Writing is Hard

"Let's start a blog challenge," we said.

"First one to skip a week buys lunch," we said.

"It'll be fun...
Wait...
I don't think we said that.

No. We definitely didn't say that. We knew it wouldn't be fun. We knew it would be hard. Because writing is hard. And because even though we both love it, we both avoid it. Because it's hard. And maybe even torturous.

So here I sit writing a blog entry at 10:15 on Sunday night because we set Sunday at midnight as the cutoff for the week. Writing may be hard, but apparently buying lunch is worse.

Topics I considered through the course of the week (but never actually wrote about):

• Writing (and why it is so hard)
• My next letter to Heaven
• Lent (and my plan of attack)
• Foster parenting
• Cheetos (someday I'm going to write an ode) 
• A Mema story 

There you have it. It's a good list, and none of them got written. Maybe next week. There's always next week.

For now...

Barbara Wells, this counts. Nighty night.

Letters to Heaven, continued

I'm not sure how to start this letter.

Dear Mrs. Andrews,

That's clearly too formal. I would have never called you that.

Dear Cleo,

No. I didn't even know your first name until I Googled it a few minutes ago. By the way, why did you switch your initials for your penname? Was that your decision or a publisher's? 

Dear V.C. Andrews,

That's all I've ever called you, but it seems strange in a salutation.

Dear author who I never met but who changed my life forever,

There. That will do.

You are the reason I am a reader. You are the reason dyslexia didn't win the battle. You are the reason that I persevered (and continue to do so) when I have to reread and slow down and reread again and move a tracker and sometimes a finger. You are the reason that even at its most frustrating I STILL love to read.

Well, I guess my mom deserves some of the credit. If she hadn't told me I wasn't allowed to read that filth, you wouldn't be the reason. And I may not have turned out a reader. So I guess it was teamwork on both your parts.

Now, don't be offended by her harsh words. As I got older she said some pretty harsh things about Stephen King too, but by then she had given up on trying to dictate the subject matter of my reading obsession. She told me once that I was going to turn into a psychopath if I didn't read something else, but I'm pretty sure she was just kidding. Pretty sure.

The day I left my book out on the coffee table and she read an excerpt from Flowers in the Attic, she threw it away. She didn't ask me where I got it or tell me to take it back. She just threw it away. And that was the end of that. At least she thought it was. OH NO! I didn't know which page she had read (I had just started the book), but I was damned sure going to find out. 

I dug that book out of the trash and read like I had never read before. I was fascinated by any story that could work my mother into such a frenzy, and I was quickly captivated by Cathy. I couldn't get enough. I read all five books as fast as I could get my hands on them. It was my first exposure to Gothic writing, and something inside me twisted and turned in response to such darkness. 

I read your other books as well, but it was Cathy Dollanganger who pulled me over to the dark side and taught me to lose myself in a book. For that, I will always be grateful. 

I still enjoy reading the dark and twisty. I've devoured my fair share of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Richard Matheson, and Jack Ketchum just to name a few of my favorites. Anne Rice introduced me to vampires, but I never took that love beyond her work. But you...you were my first. You were the first to use words to give me chills as I read by flashlight tucked under the covers safe in my bedroom. You gave me my love for a genre that even my mother has come to accept as perfectly harmless (now that I'm a grown woman...and probably not a psychopath). 

Thank you for dedicating your life to putting words together for others to enjoy. As a wannabe writer, I know that isn't easy. Thank you for giving us just enough of the forbidden and the taboo to make an 11 year-old girl dig through the trash and come out a reader. 

And thank you for Cory. And Carrie. And Cathy. And Chris. 

Sincerely,

Kristi, a grateful fan and lifelong reader

So Much More Than Beads

Hail Mary, full of grace...

When I'm scared, I pray the Rosary.
When I'm worried, I pray the Rosary.
When others ask me to pray for them, I pray the Rosary.

The Lord is with thee...

Holding the beads is comforting. Reciting the prayers is comforting. Today I sat in the backseat of a car. Silent. Praying the Rosary. Then sat in a hospital waiting room. Listening. Praying the Rosary.  Talking. Praying the Rosary. Hugging. Praying the Rosary.

