Memoirous

The Festival of Faith and Writing taking place in Grand Rapids, Michigan on the campus of Calvin University. Which used to be Calvin College when I first started attending the festival in 1992. The conference began in 1990, inaugurated by the Calvin English department, The first few festivals leaned academic with the presentation of papers, but evolved into a mainstream celebration of all kinds of literature that resonates with Reformed Theology—from their mission statement: [rooted] in common grace and the goodness of creation, the Festival of Faith & Writing creates space for meaningful discussion and shared discovery among people with different religious beliefs and practices. The festival is now hosted by the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Through the years I’ve changed pews, but I’ve always held onto the belief that reading will save the soul. This year I will be presenting at a Festival Circle, basically a lunchtime discussion. My topic is Slow Looking: Freeing ...

My job at the bike shop involves an array of hours. Some days are 9 – 5, some 11 – 7, some, lie today, 10 – 6. In deep dark winter after the time change, when leaving after close, I’ll have to turn on all lights and my blinking helmet while riding home. As we get close to spring equinox I’m having to less and less. The sun currently is setting around 6:30. Seven pm close it definitely is dark, but 6 and 5 I can now ride home in light—sometimes taking a detour through the woods and onto a board plank bridge that straddles a marsh. I am more likely to stop at Aldis before coming home for few items as it also isn’t so cold as to freeze my TP before arriving in my driveway. The whole idea of growing light at both ends of the day is lending me a better attitude. Two days ago it was 18 degrees as I rode to work wearing my lobster gloves reserved for the coldest days. I was not ready to head back to those after a day before of 70 degree temperatures. But, it is spring. Or at least we’re get...

I was just sitting by my computer putting off writing when a neighbor cat showed up outside my French doors. He (who knows!) has a black coat and beautiful chartreuse eyes. He played around on the back deck and then spied, probably a squirrel, stood stock still then went off. I came outside and looked for him. In Oregon there was a neighbor cat (there were many in fact) that used to prowl around. My roommate called him Frank (maybe he called all of the outside cats Frank). We kept our doors open as we rarely used the heat and there was no AC, One time Frank just walked in. Because of my daughter’s cats, I am not inviting this cat indoors or habituating it by petting it or trying to pick up. (We just got done with running to the vet for anxiety-ridden Cato). Anyway, while out on the deck I heard a flapping of wings, much like the sound my underarms make when I run. I looked up and saw a black crow overhead with a twig or pieces of grass in its beak. I thought if I were Mary Oliver a...

Hello, kids! How is it that for months you lay dormant, scrubby, blah—and then, open? I saw activity about a month ago in bleak January when it was cold but snowless, a little snow, always cold: There were brimming buds. Of hope, I thought. This is new, my heart said. Ah! There is only so much I can do to beat back the blanket of depression that falls on me in weak light, dark mornings, early evenings, a day that never ripens but stays a leaden gray. I light candles, turn on my grow lights over the spider plant, eat comforting hot oatmeal, get a Netflix subscription. I plan a garden and reread my blog where I ride my bicycle . . . everywhere. For example, last year at this time I was dreaming about my upcoming  Rhine River trip .  Five hard little buds formed at the end of what appeared to be a dead stem. (I never know whether to trim them back or tack them up.) I did a bit of research. Orchids like cold nights and warmish days; they love sunlight but not direct light. So ...

I’d like to remind readers, both of you, about my seminar at Calvin University (Grand Rapids) coming up in April. If the schedule for the Festival of Faith and Writing wasn’t already jam-packed, attendees have the option to sign up for Lunch Circles where they pay for lunch and sit with others and discuss their writing in a casual, relaxed environment. It’s a nice way to 1. Have a lunch plan and not have to worry about what to eat or how to source it on the busy campus 2. Network with a group of others who have an interest in writing and literature, and finally 3. Not be the kid holding a lunch tray wondering where to sit or with whom. Festival Lunch Circles solves a number of “problems.” My seminar—I use that word because it will be a discussion—revolves around Sister Corita and her unique way of viewing the world and helping her students to see things from another perspective. We can all get bogged down in editing something over and over and not seeing the meat through the sauce. ...

I just read a great piece by the wonderful Annie Lamott in the Washington Post about aging and acceptance. About resting in the idea that most things will work themselves out, I’m hoping that spring will make up its mind. Okay, maybe the problem is winter, not spring’s fault. The neck-snapping whiplash of the seasons is killing me. Yesterday me and my son-in-law were sitting out on the deck with hot tea, the baby snoozing in a stroller while Jack combed the backyard for “worms”; we were basking in sunshine and warmth (while still wearing knit hats and hoodies). Nevertheless, it felt great. I cast a glance at the snow shovel and thought, I’m gonna have to put that away. Right now, this morning, ten hours later, it is snowing an inch an hour. Big fluffy flakes coming down. I’m thinking of Lamott’s piece and wishing I were retired, a famous writer, not having to ride my bike into work in 30 minutes. What’s up with this weather? Finally, thinking, There’s nothing I can do about this...

I’ve come to the end of the year, a busy year at that for publication acceptances. I’ve worked hard on revisions and submitting manuscripts to publishers, agents, and contests. I rode my bike up the Rhine River through Germany, France, and Switzerland. And, I’ve come to the end of new stuff to write about. So it feels like. Lately. Perhaps, I need to lower the bar or slow down. Part of my preparation for my talk at the Festival for Faith and Writing, Slow Looking, is about honing observation skills. Living in the moment. Creating a Zen-like attitude toward the world. Definitely not listening to the news. I never liked nature poetry. I relegated it to old ladies, to people who went to bed at 7 pm and asked for the senior discount at the donut shop. There was a 4 o’clock special at the Denny’s restaurant I worked at in Centerville, where we could count on the same retirees showing up with their potbellies and suspenders and pocketbooks full of half-used tissues and Hawaiian white g...