Ten Books

Ten Books.  Thanks, Marie Newell Walden.  I think.

I have to admit that this scares me.  But I'm glad she tagged me, because that means she cares about what I think.  I think.

According to the most recent FB sharing-thingy, you're supposed to:  "list 10 books that have stayed with you in some way. Don't take more than a few minutes and don't think too hard--they don't have to be "right" or "great" works, just ones that have touched you."

I know they don't have to be "right" or "great" works, and that part doesn't bother me so much.(although I do retain a slight envy for some of my friends from seriously-literate homes)

The real problem is that I can't even seem to wrap my head around where to start.  It's that "Don't take more than a few minutes and don't think too hard" part that is troubling me. Because summoning those book titles.......  I know that if I do this right, it will take me back to a chair or a season or a heartbreak or an epiphany.  Good books, the really good ones, are like that.

There really is only one place to start:  6th grade.

1.  A Wrinkle in Time, Madeliene L'Engle:  the first time I realized that there was somewhere more than this world and somewhen more than this time.  See, I can't stop using the word "time!  What the hell IS time anyway?!  Mind=blown.  My absent father's Ethan Allen black leather chair.  Spring Break. Age 12.

2.  The Grey King, Susan Cooper:  Responsible for the fact that I still always spell "grey" the English way.  Lessons Learned:  Honourable Good Wins.  Setting Matters.  Fate.

3.  Flowers in the Attic, V.C. Andrews:   Seriously, if you were in high school in the early 80's, and DON'T include this book, I'll call you a liar.  Evil is Real.  Horrible things Happen.  Is it ok to enjoy this book so much?
And shit, that author has the SAME LAST NAME AS ME!

4.  The Chosen, Chaim Potok:   Easily one of the first real grown-up literature books I read ON MY OWN.  A book I chose (from a selected list of books, however).  Haha!  You see now the power of choosing!  Understanding the idea that within one religion, there are many.

5.  Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte:  Lying on my tiny single bed at the University of Lancaster, age 22.  The moors of northern England were my backyard.  It was early spring.  I was in love with everything.  I was the only one I knew who hadn't read it.  The language carried me away.  I had no idea that a novel could be all this.

6.  The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger:  This kid's life makes absolutely no sense to me, and yet I understand exactly how he feels.  How is that even possible?

7.  Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte:  These characters' lives make absolutely no sense to me, and yet I understand exactly how they feel. Another one of the books I "chose" to read from Ms. Six's list (AP English, Senior Year)  Sometimes wish I hadn't read this one on my own, but had had some guidance.  It truly is, as Dante proclaimed, a "fiend of a book — an incredible monster."   Heeeeaaattthhhhhcliffffff!!!!!!!

8.  The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien:  I didn't read The Hobbit until I was in my early 40's and had two school-age boys.  I was blown away.  I couldn't figure out how in the world I had come through my childhood without this.  I cursed my family.  I cursed my teachers.
I could read it a hundred times.  I want to read it again.  My husband and boys are watching part II of the movie at this very moment. I have no desire ever to see it.  Part I was the sorriest excuse for a movie made from a book EVER.

9.  Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins:  Philosophy can be funny.  Everything is connected.
“The rich are the most discriminated-against minority in the world. Openly or covertly, everybody hates the rich because, openly or covertly, everybody envies the rich. Me, I love the rich. Somebody has to love them. Sure, a lot o’ rich people are assholes, but believe me, a lot o’ poor people are assholes, too, and an asshole with money can at least pay for his own drinks.” 
My husband does not like Tom Robbins.  Sometimes I wonder how I can be married to him!

10.  Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov:  Duh.

These books found their way to me through people, mainly teachers and friends, and sometimes, yes, even family.

Not a single one of them was formally "taught", however.