Blessed art thou amongst women...

When I administered tests to my students, I roamed the room silently praying Rosaries, manipulating the beads in one hand (I've become quite the master of the one-handed Rosary hold).

And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

All those years, I thought I did this unnoticed. Until one year the ESL teacher asked me to come to her room to read an essay. This was not unusual, but this time it was different. The essay she wanted me to read was a copy of a college entrance essay. A copy she had made for me.

Holy Mary, mother of God...

The student wrote about the time he was taking a TAKS retest and his teacher walked around the room praying for him. He said that to him it meant I hadn't given up on him. And I hadn't. I don't remember his name, but I can picture his face. He wasn't my student, but he came to my classroom after school three days a week for tutorials.

Pray for us sinners...

Reading that essay, I remembered that he had caught me praying during that test. He stopped me as I walked by his desk and asked, "Miss, are you praying the Rosary?" I told him I was. He asked me how many I'd said. Two. His response? "You must be slow. My mom says them really fast."

Now and at the hour of our death.

He was right to feel that praying that Rosary meant I hadn't given up on him. I hadn't. The man I prayed it for today? I hadn't given up on him either. That's what the Rosary is about. Hope. That's why I pray it. Because when I'm scared, I want to hope. When I'm worried, I want to hope. When I'm sad, I want to hope. Mary helps me find my hope. Those beads help me find my hope.

Amen

A Year of At Leasts

I love New Year's resolutions. For many years now, I have made three resolutions every year. Most years I'm successful with one. It's a stellar year if I knock two out of the park.

In 2015 I made a gift-giving resolution and had the most fun keeping a resolution I've ever had. I still love giving random gifts. In 2012 I quit smoking. I still smoke on Halloween, but I'm calling that one a success.

In 2015 I resolved to do an unassisted pull-up by the end of the year. In 2016 I resolved to do an unassisted pull-up by the end of the year. I still can't do an unassisted pull-up.

This year, instead of a resolution I issued myself a challenge. Google defines resolution as a firm decision to do or not do something. Quit smoking...firm. Challenge is defined as a call to take part in a contest or competition. I suppose this competition is with myself. To be a better me.

I have dubbed 2017 "The Year of At Leasts." The challenge is simple.

Every day do AT LEAST one of the following:

1. Run at least one mile.
2. Pray at least one rosary.
3. Read at least one chapter.
4. Write at least one something. 

I've already failed on the every day part (good thing it's a challenge and not a resolution). But despite the fact that the previous sentence contains the word failed, I've done more of all four activities than I think I would have otherwise. Success.

January's Losses:

• I missed three days. I guess that's not horrible, but it would have been cool to have had a streak. Is just one month too much to ask?  Come on, Piper!
• Challenge within the challenge: Unbroken February streak
• I only wrote once. Just once. This one makes me sad.  

January's Wins: 

• I doubled up and completed two "at leasts" in one day 12 times.
• I completed three "at leasts" in one day once.  
• Challenge within the challenge: Two trifectas in February
• I ran 67.17 miles in January. I consider those 67 wins.
• I finished three books in January. To some of my reader friends, that won't seem like many. Trust me; it is a win. I love to read. I am a self-proclaimed memoir junkie, but it is a very slow process for me (that involves lots of frustration and rereading). 

The wins out-number the losses 2 to 1. That officially puts January in the win column. Yes, that's the rule. 

So far, February's streak is going strong. And I already have one trifecta! 

Other fun challenges for 2017:

• Barbara Wells and I have a blog challenge going. Write one entry every week (there's an implied at least). The first person to miss a week has to buy lunch.
• Gina Strebeck, Caprice Meador, and I have teamed up to run 2,017 miles in 2017. 
• I want to read/re-read Maya Angelou's memoirs in order. 
• And of course... Do an unassisted pull-up, damn it!

