Workshopping Fun

This semester has been filled with classes I really enjoy. My favorites are Visual Communication, which I took on a whim and loved; American Sign Language, and signing with people has been really fun, and I can't wait until we're beyond simple vocabulary; and Creative Writing.

Though there have been different issues with the class (a post on that soon, perhaps), I have loved doing workshops.

Workshopping consists of everyone bringing twelve copies of their work and giving one to everyone, including the professor. Then, one by one, the author reads his work aloud, and everyone discusses it. "What is this about?" the professor will ask, or, "What was your favorite line in this poem?" Grammar, diction (word choice), tone, imagery, line breaks, are discussed. At last the author is allowed to speak and give a reply or ask questions.

I thought this would be rather intimidating. Having a professor, who is an interesting, cynical kind of man and ten peers who think very differently than I saying whatever they think about something that I have written--I figured it would be rather unpleasant, even if profitable. The slightest criticism of your work can be hard to take, for good writing is personal.

The first poem we were assigned was to be about a place. Immediately, I knew what I wanted to do. As soon as I left class, I began to write. I set up the scene:

Too many people, too much mess

I slip out of the house and into the yard

Past the garden and barn

And the neighbors’ field

Into the covering of trees

But it was to be 20 lines long. Writing like that, I wouldn't be able to do it within those limits. (Turns out that 20 lines was the minimum, not the limit, but I along with the rest of the class didn't know that at the time.) Besides I didn't really like it. So I started another one.

My Retreat

Swish, swish, shoes through the grass

Snap, snap, twigs underfoot

Twist, twist, snake through the trees

Slowing, slowing, the world and me.

Chirping cicadas all around

Soothe my mind with comforting sound.

Up ahead I see the log

Where once I sat and wept aloud.

Then it was high,

Now broken down.

Still damp and green with moss,

A place to sit and mourn a loss.

Yet I go on as setting sun

Slides through layer and layer of leaves

Quickening again, driven by pain of thought

Towards the place I know I ought

Not intrude, those industrial mounds.

Yet I go to gaze in the pools

And there in the silence my passion cools

In companionable solitude.

It wasn't quite what I wanted, however. The tone wasn't right. So I went there, to my "thinking spot" in the woods behind our house. There I was inspired to write again.

Heavy, so heavy

The thoughts in my head

I escape the walls

Pass the wild garden, full of green,

tall weeds. Pass the inviting swings

Into tangled opening.

Once again, treading the pathless path.

Familiar the place, familiar the solitude,

familiar the feeling.

Over there, that fallen log

Huge with open seat before its tangled roots

where I once sat and wept

Feeling alone.

Once too tall to swing my legs over,

Now broken down.

Beyond, mown path, yet tall, itchy growth.

Comforting, its silence

Comforting, the sounds from far away.

Damp, damp, is every seat

So I stand alone.

Then, while I was there, I wondered what I would have written should I have finished my first poem. So, I finished it.

Too many people, too much mess

I slip out of the house and into the yard

Past the garden and barn

And the neighbors’ field

Into the covering of trees

Where at last I yield

Voice to my yearning

Sound to my pain

Here where I come

Again and again.

I don’t want to leave

But time slides past

And I know they are calling

And will miss me at last.

The silence comforts my restless soul

The sounds are a balm, yet I must go.

A quick moment of panic when I think I’ve turned wrong

And do not remember the lay of that log.

I right myself, and it brings a smile.

I must depart, but just for a while.

Lovely, I realized: I now have three poems for the same assignment. How was I to decide which one to do?

I consulted my sister, and she liked the second one best. I dubbed it Isolation, printed twelve copies, and took it to class.

This first workshop, I rather cringed for some of the authors as people said what they thought. Even though it was all said in friendly critique, I imagined what I would feel if someone said it about what I had written. But to my surprise, I was excited and grinning as I left class and headed towards my brother and two of our friends, who are often studying outside of my class when I get out. I had loved it.

I like reading poems aloud. Both my creative writing professor and my American Poetry professor told me that I read well after I read a poem. It was fascinating indeed to hear what people said about my poem. I took notes.

There were some interesting comments: it reminded them of "a young lady marooned in a wilderness," "that scene in Forrest Gump" (which I now want to see) or "something from Alice in Wonderland." The tone was "sad" and "beaten-down."