Please share with me one of your ten in the comments, if you feel the desire.  I would love to learn more about the readerly you....

words of wisdom

My more-often-than-not awesome husband, while reclining in bed, in response to our discussion of The Chosen in which I said, "You know, that was the first religious book I read that had a profound effect on me", promptly retorted:

"The first religious book I read that had a profound effect on me was Mad Magazine.

what is new is old

If you have a reader in your family between the ages of about seven and eleven, then you will certainly have heard of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. The story's the same as always: young outcast finds out he is the chosen one. It's been called a rip off by so many; there is no need to add my voice to the critics.

What matters to me is this: Percy Jackson and the Olympians-The Lightning Thief is the first novel (besides the graphic novels of classics he reads at school) that my 9-year-old son finished on his own. In anticipation of the movie release on Feb. 12th, I began reading it to him. About 3/4 of the way through, I realized we would never finish in time--if he wanted to see the film, he would have to finish the book on his own. He wasn't happy about this. And yet, inspired by his friends Ursen and Albert, he persisted.

Today, Bennett proudly proclaimed to me that he is on chapter 4 in the next book in the series (there are five). It will most likely be the first book he will have read from cover to cover. I knew his time would come.

Because of Percy Jackson, my older son's knowledge of Greek mythology is far superior to mine. Recently, while admiring a painting with me in a local gallery (it's number 4), he had the opportunity to fill in my knowledge gaps on the subject of Morpheus. Nothing like being lectured to by a 10-year-old in front of a group of strangers!

Last Friday, a group of us took the afternoon off from school in order to be the first ones to see the film. The boys made their own Camp Half-Blood t-shirts and beaded necklaces. Suzanne found her inner Medusa, and I had no problem being "the fury hiding inside the teacher". Together, our geeky fun-loving clan took up an entire row of the theater!

The movie, quite frankly, was pretty mediocre. Enough has been written about that as well. But I have found you can pretty much enjoy anything, as long as you lower your expectations, and smuggle chocolate into the show! After the movie, over bagels and cream cheese, the kids and grown ups discussed the differences between the book and the movie. (Far too many to even begin!)

There will be time enough to become serious critics of literature and film. Until then, we will continue to be inspired and entertained by the same old story. Inspired to dress up, to make believe, and to dream our lives into bigger possibilities.

a penny for your thoughts

I poured 18,953 pennies out of six different containers into the counting machine at Air Academy Federal Credit Union today. Ok, so there were a few nickels and dimes, but for the most part, people did as my students asked and only put in pennies.

Back in September, my students and I began reading Three Cups of Tea: One Man’s Journey to Change the World...One Child at a Time, the Young Readers edition of Greg Mortenson's bestseller. It has everything a Pre-GED diverse adult education class could ever want: perfect reading level (6/7th grade), the power of persistence, a hero, family, the value of education, religion, current events, foreign lands, guns, war, hope. We have had some amazing class discussions this semester. There were many times when I just let them go and listened....

After watching some videos, my students became ever more interested and inspired to do something. So I let them.

Pennies for Peace is deceptively simple: collect pennies and donate them to help build more schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan. But the lessons learned by those who plan and carry out and participate in the penny collecting go deep. My students range in age from 17-54, and they are either immigrants for whom English is their second language, or native speakers for whom the system simply never worked. For most of them, philanthropic giving is the absolute last thing on their minds. Some of the other teachers were even leery of the idea of a penny drive at first, because they didn't want to impose upon the already economically fragile lives of many of our students.

What I found, however, is that having the opportunity to be the GIVER is so very empowering! Remembering that someone is struggling even more than you can be a great motivator to not give up yourself. Alone, we can't do much, but together, we can. I know it sounds cheesy, and it is, but it's REAL. Just like the Velveteen Rabbit.

And organizing a campaign is a way to learn all kinds of real-life, valuable skills (NONE of which I wrote an objective on the board for, mind you).

Tomorrow, the "Pennies for Peace Committee" will make an on-line donation to the Central Asia Institute for $189.53. A drop in the ocean. Their drop. Who knows how far the ripples will travel.

coloring mandalas with my boys on a snowy sunday morning

"Only gradually did I discover what the mandala really is: 'Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind’s eternal recreation'. And that is the self, the wholeness of the personality, which if all goes well is harmonious, but which cannot tolerate self-deceptions” (MDR 195-196).
-Carl G. Jung

The Master of the Mandala quotes Mephistopheles!