Better Than That

Let me begin this political rant with a warning: I am, in general, not politically minded. I don't consider myself an overly-informed citizen, and I can't hold my own in the political discussions of my smart, smart, smarty-pants friends. I am passionate about public education and women's rights, and I can't tell you much about most politicians' platforms outside of those two realms.

Having said that, I have participated in several political debates on social media over the last year. I'm guessing most people probably have. For the most part, they have been thought-provoking and respectful. Several even ended with, "That was fun. Thanks." I do love a good debate.

But in the last few days specifically, I have read blogs and Facebook posts that made me cringe, a few that made me cry, and one that made me feel like I had been punched in the gut.

Why, after a year of political rhetoric, has the nature of the game changed? Why is everyone so upset? Because thousands of women got together and marched. They marched peacefully and from what I saw respectfully for what I can only guess are hundreds of different reasons.

And apparently, that makes people really, really mad. And nasty. And I just don't get it.

You don't have to agree with their reasons or even know what their reasons are to refrain from insulting them. How hard of a concept is that?

I am sad to say I did not march. I am happy to say it is because I chose to stay for my son's basketball game. But really, that is no excuse. I could have driven up to Austin that morning, but I didn't. I wish I had. I wish I had been there to enjoy the beauty of the moment so that maybe the critics wouldn't be getting to me like they are. Maybe I would still be on a sisterhood high.

Last year, I participated in the Walk To End Alzheimer's. Here are some criticisms I have heard over and over in regard to the recent women's marches. They also apply to the Alzheimer's walk:

1. People were inconvenienced because the roads had to be closed. - Yup, they shut down an entire three-mile loop in the middle of Houston for our Alzheimer's walk.
2. Police officers had to be on duty away from their families. - You guessed it. They were there at every turn.
3. What are you complaining about? None of your rights have been taken. - I don't have Alzheimer's either. I didn't walk for me. I walked for the future.
4. They made a mess and left trash everywhere. So disrespectful! - Even I'll give a big ol' shame on you for this one. I hate littering. But wait...I did throw my water cups down along the route of the walk. And there was a clean-up crew who came out afterwards to clean everything up. 

And yet...no one criticized that walk (that I know of). No one called me stupid for participating. I didn't read anything the next day that made me hurt for the ugliness it showed in the person who wrote it. 

A cousin (I have many, so good luck figuring out which one) asked me yesterday why I cared and why I wished I had marched. I don't think she (yes, she) meant it disrespectfully. She genuinely wanted to know what my issue was. She assumed it was an anti-Trump march because of his pussy-grabbing tendencies, and it very well may have been for many. For me, it was more about women's health rights. specifically the defunding of Planned Parenthood that we all see looming around the corner. It's an issue near and dear to my heart, and for that I marched in spirit.

I don't know what percent of Planned Parenthood's services are abortions. I believe I read something once that said it is 3%, but I don't even remember where I read that. The bottom line is I DON'T CARE. I don't care what percent of their services are abortions. I don't care because regardless of my beliefs about abortion, those services are perfectly legal medical procedures that are being provided to women who have made that choice for a multitude of reasons I never want to have to understand.

What I do care about is the remaining percentage of services that they provide. I care that they make birth control available to all women at a time when not all insurance companies find it necessary. Viagra? Sure, no problem. But birth control? That's controversial. I care about the millions of women who receive mammograms and pelvic exams free of charge regardless of if they have insurance or not. I care about the percentage of those millions who then have to hear the gut wrenching phrase "stage one" and are too devastated in that moment to realize how amazing it is that they are not hearing "stage four."

And I care about prenatal care. Did you even know that Planned Parenthood provides prenatal care? Most people don't. They do.

I care because when I was a broke, pregnant college student, that is exactly what they provided for me. Medicaid does you no good when you can't find a doctor who will accept it and therefore will accept you. I care because Planned Parenthood accepts everyone.

To this day, I am thankful for the prenatal vitamins, the nutritional counseling, the check-ups, and the guidance they provided. 21 years later I remain thankful that Planned Parenthood has always been more than abortions.

