In This House

 

It took me all summer, but I finally finished the signs inspired by my niece, Mimi, who made the same ones that her father nailed to a tree in the front yard of their Atlanta, Georgia, home. 

Only I can't bring myself to nail them to the pine tree by our driveway because our winter weather will be hard on the signs, even if they're lacquered, and I just don't want to drive nails into my tree. I'll have to work out how to wire them together then hang them from one or two nails. 

For now, my easel works perfectly as a display since these signs inspired this week's church message: In This House. They're in my kitchen right now but on Sunday morning, those signs and that easel will travel into town to the sanctuary where I get to say, "In THIS house, we believe..." 

You better believe it. I'm getting a little radical but you know what I say: I'm too old for this shit. We don't have much time left to fix this world and start living like decent human beings. We know how we are supposed to live; we simply choose not to do it. 

Please: Love your neighbour. Take care of each other. Don't be an asshole. 

That last one is from the Gospel According to Sara. 

Inspiration

Inspiration is everywhere these days. I received a text this morning from a friend who bought Field Notes, the book, a couple of years ago, but moved -- and didn't find the book until she unpacked! 

Receiving her text and another friend's email inspired the following: 

These are discouraging days for everyone. A teacher friend who has started back to work in Ontario emailed me last night to say she didn't phone because she was in a crying kind of mood, "all work-related, everything's fine, just overwhelming".

Yeah. These are the days of the "crying kind of moods". Our work lives are complicated, even disheartening, at the best of times, let alone now, in the worst of times.

I'm filtering this through my personal experience as a writer to illustrate what we need to do: Reach out to each other and give a compliment. Right now is the right time to tell someone they are good at what they do.

Every day I wonder if I'll ever publish another book. I try to be okay with that, but honestly, I'm not okay with that - but I don't know what else to do. This morning, I received a note that read, in full:

“Good morning! I finished Field Notes last night – I loved it!! It is like you have taken the words from my own heart and put them on paper…so many similar stories ha ha. I even have a Christmas tree ornament I bought here years ago with the word “Laugh” on it. Scary & awesome. The story Funeral For A Mouse made me cry, I really felt that one. And the stories of you driving the car and teaching in the outdoor school made me laugh out loud ha ha. Such a good read – I will treasure this book!”

A book to treasure. Oh, my heart. 

It's amazing how one simple yet joy-filled text can give a person the energy to keep going, can help a person believe in themselves and what they do, even when everything is overwhelming.

We can't hug with our arms so let's hug with our words.

These are hard days but you are good at your job. Whether you're a teacher, a nurse, a barista, a janitor, a cashier -- just to name a few -- your work matters and makes a difference. Even if you don't see it, you will make a difference in at least one person's life each and every day. Keep going. Keep doing what you do. You are good at what you do. 

We need you.

Even when you're in a crying kind of mood.

~ by Sara Jewell, originally published on Facebook 

The Starbucks Story

It's been a busy two weeks since I last posted, including two days last week at a Mental Health First Aid training course in Halifax. I stayed at the hotel where the course was being held and lucky for me, there was a Starbucks nearby so I could pick up a coffee on my way back from my morning walk on day two. 

Inside the store, I was doing everything wrong – like not realizing we no longer pour our own cream – so I finally ended up explaining that this was my first trip away from home, away from my own home where everything is organized according to my needs, not according to pandemic protocols. 

I have no idea if the young woman serving me really heard my story through my mask and the plexi-glass barrier but regardless, it was a very good cup of coffee that I quite enjoyed. 

Later, I went back to that Starbucks during our mid-morning break. Different clothes, different mask; I didn’t expect to be remembered or recognized as the hillbilly who couldn’t even find the door to go in three hours earlier. 

This time, I had to wait for my order and as I stood on my designated spot on the floor, I looked around. 

“This section temporarily closed” said the sign in the middle of a long, wooden table with eight chairs around it. 

“This section temporarily closed” said the sign on a bank of seats along the window. 

It was disheartening to witness in person how we can’t gather anymore at any of our favourite places. Most of our former activities – much of our former lives – are truly off-limits now.

Then I heard, “Here’s your coffee, Sara.”

How did she know my name? Wow, these guys are good. I grabbed my coffee-to-go and MY NAME WAS SPELLED CORRECTLY on the sticky receipt. How did they know? 

Because I was wearing a name tag for the course. 

I laughed, the person behind the counter laughed, and I said we should all wear name tags.  

