. What a great card!















Since I haven't been writing (painting) icons for the past year or so, I didn't have any original art work for this year's card. I guess I could have painted something else, like I did a few years ago. I did a painting for my daughter's apartment, called "Eastern Joys," and I used a detail from the painting for our Christmas card that year.







In 2007 I used pictures of icons in progress by several of my students. I think this is one of my favorite cards from the past. I've also really enjoyed receiving cards from my students who have used photographs of the icons they wrote in my class for their cards.


And one year I created this card from an icon I wrote (again, that's the correct term for painting an icon, because you are "writing" the life of the saint with color) as a gift for my dear friend, Urania Alissandratos. I had some professional help with this one, from Anne Dugan, who helped with the layout and preparation for printing.

I'm sure we'll receive more "favorites" just as soon as I publish this post, so watch for an addendum, maybe after Christmas.

Oh, and a word about Christmas newsletters: I love to receive them. I sit by the fire at night reading them and catching up on the lives of friends who live far away. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to picture them (and I really love it when the newsletters include pictures) as I remember the times we've spent together in the past. This year I didn't write a full newsletter--just put a few lines on the back of our photo card. (So, if you got our card and didn't look on the back, this would be a good time to turn it over!)

And so I hope that you enjoy sending and receiving Christmas greetings this year as much as I do. Next year maybe I'll get back in touch with my inner artist!

New Year’s Resolutions

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions, but here’s one that my friend, River Jordan, made a few years ago, and then she ended up turning it into a book:

She resolved to pray for a stranger every day for a year. Yes, she would just go up to someone she met during the day, and ask if they would mind if she prayed for them that day.

Listen to River tell about how she got started on the project here.

Praying For Strangers will be out in April of 2011.

Vicki Britton offers up some good advice in her article at Suite101.com: “Twenty New Year’s Resolutions for New and Published Writers.”

Joyce Good Henderson challenges writers to create a mission statement by answering a few questions about their New Year’s Resolutions at Writethat.com.


Do you make New Year’s Resolutions? If so, has this practice proved helpful to you in the past? (whether or not you’re a writer)

There Are No Rules

Hey, everyone. I'd like to introduce you to a couple of folks today. The first is Jane Friedman, (right) former publisher and editorial director for Writer's Digest, who has a terrific blog on the Writer's Digest site: "There Are No Rules," which gets over 50,000 visitors monthly. I'm excited to announce that I'm going to be a guest blogger starting January 7, hopefully posting about once a month for Jane.





And I'd also like to introduce you to another emerging writer/friend, Darrelyn Saloom from Lafayette, Louisiana. I met Darrelyn at the 2010 Creative Nonfiction Conference in Oxford in November. She's been guest blogging for Jane Friedman for a while, and her post today is part of a series she's writing on the conference. Check out today's post, "A Feast of Days, Part 2," about her experience preparing to meet literary agents for the first time. You can link back to Darrelyn's previous posts under "Categories" and then "Darrelyn Saloom" on the left side of the blog.

That's all for today. I've been busy working on the novel and a nonfiction book proposal for the book about memorizing poetry this week... and finishing my Christmas shopping! Hope everyone has a great weekend... I'll hopefully be back on Monday!

Ho ho ho...

The Wreath is on the Door

[Yesterday I wrote the following reflection on Day 21 of my poetry-memorization project.]

"Choices at Christmas Time"

Twelve days before Christmas and there were no stockings hung by the chimney with care. There was no hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there. There wasn’t even a Christmas tree in the house or a wreath on the front door. (There were, however, one hundred and twenty-five Christmas cards in the mail, and gifts purchased and wrapped, sitting on the floor around the non-existent tree. So, the “required” actions had been taken, right?) Had there been a death in the family? Was I depressed? Everyone who knows me knows that in years past I’ve always been ahead of the game with the decorations, creating a holiday atmosphere for family and friends to enjoy. So why was I such a Christmas slacker this year?