Faust [inspired]. Good! Gripping it, I feel new strength arise,
My breast expands. On, to the great emprise!
Mephistopheles. When you at last a glowing tripod see,
Then in the deepest of all realms you'll be.
You'll see the Mothers in the tripod's glow,
Some of them sitting, others stand and go,
As it may chance. Formation, transformation,
Eternal Mind's eternal re-creation.
Images of all creatures hover free,
They will not see you, only wraiths they see.
So, then, take courage, for the danger's great.
Go to that tripod, do not hesitate,
And touch it with the key!

Grant's:


In the Preface of the book that Ursen gave to Bennett for his 9th birthday, the author/artist says: "When coloring these mandalas children intuitively know what to do: they easily choose a design they like and the colors they want to use. By the time we are adults, most of us have lost this spontaneity and often ask: what should I do? My answer is to forget your 'shoulds'."

Bennett's:


While forgetting my shoulds, I also shunned my duties and ignored my lists. I had hot coffee, a kitchen table littered with colored pencils, and my two boys. 'Twas lovely.

Mine:


I was amazed not only by the meditative state-of-mind I found myself in, but also by the lines of communication that were suddenly opened up between myself, Grant, and Bennett. We talked about life, the universe, and everything in a way we never had before. Maybe it's because they're getting older, (and therefore, let's face it, more interesting to talk to!), but I have no doubt that some of it was due to the magic of the mandala.

After our mandalas were cut out and taped to the walls, G and B walked to the Farm Crest by themselves for the first time (in the snow!), and bought a dozen eggs.

There's a correlation there, I swear.

i do like visiting graves...

You're The Canterbury Tales!

by Geoffrey Chaucer

You are extremely old. Somewhat lyrical in your approach to life,
you prefer that most things are said in rhythm. At the same time, you are known for
using words that the common people would know, rather than speaking in a more
elaborate tongue. This gives you credibility with the working class, who you would
give an equal voice alongside the wealthy or powerful. You like contests, long walks
on the road, and visiting graves.


Take the Book Quiz II
at the Blue Pyramid.

bennettism #101

In an honestly frustrated, nearly angry voice: "But I just don't get it, why is it named after a magazine?!"

Bennett - while discussing whether or not we should go see Battle of the Smithsonian this afternoon.

Grandma's influence on my children will be everlasting. At our house, they read Horrible Harry and Harry Potter; at Grandma's house, they read The New Yorker, Tintin, National Geographic, and, yes, Smithsonian..

arundhati roy

Author of one of my favorite novels, The God of Small Things, and now there's this:



and this:

wuthering heights

The horizons ring me like faggots,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their dirty wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.

I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.

Sylvia Plath

the tale of despereaux

Arghhh!!!! I feel such anger at Kate diCamillo for letting Hollywood destroy her perfect little gem of a novel! Sadness for the children who may now never bother to read the modern-day fairy tale! Disappointment that something so seemingly dark but unbelievably charming was turned into something so mediocre and watered-down!

I read The Tale of Despereaux aloud to my boys about a year ago, in the February darkness, when they were seven and eight. It was one of the most profound experiences we have ever had reading together. I knew it would be a challenge to turn the exquisite language and themes of the novel into a film, but I thought the same about Charlotte's Web as well, and was pleasantly surprised by the screen version. I suppose my hopes were too high.

Do yourself and your children a favor, please: for the price of only one movie ticket, you can buy the book. Read it aloud together. Caress the uneven pages along the edges, marvel at the illustrations, talk about what it means to be yourself, about what happens to people when they are mistreated, about what it means to find light in "Once upon a time....."

The themes are heavy and dark, and for this reason alone, I know parents who have dismissed it. They are idiots. They forget that for true redemption, there must be real sadness, real suffering. Children need not be sheltered from these kinds of stories. They are powerful beyond measure.

