peek

Wow, I didn't realize it had been this long since I've blogged. My absence has nothing to do with a dearth of things to write about. The opposite in fact.

My first excuse is that since the beginning of October I've been teaching College essay writing for the first time. Thirty-three students. Ninety-nine essays to mark. Secondly, I blame Facebook--I release so much of my creative energy in 20 word bursts in my daily status updates.

But teaching and Facebook-ing don't explain everything; I've been doing both for years. The main reason is a felt need for privacy. I've experienced so many emotions, changes, and stresses that would have made for intriguing blog posts--may even have encouraged someone--but I don't feel ready to share with the world.

Saturday I went to a discussion on the definition of Mennolit featuring local authors Armin Wiebe and David Elias. Afterward David Elias told me that writing fiction is more truthful than writing fact. A few weeks ago novelist Sandra Birdsell told me the same thing. She said it was like putting a puppet on your hand: a character to hide behind while you uncover yourself in complete honesty.

I know what they mean. I want so badly to show you what's inside, but I'm tired of being vulnerable, of opening myself and my family up to criticism, advice, and gossip. I want to hide behind a character who embodies everything inside me: the fear, the humour, the sexuality, the insecurities, and the dreams...how it feels to be in my skin, and somehow, through my fictional character, to have it all make sense, or at least: something beautiful.

I'm every woman, even with a degree

Recently a pastor told me that she felt God called her to ministry without a masters so she could "relate to everyday women."

I have a masters, and I find the only thing it does is make others think they can't relate to me. People expect me to know more than I do. Sometimes they're intimidated about working with me. I teach Sunday school solo.

Other people's assumptions may make them less likely to approach me, but my education did nothing to my ability to relate to them. Yes, I may have written longer essay, but I've also experienced marriage, miscarriage, minimum wage, childbirth, layoffs, leaky water tanks, PMS, fender benders, and wrinkles - just like "everyday women". When I looked over the edge of my grandma's casket, I didn't think theological thoughts, I wept. And when I weedwacked my ankle, it bled.

Critical thinking textbooks, David Bergen novels, and Dr. Seuss' Foot Book are equally at home on my coffee table. I might read Habakkuk and Revelation more than most people, but despite my wall of commentaries and Hebrew lexicons, I often pick up my Bible and have no idea what I'm supposed to get out of it. I have never worn my grad cap to bed and dreamed of heavenly horsemen. I don't eat scrolls, or locusts.

I'm surrounded by way too much poop and toothpaste to ever loose touch with "the real world." So please, tell me about your rotten, smelly, grace-filled day. I can relate.

Operator, give me Jesus on the line

This morning it was so cute watching G. shouting at the breakfast table,

"God, if you can hear me...would you like to sleep in my bed with me tonight?

Pause.

"Because you can if you want to!"

It was less cute when, after a few seconds, she said, "Oh. No answer. I guess you don't exist."

What happened to the "simple faith of a child" everyone talks about?

Why do some children see angels around their beds, feel divine hugs, and hear God whispering love in their ears, and others don't?

To be googled, or not to be googled?

I'm reading Gabrielle Roy's novel The Road Past Altamont. I've barely begun, but so far I'm most intrigued by the translator's introduction. Joyce Marshall writes that Roy believes:

"artistic talent is less a gift than a tyranny. In Street of Riches she depicts the artist as a lonely figure, constantly left behind, constantly running to catch up and show what he has found. The Hidden Mountain uses the image of the pursuit and the death of a caribou as symbol for the artist's life in which he is at the same time hunter and hunted, pursuer and pursued. Now she adds a further qualification, slave - or at least, servant - one who is not free even to keep his own thoughts for himself since they belong, in part at least, to others."

The lonely figure running to catch up. The servant. I'm not sure I get the hunted caribou part. If the artist is always left behind, how can one say she is pursued? But the servant part rings true. I've often felt like I wasn't free to keep my thoughts to myself. (Even when others disagreed quite strongly!) I'm not always comfortable with so many people reading about my life in magazines and blogs, but I want my words to encourage people. When I find the right ones I want to share them.

But with how many people? Right now my blog doesn't show up on any search engines. People find it through word of mouth. I've lost my hit counter so I have no idea how many, but it's a small group who leave comments.

I'd like my writing to generate more income, but I could only do with major traffic. (I tried posting ads here and after one year I'd earned 7 cents!)

Do I want to give up my privacy? Do I want the guy who had a crush on me at camp twenty years ago reading this? (Yes, I know who you are!)