Did I mention I’m writing a book? Two, actually? And posting on my blog three times a week and guest-blogging on two other blogs regularly? And organizing writing conferences and workshops? For the first time in my adult life, I decided to take myself seriously as a writer this year. It is my full time job, and it leaves very little time for all the extras that seemed requisite when I was a “stay at home mom.”

But today I decided to do one thing—to hang a wreath on the front door. (Well, front window on our porch, actually.) A simple thing, really, but one that says, to passers-by and to myself, Christmas is happening here. Really, it is. What prompted this simple display? An anonymous poem: “The Wreath is on the Door.”

The wreath is on the door
And the snow is on the tree
God has laid His holy hands
On all that we can see

I memorized the first verse while getting the wreath down from the attic and hanging it on the window. Tromping up and down the stairs to the simple beat and rhyme was actually fun. And watching snow flurries as I took the wreath outside lifted my spirits, although the snow didn’t stick and wasn’t really “on the tree.” Wait—maybe the poet mean the snow was on the Christmas tree, like fake snow?

Last night I went to church for the first time in a few weeks. I had been out of town, and then sick. We have special prayers to the Mother of God on Monday evenings during the Nativity Fast—the weeks leading up to Christmas. The church was dark, lit only by candles, and by the voices of those chanting and singing together. We were still in a time of preparation for Christmas, not the brighter days of celebration that would come after. I thought of that this morning as I continued to memorize this short poem. I recited the second (and final) verse standing in the dining room where I could see the wreath through the window:

Be quick to raise your voice
And praise what He has brought.
Keep now His love in every choice
And Christmas in every thought.

And so I raised my voice with this simple poem and praised God for His gifts, for what “He has brought.” And I listened to the poet’s admonition to keep God’s love in every choice and I decided that I could be a writer and still love God. That I could keep Christmas in every thought by giving myself to my work in such a way that I might produce something that would be worthy of my readers. I could leave it to others to decorate their houses and trim their trees this year. I would find ways to keep God’s love in my choices—spending a Saturday morning filling Christmas bags for the homeless and perhaps an *evening caroling at a nursing home—but I would not choose to pressure myself to “do it all” this year.

Oh, sure, I’ll cook Christmas dinner for our son (home from Afghanstan!) and a few friends. (We’re going to Denver to spend New Year’s with our other children and grandchildren this year—another reason for the absent stockings and tree back here in Memphis.) And it will be joyous. But for the next twelve days, I’ve got a novel to finish. My characters are waiting for me to light up their world with love and hatred, with joy and grief, with success and failure. They’re waiting to share with me—and eventually, with you—the consequences of their choices. Yes, Mare, I hear you calling and I’ll be there in just a few minutes. And so I leave behind thoughts of shopping and trimming and cooking for now and return to my work.

After all, the wreath is on the door.

[*Note: I didn't make it to our church's annual Christmas carolling at a local nursing home. I was still coughing and sneezing and not quite up to making a joyful noise. But I have wonderful memories from previous years, which you can read about here.]

YEAR END LIST

Following my friend, Corey Mesler’s lead, (Friend Corey on Facebook to read his list) I’m doing my first ever YEAR END LIST, or Susan’s Favorite Things of 2010. (Guess this puts me in with the cool kids over at Slate and the Times, huh? Well, maybe not, once they read my choices….)

Best new TV show I discovered: Chase
Best current TV show: Parenthood
Runner-Up: Mad Men
Favorite TV show ever (and now is over): Saving Grace
Favorite new TV show that didn’t make it: Outlaw

Best cd I bought: The Wrockers’ Stranger than Fiction
Best new cd: Sugarland’s The Incredible Machine
Honorable mention: The Court Yard Hounds
Best newcomers cd: Everything in the Whole Wide World by Lulu Mae (Nashville)

Best movie I saw all year: The Hours, Divine Secrets of the Yia Yia Sisterhood, The Prince of Tides (I watch these over and over and over….
Best new movie I saw: The Kids are All Right
Runners Up: Eat, Pray, Love and Secretariat (didn’t see many movies this year)
Best documentary: Restrepo
Honorable mention: One Came Home, Willie Bearden and David Tankersley's beautiful, moving first film (and my friend, John Sneed, has a part in it)

