Category Archives: writing
I remember watching my grandmother make pies.
To my recollection, she didn’t measure anything. She put the ingredients for the pastry in the bowl and just knew when it “felt right.” She rolled out the pastry and flipped it around effortlessly. No sticking. No crumbling. Picture-perfect every time.
Pie crust at my house doesn’t come so easily.
I read the directions. I measure with care. Then I curse wet pastry that sticks to the rolling surface, or I find even more colourful words if dry pastry crumbles into bits. Argh. So frustrating.
My grandmother was like any traditional farm wife of her time. One of her main tasks was to come up with meals for her husband when he came in from the barns or fields every day: Meat, potatoes and—without question—dessert. By the time I came along, my grandmother had probably made thousands of pies in her lifetime. She had fulfilled Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hour rule. She was a pie-making expert.
My mother learned the pie crust craft as well. As soon as she was old enough, like any traditional farm girl of her time, she had to pitch in to help take care of the family. She learned the “feels right” texture of pastry that rolled out to just the right size and just the right thickness and flipped it into the pie plate with ease.
I’m a product of a different time. Dessert at my house is an exception, not a rule. I didn’t need, or choose, to spend the time developing pastry skill. But every once in a while—like this week leading up to our church bazaar—I make pies. Every time, I think of my grandmother’s and mother’s pastry skill. Every time, I wish I had it. And then, every time, I ask myself, “Do I really want to invest 10,000 of my hours into developing pie crust skill?”
My grandmother and mother had no choice. I do.
If I have 10,000 hours to allot to honing a skill, sorry dessert lovers, but it won’t be pie. Thanks to my feminist fore-sisters, an endless number of life choices stretch out on a path before me. I choose to write, make mistakes, and then become a better writer. (A misplaced modifier is the writer equivalent of sticky pie pastry.) I choose to keep searching for ways to make people think differently about what’s going on in the world. I choose to volunteer in my community and around the world and with each effort and new relationship make the world a better place. I’ll keep doing it until it just “feels right.” No sticking, no crumbling and picture-perfect every time.
How are you spending your 10,000 hours?
I celebrate a well-placed comma and a properly used apostrophe.
Punctuation makes reading and comprehending so much easier than it was in the time of Socrates. Pity him, for he had to endure Greek texts written in scriptio continua. His scrolls looked something like this:
(from The Desiderata —© Max Ehrmann 1927)
I send gratitude, then, to Aristophanes of Byzantium, the director of the Library of Alexandria around 200 BCE, who decided to make his life easier by inserting dots at the end of sentences. Thank you for the period, Aristophanes of Byzantium! (Source: Moonwalking with Einstein by Joshua Foer)
People seemed content with a period for some time. Hundreds of years later, spacing and varying types of punctuation finally entered, one by one, into our written language.
We now have commas, exclamation marks, question marks, ellipses, colons, semi-colons, hyphens, interrobangs, and sarkmarks. All those punctuation choices create different kinds of comprehension problems. Lynn Truss made the dilemma of the serial comma famous through her book title Eats, Shoots, & Leaves. The “Let’s eat, grandma” and “Let’s eat grandma” photo circulates through our social media feeds.
I edit a newsletter for our church. Someone saved me from myself when they corrected an error in a title for an upcoming event. The corrected version read “Struggling Toward Christmas” Lunch, Sunday at noon.” My original version had the poor people fighting and thrashing their way toward food when I left out the quotation marks: Struggling Toward Christmas Lunch.
Possessive apostrophes and commas create the most problems, but in most cases, we roll with the errors and have a good laugh. (Unless someone really is planning on cooking up grandma.) Every once in a while, though, it costs big bucks. Rogers Communications found this out when a comma cost them a million dollars.
So, I celebrate the curious squiggles, lines, and dots we pepper through our writing. They make life so much easier, and entertaining, no matter where we find them.
I’m going to show you three blankets.
When my children were born—first my daughter, then my son—I made them each a blanket. Here is my daughter’s blanket now:
Do you think she used this blanket a lot? Do you think it’s been washed a few times? Yep.
My daughter loved her blankie. It went with her everywhere. She slept holding it and dragged it around when she walked. When she started to kindergarten, she tucked into the bottom of her backpack everyday. When she got older and started going on Brownie and Girl Guide camping trips, she didn’t want the other girls to make fun of her for wanting a blankie, so she tucked it into the bottom of her sleeping bag. She felt it as she slept, but her friends didn’t know it was there.
