October 15, 2014

The Colors of Carmel Fall 2014

This weekend, I had a chance to hole away at the Carmelite monastery here in North Dakota.

It wasn't my first stay. Each time after the first that I've gone to Carmel, I have enough sense of familiarity that I wonder whether past visits have given me enough exposure to this beautiful spot of land to the point of leaving little left to discover.

Yet each visit, I'm surprised by what is new about the place.


This visit, it was the color. Oh, there's always been that, but not quite like this, presented in just this way.


One of my favorite batches of photos comes from my and my friend Vicky's first visit together to Carmel. It was absolutely stunning, and the light was incredible. I got a little of that this time, but not at sunset like before. Still, it was a joy to behold.

This visit, we didn't find as much of that light play. In fact, after the first day, I wondered if this Carmel stay would produce anything in the way of cherished photos.

Besides, I was there to work, as I almost always am when I go there. Well, to work, and pray and replenish. Would I even have time to look?


I worked hard. But you can only work so hard for so long. By the third and last day, my brain was tired. So in an inspired moment, I took to the grounds to see what I might see.

Despite the hazy autumn day, I was amazed by just how much color was there to be discovered.

Different than other visits. New objects of interest.

Hints of the Guinea fowl, which I did not spy with my eye this time, though I heard their voices in the distance a couple times. With their African blood I'm sure they're already in holing-up mode themselves, readying for the brutality of winter.

Yes, winter will come. My first visit to Carmel was in February and I will never forget how beautiful it was then, sun gleaming on sparkling snow. But I can only imagine the harsh days, too, and how long it must get.

Which makes me appreciate the now of it even more.

Carmel is a true gift, and its colors, a refurbishing palette.

This place has a way of reawakening my soul. I will admit, Our Blessed Mother has something to do with it. I will admit, too, that she calls to me every time, and every time I am captivated, and challenged to see her in a new light. This time, I felt her presence more strongly than ever. The statue? It's just a representation of a true spirit that moves through this place, and cradles me in her maternal arms when I am most weary.


In her post from her impressions the other day, Vicky said, "How can one not feel God (here)?  I do not have any urgency to find Him, He is everywhere.  I just breathe deep."

Yes, yes, that is it Vicky. I feel that too, every single time.

It is hard to pull away from this nourishing place -- food prepared with love by the Sisters who pray pray pray for you and me...

...doing everything they can to chase away the darkness with their chants.

This time, Mother Joseph Marie wrote me a note my final day there inviting me to early evening prayer. I've sat in on compline before -- the night one -- but not vespers, which happens before supper. Sitting there, listening to the lovely litanies, the enchanting chants, I had the greatest urgency to run back to the guest house for my pillow and curl up on the pew for the evening.

I cannot see them, only hear. They are cloistered. And as Mother explained to us during a brief visit this stay, their order is one of only about four in the United States that falls under the Carmelite Nuns of the Ancient Observance.

I feel it here, a sense of being in a place of time gone by. I smell it in the incense, prayers rising up to heaven with few earthly distractions to impede their aromatic billowing.

It is all very simple, but incredibly deep and rich. Never have I felt peace like here.

I am privileged to take it in through all my senses. And I will admit, I have a hard time, every time, pulling away. But my life calls, and so I go and enter in again to the noisy world that awaits.

I sense that God wants me to hold some of this peace in my heart even in my returns home, however, so I am always looking for new ways to bring Carmel back with me -- its beauty, its peace, its smells, its colors.

Q4U: Where did you experience fall most vibrantly this season?

October 8, 2014

When Life Happens...

...the blog sometimes suffers. I have been trying to get back to my regularly scheduled program here, but Peace Garden Writer has been hit the hardest with my fall schedule.

So what have I been doing to merit my M.I.A. status?

Well, the crazy started with an out-of-town school author visit, which, I have to say, was one of my favorite so far. The kids were awesome (teachers, too)...