Best Broadway show I saw: Jersey Boys (at the Orpheum, Memphis)

Best new book I read: MEMOIR: The End of the World as We Know It by Robert Goolrick. FICTION: Crooked Letter Crooked Letter by Tom Franklin.
Best book I read: The Hours, by Michael Cunningham
Honorable mention: Backseat Saints by Joshilyn Jackson
Best books I read on my Kindle: The Miracle of Mercy Land by River Jordan and Crossing to Safety by Walter Stegner

Poets I've read a lot of this year: Beth Ann Fennelly, Scott Cairns, Mary Oliver, Mary Fisher-Wirth, Corey Mesler

Make your own list, or leave a comment here to share a few of your favorites from 2010!

Sick Leave

Remember when people who stayed home from work because they were sick actually rested, in order to get well, to feel better, so they could return to work? The term “sick leave” implies that one “leave” the work behind due to illness. And yet today it seems that most people, when they are on sick leave, are just at home working away on their laptops, even while curled up on the couch under a blanket with a box of Kleenex and a bottle of cough syrup on the end table.

I’ve watched my husband, a physician who does clinical trials on hypertension, take a very rare day of sick leave just to continue the same pace he keeps when he’s well—writing or editing articles for medical journals, even taking conference calls from home, putting the speaker phone on silent just long enough to blow his nose from time to time.

Where am I going with this? If you keep up with me on Facebook, you know that I’ve had flu-like symptoms for the past couple of days. And since I work from home, there’s no leaving the office behind while I’m recuperating. The only thing that has stopped me in my tracks has been the feeling that my head is going to explode any minute, coupled with a painful, hacking cough. Oh, and did I mention my sinuses feel like someone is sticking nails in them? Somehow all these symptoms are distracting me from the heady work of novel-writing. I just can’t do it. And so I turn to “lesser” pursuits like blogging and addressing Christmas cards (125 in the mail today). Why can’t I just REST?

Yesterday was the closest I’ve come in a long time to doing nothing. I slept 10 hours Wednesday night and then took a two hour nap on Thursday. I tried to read two books (I’m always reading more than one at a time) but kept falling asleep sitting up. You think maybe my body was trying to tell me something? Is the world going to miss a spin if I take a day or two off from the novel? What’s driving me so?

This morning I was reading a wonderful book, The Forest for the Trees, by literary agent, Betsy Lerner. (Watch for a full review soon.) With two cups of coffee in me, I was able to stay awake, turning the pages hungrily and saying “yes!” over and over as I read. Lerner was affirming my urgent need to write, and for others to read what I write, in her own words and by sharing the words of those who are further down the road than I am. Like William Gass, in a Paris Review interview:

“Writing is a way of making the writer acceptable to the world—every cheap, dumb, nasty thought, every despicable desire, every noble sentiment, every expensive taste.”

And Lerner adds:

“If you are writing to prove yourself to the world, to quiet the naysayers at last, to make your cold and distant father take notice, I say go for it. If you are writing because no one has faith in you, because no one sees you for who you are, or because you feel like an imposter, better yet…. Chances are you want to write because you are a haunted individual, or a bothered individual, because the world does not sit right with you.”

Crying is not a good idea when your sinuses are about to burst, but I can’t help it… my keyboard is getting slippery now so I’ll close soon and blow my nose and get back to the business of sick leave—of leaving my work behind and getting well. Just as soon as I take a minute more to say how thankful I am to have discovered Betsy Lerner. To have a successful agent, author and editor give me permission to write for what some might say are less than honorable motives. You can bet that Ms. Lerner is now near the top of my list of agents to query when this book is finished.

Aaaachooooo! Ouch. That one hurt all over.

Is it okay to drink hot toddies in the morning? Oh, wait! Of course it is. I’m on sick leave today.

P. S. In her blog post yesterday, Lerner said that "writers place fourth on the most likely to get depressed list." Just a bit of cheerful trivia I thought I'd share.