I headed out feeling special and light-hearted.

                           

As I crossed the parking lot and hit the grassy verge at the street, a wave of emotion swelled up in me. 

For everything we have lost. 

For the way everything has changed. 

For what has been lost and may never be regained.

In that moment of upswelling emotion, I could have cried. For the way our world used to be. When we could be around others and chat and laugh without fear. When we could connect with others without face coverings and hand sanitizer. When we could hug and touch, comfort and acknowledge. When we could pass on the sidewalk without averting our heads, or stepping out  onto the street. 

When it didn’t feel like we were avoiding each other. 

Yet consider what happened: On that morning, in the early days of our “new normal”, during this new way forward into a different future, I was called by name. 

I felt recognized and known. 

In the midst of the shitstorm that is the world right now, when the news is distressing and overwhelming yet we need to sit with our discomfort because this IS our world right now, someone spoke my name.  

It happened only because I was wearing a name tag so it’s not the literal fact that matters but rather what it represents: The power of speaking a name, the impact of hearing your own name spoken unexpectedly in the midst of all of this chaos and uncertainty.

There is so much we don’t know about the weeks and months to come but – 

I know you.

You know me.

We still connect. Even if it’s fleeting.

Remarkably, life is going on. 

We are the same yet different.

We are finding the way forward; even if the path seems more treacherous, it is still familiar. 

We are figuring out ways to do what we need to do. We are willing to give up our wants. 

We are more resilient and creative, more adaptable and innovative, more compassionate and thoughtful than we give ourselves, and others, credit for.

Which is why we need to work together – with, not against each other. 

It’s why we need to wear a name tag when we go out into the world. 

Because hearing your name spoken from behind a mask, from behind a barrier is the sweetest encouragement we can get in this brave new world we’re living in. 

~ by Sara Jewell

cross-posted on Facebook at @JewellofaWriter

The Last Word on Humility and Truth

Our August holiday on PEI, 2019  

Honestly, the morning flung some serious words at me, so thank goodness it was the day for washing windows. That offered me the time doing mindless physical activity to process the words and their meanings, and how they make me feel.

I follow a writer and painter -- a creator -- named Morgan Harper Nichols. Her words of inspiration and encouragement (in her newly published book) got me through my "season of angst" last fall.  But she posts every day on social media and this morning, I read this: 

Let this be a season of slowing down and revisiting.

What beautiful things can come to life in the waiting. 

Sometimes it's the gritty in-between that helps you focus and see:

Now is the time to eliminate distractions and concentrate 

on what you actually need.

There is no shame if you're not further along. 

You don't have to pretend you have it all together. 

You have been waiting for so long...

You are also learning to be strong -

you are gathering wisdom and you are learning

the lessons you need for the rest of the journey. 

Now, those are words that went straight to my heart.

Then came straight out of my pen. 

I immediately copied those words down to re-read whenever I think I'm not doing enough or accomplishing enough, or even good enough. I mean, "You have been waiting for so long... you are gathering wisdom and you are learning..."

THAT'S how I fell. 

Then I read a blog post by Canadian writer Deryn Collier; she lives and writes in British Columbia. I found her mystery novels a few years ago -- only to discover, as I waited for book three, that her publisher had dropped her. What? So that's what publishing is like. All about the market, not the book or the writer. 

I receive her email newsletter so I've followed her struggles to figure out what to do next, her determination to recreate her work, and be true to herself. 

Her blog post is entitled, "Five Reasons Why I Hate Giving Publishing Advice". 

Two of the five points really stood out for me: 

1) (her #2) Publishing is like musical chairs, and when the music stops, not everyone gets a chair. 

2) (her #5) Traditional publishing may not be the only way. 

Collier wrote, "What makes a book great is the author’s vision, imagination, creativity and willingness to do the work. What makes a book sell is a whole other matter."

That's what I keep running up against. I can do the work; no one wants what I've written. 

I can't help myself -- I have to add, Not yet, anyway. (Ever hopeful. Can't give up.)

Her blog post is one I'll read over and over, and find something new -- encouraging, discouraging, inspiring -- each time, depending on the kind of day I'm having 

But as Collier says, being creative, honouring one's own creative vision, pursuing that vision every day, is what matters most. 

So I've been thinking about the musical chairs idea, and hoping that you don't get just one shot at that game. I'm hoping that musical chairs is played over and over, and one of these times, I'll be the last one sitting when the music stops. 

