Writing through the Chaos

When I was a kid I begged my mom to drive me to a neighboring town so I could audition to be a tightrope walker. She refused. Hmm…wonder why? I suppose it makes sense to me now that she had reservations about me joining the circus.

I’ve identified a good deal with a tightrope walker in my writing life lately. Major life events, as well as plenty of routine day-to-day demands swirl all around me as I work hard to maintain my focus. I decided to take a step back and assess what helps me to stay in line with my target goals and what presents the greatest distraction.

The following are six strategies that have kept me committed to writing and my writing goals during times of upheaval.

When life’s a circus . . .

I remind myself to breathe fire

Writing is a proven stress relief for me. I allow this mantra to echo in my mind as a reminder of what good it’ll do me to take some time to peck out a few thousand words. It calms my nerves, slows my heart rate, and has a magical way of putting my mind at ease. Breathe fire. Let out the stress.

I make things disappear

I poof the expectation I have to make a meal everyone will enjoy every night or vamoose the lunch appointment with that individual who has mastered the art of sucking the best out of me. I’m a magician when it comes to my schedule, keeping committed to only the things of utmost priority and making all the rest disappear.

I periodically look back with respect at the elephants in line behind me

I view this in two ways. There are times I need to reflect upon just how far my discipline has gotten me. Also, looking back at the elephants behind me is another way of telling myself other authors—great masters of discipline—have done this before—climbed these steps, kicked up to great heights. I’m inspired to keep at it when I remember to look back.

I clown around

When I’m in the midst of a chaotic life change, I make sure to seek out laughter. It’s a reward. Whether plotting a novel or drafting a key scene, I find creative avenues that are sure to spark laughter in me. It’s part of clinging to my sanity. And it’s just a fun way to live.

I’m okay if a few plates fall

I’ve learned the incredible freedom that comes with granting myself some grace. Plates will topple. It’s part of it. The key is to not obsess over what’s broken on the ground and to keep my eyes on what’s amazing above. I may not reach my word count. Or a kid might not get their favorite things in their lunch bag. The world will go on spinning.

I grab on to hands that are reaching out

One thing more than any other indicates where I land on the pride meter. Am I able to grasp on to others when they’re offering help or am I stubbornly insistent on doing it all myself? Flinging myself through times of turmoil without reaching for and hanging on to the help offered is a futile undertaking, a surefire way to run myself ragged.

Life is a circus right now. I want to be intentional about what I love. I want to write through the chaos.

Grocery Store Grace

 

I’m devouring Michelle DeRusha’s book, Spiritual Misfit: A Memoir of Uneasy Faith. Seriously hoping MD writes a hundred more memoirs for me to laugh my way through and reflect upon. I love the way Michelle writes. (More on this another day.)

In Spiritual Misfit Michelle depicts some grocery story accounts that hit close to home. I’m talking baseball ball cracking the window to smithereens close to home. Michelle shares of a run in with an intrusive woman at the grocery store she’s dubbed Owl Spectacles. Good ole OS has a thing or two to say about Michelle’s children.

Man, have I been there.

Picture this. I’m hustling my youngest (three at the time) into Stop & Shop to buy lettuce. Yup, that’s all I needed. I agreed to bring a salad to a get together in T minus two hours. It had been months since my husband and I had done anything considered social. I was desperate to get out of the house sans children.

Of course I allotted myself the smallest window of time to purchase the one item I couldn’t find in my fridge, the item essential to a salad—lettuce.

Let us go, then, I said to the young skipping child. Not two feet into the store, right near the shiny apples, young skipping child turned on me. Feel free to imagine the spinning head from The Exorcist. I know I was. Flailing. Low guttural noises spewing. Well, not quite. But you get the gist.

Along comes a spider (scratch that) a cheerful elderly woman who apparently wanted to do nothing but help assist me with my little “problem child.” I briefly explained my predicament, already frayed (or couldn’t you tell by I HAD TO GET OUT OF MY HOUSE comment above) to the Mother Teresa lady.

