Tuesday, October 20, 2009

These Are a Few of My Favorite Things—About Aging

As you edge into your 8th decade you may notice you're getting older and more fun when............

-you can c.y.o.g. (choose your own gender)

-you go out to lunch not dinner because you’re in bed when most diners get started and you can’t see to drive well because the moon isn’t as bright as the sun
-your body talks back for the first time
-words that end in ah suddenly end in er as you hear yourself say, Linder’s lovah
-you and your friend or spouse get a case of teenage giggles; you suddenly hear yourself say, “Stop. You’re making me wet your pants!”
-you carefully pinch out the salt for your neti-pot and drop it into your o.j.
-hearing small children’s voices outside, even their wailing, becomes essential soul food
-you read the funnies before the news (even the word funnies dates you)
-nature is a primary source of reverence; in fact you fall in love with Ms. Spider at the window and cry when one day she disappears
-your mate sees you storing bananas in the refrigerator and shouts “Don’t!” You say, “Why not? They’re collecting fruit flies.” He says, “Chiquita Banana says...”
-you give your sleeveless tops to Good Will who, according to your granddaughter, isn’t a girl.
-your flesh takes on a life of its own, separate from your bones
-gratitude is up, griping down; laughter is up, lament down
-you pray that they come up with a less beefy, more stylish call alert wristwatch before you need one—a matter of fashion
-a box pops up on your computer screen saying your server is disconnected, but you don’t know what a server is so you call your six year old grandson.
-the ratio of medical to gossip has flipped from 20/80 to 80/20 in girlfriend conversations
-your will gets weaker but your soul gets stronger
-you think Godde may actually be your father............. AMEN.

Friday, October 9, 2009

The Paranoid Paradox of Faith

Last Monday I received a phone call. “Hi. Is this Lyn Brakeman?” (Too cheery. Telemarketer for sure.) “Yes,” I say guarded. “Oh,” the female voice continues, its brightness dimmed. “Oh, well then. This is Holly from Writers Digest.” “Yes.” (Wants to know when I’ll renew.) “Well,” (Could she be more excited? Sounds like my mother used to. I imagine her jumping up and down.) “I called to tell you that your essay Electric Salvation has won fifth prize in our annual national Writers Digest contest in the category of Inspirational Writing. “Cool.” (Warming up. Inspired myself.) “So we need your email to tell you the details.” Gladly I oblige. Thanks are exchanged. “You’ll be getting an email from us soon.”

My heart jumps up and down. I call Dick. He jumps up and down. Send email to friends and call my kids.

Tuesday there’s no email confirmation. Anxiety edges out joy. Who is Holly? Sudden panic. It’s a hoax. Go online to their site. Read the list of winners. I’m not on it. Call Dick. He dashes home to join me in my puddle of tears, asks a few details. What? You gave her your email address? I told you don’t give any personal information out to anyone on the phone. It was in good faith. She sounded true. He freaks out. Now he’s paranoid too. Guilt.

I call the magazine, manage, navigate twelve prompts and then four more after I find the correct one for my question, which is “Is it true?” Leave a message for Teresa or Marissa Brower, Bower or Bowes.

I don’t know which head got cool first his or mine but he goes to the computer at the same instant I wonder if I’ve looked at the list of last year’s winners. But it says the winners would be on line. Will be? Yeah. Early November. It’s October. They wouldn’t put them on line before the next issue is out or no one would buy the magazine. Oh.

Call Marissa/Teresa B. Leave an apologetic message. Courteous. Call writing buddy to laugh with her about my paranoid process. My magazine just came she says. Yes. Here’s your name listed. It’s true.

It’s true. I feel as if I’d just seen the bodily Resurrection of Christ and I know it’s true, a fact. I feel about six years old. It’s true. I notify the “world.” It’s true.

It’s amazing what writers go through—out here writing, hunched over computers, submitting to countless publications, editors, etc. over and over along with hundreds of thousands of aspirants all as hopeful as you are. Rejections pour in by mail and email. It's easy to lose heart, get paranoid, be sure the whole world of publishing is out to get you alone, expose your foolishness. Your spirit begins to schlump, great yiddish word. Thank God for friends who schlump too, and thank God for Spirit who raises up schlumpers.

I’m still waiting for Holly’s cheery email and wondering at the paradox: the more passionate you are about something and the more hopeful and persevering you are about it and the more faith you have in your efforts, the more vulnerable you are to paranoia when hope turns to truth.

How odd. It reminds me of the phrase in Luke’s gospel describing the Jesus followers’ reaction to the news the women brought of the Resurrection. First they called it a hoax, an “idle tale” (like the ones women always tell, right?) Then they ran to check it out for themselves. Then they had a spiritual experience of the resurrected Jesus himself on the road to Emmaus. They “disbelieved for joy.” (Luke 24:41)