For those that don't like Despereaux's themes of abuse, servitude and death (the themes that were completely left out of the movie!), I would refer you to this lengthy, but appropriate comment from C.S. Lewis:

"A serious attack on the fairy tale as children's literature comes from those who do not wish children to be frightened....Those who say that children must not be frightened may mean two things. They may mean (1) that we must not do anything likely to give the child those haunting, disabling, pathological fears against which ordinary courage is helpless: in fact, phobias....Or they may mean (2) that we must try to keep out of his mind the knowledge that he is born into a world of death, violence, wounds, adventure, heroism and cowardice, good and evil. If they mean the first I agree with them: but not if they mean the second. The second would indeed be to give children a false impression and feed them on escapism in the bad sense. There is something ludicrous in the idea of so educating a generation which is born to.…the atomic bomb. Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage...

By confining your child to blameless stories of child life in which nothing at all alarming ever happens, you would fail to banish the terrors, and would succeed in banishing all that can ennoble them or make them endurable.For in the fairy tales, side by side with the terrible figures, we find the immemorial comforters and protectors, the radiant ones; and the terrible figures are not merely terrible, but sublime. It would be nice if no little boy in bed, hearing or thinking he hears, a sound, were ever at all frightened. But if he is going to be frightened, I think it better that he should think of giants and dragons than merely of burglars. And I think St George, or any bright champion in armour, is a better comfort than the idea of police."

second time around

I've never understood the need to watch a film more than once. People who own movies confound me. There's only so much time we are given in life, shouldn't we use it to learn/experience something new? I've also felt the same way about books. Or at least I used to. In fact, before this summer, I think the only book I had ever read twice was Anna Karenina.

I've had a hard time starting and finishing books over the past year or so. My mind wanders. Or I'm not interested in the characters and their mundane problems. Or there's not enough sex. Or there's too much plot. Or I'm half way through and can already see the end, and it's either happily ever after or a train wreck so there's no sense in going on.

This summer, in order to stave off the fear that I will never finish another book, I decided to abandon any possibility of a new novel, and revisit some of my favorites. Ones I know I actually finished once upon a time, and enjoyed. Ones I know fundamentally changed the way I saw the world and/or my place in it. I wanted to read the books I read when I was 11 or 23.

The first book I picked up was The Hobbit. It was fun. And funny. I had forgotten, in all of the Lord of the Rings-movie-big-battle-hype, how funny and sweet Tolkien was in that first little adventure. I fell in love with Bilbo Baggins all over again.

The next book I picked up (and just finished this morning) was Jitterbug Perfume. If you are a Tom Robbins fan, you'll know why. What I remember, from being in my early 20's, was that Jitterbug Perfume fundamentally awakened in me something I already knew. It was like Tom Robbins took what was already in my heart and soul, and put it on paper. Jitterbug Perfume values mythology over reality, the magical over the mundane, and manages to bring together history, metaphor, religion, politics, philosophy, sex, immortality, and, yes, dancing and perfume into one big gigantic soup of individual liberty and otherworldly/othertimely possibilities. Anyone who doesn't like this book is really not eligible to be my friend.

Next up on the list: The Dark is Rising Series by Susan Cooper. I read them when I was in 6th grade. I can't wait to read them again and find out why I loved them so much.

What books did you love when you were 11?
What books did you love when you were 23?

Tell me this, and I will know who you are.

america vs. afghanistan: a non-survival story

I read The Sewing Circles of Herat last year. Hosted book club at my house. My husband and boys dressed up like Pashtuns and served us all tea.
At the same time, NEWSPEAK! was calling for real-life survival stories.

The confluence of those two influences led me to write the following words (with minor revisions) just over a year ago:

I have survived 12 years of marriage to a short-tempered squirrel-shooter who grew up in Afghanistan as the son of a diplomat.
I have not survived marriage to a short-tempered Afghan tribal warrior.

I survived English Lit 101, strolling through campus to class with a backpack full of books, paper, and pens.
I have not survived reading James Joyce knowing I could be hanged for doing so, having smuggled in books, paper, and pens under sewing materials in my handbag.