She gleefully offered to watch young swinging one while I dashed to snatch up a bag of lettuce. I hesitated, then thought, If only there were more women like her in the world. I reasoned, they’d remain within eyesight the entire time. I grabbed the greens, watching Mother Goose calm my child with Julie Andrews attentiveness. As I prepared to bolt, I thanked the woman profusely, gushing over her unexpected kindness. Meanwhile, I worked to grasp young slippery one in the same breath.

I must have thanked her too profusely because this is when she got all passive aggressive on me. I’m warning you, it isn’t pretty.

“Well,” she huffed, “You’re certainly not going to win the mother of the year award.” She stared me down as though I’d dropped my child to the bottom of a well instead of spontaneously deciding to put my faith in the Mother Teresa kindness of a stranger.

Then I did what most women would want to do at this moment. I slammed my fist into her . . . Okay, so no, I didn’t. I cried. That’s what I did. I tackled my child, somehow made my way to the checkout aisle, and whipped out my credit card with tears streaming down my cheeks. The checkout clerk said something nice, but of course that didn’t stay with me.

Fake Mother T’s words did. I internalized what she said. And I felt small. I could have recited the following lines from Spiritual Misfit word for word four years ago standing outside of Stop & Shop.

“But it was people—people with their comments and their judgments and their good intentions—who taxed my ability to behave as I should. My fellow human beings made the whole Christian attitude thing very, very difficult to achieve.”

I hated that I let Fake Mother T’s words sink so deep, hated that I’d handed over that power, hated how I was so skilled at internalizing everything—even the lies and things that sliced into me.

After reading Michelle’s grocery store tribulation it hit me. This Stop & Shop slaughter was an opportunity for me to grant grace, not only to Fake Mother T, but also to grant myself some grace.

Three takeaways from this post:

1.       Buy Michelle DeRusha’s book.

2.       Beware of Fake Mother T’s trolling the produce aisle at the grocery store.

3.       Know that every interaction, every hurt, every lingering sadness presents an opportunity to grant grace and to finally let go.

So tell me, do you have any grace-filled grocery store stories?

“Grace does not make sense. It’s not supposed to make sense. Grace cannot be calculated or formulated…it is all grace. It is all a gift. Life itself is grace. And when it comes to grace, the word deserve isn’t even part of the equation.” ~ Spiritual Misfit: A Memoir of Uneasy Faith

“To live by grace means to acknowledge my whole life story, the light side and the dark. In admitting my shadow side I learn who I am and what God's grace means.” ~ Brennan Manning

The Grace Effect

The Grace Effect: How the Power of One Life Can Reverse the Corruption of Unbelief by Larry Alex Taunton piqued my curiosity from the minute I read the back cover blurb. I read it during a two day road trip and found myself reading many paragraphs aloud to my husband.

Taunton’s impressionable and intellectual exploration of the impact an atheist society can have on its people stirred me and prompted me to rouse numerous related conversations.

Throughout the book, I remained engrossed in Taunton’s experience adopting a young Ukrainian girl from an orphanage that didn’t even provide children with toilet paper. Aching with compassion for Sasha, I found myself rooting for the ten-year-old, longing for her to be lovingly cared for and taken away from her current surroundings.

Taunton tackled potentially sensitive subject matter in an intriguing and often humorous way, detailing his personal adoption story, as well as Ukraine’s convoluted corrupt history, in a conjoined, and at times jolting back and forth portrayal.

The injection of grace through authentic Christian living is what appealed most to me in The Grace Effect.

I valued how as an avid debater and Christian apologist, Taunton concluded what I’ve all too often discovered in my own faith—that personal life change is the most radical, grace-filled, and merciful way to experience the impression of God. What a joy to watch as that kind of impression leaves its mark on others.

You know what I really hope? I hope someday I get to read about this story from Sasha’s perspective.

*I received a complimentary copy of this book from BookSneeze in exchange for this honest review