One girl, who seems quiet but talks often because she is very literary-minded, talked about how it's someone who wants to belong but is struggling, and needs to find that one person who accepts her, a like-minded person.

They liked the imagery sense of the woods. Someone said you're not sure how to get there, but you know where you're going.

The professor said that the line "huge with open seat before its tangled roots" was "very interesting diction." That amused me.

He also asked what they thought about the last two lines, "Damp, damp, is every seat, so I stand alone."

One guy who is amusing in his comments, a communication major, but more of an article writer than a poet, said, "I liked it."

"I liked it, too," the professor replied. "But what does it imply?"

Someone said something like it wasn't the end. The professor sometimes speaks in a mimicking voice and he did now: "Get ready for part two! Isolation: the sequel!"

In one of the critiques we have to write for each person's poem (I love getting them too), one of the girls said that was her favorite line. She also said, "During the workshop, I could see you smiling to yourself because we were trying to analyze it, and you were originally writing about your backyard." That was true. It was so funny-I just wrote describing things, and they found them to mean all this profound stuff I never would have thought of.

The only thing that they really said I should change was elaborating on what "the sounds from far away" were. One guy said he would not change a thing. Another said, "I feel that it's complete and well written. The only thing is the comforting sounds aspect."

I find this often happens when I write under inspiration-I don't have as much that ought to be changed. When I am not writing under internal compulsion, it needs more revision.

The professor had a few more suggestions, such as the removal of two lines. Here's the revised, with changes in bold for those of you who don't like reading just for the sake of reading, which is probably most everyone, and for those of you who have better things to spend your time on that this lengthy whatever-you-call-it, not really an essay, which is all of you.

Isolation

Heavy, so heavy, my head                                     Professor said to remove "the thoughts in"

As I escape the walls,                                                                                                  and add as

Pass my wild garden, full of green,

tall weeds, pass the inviting swings

Amid manicured grass,

Into tangled opening.

Once again, treading the pathless path.

Familiar the place, familiar the solitude,

familiar the feeling.

Over there, that fallen log

Huge with open seat before its tangled roots         Removed the part about weeping alone 
Once too tall to swing my legs over,                                                at professor's suggestion

Now broken down.

Beyond, mown path, yet tall, itchy growth.

Comforting, its silence,

Comforting, the clanging and beeping of the backhoe     Elaboration on sounds as desired 
Invisible beyond the trees,

Comforting the murmur of cicadas all around
And faint voices calling my name.
Yet I go on as setting sun                                                                         Added these two lines 
Slides through layer and layer of leaves.                                   from one of my other poems

I do not return, not yet.                                                   After changes a transition was needed

Damp, damp, is every seat

So I walk on, alone.     Professor "liked the intention" of the last line, but "not sure about wording"

The second poem we workshopped was an ode or list poem. I wrote one about Kristen which I have already posted. This time, I wasn't inspired at first. Even though I was later with the idea, I still didn't get the execution quite right.

I knew they would have a lot more to say about this one. The first was just an anomaly since everyone happened to like it almost as it was. This time, workshopping would be less pleasant.

Once again, I was surprised to be leave with a grin because it was so much fun. Yes, they had suggestions on what should be changed, but I knew it needed them, and it was still fascinating to hear. My favorite things were two statements, surprising coming from my professor. One, he said, "I have a low tolerance for sappy [that is very true], and it wasn't raised until like the third stanza." The other was surprising because he usually wants people to give better imagery, more specific descriptions. "As far as descriptions and sounds, there is not a bad moment."

So I have been enjoying this class. But since my professor is always saying that nothing is completely good and they should touch on the less positive aspects of things, that shall be the topic of my next post.

Visions of A Girl

Today (well, granted today is gone), my little sister turned six years old. Six years. Six years ago I didn't realize how little we were. I remember so distinctly some of those days-Mom reading I Heard, Said the Bird (though Deanna and I knew already), telling people Mom was pregnant, sitting on Mom and Dad's bed talking about names, the day before and the day she was born, tearing ourselves away from her to go to Friday Night and the Hoedown.

Yet it's hard to really remember those times. Could this goofy girl really be that tiny, red little baby?

Looking through pictures for my class today (more about that soon!), I saw some adorable pictures of her at about two years old. I forgot she was so chubby! Seeing them, I remembered how she used to talk so funny. Now she says the most amusing, crazy things.