...the weather amazing, and the adventure also gave me a chance to see my grandmother and mother, which is always a blessing.

We also had a nice visit from the in-laws last weekend. This is "Mom #2" and me.

Grandma and Grandpa filled our boys' and their cousin's bellies with brownies and Mountain Dew then let them sleep over in their hotel room. Weee!

And speaking of Mountain Dew, a sweet gal I know in basic training needed some encouragement to push through her final couple weeks. This was my attempt.

There's been a 17th birthday party in there somewhere, too, along with a chance to assist my daughter in playing hookey over the lunch hour so we could indulge in some Olive Garden. Presenting the post-demolition cake and coffee:

Oh, and nails. With teen daughters, this is sometimes a given on these special days. 

It's also parent-teacher conference week, which means visits to school and checking up on the kids' progress. So far so good but it always makes for a lot of extra bouncing around.

I love the chance to see what projects have been keeping them busy, though. This one by my youngest made me pause and smile.

My husband also was gone a few days on business, but he brightened us with a photo of a San Diego sunset. And I thought North Dakota sunsets were awesome!

So, you see, I have not been hiding  under a rock or anything of the sort, but I have been awfully schedule-heavy. I've only shared a few highlights here. The days have been full with more to come.

I have missed my Peace Garden Writer posts but it's good to engage fully in life, too, and sometimes, that means pulling away from the screen to tend to the other pressing things.

Thanks for your patience.

Q4U: What has been marking your living these days?

September 17, 2014

Flannery's Bedroom

I have tried very hard through the years to establish an office in our home. With five kids, this is no easy task. For a while, I inhabited a little nook off the laundry room. But the area preceding it became overrun with laundry and I couldn't think.

Later, I cleaned all that up and tried to organize things and moved out further from the little nook, still in the same long room where the laundry facilities are, at a long table that served as my desk, near a window...but it soon became similarly disorderly around it and I couldn't think.

I later took over our family room, and for a while that worked. It was my haven. Until a neighbor started some odd behavior and I could no longer open the shades wide and enjoy that space as much as I had. Then the kids broke the TV upstairs so the only one they could watch was in my office, and slowly, I got bumped...again.

I am still waiting for the tried and true "room of her own" where I can sink in and feel at ease. Every time I think I have it, it eludes me.

So when I was looking for a new cover photo for my Facebook page recently, this jumped out at me, for reasons I will shortly reveal.

Introducing the bedroom of Flannery O'Connor, taken with my own camera this past summer during my writer journey to Georgia.

I think my two travel companions would agree. This room held us absolutely spellbound. It didn't just sit there being; it spoke to us.

Toward the end of her life, this became Flannery's sanctuary. Some of her best work was written here, much of it in bed when it was hard making her way around the house, flitting about freely.

"I have been at home a week and feel I'm getting somewhere. I have to stay in these two rooms but R. has got me the table with the electric typewriter on it put so I get out of bed into the typewriter, so to speak, and every day I am able to do a little more," she wrote in June, 1964 (Habit of Being).

As the lupus took over (thus, the crutches), this became the place where Flannery spent so much of her time. Her world had become so very small, but her writing, so very rich.

"I've had four blood transfusions in the last month," she wrote around that same time. "The trouble is mostly kidneys - they don't refine poisons out of the proteins & therefore you don't make blood like you should or you lose it like you shouldn't or something. As far as I'm concerned, as long as I can get at that typewriter, I have enough..." 

I, too, have become relegated at times to sitting on my bed, propped up with pillows, writing away in the small cell of my room. This occurs even on days when the kids are at school and my "office" is once again available, but, as it turns out, has been left a mess by the leprechauns.

Resigned, I head to the bedroom and curl up. I say my morning prayers, check in with social media if time, then roll up my shirt sleeves - often pajamas - and get to work.