I survived the reelection of George Bush in 2004 when we thought the world would end.
I have not survived a military coup in which two of my cousins, my brother, and my uncle were all captured, tortured, and murdered.

I survived a body cast for four months when I was one, hot and itchy and immobile.
I have not survived years as a woman in a burqa, hot and itchy and invisible.

I survived two pregnancies and two natural childbirths.
I have not survived a bloody miscarriage in a war-torn country.

I have survived my boys playing war games with guns and swords in the backyard.
I have not survived my boys being given Kalishnikovs on their 5th birthdays.

I survived my father leaving my mother for his secretary when I was four years old.
I have not survived my father being dragged by his feet down the hallway by a dozen men with rifles, never to see him again.

empire lite?

Yesterday, a graphic representation of Howard Zinn's A People's History of the United States was published. It's called, simply, A People's History of American Empire. Real American history in comic book form! What more could we possibly ask for?!

Here is one of the most amazing 8 and a half minutes of succinct video I've ever seen. It's Howard Zinn's essay "Empire or Humanity? What The Classroom Didn't Teach Me About the American Empire", and contains images from the newly published book. Viggo Mortenson narrates. The video is worth watching, if not for the content, then for the sexy way in which the word "Louisiana" comes sensuously rolling out of Mr. Mortenson's mouth.



You can read the full text of the essay at TomDispatch.com.

sexus 123

I read about this meme awhile back at Maria's place - Just Eat Your Cupcake. The story of how her blog got its name is particularly hilarious and worth reading, especially for those of you with young children.

Here's the deal:
You are supposed to look up from your computer, look around the room where you are sitting, and pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the 5th sentence on that page and then post the next three sentences. Easy enough.

Well, the book I have been reading for the past two weeks or so is Sexus by Henry Miller. I finally finished it while driving home from Utah, but it's still sitting here on the floor by my bed, waiting to be shelved on a bookshelf I'm afraid will topple over and kill me in the middle of the night, loaded down as it is. Here's what Mr. Miller has to say on p. 123. At the moment, he is driving out to Long Island with some interesting characters when he realizes that Walt Whitman was born somewhere nearby and mentions going to visit his birthplace.

"Do you know where?" shouted MacGregor.
"No, but we could ask someone."
"Oh, the hell with that!"

Sorry it wasn't one of the more sexy or philosophical bits! But in its own way, I think perhaps it is. Sometimes it is better to go somewhere, to just drive or travel, without directions......you never know where you will end up.......... or with whom. :-)

Consider yourself tagged. I look forward to reading about your page 123's..... or just put them in the comments if you'd rather.

P.S. I wish I would have read this book when I was 20.

a nickel and dime

Expose Yourshelf now has 15 posts! What is most interesting to me, and what I never anticipated, is that it has become as much about the process as the product. Meeting new friends, friends of friends, and strangers.... all this has been incredibly rewarding in a personal, relational kind of way that I hadn't expected. I also know that the simple act of taking the photos has been meaningful to many of you in some way, and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Thanks to everyone who has participated in my project so far. And if you haven't sent me your bookshelf pic, please do. Here are the rules.

what book are you? round two, just for fun, if i don't like oprah

You're Lolita!

by Vladimir Nabokov

Considered by most to be depraved and immoral, you are obsessed with
sex. What really tantalizes you is that which deviates from societal standards in every
way, though you admit that this probably isn't the best and you're not sure what causes
this desire. Nonetheless, you've done some pretty nefarious things in your life, and
probably gotten caught for them. The names have been changed, but the problems are real.
Please stay away from children.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

what book are you?

You're One Hundred Years of Solitude!

by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.
Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet there
is something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life all
the more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

hmmmm......

all i want

I realize it's not exactly humble to ask for birthday presents from close friends and far away friends and blog friends and complete strangers, but that's what I'm going to do. Today is my birthday. I'm 41. And all I want are two things. Number one: what I have right this moment - a husband cooking spaghetti, two boys baking brownies, and a trip to see The Water Horse with my family later. Number two: what I hope to have after you read this - a photo of your bookshelf.