In honor of her birthday, I share a poem I wrote for my Creative Writing class. It's among my three favorite classes, in so far as the work I have to do. We had to write an ode or a list poem. I wasn't inspired at first, but then I thought of this and went with it. I am pretty happy with how it turned out, mostly.

Ode to My Sister

That plump little face dotted with red,
Edged with a double-chin.
Those crooked feet like a crescent moon,
Toes spread out like a fan.
That goofy one-sided smile
Caught through a point-and-shoot lens.
Those dark, damp rickrack locks
On the spongy blue back of a baby bath.
That math lesson brightened
By the steady breathing against my chest
Of a baby's body, lifted from a blue bassinet.
That delicious baby smell,
That delightful cry that nobody minds—
Memories drowned with seeing

A round, ruddy face crowned with curls,
Graced with a pretty smile.
A pair of feet toddling about
Or mounting to the upstairs hall.
A ponytail fountain with bangs grown out,
Cut short by chubby hands.
A first time washed in a big-girl bath,
All seen through my Canon lens.
A reaching of baby arms
To be picked up from the blue pack'n'play.
Siblings vying for her attention,
A partiality towards her brother's friends.
That adorable baby chatter
That annoying cry nobody wants to hear—
Images forgotten at the sight of

Questioning blue eyes set in a face
Alternating from smiling to furrowed brow.
The slender form in a bright swimsuit,
Feet encased in winter boots.
The girl with mangled mess of unbrushed hair
Taking a shower alone. The constant begging that whatever she’s done
Be captured with my Canon lens.
The pondering of birthday parties
And nights at Hannah's house.
The comfort of putting her arms around me
Preferred to the excitement of a blue toddler's bed.
The crazy, constant questions,
The whining that everyone minds.
Sights soon to be lost in an older girl's face
That’s always adding years,
Each as precious as before,
Yet different,
The changing visions of a girl.

-Jeannette Beerbower
September 2013

Well, someone promised me that she would sleep with me after her birthday ("Is that really exciting?"), so I shall join her.

Another Surprise Party

You might think we'd get tired of it after a while.

I mean, how many have we done?

The planning is confusing.

 We spend days or weeks or months, even, trying to coordinate schedules-without being found out.

Everything could be done more simply.

And yet, we continue to pursue the unexpected.

We take the more difficult route.

We guess and connive.

We run with excitement.

We gesticulate and discuss and argue and wonder.

We hope we haven't messed anything up.

We wait...

and wait...

and hide...

and at last, we cry out, "Now!" and with beating heart, jump out.

And all this for that one moment.

All for a few seconds of excitement.

All for the look of surprise on a friend's face.

All for the fun that lasts a few minutes, just to amuse ourselves.

Why?

For the memories.

For that look,

that flattered, happy face,

for the cry, "Well, that was a surprise,"

that makes everything worth it.

Yes, we did another surprise birthday party. We hid in the cornfields by the Cornwells' (yeah, I'm amused by that juxtaposition) and waited for Parker to come home with his father. Then we jumped out, and, naturally, the boys jumped him.

And we sang one of the most beautiful happy birthdays I've ever heard. There was one at youth group I remember that was absolutely horrific, but no other one comes to mind that was notably worse.

Isaac valiantly attempted to rescue his brother. (Yes, he was still pinned to the ground while we sang happy birthday.)

This was one of the most successful surprise birthday parties we have done. Parker said, "When I saw people running, I thought, 'Oh, my family is coming out.' Then I realized that was way too many people to be my family."

 On a scale of one to ten? "I've never been more surprised."

Oh, yeah. Success!

Parker with his sister Abby, the mastermind behind the party.

The party continued with lots of fun at the Cornwells' hospitable household, beginning with a tour of their beautiful, peaceful house.

 There was a bit of volleyball in the rain, and exploring of their reading room.

Including a discussion of what tolle lege means, which no one seemed to remember.

(It appropriately means take up and read.)

Eric and Nick excitedly discovered world peace.

Some of us enjoyed perusing what books they had.

With pizza and other yummy munchies, a game of four-on-a-couch (which almost ended a number of times with either side winning and finally was drawn, two-and-two on a couch), another lovely singing of happy birthday, some ice cream sandwich cake (Parker successfully blew out his one candle), and a final few games of Mafia, we bade them goodnight and Parker happy birthday and concluded the day an all-around success.