Eventually she stopped sleeping with it. It didn’t go to school anymore. It stayed at home during camping trips.
One day years later when I was leading children’s time at my church I decided to tell this story to the kids. I wanted to take my daughter’s blanket with me to show everyone. When I asked her where it was, she didn’t have to think for a second. “It’s right beside my bed,” she said. She didn’t use it every day anymore, but she knew exactly where it was.
Now I’m going to show you my son’s blanket:
Do you think he used his blanket much? Nope.
My son barely glanced at his blanket. He never slept with it. He rarely picked it up. It never went to school or on any camping trips.
I had made this blanket for my son, and I was a little hurt that he had no interest in it. I wanted him to love it. Why didn’t he need a blanket in the same way his sister did? Sometimes I even tried to push him to use it. When he couldn’t sleep, I’d tuck it in beside him, sure that it would help. He tossed it on the floor. If he fell and scraped a knee, I wrapped him up in it. He shrugged it off. Eventually I was the one who had to adapt. I had to accept that he was going to have his own kind of relationship with his blanket.
But you know what’s really interesting? When I asked him where it was, he didn’t have to think for a second. “It’s right beside my bed,” he said. He never needed it, but it was a gift of love from me, so he kept it close.
Now, let me show you a third blanket:
This one I made for my daughter when she was about 7 years old when it became clear that the original one was disintegrating. It’s a new and improved version of the first. I thought she would love it.
She would have nothing to do with it. She wanted the comfort of the original, thank you very much, even if it was battered and torn and no longer serve a real function.
I shared this story with the kids at church because I think my kids’ blankets give us an insight into how we need to accept different approaches to faith.
- Some people need to hold their faith close, sleep with it and touch it daily.
- Some people’s needs change over time. When they are younger, they need a strong faith relationship, but when they get older they let it go. Or, some people don’t want faith in their youth, but when they get older or suffer a crisis, they seek it more.
- Some people know right where it’s kept but don’t need it very often.
- If we make fun of other people’s needs, they’ll tuck them away, but it won’t change anything.
- We can’t make people let go of something until they are ready.
- Just because something is new, doesn’t mean it’s better.
- Just because something is old, doesn’t make it right for everyone.
- If something is given with love, people will value it even if they don’t need it every day
- We give our children a gift if they never have to think for a second to know where to find their faith.
- One thing is for sure, we can’t force other people to have the kind of relationship with faith that we want them to have. It’s very personal. Even if we hand-make it for them or hand it down generation to generation, people have to forge their own relationships with faith.
I spent time in my garden on the weekend. I’m creating a new pathway beside my house—a project that requires heavy lifting and dogged perseverance on my part. The work reminded me of a post I wrote in September 2011: Hasten slowly. I decided to share it with you again, because I like the sentiment so much.
I came upon that quote in Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance by Julia Cameron. When we busy ourselves doing something that we really believe in but rewards are slow coming, it is easy to get discouraged. Whether it is raising money for a good cause, writing a book, or facing another day with a troublesome co-worker, sometimes we just need a little push to carry on.
But, how can we hasten . . . slowly? Isn’t that an oxymoron?
And yet, it seems we do. When I think about it, every valuable part of my life has come to me out of hastening slowly.
- A university degree: scribbling notes and typing assignments during caffeine-driven all-nighters—for four years
- A thriving marriage: career juggling, whirlwind vacations, chasing around after toddlers, paying down the mortgage—for 22 years
- Children: pacing the floor during sleepless nights, car pooling to hockey games, gritting teeth at parent-teacher interviews, wanting everything to be perfect for them—for, well, forever
- Published writing: handwriting first drafts, transcribing messy second drafts, editing, reading aloud, pacing, getting up in the middle of the night to change a word—for days, weeks, years
No matter what the destination, to get there, we need to hasten, and then wait.
To create the perfect garden, we hasten to plant the seeds, remove the weeds, water the seedlings, and slowly a beautiful garden appears. To learn to play “Moonlight Sonata,” we hasten to the piano bench and play, practise, play, and slowly the music smooths out to a beautiful melody. When we learn to speak a language, we hasten to recite the verbs, converse with friends, practise the accent, and slowly we come to think, live, dream in the language.
And if we stop typing, juggling, paying, pacing, gritting, planting, weeding, watering, playing, practising, reciting, conversing—if we stop hastening—then we never reach the destination.
Whatever your destination, hasten to it, and slowly you will arrive.