I don't know if Ryan's health or circumstances would be any different if I hadn't received proper prenatal care. I'll never have to know. And if marching down the street with thousands of other women or calling legislators or signing petitions and being called a crazy feminist means one other young girl will never have to know that either, then it seems like time well spent.

Speaking out about women's rights isn't about being a victim. I don't feel like a second-class citizen. I'm a middle class white woman with a good job and a comfortable home. I live a damn good life. And I owe it to the women who marched before me to show my gratitude by marching us forward.

So I thank you, Judy Bolin and your band of badass women. I thank you, women from across the country who marched with love and solidarity. I thank you for showing grace and composure in the days that followed when you were belittled and insulted. You held your heads and your signs high, and I want you to know it mattered. There is a little girl out there somewhere who doesn't know you did it for her, but someday she'll think back and thank you.

And as for that Facebook post that made me cry, and question my faith, and in the end, deactivate my account, I'm through being mad at her. I'm through letting her ugly words have that kind of control over me.

I'm better than that.
I'm stronger than that.
Some amazing women paved the way for me to know that.

Letters to Heaven (cont.)

When I set out to write these letters to Heaven, my goal was to put into words the profound impact certain individuals had on my life before departing this world. Austin's was an easy name to add to the list as I am quite certain he had no idea just how important he was to me. He was living proof that small gestures can make a huge difference. 

Dear Austin,

I wish that I could shake your hand one last time and tell you these words in person because the truth is that I shook your hand almost daily for over a year and never bothered to tell you how much it mattered.

You weren't my student. Had our paths taken different turns, you may have been someday, but the fact remains that you weren't. I was never your teacher. This is an important aspect in regard to your impact on me. You never had an extrinsic reason to do what you did. Never.

You stopped by my classroom every day. You shook my hand. You talked for a minute or two, and then you always wished me a good day. Always. And always as you were walking away. "Have a good day, Miss Piper," you would call down the hall and wave one hand in the air. 

Sometimes there was a second handshake at the end of the short conversation. Just sometimes. But the encounter always started with one. Always. You had a strong, solid handshake. I remember your handshake well. 

I don't remember what we talked about each day. I'm sure it wasn't anything of substance as it only lasted a few minutes between classes. But what we talked about isn't really the point. The point, at least to me, is that you took the time to stop and have that short encounter ever single day. You shook my hand every single day. You took a few minutes out of your day to have a quick conversation, and you wished me a good day. Every single day. And I wasn't your teacher. I wasn't anyone special who had any kind of influence over you. I was just a lady standing in the hallway. 

I looked forward to those daily encounters. I never told you that then, so I'm telling you now. It made a difference in my day. Maybe you made a point to stop and speak to every adult in the building. I don't know. I never asked (and now don't want to know). I'll just continue in ignorant bliss thinking I was special.

I just wanted you to know it mattered. You mattered. To an adult you barely knew. You mattered. What was probably a small, insignificant gesture that was just a part of who you were continues to matter. Because I remember those daily handshakes and the boy who made a point to wish me a good day. Every. Single. Day.

I wish I would have told you this when you were with us. I can't change that now, but I can write you this message and in it thank you for your manners and your presence and for simply taking the time. 

I miss that handshake, 

Miss Piper 

Moments, Inspirational Moments

Moment #1

I can think of no better book than Calvin Miller's Letters to Heaven to read on a cool Texas morning as you sit in a camp chair listening to the Guadalupe River rush below you. That's exactly what I did yesterday, and while reading Miller's words to those who have gone on to their celestial Heaven, I felt as though I was sitting in a close earthen proximity. 

In this beautiful tribute to a set of individuals who influenced his life before passing to meet their maker, Miller wonders, "How shall I finish up the unfinished business of earth?" His answer? Letters. Letters to dear friends, family members, legends of his time, and one young girl he saw only once and to whom he never even spoke. Reading his letters, so beautifully crafted, touched my heart. They are honest and uplifting, and I can only imagine that after writing each, he felt a sense of relief or release or maybe even unadulterated joy knowing that his words had been delivered by an angelic messenger and that he had been touched by a piece of Heaven. 

