>A Few of My Favorite Things

>Here I go again. Irreverently combining serious stuff with fluff in the same post. What can I say? I’m a spiritual girl living in a material world. So… first the fluff.
A few of my “Favorite Things” from Christmas 2007:

My Goddaughter Stacy gave me this awesome CD by Chris Botti (and a gift card for Barnes and Noble!). Botti can really make a horn sing.

>Baby News and Movie Reviews

>First the Baby News: My Goddaughter, Hannah (Mashburn) Snowden, had a baby boy yesterday afternoon! (Hannah is the one who is pictured in my last post, GREAT with child.) His name is Peter Cuthbert Snowden. Hannah and her husband, Matthew, went to England last year and learned more about Orthodox saints from that country. Like Saint Cuthbert. Bede’s Life of Saint Cuthbert is here. You can see icons and read short lives of several British Orthodox Saints here.

So, Hannah called me (yes) from her hospital bed yesterday afternoon, having been awake for like 36 hours and having just given birth. We talked for about 30 minutes as she held Peter in her arms. I’m going out to visit them this afternoon. Can’t wait!

7 p.m. addition to morning post:

Photos from visit with Hannah & Peter this afternoon.

He’s awesome!

So is Hannah.

This morning with my Morning Prayers I read this wonderful quote by St. John Chrysostom, from Daily Lives, Miracles and Wisdom of the Saints Calendar that we keep at our icon corner. It’s long, so I’ll excerpt it a bit:

If artists who make statues and paint portraits of kings are held in high esteem, will not God bless ten thousand times more those who reveal and beautify His royal image?—For man is the image of God. When we teach our children to be good, to be gentle, and to be forgiving—all attributes of God; to be generous, to love their neighbor, to regard this present age as nothing, we instill virtue in their souls, and reveal the image of God within them.

I thought about Hannah and Matthew as I read these words this morning… because Matthew is an artist and Hannah is a musician and also just got her Master’s in Education (or some sub-specialty of Education) and will be a teacher some day when Matthew is in seminary. They understand about the beauty of images. Matthew has painted icons. Hannah has chanted and sung in the choir in the Divine Liturgy of the Church since she was a child. And performed in musical productions. I can still remember the chills I got watching her in “Godspell” at St. Mary’s when she was in high school. And they were both raised by kind and gentle parents who love God and taught them these things that St. John Chrysostom says, to be good, to be gentle, and to be forgiving… All this to say that baby Peter Cuthbert is in good hands. And Many Years and Congratulations, Hannah and Matthew!

It almost feels like sacrilege to write about movies in the same post as the birth of baby Peter, but hey—life isn’t always about mountain top experiences. Sometimes it’s just families hanging out and relaxing together during the holidays, right? So… this is the beginning of my Pen and Palette Movie Review:

“Atonement” was nominated for 7 Golden Globe Awards… I love Keira Knightley…and the cinematography was amazing. It’s a morality tale … with an element of surprise (yes) at the end, which was good…although I’m a sucker for happy-ever-afters, which this movie definitely did not have. Still, two thumbs up for Atonement. I went to see it with my husband, and we both thought the writing and acting were excellent.

Next I went with my 30-year-old son, Jonathan, to see “No Country For Old Men.” Jon and I both like the Coen Brothers … more about them here. We both really liked “O Brother Where Art Thou?” and Jon liked “Fargo” (1996) and “The Big Lebowski.” (1998). I liked “Raising Arizona,” (1997). Anyway, back to “No Country For Old Men.” We were both a bit surprised by it. Not because it was dark (which it was). Or because we found ourselves laughing at its dark humor (which we did.) But because it was slow. And the ending was disappointing. So, we give it two thumbs down, actually. Although the New York Film Critics and National Board of Review both gave it “Best Picture” awards. But what do we know. We’re just the consumers, right?

Next, when Beth (my 25-year-old daughter) got in town, she and I went to see “P.S. I Love You” with Hillary Swank. We loved it. Swank is a great actress, I think. She really becomes the characters she plays. Lisa Kudrow, an actress Beth and I both like, played one of Swank’s charcter’s best friends. But she seems to be the same character in most of her roles. Maybe all those years on “Friends” got under her skin. But she delivered some great lines and we laughed a lot. The scenes in Ireland were beautiful. Harry Connick Jr. was lovable. Kathy Bates was believable as Swank’s mother. The plot wasn’t too predictable, either. We give it two thumbs up.