A Magical Thing, Indeed

I've been exploring a new project for the past two weeks. I've been memorizing (or trying to memorize) a poem every day, and writing a reflection on how the poem is affecting my prose writing, and also my personal life, psychologically, spiritually, emotionally. So, today I decided to share one of those reflections here on my blog. It's from Saturday's poem, "I Heard a Bird Sing," by Oliver Herford:

This morning I had a glorious three-hour breakfast with a dear writing friend who lives in another city. She and I have made a pact to hold each other accountable to our works-in-progress, and it was a joy to spend that time together. The sun was shining and it was 70 degrees on the fourth day of December in her city (and my home town) of Jackson, Mississippi. As I drove home later that afternoon, I watched the thermostat dropping in my car as winter weather began to move into Memphis, just 200 miles north of Jackson. The low was supposed to be 31 degrees during the night.

I’m not a fan of winter—especially as I get older and my arthritis responds to the cold air with increasing aches and pains. My throat was beginning to get a little scratchy by the time I sat down to write that evening, and the darkness descended earlier than the day before. And so I turned to Oliver Herford’s surprising little poem, “I Heard a Bird Sing,” for comfort.

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

When I recited the first quatrain aloud initially it almost frightened me. I was home alone and had been writing in silence for several hours, without music or television or any other noises in the house. I lit the gas logs in our fireplace and sat in a chair nearby and reflected on the first four lines as I quickly committed them to memory. I missed the plethora of bird songs from the spring, and I hadn’t really thought about hearing birds sing in December. But surely they must sing. Surely it’s just that our windows are closed and we don’t go outside as much. We have nice eaves on our front porch and almost every spring we enjoy the nests the birds build and watching them feed their babies before finally helping them out into the world. But in the dark of December it is, indeed, a magical thing to hear a bird sing.

When I’m having one of my “dark nights of the soul”—whether or not it’s related to my writing struggles—I long for something to pull me out of the darkness. An encouraging word from a literary journal editor about a submission I sent them or positive feedback from a critique workshop can do it. But those are the “magical things” that don’t come frequently, and so I must press on, knowing that winter will pass and it will eventually be spring again.

I’m reminded again of my favorite Kris Delmhorst song, “The Drop and the Dream,” which I wrote about on Day 9:

In twilight and blindness
All our work is done

And so poets and writers must often work in darkness, without warm weather and sunshine and birds singing—metaphorically and physically.

But Herford puts a positive spin on the dark of December in his second and last quatrain:

“We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,”
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

Reciting this verse brought a smile to my face and a lift to my spirits. That was a “cup-half-full” bird who inspired the poet’s upbeat verse (in iambic dimeter, a fairly uncommon form) and warmed my winter heart.

The entire poem is contained in eight short, simple lines. Its message is uncomplicated, almost child-like, and yet it cut through a dark December night and found its way to a chilled writer’s soul, and filled it with warmth. A magical thing, indeed.

Saint Nicholas and Santa Claus

December 6 is the Feast day of Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra. It’s celebrated in the Orthodox Church with Divine Liturgy, and in some locations also with Vespers the night before. At our parish. St. John in Memphis, we have a tradition where the teenagers put on a play about St. Nicholas after Vespers on the eve of the Feast.

If you want to know more about Saint Nicholas, and especially if you’d like some poems, stories, artwork and activities for your children, this is a great source: The St. Nicholas Center. And here’s my post about Saint Nicholas Day from last year if you’re interested. And this one, “The Real Saint Nicholas,” from 2007.

And I have no idea if this is good or not, but here’s a link to Nicholas of Myra, the movie.

Years ago when our family was part of an ultra-conservative cult-like group, we abandoned most Christmas traditions for a while, deeming them as “unchristian,” including pretending that Santa Claus brought gifts to our children. In retrospect, I think we made much too big a deal about all of that. I no longer believe that it’s harmful for our children if we “play Santa Claus” with them or have gifts left under the tree or in their stockings “from Santa Claus.” Or that it will confuse them about who the “real” Saint Nicholas was. Teach them about Saint Nicholas, but enjoy whatever “secular” activities your family wants to participate in. One doesn’t negate the other.