And so I now set forth to write my own letters. A collection of ten, the first of which I share now. To whom shall I write? To ten people who touched my life in very different ways. Ten people with whom I would love to have the chance for one last conversation. Ten people who have gone on before me to enjoy the promises of Christ and so the conversations will be one sided unless the angels see fit to send a response. 

• V.C. Andrews
• Austin Bailey
• Patrick Swayze
• The Chernobyl Suicide Squad (I don't even know their names.)
• Demi Smith
• Grandpa Piper 
• Theodor Seuss Geisel
• Pope John Paul II
• Catherine Hechler

You may have (but probably did not) notice that there are only nine on the list. That brings me to my next moment. 

Moment #2

The weekend before this camping trip, I sat in a very different environment. I was at a professional conference listening to a teacher talk about how writing saves us, and a seed which had been planted in my heart some time ago began to grow. I felt it. And just like that...this moment led to the next moment, and they came together to inspire me.

That teacher asked us three questions, the third of which was, "What do you really want to do?" She gave us two minutes to write an answer, and after sitting perfectly still for the entire first minute, this is what I wrote: 

I really want to write. I want to write more and better and more and better. I want to write about Mema. I really, really want to write about Mema. And I'm going to start TODAY.

And so I did. I sat down that same evening and wrote a Mema story. The next week I gathered some of the stories I'd written in different journals over the years and started a list of other stories yet to be written. And I wrote a list of questions. Questions I want to ask my family members so that I can write their stories as well. Stories that I can put together in one collection to paint a picture of Mary Clawson. Her story as others remember it. 

Today, I connect that moment to my moment with Miller's words and I write my first letter to Heaven:

Dear Mema,

I suppose saying we miss you would be a logical way to start this letter, but in the end, we missed you while you were living as well. You left us to a place that doctors try to explain but is hard for others to grasp long before you abandoned your body here on earth. You still looked like Mema, and your voice sounded like Mema, but we had already begun to miss you. 

So instead, I will begin with a sentiment I wish that I had told you in person. You had beautiful hands. I loved your hands. I remember the feel of your hands (both young and old). Mema, I miss your hands. 

This week I wrote the story of when Ryan and I took you to see Planet of the Apes at a movie theater, and while it is a funny story and one that in the end proved to be a turning point for me, my favorite part was soothing your nerves as we sat in the theater waiting for the movie to start. The hustle and bustle of the theater had left you confused and anxious. You sat there with your left hand in my right, and every few minutes you asked me where we were. I answered you the same each time while I rubbed the top of your hand over and over.

I always loved holding your hand, and I especially loved rubbing your hand. Late in your life, it proved to have a calming effect on you, but I had loved doing it from a very young age. On this particular night, I watched the movement of my hand pull your skin taut so that your wrinkles disappeared momentarily. Then I would move my hand down to your fingers; you had long, beautiful fingers. Like a piano player should be blessed with. Did you ever play the piano? 

Every so often, you reached over with your right hand and patted my left and then just left it there. All four of our hands stacked together. In a theater. Next to a five year old. Waiting to watch a movie you wouldn't understand. Or even remember seeing. 

Those same hands pinched one cheek and slapped the other cheek of every grandchild every time we visited. The word slapped may seem negative to some. It's not. And it's really the only word fit to describe it. It wasn't a pat. Oh no. Your beautiful hands were also strong, and it was definitely more than a pat. We acted like we dreaded that pinch/slap combo, but we would stand in line awaiting our turn every single Sunday. 

I remember those hands vividly. Beautiful. And strong. There is no other way to describe them, and no better words to describe you. Beautiful. Strong.

I want you to know that I have begun to write my memories of you. Your stories as I (and soon others) remember them. Your stories that had become mysteries to you even while you were still living. I know my rendition will not be as beautiful or as strong, but I hope it will, in the end, be a little piece of you that those of us left to miss you can cling to and pass down to those who would have loved to have known you. 

I often wonder if George Jones sings to you in Heaven and if you ever run into Martha. 

Oh Mema, so badly I want to know... "Who was Martha?"

Love always,

Kristi, forever your Martha