When I posted this on Facebook as my new cover photo, I knew very few would know of its significance, other than my fellow Flannery friends. When I mentioned this during a three-way phone conversation this afternoon, we giggled about it - how some might erroneously assume it is my bedroom.

But then they might wonder about the typewriter. That made us laugh more, because, of course, I haven't used an actual typewriter in years.

Back in Flannery's day, one of her most cherished gifts was a television set some religious sisters gave her for helping them with their manuscript. Flannery had as much fun watching the ridiculous commercials as anything, and gleefully critiqued each one. Sounds like my kind of girl!

All this to say, considering how Flannery's bedroom became a cocoon of sorts to her, carrying her from one life to another in a sense, and that I, too, often hole up in my bedroom when writing, it becomes clearer why this photo pulls me right in. I look at it and it's like I am visiting Flannery all over again, and there she is in bed, waving me in for a spell, asking me to stay a while.

I've seen it with my own eyes, and I delight in it with Flannery, knowing it was her sanctuary, and that no plush accommodations in the world could take the place of that little spot where she could go into the deepest part of herself, and come out with a masterpiece of the imagination.

Q4U: Where do you find "home" in terms of space for your writing groove?

September 3, 2014

Birth Announcement: A Writer Reflects

No, I'm not having a baby. But 46 years ago, a newspaper in Lovell, Wyo., announced the birth of a baby girl, and that baby girl grew up into me.

Here I am at just a week old, being held by my Aunt Anne.

I'm struck anew by the little announcement my mom took care to paste into a scrapbook all those years ago. It's just a few inches in height and width, but these words are the introduction to a story. It's almost as if they say, "Once upon a time..."

Once upon a time in a place called Lovell, Wyo., a new person entered the earth. She was all wrinkled and pink, as her father used to describe her, and a bit on the fussy side, as her mother remembers.

Yes, she came in wailing, having strong opinions about things, but perhaps this was even more indicative of a child with a sensitive, perceptive, and emotional nature; a child who felt deeply, and couldn't possibly keep all of those emotions bottled up inside her. Someday, she would find a way to release all those deeply held feelings by stringing them into sentences that, she dearly hoped, would bring life and hope to others.

The words also tell of a father who worked as a teacher, and reveal times gone by when mothers' and wives' first names were tucked into the "Mr. and Mrs." designation. This "Mrs." was the person who birthed me, yet no signs of her name: Jane. It's just the way it was. But I do think my mother deserves more than that.

This "Mrs." has poured her life into mine in a way I can only hope to do in part as a mother and someday-grandmother myself. This weekend, for example, she came for a pre-birthday visit, and spent much of her time playing card games with the kids and treating us through meals out and helping a little around the kitchen and letting the pets know they haven't been overlooked.

And it was this "Mrs." who, all those years back, took the time, despite being drained and frazzled, to cut out that little birth announcement, telling of her second daughter's arrival, and placing it in the first page of "Roxane's Book I," a red scrapbook, the same color her daughter would someday choose as her favorite.

Just a few words, but words that announced my life, and subtly mention a mother; one who was determined to do what she could to make this little, imperfect family with the crying baby and toddler sister and a world full of unknowns work out somehow.

The words begin the story, but there is so much more to tell, and I'm grateful for the chance to try in any measure. Because fleeting as we are in the scheme of things, our stories do matter.

Q4U: What words were born with your first moments of life?

August 27, 2014

The Messy Life

When the kids are older, then I'll have time again to organize, I said. Things will be so much tidier, so much more manageable.

As I look around my house and see the piles, I can't help but think of those yearnings for order that have proven so elusive. What a fool I was, I think now.

And yet, am I really surprised?

I think there has to be a bit of a welcoming of disorder to open one's heart to a large family, for one. Add in the fact that most of us are high on the creative spectrum and the truth of the matter comes more assuredly into view.

I'm not making excuses. I care about order. I feel better when things are in place. But I gotta be honest, they're not right now, they haven't been for a while, and I'm not exactly sure anymore when that day is going to arrive, and I'm okay with that.