I was thinking about all the different names that have been given to Saint Nicholas: Santa Clause, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, Santa, Sinterklaas, Pere Noel. There are more as the tradition has spread throughout the world.

Growing up in Jackson, Mississippi, in the 1950s, my brother and I always got “Santa gifts” that our parents left under the tree, unopened, for us to discover on Christmas morning. I LOVED IT. But I never believed that a pretend person left them there. It was a game we played, and it was fun.

My own family filled each other’s stockings during the Christmas season to enjoy on Christmas morning, “in memory of Saint Nicholas.” Some years the children would get an early Christmas present on December 6. And for most of their lives we would hide a “pickle” ornament in the tree and whichever child found it got an additional little gift. These are all the stuff that joyful memories are made from, and none of them, at least not in my mind, compete in any way with the “real meaning of Christmas” or with who “the real Saint Nicholas is.”

On Saturday I was in Jackson visiting my mother at Lakeland Nursing Home. I took a gift and dropped it off in the office when I first got there, for “Santa” to give Mom when he hands out gifts to all the residents during a party one day next week. Mom and another resident and I sat in the front lobby for about an hour singing Christmas carols together. Some of them were about Jesus, but some were just “fun” songs like Jingle Bells and We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Mom didn’t seem to care which ones we sang. She just had a joy and a smile that I haven’t seen on her face in a while. Alzheimer’s is eating away her memory, but it hasn’t gotten to the Christmas songs yet. I’m betting they’ll be one of the last things to go.

So, whatever your religious beliefs, I hope that you have joy in your heart when you hear someone singing, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town!”

TMI* at the Nail Salon (*Too Much Information)

After four weeks of hiding out in a condo on the beach in Seagrove (I did shower and change clothes about twice a week) while working on my novel-in-progress, my nails were in bad shape. My toenails had been beaten down by hours of walking at the ocean’s edge, where the salt water added insult to the sand’s injury. My fingernails had been ignored as the digits they inhabit typed away endlessly on my computer’s keyboard, playing the music that was coming up from somewhere deep in my soul. So, the day before I left Seagrove, I drove thirty minutes to the “Nail Spalon” in Miramar Beach for a manicure and a pedicure. I passed at least a half dozen other nail salons along the way to the one that had been so highly recommended by “Pat,” who owned Goatfeathers Seafood Market in Seagrove Beach.

“Ask for Helen,” Pat told me. “She’s the best.”

“But, there’s a nail salon right across the street, and another in the Seagrove Plaza, and another next to Publix. Do I really need to drive thirty minutes to get a good manicure and pedicure?”

“Oh, yes. Those other places aren’t nearly as good. And be sure and tell them Pat sent you and Helen will give you a discount.”

So I made an appointment with Helen and made the drive. Pulling into the Nail Spalon in a nondescript strip mall on Highway 98 in Miramar Beach, I began to wonder about Pat’s advice. I walked in, noticed that the 3 nail technicians were all busy with other customers, and said, “Hi, I’m Susan. I’ve got a 3 p.m. appointment with Helen for a manicure and pedicure. Pat sent me--you know, from Goatfeathers in Seagrove?”

One of the techs looked up and said, “Helen doesn’t do pedicures.”

Helen herself looked up and added, “And I don’t do regular manicures—only the Pink and Whites.” (Pink and Whites are a special type of acrylic nail that I wore for a couple of years before going back to my natural nails.)

“But when I called I said I didn’t want a Pink and White, just a normal manicure and pedicure.”

Another technician motioned to the waiting area and said, “Just have a seat.”

I sat and waited for about fifteen minutes. Finally one of the women came and filled the foot tub for my pedicure and told me to sit in the massage chair and put my feet in the tub and someone would be with me shortly. So I sat and waited another ten minutes as the water began to get cold.

Eventually the same technician who drew the water came and sat down in front of me for my pedicure. I had chosen my nail color and was anxiously watching the clock—I was supposed to meet a friend for sushi and wine back in Seaside—30 minutes away—at 5 p.m., and it was already close to 3:30.