Best-selling author Cheryl Strayed shared this quote from James Baldwin on her Facebook page this week, and it now sits beneath my monitor so I can see it the whole time I'm working: 

"Talent is insignificant. I know a lot of talented ruins. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: disciples, love, luck, but above all, endurance." 

Or as my friend, Sarah, always tells me, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming." 

Even Dory has words of wisdom for me. 

Persistence and Pep Talks

My father with "Bob the Bull", Pugwash Point, August 1991

 
It took a few minutes to land on the right title for this post, but each one I chose made me laugh, because the photo put a whole different spin on them. The photo really has nothing to do with what I'm writing, but I didn't see the point in another sunset over the field. Instead, here's a nice memory from our summer holidays in Nova Scotia. 

I had a lovely, long catch-up phone conversation with my friend Jennifer, who lives in Toronto. (She's mentioned in Field Notes in  my essay about the chickens, because she's the friend who was with me when I bought my fancy red boots in the Bloor West Village.)

We both turned 50 this year, and have been friends since university. Jennifer's life is different from mine -- she's a mother of two, lives in the city, has a good job -- but like me, she's feeling like she's still searching for what she really wants to do. In her case, it's feeling stagnant in a job she's done, and done well and enjoyed, for 20 years. For me, it's trying to get around the obstacles that are keeping me from publishing more books. 

I told her about the branding/platform/ten-thousand followers that risk-adverse publishers are looking for. She told me the story of a Toronto novelist whose first book was rejected not because it wasn't a good story, but because "no one wants to read a story set in Edwardian times", the publisher said. Then the TV show, "Downtown Abbey" hit -- and suddenly, the publishers were panting for her novel! Jennifer said so much of publishing about timing, and I agree; there's a lot of "right place, right time, right story" -- pure luck -- involved, and that's what I'm up against. 

Afterwards, as I thought about our 2-hour conversation and all the things we discussed, I realized I'm a columnist and an essayist; it's my job to be interested in a lot of different things. And now so much of my writing is interconnected; even if I'm not doing the city girl-country girl persona as much, my rural life in Nova Scotia is always a through line, whether I'm writing about food, death, or faith. 

(Ha! Right there -- three of the major themes of life!) 

As I progressed through my chores after supper -- washing dishes, watering plants, cleaning kitty litter, having a bath -- all those quiet, physical activities that promote contemplation -- I realized I'm okay. My work is okay. If I'm truly committed to this work, and I am because I love it, as discouraging and disheartening as it can be, then I must persist

After all, 2020 is the year when some of my persistence paid off. Two articles that I've been pitching for several years are finally being published. Both come out in October issues (one was bumped from the June issue because of the impact of the pandemic). It seems like whenever I think it's time to give up -- and I started out this year believing that and planning for that -- something happens that tells me to hang in there. 

Jennifer really believes that my memoir, The Funeral Director's Daughter, will get picked up because "everyone's talking about funerals now" and that's all the encouragement I need to keep doing what I'm doing, and doing it my way. 

I'm still out standing in my field -- and not letting other people's bullshit chase me over the fence. 

A Lesson In Humility

Sunset over the field

I'm on another three-week vacation from church work, which allows me to focus on other writing projects. The "secret" summer book project is coming along nicely, and I might be able to reveal what it is in September. A friend wants to give it as Christmas gifts so it's good to have a deadline. 

My other not-a-secret book project is getting The Alphabet of Faith (TAOF) -- as a collection of 26 essays -- ready to pitch to a publisher. I decided to spend Friday working on the book proposal and expected to have a lot to show for the effort.

I hit a wall almost immediately, and it flattened me. Even the emergency ice cream cone at two in the afternoon couldn't pull me out the downward spiral. The kind of spiral that has me almost frantic about what I'm going to do if I can't be a writer. 

For some reason, I starting working on the book proposal for TAOF ass-backwards. Perhaps because the book feels ready to go -- there's a title and the essays only need to be edited -- I thought I could just skip the whole "What is the book about?" and start in with "Who is the target audience/market for this book?"

Thinking it would give me good guidance, I looked up the guru of non-fiction book proposals. Her suggestions for statistics about my intended audience and analysis of what the market is looking for made me feel overwhelmed and discouraged, to the point of despair. 

I'm not the kind of writer who things like a business person. Book proposals are hard enough -- self-promotion is hard enough! -- without adding in market analysis and statistical representation. I don't know -- I just want to write books. Now, however, writers have to bee all things, and do all things, even the things they aren't good at, like market analysis and statistical representation.