Thursday afternoon I went with hubby and both boys (Jason is 26) to see “Charlie Wilson’s War.” We all thought it was great. Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts can’t do anything wrong in my book. Roberts was great in this because I kept forgetting it was her. She transcended her “Pretty Woman” image… not that she wasn’t pretty because she was. But she was, well, different in this. And strong. And smart. And sexy. (Okay, so she was all those things in Pretty Woman, too.) And Philip Seymour Hoffman was great. It was a bit surreal, though… sitting next to my son, Jon, who flies helicopters for the Army and will return to Iraq in a couple of weeks… and watching helicopters being blown up by stingers. Later I asked him if it didn’t scare the bejeezies out of him watching it and he said no, that usually they won’t “waste” an expensive stinger on a Kiowa (the chopper he flies) with two men in it… they’d rather blow up a Blackhawk or something big with lots of guys in it. Comforting words for a mother to hear, don’t you think? Anyway, two thumbs up from all four of us.

Jason and I still want to see “The Great Debaters” … and he and his dad want to see “I Am Legend” … and Beth and I might want to see “Margot at the Wedding” … so…. Stay tuned. The holidays aren’t over yet!

>Time For All These Holy Moments

> Christ is Born! Glorify Him!

My cup overfloweth…. but with my nest full I’m finding little time for writing. This morning I found a window of quiet to Read. Pray. Reflect. Write.

My prayers were mostly thank yous. I love it that over and over again in Anne Lamott’s books she says her two favorite prayers are “help, help, help” and “thank you, thank you, thank you.” I was saying “help, help, help” a few days ago when I was preparing for Christmas, visiting my mother in Mississippi, trying not to feel guilty about not having her here with us in Memphis, and trying to let go of my obsessive-compulsive behavior that peeks at this time of year. I even considered, briefly, finding a 12-steps meeting somewhere the other day. Instead, I took a few deep breaths and said help help help and He did.

First He helped by blessing my visit with my mother last week. Her joy over the gifts I took her and just over my being there. Her growing contentment at the assisted living home she moved into almost two years ago. The relative calm in the cloud of her progressive Alzheimer’s.

Next He helped by bringing all three of my “children” home safely, Jason making it in on Christmas Eve from Wyoming. And then the joy of watching the three of them, now 25, 26 and 30, learn the new steps to the dance that siblings do when they don’t see each other but once or twice a year.

Some how (thank you thank you thank you) I was able to relax (yes-me!) and enjoy being with them and not get overly stressed by preparations. The Christmas Eve service at St. John was beautiful. Again, surrounded by my children in the pew felt like oil being poured over my head. Healing oil. And the music! Our choir sings well with the angels. Our leader, Margaret, with babe in arms, chants and directs and it’s heavenly. Thank you thank you thank you.

After the Liturgy we continued the feast in the parish hall, where we enjoyed so many visitors, like Stacy and Jared, who were here from Nashville to visit family. I loved this: two of my Goddaughters great with Child as we celebrate Christ’s birth. Hannah due any day now… having a Christmas baby. And Stacy due right around Pascha…. A double celebration of new life. Thank you thank you thank you.

Many people stayed until the wee hours of the morning, as the Feast Committee worked to set up and clean up. Ethan and Claire, Brandon and Caitlyn, Jeremy and Amy. Thank you thank you thank you.

Saint Isaac the Syrian says it so eloquently:

This Christmas night, peace was bestowed upon the whole world; so let no one threaten. This is the night of the Most Gentle One; let no one be cruel. This is the night of the Most Humble One; let no one be proud. Now is the day of joy; let us not revenge. Now is the day of goodwill; let us not be mean. In this day of peace let us not be conquered by anger….Let us open our door to those who ask our forgiveness. Now the Divine Being took upon Himself the seal of humanity, in order for humanity to be decorated by the seal of Divinity.

Christmas morning at our house was pretty wonderful. No “schedule.” One by one we wandered into the den from the four corners of the house. Coffee wafting up the stairs. Bubbly mimosas and Jon’s special Bloody Mary mix and the smell of bacon and cinnamon rolls was, well, intoxicating. In a good way.

Usually I’m so worried about my “list” of which casseroles need to be fixed by what time, what needs to thaw, go in the oven, the table set perfectly, etc. that I often miss the dance. Not this time. I remembered Bud Smith’s song that I listened to on the beach in November, “Let Go,” … and I did. It was like having my own private 12-steps meeting in my head. And when I let go, guess what happened? I made room for everyone else to be a part of the doings. Someone set the table. Someone mixed the sweet potato casserole together. Someone washed dishes as I assembled the marinated green beans. Someone helped arrange the Honey Baked Ham slices (well… everyone likes to mess with the ham and nibble on those crunchy brown sugar crusty pieces, you know?) and… it was peaceful.

We scaled down our gift-giving, and everyone seemed to enjoy the small goodies and surprises so much. Music is always involved, and as we took turns playing everyone’s new CDs we danced and laughed and it was magical. (Sorry, my hubby wouldn’t let me post pictures of us dancing…. Beth even caught us on her phone video-cam….. sigh.)

