Date with Destiny

When one door closes, break in through a window. That’s not exactly how the saying goes, but it works for my writing career. I’ve got a short attention span for disappointment. Sometimes, all it takes to get me out of a funk is a song on the radio. Last night, it was The Rolling Stones’ classic “You Can’t Always Get What You Want."

I don’t give much more time to professional highs than I do the lows. That might be because either way I’ll continue to write. Not much changes. Also, I’ve found that if you turn despair inside out, gratitude is on the other side. I’m thankful that I’m doing what I love. In the words of Mick Jagger, “sometimes you might just find you get what you need.”

So when you get stood up on a date with destiny, don’t just go home and eat a half-gallon of ice cream. Write a few more chapters and then eat the ice cream. As my wise friend Amy says, "destiny will come crawling back."

MIA

I’ve been missing in action and hitting the pages. Yes those empty pages of my novel that had been patiently waiting since last spring. I understand why writers write every day. One skipped day becomes two, then three, then months. Next thing you know, you’re not a novel writer anymore.

My Christmas gift to myself was to buy a ticket back on the wagon. I joined a novel writing group through Writer’s Digest and 10,000 words are due every three weeks. I needed the self-imposed deadline. Also, we are required to critique each other’s work. The quality and diversity of the other work is humbling and inspiring. It’s just what I needed. I’m enjoying myself more than I have in a long, long time.

Why do writers sometimes avoid what we love to do? Is it fear or laziness? I’m not sure. It’s hard work but nothing, other than parenting, is more rewarding to me. Actually, it’s like parenting - the pregnancy and giving birth bit. I’ll let you know when the novel is born.

Poetry

When I came home last night, I found a little red leather book with gold embossing on my kitchen counter. Feelings I had associated with it years ago hit me before I could remember what it contained. It was one of my childhood favorites - “A Child’s Garden of Verses,” by Robert Louis Stevenson. My mom had sent it home with my daughter, who is studying poetry in school now.

My daughter was struggling with her poetry homework the other night. She had a serious case of writer’s block. It’s tough to pull out words and string them together in meaningful patterns on demand. After her initial brainstorming, she was stuck. I told her to go do something else and it would eventually come to her (hopefully before the project was due). And sure enough it did — beautifully. The look of amazement on her face as inspiration struck was priceless. It’s a magical feeling of connection.

I haven’t written much poetry since high school and I won’t torture anyone with samples of my teen angst now. Back then, I said they were song lyrics. I had to maintain my cool girl rep. But that’s when I first felt the power of communicating through writing. I had written a very personal poem that I was sure no one else could understand. A classmate read it over my shoulder. She started to cry and asked if she could have a copy. It touched her on some level and I was honored.

Of course that poem was horrible and we were moody, overly emotional things. But when other classmates began asking to read my stuff, I was not only flattered but a writer was born. I also learned something valuable. One should write for themselves and about their own truths. We are all connected on some universal plain and others will relate to the honesty. If you try to write what you think others want to read, it will likely fall flat.

So smash your soul out on a page and wait for divine inspiration. Something incredible can take shape. If that’s not in your bag of tricks, then try to read other’s poetry or even the lyrics to your favorite song. I keep a journal by my bed that is filled with my favorites. When I’m feeling isolated or lost, I turn a few pages and quickly find that someone else had the same questions, if not the answers.

My favorites now are Edgar Allen Poe’s “A Dream Within Dream” and anything by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Emily Dickinson. Yep, a dark romantic.

“There is a pain - so utter - it swallows substance up then covers the abyss with trance - So memory can step around - across - upon it - as one within a swoon - goes safely - where an open eye - would drop Him Bone by Bone.” - Emily Dickinson

Pedophile Priests

The following blog was adapted from an essay I wrote called “My Lost Saints.” It won an award in the inspirational writing category from the Writer’s Digest 2007 annual competition. There were 19,000 entries.

About a year ago, my then six-year-old son told me how much he enjoyed Mass. I knew my little guy liked dinosaurs, Power Rangers and loud music, but Mass? I was proud and sad all at once. It was then, I realized how much I’d lost in the wake of the Catholic Church pedophile scandals. I had, as Elizabeth Barrett Browning once wrote, “lost my saints.”

When I was his age, the Catholic saints were my action heroes. Their brave lives and gory deaths fascinated and inspired me. They stood up for their beliefs against all odds. I’d played Mass, too. Lining up all my stuffed animals next to my little brother, I’d read from the Old and New Testaments. Then, I’d deliver one hell of a homily. I didn’t understand that women couldn’t be priests. I’d come to that realization during my years as a parochial school student and many much more surprising facts later as an editor for an Archdiocesan newspaper.

After having been taught through 12th grade that Noah had an ark, my boss, a priest with his doctorate in theology from the Vatican, laughed and told me the stories in the Old Testament were metaphorical. They were teaching tools to help us understand complexities of our faith. I guess I’d always suspected that, but what about those who took the lessons literally and didn’t go on to pursue a degree in theology. When would they get the straight up truth? More illuminating chats involved the distinction between doctrine and tradition. Tradition with a capital T, he said. Also, celibacy for archdiocesan priests was a promise rather than a vow.

Over the years, I wondered about confession, birth control, the role of women in the Church and the indictment of gays. But who was I to question? My rude spiritual awakening continued. So much of our religion had nothing to do with actual doctrine. Throughout history evil, greed, sexism and bigotry shaped much of what now constitutes Catholic “T”radition. And if I doubted history, then I had my days at the Archdiocese of Philadelphia as proof.

My favorite childhood parish priest ran off with the third grade teacher. The priest who renewed my parents’ wedding vows has since married a former nun. They are now both Lutheran ministers. Then came the sickening discovery that a priest, who had taken my husband, his brothers and other boys on childhood camping trips, had been a pedophile, known as such to the archdiocesan administration for decades. While my husband and his brothers were unharmed, others were not so lucky. I’m infuriated with the hierarchy who condoned a legacy of depression, suicide and depravity. I find them to be as evil, if not more so, than the priest pedophiles. To add insult to injury, the absurd apologies that accompanied recent settlements enrage me.

I now realize it is my God-given right and responsibility to question. As in politics, if I’m to complain then must I participate? But this isn’t about government. This is my soul. With whom do I register my complaint? What do I do here and now if I want to actively take part in my religion?

I send my children to parochial school and will send them through Catholic education until they reach college. Catholics do an incredible amount of good. I have no doubt God is present in what Catholic Charities and Catholic schools accomplish. There are dedicated priests tainted by the scandal of others. There are faithful followers trying to live good lives. I do separate my faith from my religion, as my mother suggests. My father would argue that Catholicism has endured centuries just fine. Who am I to argue the finer points?

But I find that lack of spiritual evolution sad. I’m by no means suggesting that other religions have it over Catholics. Having written for The Philadelphia Inquirer’s Living Religion section, I covered many faiths. Some people believe that any organized religion is going to lead to corruption. Where does that leave society? There’s a desperate need for faith and organized religion. Yet, church pews are emptier and fewer people are entering religious orders. Apathy, rather than reform, has taken hold. So much competes for our attention and, yes, sometimes we are lazy. But instead of walking away from organized religion, we need to fix it. It’s not the sins of the past and present Church that concern me — it’s the Church of the future, or the lack there of.

I want my children to experience the peace that comes with belief. I don’t want to rob them of their faith. The Church may do that soon enough.

My son deserves more. He deserves his saints — the ones I’ve lost.