“I’ve got an appointment at 5 in Seaside,” I said. I thought maybe saying I had an "appointment" rather than a date to meet someone at a bar might sound more urgent. “Will that be a problem—to do both the manicure and pedicure in an hour?”

“Oh, no problem,” the young woman said. But she didn’t sit down and begin to work on my toes right away. Instead, she walked around, gathering supplies, and at times just standing near my feet, talking to me and the woman in the chair next to me. And to her sister, Helen, who was still working on a set of Pink and Whites for another customer. Finally she sat down and began to work on my toes. I was trying to remain calm and friendly, so I complimented her on her necklace—a pretty silver medallion on a simple chain.

The girl laughed and turned to her sister, who had finished her Pink and Whites and was walking over to talk with us. I didn’t know what was so funny about me complimenting her on her necklace. I was about to get Too Much Information.

“Helen,” my girl said, “do you remember that woman who came in for a mani and pedi on the day of her daughter’s wedding?”

Helen and the other technicians all began to laugh, and then my girl began to tell the story to me and the client next to me—obviously a regular, since she called her by name and made a reference to her appointment the next week at one point.

Evidently the woman they were talking about was all in a tizzy because her daughter was getting married on the beach in two hours and she was dressed and everything. She was a bit overweight and her dress was too tight.

“Does this dress make me look fat?” she asked the nail technician.

“Black covers everything,” was the reply she thought of, trying to keep a straight face as rolls of fat were obviously squeezed into the dress.

“What about this necklace?” the woman pointed to a gaudy, over-sized gold necklace that was perched just above her ample bosom.

“Well, you might consider something a little understated,” the girl offered, “maybe in silver.”

And the woman proceeded to ask if she could borrow the necklace the nail tech was wearing! She even offered to leave her driver’s license and credit card as a “deposit” to prove she would bring the necklace back after the wedding! But the nail tech told her the necklace had been a gift from her husband and she never took it off.

After her mani and pedi, the woman evidently unloaded the rest of her story on Helen. She said that she has MS (Multiple Sclerosis) and that she was partially paralyzed from it… including some of her female parts. (She used a different word here, but since this is my blog, I'm going to edit myself for a change. I will say that it started with a "p" and ended with a "y.")

“I haven’t had an orgasm in months,” she had announced to anyone who would listen in the salon that day.

At that point I was laughing so hard I had forgotten to ask about the discount, and I didn’t care whether or not I was late for my date at the wine bar in Seaside. Besides, I knew that when I got there I was going to have a great story to tell☺

The Meaning Comes Later

Last year my friend (and Goddaughter) Katherine gave me a wonderful gift. She was downsizing—moving her family to a smaller town and a smaller house—and was selling and giving away a number of things from her house here in midtown Memphis. And so I ended up with a large, beautifully framed picture by Joan Miro:

“The Ballerina.”

It hangs in our den, where I think of Katherine every time I pause to look at it.

But I also think about the meaning behind the brushstrokes from time to time.

I wasn’t familiar with Miro when I received it, but after reading about this Spanish artist’s roots and influences and looking at more of his works online, I began to love the painting more.

And then today I found this quote by Miro:

“The painting rises from the brushstrokes as a poem rises from the words. The meaning comes later.”

His words caused me to rethink the way I look at a painting, and also the way I read a poem. I would love to write an ekphrastic poem about this painting, and maybe I will some day. (I learned about ekphrastic poetry from the Orthodox poet and writer, Scott Cairns, when I attended a spiritual writing workshop led by him last year.)

In the meanwhile, I’ll leave you to ponder its meaning. And to consider these words by Aristotle:

“The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.”

Thoreau on the Writer's Life (in Nineteen Words)

When I returned to the beach after the Creative Nonfiction Conference in Oxford (November 11-14) I started a new writing project. This one is now running parallel with the novel-in-progress. It's a poetry memorization project, inspired by Beth Ann Fennelly, one of the keynote speakers at the conference. My plan is to memorize a poem a day (sometimes skipping weekends) for 100 days, and to write a brief reflection on the poem, paying special attention to how (and if) the activity affects my prose writing. (Working title: Sleeping With Poets: How 100 Days (and Nights) of Memorizing Poetry Pimped My Prose.)