I first attempted to spell out my brainstorm here. And then I actually started up the blog here.

Now all it needs is you. Click on the link to find out the details. I can't wait. Thanks. And pass it on.

on being chosen

As a young girl of about seven or eight, I loved browsing through the Illustrated Children’s Bible in the waiting room when I went to get my weekly allergy shot. One picture I remember vividly: a darkened room, a boy in his bed, and a glowing Jesus standing in the middle of the room, arms outstretched. The boy was peering out from under the covers at Jesus, slightly afraid, or perhaps in awe. I never bothered to read the story on the page opposite the illustration; all I knew was that I wanted Jesus to come into my room like that. I wouldn't be afraid. I would crawl into his welcoming arms and rest there awhile, knowing he came just for me. I had faith, but I needed proof. I didn’t know then that faith was what you had when you didn’t need any proof.

At night, I would wait for Jesus under my pink gingham sheets. I would whisper under the covers, “Jesus, if you are really real, you will come into my room this night.” (I tried hard not to sound demanding or desperate or doubtful, but it never worked). I prayed. I made deals. I begged. Night after night. He never showed. I was raised to believe in miracles: Lazarus, loaves and fishes, the meek inheriting the earth (ok, this one hasn't happened yet, but I believed, and still believe, it will). I fully expected one to happen to me. I'd like to say that this was where my doubt in religion began. I'd like to say I was one of those wise-beyond-her-years characters in a novel. But instead of doubting Jesus, I doubted my own power to make him show up. As if making Jesus appear in my bedroom at night were actually something I had any control over!

The conclusion I drew was a sad one: obviously, I was not good enough, not pure enough, not worthy enough, for Jesus to come into my room at night.

About this same time, I saw the movie Escape to Witch Mountain. That's it! I was to be chosen not by Jesus, but by Magic. I had abilities far superior than the average child! I was a witch! I just knew I could make those sturdy books fly across the room and into my hands with sheer willpower. And so I sat on the sofa and stared across the living room at our bookshelves. Day after day, I applied myself to my new task. I concentrated. I focused. I almost passed out. Sometimes I swear I saw a book jiggle a little, especially the ones on the top shelf, but nothing ever came of it. And my doubt in my own power grew. Because I still believed in Magic.

I wonder how many kids today lie awake at night on the eve of their 11th birthday, waiting expectantly for an owl to show up.

Next it was the extraterrestrials. Fed by Close Encounters of the Third Kind and ET, my mind raced with the idea that aliens, surely, would see my desperate plight. During warm summer nights, my mother would let my brother and I sleep in the backyard under the stars. Staring up at the night sky, I waited for friendly aliens to come and carry me away to another, better place. I sent frantic, telepathic messages into the worlds beyond... Pick ME! Choose ME! I had no fear of them, just as I had no fear of a strange glowing man in my room at night. I knew they would come for me. I was special.

You know the ending.

Eventually, fundamentalist Christianity came along. Picture, if you will, a 13-year-old girl in the throes of puberty, lost in a spinning dance outdoors at the Jesus Northwest Festival. Somewhere in the middle of that crowded field, I met the holy spirit face-to-face (it was red, all red), fell on the grass, and, to this day, still don't know whether I laughed or wept. I hadn’t been chosen by Jesus or Magic or Aliens, but by God Himself! I’m still not exactly sure what happened to me that evening, but I do know that my body was aroused, my mind was open, the music was loud, and I felt, for the first time in my life, unconditional love.

I gave up on organized religion shortly thereafter, realizing hypocrisy at the ripe old age of 15 or so. At least I can say my foray into the born-again realm was short-lived. But the intensity of that evening has never left me. I have recreated it at other times in my life, with Dead shows or drugs or dancing or sex, but nothing has ever come close to that first time.