It's worth it, every time.

Searched and Known

O LORD, You have searched me--

I've memorized the passage, and this time expected to read through it quickly. But that was as far as I got.

O LORD, You have searched me--

I thought I would focus more on the next line, the part I had been thinking about: "and known me." But my eyes wouldn't go past these words. I tried to go on, but they stopped.

O LORD, You have searched me--

I can't even imagine how many times I have read or heard that line. But I don't think I ever really thought about that before. I've always kind of lumped it together with "and known me." But it says, You have searched me.

Have you ever considered that the Lord searched you?

I don't know if that's an important distinction, but it struck me. Of course, God knows all things, so His searching out isn't quite the same as ours. But even speaking of Him as searching you out is kind of mind-boggling. Not that He just knows, but that He puts effort into it. I thought of it as when you have a dear friend and you observe her, note her responses, remember what she likes and does not, listen to what she says, draw out her ideas, because you seek to know and understand her and how she thinks. Why? Because you delight in her, care about her, want to know what to do to please and encourage her.

And God did this for us?

I was going to read Psalm 139 because I was rejoicing and in awe of God's care for me-that God, God the Creator, the Lord of the universe, understands me better than I do myself, that He "knows my thoughts afar off."  Now even more the thought arrested me: He knows me, not on accident, not because He is God so He has to know everything, but because He has searched me, because He cares for me, because He chose to.

We tend to diminish everything about God. Naturally, for we cannot comprehend how much bigger He is. And naturally because, everyone is naturally afraid of what he does not know, of things he cannot control, of things that are different than what he is used to. So we diminish His glory, His perfection, His judgement, His sovereignty, and His love.

It makes sense, without the wisdom that is from above.

I mean, who, if they really knew you, completely, fully, with all your faults and hidden sins, could really love you? Maybe a man could, knowing the sin in his own life. But God? Perfection, loving me? And not because, y'know, it's that family member you really ought to know and love; they're family, after all; but if it weren't for that, you'd never try. No, but He chose and searched me out - me, a creature that He formed - discovered all my faults, faults that no one else knows, and loves me still.

Such love is humbling. It reminds me of a quote I love from Aslan: "That is both honor enough to erect the head of the poorest beggar, and shame enough to bow the shoulders of the greatest emperor on earth. Be content."

God's love is so abundant. I mean, sending Jesus to die for us, propitiation so we don't have to go to hell, and caring for our needs is way more than we deserve. And that would be enough to boggle our minds: a holy God sacrificing to save sinners, providing for their needs.

But God isn't paying child support. He is a true Father. The best sort of father who understands His child in such a way that He knows him, what he will do and what he needs, better than His child does. He is "acquainted with all my ways." He has searched out His child.

Pretty awesome, isn't it?

"Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it."

You're Gonna Miss This

Last weekend the girls in my family took a trip together. As we drove, we sometimes listened to music, including "You're Gonna Miss This." Riding home as the chorus played, I "took a good look around" at the faces of my sisters and mother and tucked the moment away in my memory.

When I got to spend time this week with some friends I had been missing, the song came to mind. As I enjoyed being in their home, the song quite often ran through my head, and I treasured that time.

You're gonna miss this
You're gonna want this back
You're gonna wish these days
Hadn't gone by so fast

These are some good times
So take a good look around
You may not know it now
But you're gonna miss this

I thought of last winter, when we had seen people so much during Christmas break. It was a fun, special time, and things have changed a lot since. Yet had I treasured that time? Not consciously.

It says in Ecclesiastes 7:10, "Do not say, 'Why were the former days better than these?' For you do not inquire wisely concerning this."

There are, as Lamentations teaches, different seasons of life. People come and go, activities change, what occupies your thoughts varies. I love where I am at now, the people I am close to, those I think of often, this stage of life...most of the time, anyway. But it is easy to look back at the "olden days" with longing. And to miss the glory of the moment.

Longing for the future, we forget to be grateful for the present. In a few years or months, even weeks or days, many troubles are forgotten and we miss how things used to be. People grow and change, and this is good, yet sad. I think this is one way eternity is written on our hearts-we know we want things to last forever.

My friend Ruthie noticed how Kristen misses me so much when I'm gone, and being a youngest herself, said she didn't think older siblings realize how much the younger kids look up to them and miss them. I've thought about that and my relationship with Kristen a lot since then.