So, the first ten days of the poetry project took place on the beach, which was a great way to get started, since I didn't have the distractions of everyday life which were waiting for me back home. It was also nice to print off the poem each morning and take it with me for a walk along the water's edge. Sometimes I found the rhythm of the poem and the ocean's waves crashing on the shore blended into a perfect cadence for walking. But now I'm home and everyday life is coming at me with a force as strong as those ocean waves, but I'm determined to continue the project, even throughout the busy days of planning for Christmas. Here's a draft of today's reflection. I hope you enjoy it and will leave a comment to let me know how and if poetry is a part of your life, whether or not you are a writer.


Thoreau on the Writer’s Life (in Nineteen Words)
Day 11-Sleeping With Poets


Home from a month of writing on the beach, I chose another short poem (there was unpacking to do and re-organizing my office and laundry and groceries to shop for, you know?) for my first day of memorizing poetry back in Memphis. It’s from Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862):

My life has been the poem
I would have writ,
But I could not both live
And utter it.

Done. It’s really only a rhyming couplet (spread out to four lines) in basic iambic pentameter. (You stress the words in all caps.)

My LIFE has BEEN the POEM i WOULD have WRIT
da DUM | da DUM | da DUM | da DUM | da DUM

That’s the easy part. Pondering Thoreau’s meaning is a bit more difficult.

But I could NOT both LIVE and UTTER it
da DUM | da DUM | da DUM | da DUM | da DUM

He could not “both live and utter it”? So, did he live and not “utter it”? Did he not write about his life in his works? Or did he mean by these words that he didn’t really live—that he sacrificed “having a life” in order to be a writer?

Twentieth century American writer and literary critic, Alfred Kazin (1915-1998) said: “One writes to make a home for oneself, on paper, in time and in others' minds.” This speaks to a commonality I think many writers share—a longing for a place to fit in, to feel at home. And also a strong desire to share our words with others.

I know it’s cliché, but the old saying came to mind as I was penning this: “If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?” If I wrote the Great American Novel and it didn’t get published, would it still be a great novel? Some of my writing friends would say YES! Writing is for the soul—we don’t do it just in order to be published. But like Kazin, I want to make a home for myself with my writing—especially in other people’s minds, but also on paper and in time. And so I blog. Three times a week for the past three and a half years I have shared my art, my life, my musings, book reviews, family news, my ups, my downs, with whoever will listen, whoever will read the words I have poured onto the page. When something big happens—whether it’s good news or trauma—my first instinct has always been to share it with someone, to write about it. I kept a diary when I was a little girl, and jumped on the journaling band wagon when it became popular. Like the tree in the woods, I want someone to hear it fall, and to validate my pain or my joy or my very existence.

For about fifteen years I published a newsletter for my church. It was monthly for a while, and eventually bi-monthly. During those years I was at the church just about every time the doors were open, and always with my camera. I documented every event—every baptism, every wedding, every feast day, every children’s play, every birth, every death—until one day I realized that my news radar was preventing me from entering into the life of the church organically. I was so wrapped up in capturing its life in words and pictures that I was missing the life itself, or that’s what it felt like. So I quit publishing the newsletter. I just showed up to worship and to feasts and to committee meetings, without my camera, without my pen in hand. It took a while, but eventually, I think I began to find that organic core I had been missing when I had been so concerned about capturing everything for the newsletter.

I wonder if this is what Thoreau meant when he said, “But I could not both live and utter it?” I haven’t been to church or seen any of my friends here in Memphis in over a month, and yet on my first morning back, my inclination was to find my way to my computer and write. Not to telephone a friend or stop by and see someone I haven’t seen in a month. I’ll see a lot of people at church tonight and tomorrow, but today—even amidst the piles of dirty laundry and the empty refrigerator—my characters are calling to me from the novel: “What’s going to happen to us next?”