People who don’t understand evangelicals have never had this kind of experience, I would presume. They dismiss with disgust the swaying worshippers in New Life with their hypnotic music, hands in the air. I don’t laugh at them because I understand their desperate need to belong, to know someone loves them, to be chosen.

The thing about fundamentalists of all religions is that they KNOW they are chosen, and there is something powerful and soothing in that. And terribly, terribly frightening. If you believe you are chosen, you have all things instantly: faith, purpose, meaning, and all the right answers.

All this leads me to my own young children at this time of year, so willing to believe in Santa. Santa tells you that you are special... he reads YOUR letters, comes to YOUR house, knows just what YOU want. He feeds an ancient, holy, human need. For my older one, it is almost a desperate need. It seems as if he is clinging to his faith in Santa, even though he knows the truth already.

Younger: “I don't get it, I mean how do the reindeer actually FLY? And how does Santa get EVERYWHERE in one night with all those presents?"
Older: “Duh!.... MAGIC!” This one, he has all the answers. No questions asked. He believes fervently in dragons, ghosts, monsters, and magic. He believes all movies are real, no matter what we tell him to the contrary. He would believe in God so easily, if we just let him.

What I feel compelled to do now, more than anything, is to let people (my children, my students, random strangers on the street, my beloved few readers....) know that they are chosen. Maybe not for something great, but at least for something important. Something good, with meaning, that is ultimately larger than themselves. We cannot hope or pray or wish or will things into existence. We cannot make others come to us. We may have been abandoned, or we may just feel abandoned, but we can choose as well as be chosen. With this knowledge, comes power.

And what I know so deeply and painfully in my heart is this: If we don't let our kids know each and every fucking day of the year that we CHOSE them, that we love them NO MATTER WHAT, then SOMETHING ELSE WILL! It might be fundamentalist religion or a sexual predator or the wrong kid at the wrong time or shopping or addiction. Because to feel powerless and unloved in this world will make you a victim.

“Pick ME! Choose ME! Love ME!” Meredith pleads, begs, wails to McDreamy somewhere during the second (or third?) season of Grey’s Anatomy. Because it sucks not to be the chosen one.

i want to start.....

a blog dedicated solely to photos of people's bookshelves. The bookshelf of the living room and the bookshelf of the bedroom can differ significantly. Some of the books we cherish have been read; others sit waiting for something - the right time, or perhaps, simply, the time. A bookshelf displays only a slight sliver of time, and allows the observer a few inferences about us. It reveals both the content and the structure of our lives simultaneously. What we think. How we organize, if at all. Haphazard attempts at genre or author categorization, but ultimately hopeless as books get read, moved, purchased, loaned, returned, rearranged. It may seem permanent and timeless, but unless you are a stagnant human, your library has mutated over the course of your lifetime. People change. So do their bookshelves.

These would be my rules:
Rule # 1: You can submit up to 3 photos.
Rule #2: I will publish all that you send me. I will neither censor nor judge.
Rule #3: No prearranging of bookshelves allowed.
Rule #4: I trust that you will not prearrange, because to doubt you would be foolish and completely unprovable.
Rule #5. I can change the rules at any time.
Rule #6. You may write some sort of explanation or description about your bookshelf, in prose or in poetry if you so desire.
Rule #7. (because I like sevens, remember?). I will publish photos anonymously, with a name, or with a link to your blog/website. The choice is yours. You may remain as transparent or as obscure as you wish.

Until this bookshelf blog gets started (can't you see me filing it away with all the other unfinished projects?), here are three of my own photos. I followed all my rules. I am a good rule-follower. Sometimes.





If you want to email (ssdoula@yahoo.com) me up to three of yours, I will create a new blog to share them....

At least tell me what you think of the idea. I know anyone can post a photo of their bookshelf on their own blog, but wouldn't it be fun (or am I just perverted?) to have a space where you could just go and browse one stranger's bookshelf after another?

Oh god, I probably should do my research first! There may be something quite like this, already. And maybe you've heard of it. And maybe it's famous. I'm going to go have a look.......

Well, here's what I found: a little something to get you started. And completely lost.