A number of people have told me, "She really loves you." When she runs up to me, wraps her arms around me, and says, "I really missed you!" when I've only been gone for the evening and says, "My misses never leave" when I tell her that...when she offers to sing me to sleep, but asks me to tell her the words because she can't remember more than half a verse...when she holds onto my legs and tells me she won't let me go to a sleepover because she will miss me and wants to sleep with me...I realize this season won't last forever. Already, that sweet time when I used to rock her to sleep as a little baby is gone, and very faded in my memory, though I thought I would never forget.

Time seems to get faster and faster, and though it seems far off, before too long, I'll be coming to pick my little sister up to catch up on what she's up to, to talk about what she wants to do with her life, what she's learning in school or youth group or church, or calling to ask if Kristen can come over and watch my kids. It seems far away, yes, but being the age I am now used to seem old.

So I'm trying to treasure the moments. Another song, "Just Fishin'," talks about a guy taking his daughter fishing, and I like it for this idea.

Fishin' on the river side,
Throwin' back what we could fry,
Drownin' worms an killin' time,
Nothin' too ambitious

She ain't even thinkin' 'bout what's really goin' on right now
But I guarantee this memory's a big'un
And she thinks we're just fishin'

I guess my thought is that for now, time is a limited, precious commodity. Until we reach heaven, we are constrained by time. What glory it will be when we are not! They say time is money, and money should be spent freely for the benefit of people. What else is it good for? Make the most of the time you have. Purposefully build relationships. Relationships are the only things that last beyond this life-relationships with God and with His people.

It's not that we should obsess, but that we should rejoice in what we have. How thankful we should be for what is happening right now in life! Soon, things will change. You don't know what will happen tomorrow. Praise God for where you are now.

Jesus Will Help Me Find My Life

"Out of the mouths of babes and nursing infants He has perfected praise."

                                                                          - Matthew 21:16

Have you ever heard a little kid "sing" a song they make up on the spot, whatever comes to mind? You never know what exactly will come out next. And you can never quite remember it afterwards, and without a precise tune you cannot repeat it, so anyone who wasn't there can't fully understand what they did. If you're lucky, you have a video camera ready.

Today I was working on a blog post, with my little sister jabbering away to Amy in the background. I was amused by their conversation, but I wasn't really listening. Kristen started to sing in that kid style, with randomness in word and tune. She sang about how she loves everything, but not animals that are mean and hurt you. Still, I paid scant attention until when she started a "new song," something caught my ear.

 "Jesus will help me find my life out because He is powerful," she babbled. 

Did she really say that? I wondered. That's pretty profound for a five-year-old, and I'm pretty sure nobody told her something like that. 

Hmm...this might be interesting. I started typing out what she said. I did not catch it all, but this was the gist.

Jesus will help me find my life out because He is powerful
What happened to my life, what happened to my life, what happened to my life

(This sounded like a real song the way it repeated.)
 
Jesus gonna help me find where on earth is my life
Guys, I think you will laugh and I know you will and it's not funny

(She knows people laugh at her and sometimes tells us not to.)
 
And I don't have a life because I lost it when I was singing because someone took it
I'm going to go ask my friends and I'm going to go around and ask everybody until I find it
Where is my life?
I have it now
Jesus gave it back to me
I am happy about my life

(Seriously? Did she really just say that?)
 
Jesus gave it back to me and I am happy
I found my life and those things are funny but it's not funny I lost my life
I losed my life again and it's not funny

(It amuses me how she says losed rather than lost.)

I'm gonna ask everybody again
Then I can get my life back with Jesus
And this is the end and fingernail polish and spray and things
And I found my life back again.

(I love the random stuff she threw in at the end!)

"And that's the end," she sings. She ends by asking Amy, "Are you happy what I found my life again?"

One thing about little kids: they mix the mundane and the sacred all together. She went on to sing about some other random thing and then to pretend to doctor Amy.

It's a lesson we might take, as we older people are often timid to speak of anything spiritual if we don't have a good way of bringing it up, if it's not a natural part of conversation.

"I lost my life and Jesus gave it back to me," she sang.

Yep. Out of the mouth of that child, the answer to everything. "Jesus gave it back to me and I am happy."

At that time Jesus answered and said, “I thank You, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that You have hidden these things from the wise and prudent and have revealed them to babes. - Matthew 11:25