Thoughts on Disapproval

1. Disapproval is a helluva drug. I have a friend who is seriously addicted. And I disapprove of her addiction. Sigh. I need rehab, too.

2. If I express disapproval of someone to a third party when the target of my disapproval isn't within earshot, but then I'm all loving and winsome to their face, my love is false. I'm trying harder.

3. A friend disapproves of some decisions I've made. She makes it clear by dropping little trolling comments that hint at it. If she knew more of my background and the reasons behind my choices, she'd probably understand, but I don't owe her my story so that she'll approve of me. I have decided to let her disapproval stand. It's hurting her more than me.

4. Discernment, as in discerning good behavior versus sinful behavior, becomes a very good excuse for indulging in disapproval. Discernment should always be directed toward yourself first. I always find that when something irritates me in someone else, it's present in me, too. See No. 1 above.

5. "I'm just so concerned about such-and-so" can become a very good introduction for a bunch of gossipy disapproval. Don't talk about people when they're not around unless you are expressing appreciation, praise, or sympathy. Period.

6.  Nobody, but nobody becomes a better person because 2 or 3 people self-righteously compared notes on what they disapprove about them. The people disapproving don't become better either. It's a no-win situation.

7. The next time I find myself sitting in a study of some kind at church that devolves into disparaging others' supposed sins, I'm going to have the courage to get up and leave. Even if they're right. I'm not there to point out splinters in others' eyes just so we can all feel better about ourselves.

8. "But, if we don't point out the sins of others, we might fall into those sins ourselves!" The best way to avoid sin is to keep my eyes on God and my own relationship with him, not on the shortcomings of others.

9. Pointing out the virtuous qualities in another is a good discipline, as long as it doesn't become the token good thing you say so that you can justify the 5 negative things you follow it up with. You know what I mean, "I love her to death, BUT..." or "She's got a heart of gold, BUT..."

10. Sharing mutual disapproval with someone can feel like a way to create intimacy in a friendship. In reality, it's a toxic intimacy that thrives on social neediness. You know that the other person will sooner or later say negative things about you, too. There are better friends and more sincere intimacies to be had. Don't settle.

You Could Make This Place Beautiful

A week's gone by, and a full one. My girl has survived the first 6 days of a new school, a much bigger one than she's ever been to. She knew only one person in only one of her classes. A week later, she has a lunch group and a few theatre friends. She's auditioned for a play, didn't get cast, but might work tech. And, then she surprised me by applying to be a representative for her class in student government. Considering that 2 weeks ago, she was almost overwhelmed with anxiety, I'm so proud I could burst. If she can face her fears with this kind of aplomb, she can handle whatever life throws at her.

And, I worry every day about what it might throw.

The news has dragged me down lately. Children separated from parents, racially-charged conflicts, and now horrific news from the Catholic church in Pennsylvania. I find it hard to believe that humans can be so callous about the harm they do to other humans. I've let my girl see my feelings, and I realized I was bringing her down, too, when she asked, "Has it ever been this bad before?"

Oh, hon. My first thought was of slavery, lynchings, the separation of slave families, but the more I thought, the more atrocities I thought of. We humans have been horrible to our fellow humans for all of history. The near-genocide of native Americans. The Holocaust. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Any targeting of civilians by any wartime force. The horrible treatment of so many political prisoners and prisoners of war in various places around the world. It's even in the bible. The bashing of babies against rocks. We humans have a bottomless capacity to be heartless, and we always seem to find a way to feel justified when it's us committing the atrocity.

Oh, hon, the truth is, it's hardly ever been this good. There are people speaking up, exposing the things that need to be exposed, calling for everyone to recognize the dignity of all people. We still pray every day that God's kingdom will come on earth as it is in heaven. I don't think he'd ask us to pray for that and work toward that if it couldn't ultimately be accomplished. It's just a long, long, long process, and our lives are too short to grasp the eternal perspective.

Good Bones
by Maggie Smith

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I've shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I'll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones:  This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

Raising Daughters and Words

I need to write more. I need to read more fiction. I read three books, 2 fiction and 1 non-fiction, while we were on vacation last week, and they were the first books I've gotten fully through in a while. They were all life-giving. I downloaded Matt Haig's Reasons To Live on Kindle, and it might be one of the best books I've read on depression. He has no remedy to sell except your own remedy, all the while writing with great sympathy for the varieties of ways depression presents itself, and a generous, vulnerable account of his own. I picked up two novels in the used bookstore at St. Simons Island, and both were fantastic. The Orchardist by Amanda Coplin kept me glued to the pages for a solid 2.5 days, which for me, is saying something. But the book that got into my bones was Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng. After two chapters, I had to look up the history of the Japanese occupation of Malaysia in the 50s, history I had never been exposed to. But it was the story and the mesmerizing language that really captivated me. It stirred my inner poet and made me want to write again. And so, here I am, writing again.

I've struggled about what to do with this blog. I want to write, and I want to write for an audience. But, while I've done it with previous blogs, I find myself resistant to just keeping an online journal of my days/feelings/thoughts. I want to structure it with "music on Monday," "words on Wednesday," "thoughts on Thursday," etc. It assuages my worry that blogging is mostly just naval-gazing. But, artificial structure is not working for me. It feels contrived, and it turns writing into a duty. So, I'm going back to a more organic way of writing. I don't know quite how it will come out, but maybe that's okay.

xxxxx

My girl starts 10th grade at a new school on Wednesday. She's nervous, but she doesn't realize that she's so much braver than I would have been at 15. I marvel at her. She has become so much her own person. But, then, she always was.

When she was born, I felt the strangest sensation. It was as though another person had walked into the room. Of course, she was indeed a newly arrived person, but I had expected it to feel more like she was still part of me, not so much like a stranger had arrived. She came with an unmistakable message - "I'm not you." She was a presence. After a few tense seconds while we waited for her to cry, she finally let out a quiet, sweet, almost unbearably endearing "graaa." Soon, that weak little "graaa" was a big "WAH," And, now "WAH" has become, "I need you to take me to Ulta so I can buy some more makeup." (So not me.) And I'm so thankful that she is so normal.

On Wednesday, she'll arrive at a new school, her own person. She knows a few of the students, but not very many. She'll know them soon enough. She'll start with a graaa, progress to a WAH, and end up a leader. And I'll marvel at her again.

Maybe writing is like raising a daughter. You can't structure it. It takes you down avenues you weren't expecting. It exposes you, surprises you, scares you, exhilarates you. And then, ultimately, it humbles you because you realize that she, or it, belongs to itself. It is not you.

xxxxx

Is it weird to say that my writing has its own identity? Some writers like to talk of a muse, and I understand that. I don't speak the way I write. I don't even always think the same way when I write. Things come to me when I'm writing that don't come to me at other times. It's similar to when I'm playing and the music takes over and I become its servant. These things happen. Art has its own personhood. I don't know how to explain it.

xxxxx

The sun has set while I've been sitting here on the porch, all hot pink and orange between the pine trees as I listen to the kids at the neighborhood pool and the crickets and cicadas start their songs. The mosquitoes have been merciful, and the Georgia heat is not unbearable. I've a glass of wine and a sleeve of crackers, and the night is kind. I've written enough for tonight. Time to read again.