As a writer-mama, there's a lot to accomplish, and most days, I do what's in my face and work my way down the list. And that's as far as I get. The deep cleaning and organizing? I'm not there and don't know when I will be. I'll do what I can when I can.

Even though the kids are no longer in diapers, the layers have not gone away, and here we are. And as I look around, feeling a little mystified, I realize I have to give myself the excuse, because quite frankly I can't do anything more than what I'm doing.

A friend of mine has been saying she's realized she can only focus on one big project at a time. She can either cook fabulous meals, or have a tidy home, but not both at once. Another time, she said that even if she did have the time to be more organized, she's not sure how much she'd want to delve into it.

I'm like that too. Some people go stir-crazy without order. I go stir-crazy trying to maintain it.

Another factor has to do with my life as a writer. As someone who is creating order daily in her writing, there's only so much of that kind of intense energy it takes to write well to go around. By the time I've done my interviews or collected all the words or written the stories, there's another around the bend, and kids who need me, too. I pull away to tend to what is most obvious in the home and with the kids and that's as far as I can go most days.

Somewhere in this, I am at peace. In the messy, I am finding a way to exist and be at rest. Because every day I am creating life-giving things. On top of the writing and family, I am also engaged in a faith that is vibrant and meaningful.

With these interior things in place, it's not only possible to embrace the mess, but on some level, to be grateful for it. I could not exist in a sterile, barren world for long.

So I come back to gratitude, for having the kind of world that invites in the messy, feeling assured somehow that the more wonderfully strange and varied ingredients go into the pot, the tastier the stew is going to be when it's done simmering.

Q4U: How do you like to create order from chaos? When do you leave well enough alone?

August 20, 2014

My Father and 'Mockingbird'

It started out as a mother trying to help her daughter's first year of high school begin on a smooth note.

When I noticed our local, historic Fargo Theater was going to be showing "To Kill a Mockingbird"  last week, I put it on my "to do list," knowing my middle daughter had been assigned the book for summer reading by her future English teacher, and that the movie, though old and severely outdated, might help the story come alive even more for her.

And, well, it wasn't completely altruistic. I like stories too, and am especially fond of classics. I also am intrigued by Harper Lee and her one and only published work.

I was excited as we grabbed our buttered popcorn and headed to the front of the theater, which was filling in quickly, the movie about to begin. As the black and white film played, I did a quick Facebook update, noting our Thursday night adventure. And my mom responded right away:

"Your dad's favorite book! Wow, I would have loved being there."

How had I forgotten? But I had. In the midst of thinking about my daughter's English class project, it had slipped past me that Dad had chosen this book, among all those he'd read in his study of literature, as his very favorite.

I was so grateful for the reminder, because suddenly I was watching the film not just through my own eyes but through Dad's. What were the elements of the story he most liked, I wondered? What drew him so close to this story? For the rest of our time at the theater, I felt Dad nearby, and during part of it, tears even began flowing there in the dark as I connected with the spirit of this man who was such a big and beautiful part of my life.

It's his birthday month, and also the month of his and my mother's wedding anniversary, August 21.

So I can't help but have Dad on the brain anyway, and then this story...and seeing it there with my daughter...it just sealed the deal.

I thought of how I'd grown up on a reservation, and how the color of one's skin seemed so insignificant to my parents. Why would they have settled there otherwise?

And I thought of story and how much story moved my father, and how much story has always moved me. His respect for story was so strong that it couldn't help but spill into the lives of his two little girls, who listened with awe as he shared bedtime tales about one-eyed monsters and the dinosaurs who used to visit his childhood home in New Rockford, N.D.

It wasn't until after the movie that I shared with my daughter how the story had been her Grandpa Beauclair's favorite. "I was actually thinking about that," she said. "Atticus reminded me of Grandpa."