Maybe the writing life is about balance. Don’t we have to live a full life in order to have something to write about, in order to have something to feed the lake? I guess I’m just not willing to completely give up on either—living the poem or writing it. Maybe I’ll stop by and see a friend on the way to the grocery store today, right after I finish one more chapter….

Grandchildren, Godchildren and Thanksgiving

Yesterday was Grandparents Day at Grace Saint Luke’s school in Memphis, where our Goddaughter, Sophie Mansour is in second grade. Sophie’s grandparents live in Atlanta and Syria, so they haven’t been able to make it for this special day yet. I’ve been fortunate to go twice, but yesterday I was still here at Seagrove, so my husband went! I asked him to get a picture of the two of them together, but he forgot. He did send a few pictures of Sophie...

while working on her list of things she loves about her grandparents (and I think she meant us *cough cough* Godparents, we well.)

And joining her classmates in a special Thanksgiving song

I’m sure there will be more refrigerator art when I get home!





We were in Denver for Thanksgiving last year, which was the first time Pops met our first granddaughter, Grace.








It was such fun to share a Thanksgiving meal with our daughter-in-law’s family. They’re Hmong, and the foods on the table were a delicious mix of traditional Southern (Jason) and Hmong (See and Ia, See’s mother) foods.



Jonathan had just left for Afghanastan, a few weeks before Thanksgiving last year. This year we have a different treat in store: Pops and I are meeting in Birmingham, where we will be guests of our Godson, Damon Boiles III and his wife, Weezie. DIII’s parents, our dear friends, Damon and Madeleine Boiles, will be there from Memphis (Pops is riding over with them on Wednesday)… and… wait for it… JON will be driving
up from Savannah to join us! It will be our first time to see him since his return from Afghanastan a couple of weeks ago. Can’t wait to get my arms around him! It will make my leaving Seagrove much more bearable.

Jon has been friends with Damon III since they were in 7th grade together in Memphis. I think the last time we were all together was at Damon and Weezie’s wedding, a few years back in Huntsville.



Damon and Madeleine are always great fun to be with. This was in August of 2008 when we were at their house celebrating Damon's birthday. It turned into a spontaneous "Mad Hatter's" party as we took turns dressing up in their fun collection of hats, furs and guns.




And of course I can’t wait to see my sweet hubby again, after our month apart while I’ve been writing at Seagrove. (Okay we did have a one-night rendezvous in Oxford two weeks ago, when I was there directing the Creative Nonfiction Conference, but still, a month is a long time!) This has been such a gift—this time for me to pull my writing project together without any other responsibilities. I’ve penned about two-thirds of the book, revising as I go, so I’ll be ready to keep the story moving forward and then do the heavy revisions after I get back to Memphis. Watching so many couples enjoying their time together on the beach here has made me miss him more. I have great memories of our “dance” here in May, and look forward to many more to come.

So… this is a winding post about grandchildren, Godchildren and Thanksgiving. I’ll end with a link to a fun site about the holiday’s history and traditions. We visited Plimoth Plantation about 30 years ago, and it was fun to see the actors playing the parts of the early settlers, including my husband’s ancestor, Thomas Cushman (fourteen generations back, I think) who came over on the Mayflower and was an elder at Plymouth. I always enjoy this picture of our Korean daughter, Beth, dressed as an Indian for her kindergarden Thanksgiving celebration. (That's me and my mom with Beth, in 1987.) What an interesting combination of cultures. I wish I could find the picture of Jason dressed as a pilgrim and waving an American flag. It was actually in the Jackson newspaper in 1984, when he became a U.S. Citizen, and it’s in a coffee table book about Jackson that’s at home right now so I can’t scan it.

I hope you will be with someone you love and enjoy some delicious food! My next post will be from Memphis, after I return home on Friday. I hear it’s going to be cold. Guess I won’t be writing in my swimsuit any more for a while. I think I'll put a picture of the beach on the wall behind my computer and get one of those machines that makes sounds like ocean waves breaking on the shore. Definitely bringing the muse back to Memphis with me.
Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.