Part of the problem is something that has dogged me for years: The demand a writer have a brand, a platform, and now, since social media, tens of thousands of followers. 

This is not me, never has been, never will be. I'm a writer, not a YouTuber; when I post on social media, I'm posting prose, not videos. It's my instincts, to write, not to pick up my phone and record myself talking. 

I don't have a brand; I'm not one thing, and I don't have only one interest. Sure, the whole city girl/country girl is one angle I write from, but I also write about faith, and dying/death (funeral service). Here's the thing: when I pitched a second Field Notes book and the Field Notes cookbook, I mentioned my "Field Notes brand" and was told, "You don't have a brand." 

It could be my great life flaw that I've never landed on one interest, one topic and made that my entire life's work; a lot of people do it, but it's not me. That's just the way I'm wired, unfortunately. 

It's not unfortunate. It's just who I am. I'm trying to accept that instead of letting it discourage me and make me feel like a failure. A failure because I don't have a brand or a platform or ten thousand followers.

Be true to yourself. That phrase is a life raft I cling to. Sure, everybody needs a bit of tweaking, but if sharing my thoughts via video is not my instinctive activity, then doing it will look and sound awkward and fake. 

What pulled me out of my funk was humility.

Rick Warren says, "Humility is not thinking less of yourself. It's thinking of yourself less." 

I sat in the gazebo and thought about the publishers I was thinking of pitching, and the faith-based writers I read, and realized 1) I don't have the chops to play with those big girls of Christian publishing, and 2) there's nothing wrong with a small publisher who probably will recognize my name and snap this book right up. I won't gain ten thousand followers with this publisher, but I'll reach a lot of people, and a lot of people who know me and like my writing will support this book. 

Humility. It took hitting that wall to make me put aside my ego and truly look at the situation I created. It's not wrong to aim high, but I was not being realistic, or sensible. I don't have a brand or a platform or a specific angle. That's not who I am. I've always believed the right book at the right time would open up a path for me. Field Notes was not that book; perhaps The Alphabet of Faith will be, perhaps The Funeral Director's Daughter will be. 

Who knows? The point is to to pick myself up off the ground, put a Bandaid on that big scrape on my nose (and ego), and find a way around that wall. And find a way to live through the uncertainty.

Best-selling author Cheryl Strayed posted this quote by author James Baldwin on her Facebook page: "Talent is insignificant. I know a lot of talented ruins. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: discipline, love, luck, but above all, endurance."

Humility AND persistence. I can do both.

So how do I get around the wall? Simple: Start with editing the essays for a wider audience than my congregation/Facebook friends, and figure out what the book is about. It really is simple; why didn't I do that in the first place? 

Ah, yes: Ego.  

Introducing Ethel's Echinacea

 

This is Ethel's Echinacea. It's not an official name, but they're in my garden so I get to call them what I want.

These flowers are a gift from the garden of my friend Ethel, and they are thriving in this garden by the back deck, with the rudbekia transplanted last year, and the phlox transplanted this year -- saved, in fact, from being crushed by the effort to move the greenhouse. There's also honeysuckle clumping up in there.

On the right in the photo are the Stella daylilies planted in memory of my dog, Stella. I can't remember which Stella's they are but they are a darker red than I expected. That's how it goes with gardens; you never know what is going to pop up, what is going to thrive, what is going to bloom one year and never show up again. 

Audrey Hepburn said, "To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow."

Here's a little announcement related to this two-level back deck: next year, Ethel's Echinacea will be overlooking my kitchen garden. This fall - or even as soon as the heat wave ends - we are going to tear off the lower deck and start the work to transform it into a space that will grow herbs and other kitchen gardeny things. My winter project will be figuring that out. 

We're also going to create the space for a salsa garden where we will grow the tomatoes, jalapeno peppers and green & yellow peppers that go into Rose's Salsa (recipe from my friend Rose). 

What would I do without my gardening friends?? 

"Friends are flowers in the garden of life."

A word about the lighting of that photo of Ethel's Echinacea. I was watering at sunset last night, the sun going down as it does over the far trees at the edge of the field. But the opposite sky was full of grey clouds -- teasing me about the possibility of rain -- and this combination turned the light pinky and orangey, depending on the moment. 

When I saw the light on Ethel's Echinacea, I wanted to capture it. Every blossom coming out, thriving, offering its healing and its hope. Keeping me in the pink.