It's not an exact match but there is some resemblance. The black hair, the glasses, to be sure. 

The intellect. The ability to overlook the things that separate us physically to get at the heart of a person.

The way he drew his kids near.

In my childhood years, I was a little like Scout -- always the little sister, always seeking adventure, always curious, and hopefully standing up for justice, just because it seemed the right thing to do.

Yes, the story has many parallels with my life, and in the remembering, my sister reminded me about a book we'd given Dad a while back for Christmas. She then sent Mom on a hunt for the book, and as Mom tells it, it didn't take long for her to find it in a prominent place in their home. "I think Dad led me straight to it," she said.

So we're reading, watching, remembering how much our father and husband loved story and the characters that bring it to life, and the powerful forces of human nature -- the quest for what's good, right and just despite all of our and the world's imperfections -- that have always and hopefully always will motivate us to create a better existence for all.

I'm still learning from my Dad and about my Dad, and I'm finding this happening most of all through appreciating all the more the things that moved his heart.

I can honestly say I haven't lost Dad at all. He's as close as ever through these things, and I love him all the more because of it.

And last but not least, to my mother on the day before her special day of remembering a long and fruitful marriage: Happy Anniversary!

Q4U: What are your associations with this story, or others that connect you to a loved one in your life?

August 13, 2014

Avoiding Writing Pride

After my last post here on Peace Garden Writer, during which time I discussed the blessings of writing for a local audience, a reader pointed out privately some thoughts that humbled me.

Specifically: "As a letter writer, I have a few times been a little embarrassed of the reaction and thanks that it can draw in the public square...I quickly turn the conversation back to the gracious person giving it to me. Everyone likes a little attention, and early on I thought it was somewhat ‘cool’ but now try to avoid any attention, as all praise goes to God."

I didn't take the words as condemnation, because I agree wholeheartedly. But they do offer a great chance to go a little deeper in terms of how much stalk we should take in our writing and any compliments that come as a result.

I imagine the temptation to be prideful about one's writing is something that every writer has faced at one time or another -- especially those who are aware of the pitfalls of pride. Because of the sheer nature of our work, it's always there, lurking around the corner.

What we do is public, and when we receive commendations for our writing, it could easily, if we're not aware and ready, go to our heads. We might begin to imagine, in error, that we're so great to produce such beautiful sentence structures, when in fact God gave us this gift for one main purpose: to draw others to Him.

At Gooseberry Park, Lake Superior, Minnesota

We don't have to be writers of faith to have this mission, but if we are people of faith it is inherent in everything we do. Even fiction writers can create works full of truth, goodness and beauty, and it is these things that inspire us all toward God.

My heroine Flannery O'Connor wrote in her letters about this; how everything comes back to God and God's purposes. Seeing it this way is a freedom, because we can relieve ourselves of the pressure of being perfect in our writing. We are here to be a vessel. Through our pen, we create sentences that will either draw people to truth, beauty and goodness, or lead them away from it. In that way, we are missionaries and prophets, all. But it is God who works through us, not we who own it all.

If God wishes to use our writing to draw people to Him, He will. The best we can do is continue to form ourselves to God, and the rest will follow. From there, what we write will be of God, even when it appears to be of human fashioning, because at the heart of it will be a divine light.

So it's true that all glory goes to God. Anything good that I have to say originated first in the heart of God. When people talk of any of my writing as inspiring or good or truthful, I necessarily must point it back to God. I cannot take the credit. I know that.

Thinking of it this way does not dehumanize me, or make me feel unworthy, or present a blow to my self-esteem. It places things in the right perspective, propels me onward with confidence (knowing I do not go it alone) and allows me to truly shine light where it is most deserving.

If I can be an instrument for the divine, there is nothing I can imagine that would bring me, and God, greater honor. It is a joy to serve in this way.

Q4U: Have you ever been tempted to believe it's all about you? What helped you see otherwise?