Because of my foot surgery in January, Beth went to Build-A-Bear and made me “Scrubby”…. She has cowgirl boots and a cowgirl hat … but also scrubs… including little scrub booties, hat, and surgical mask. I’m going to take her with me on January 8 for the surgery. She will wear a cowgirl boot on her right foot and a green bootie on her left foot… the one that’s being operated on. I’ll hug her while I’m waiting anxiously for the procedure and she’ll sit with my sweet hubbie in the waiting room until I’m done. I know he will enjoy that. Having her company while he waits for me. Can’t you just picture that? Dr. William Cushman in the waiting room at Campbell Clinic, with… “Scrubby.” Makes me smile. Everyone loves Scrubby. Even Jon.

Beth is going to the Outback Bowl in Tampa on New Year’s Day, so she found a UT hat in her stocking… as did her Dad… we’ll be watching it at home and looking for her on TV in the sea of Orange. Here’s our fearless leader … with his Saint Basil figurine (his patron saint, whose name day is January 1) and his new Energizer Bunny, which he found in his stocking. He just keeps going and going and going…

I love this picture … the Boiles gave us peronalized William Sonoma aprons… so we look like real cooks. Actually, I (not we) do cook… at least once a year… at Christmas!

>Christmases Remembered

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It’s Christmas Eve and we’re preparing for the Feast of the Nativity. At St. John Orthodox Church, we have services tonight, with feasting afterwards. So, I’ve got a pan of The Best Cornbread Dressing Ever ready for the oven and a platter of homemade fudge ready to go. And another pan of TBCDE in the fridge for our family’s feast tomorrow.

Beth is on her way to the airport to pick up Jason, flying in from FE Warren Air Force Base in Cheyenne, Wyoming. It will be our first Christmas in a few years with everyone here, for a variety of reaons. Jon was in Iraq in 2003. Jason and Jon were both unable to travel home last year. So it’s wonderful to have 5 stockings on the mantle.

But a bit sad that it’s our first Christmas without my brother, Mike. And without Father Basil’s dad, Bud Cushman.

All this caused me to spend some time in the photo albums again this afternoon. As a result, you’re going to get a slide show of Christmases Remembered instead of lots of words on this post. Here goes:

This is me with my brother Mike in Jackson, Mississippi in 1963.

I’m 12.

Mike is 14.

We are showing great restraint not to attack the presents yet.

And here I am afterwards, I always liked to arrange my gifts around me for photo ops. Yes, another HAT. And a tiny player piano. And clothes.

Now I’m jumping ahead to 1978… Jon was a year old. This was his first vehicle…. also in Jackson, Mississippi.

Seven years later was our first Christmas with all three kids here…

Beth arrived from South Korea in November 1985.

I’m including this pix from Atlanta with Grammy Ginny and Grampy Bud…. We miss them a lot this Christmas.

1985 was also the year of the OMAGLES. Sears was selling them for $99 a set, so it was a “group gift” to all three kids. They got lots of miles out of them… building forts like this one in the den with their dad…

and vehicles like this one.

It’s hard to believe Beth had only been in this country seven weeks when these pictures were taken.

Those Omagles were amazing… the kids actually rode this vehicle down the street! We should have known then we had an engineer/architect, army pilot and air force man in our midst!

Our last Christmas in Jackson was also our first Christmas as Orthodox Christians… 1987:

yikes… that hair! The 80s…. sigh.

But the kids were cute:

1988 was our first year in Memphis…

Here’s Jon with Granny Effie.

Okay… Jason just got home so I’ll close for now..

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

>It Is What It Is

>

And What It Is is three days until Christmas.

And also the Feast Day of the Holy Martyr Anastasia, patron saint of my Goddaughter, Stacy. There’s a thread here, I promise.

Let’s start with Saint Anastasia. (You can read more about her here and here.)

Anastasia was a wealthy, beautiful maiden who visited Christians in prison in Rome, to minister to them. She was eventually martyred (†290) and since then many have been healed by her and pray to her as the “Deliverer from Potions” because she has freed people from the harmful effects of substances. I’m praying to her now to help me and others who struggle with addictions of any kind.

Or even people controlled by obsessive compulsive disorders. And for all of us who tend to get a bit stressed out trying to make everything perfect for Christmas or any other time. I’m wanting a sign like this to put up in my house to remind me how far I’ve come in this regard. Well, maybe without the cigarettes in the picture.

Okay, so I did send out Christmas cards. And visit my mother in Mississippi and take her gifts. And today I got my Christmas grocery shopping done. But my “Christmas Day Menu and Schedule for Food Prep” is much less complicated than in years past. Yes. I save the ones from other years, like these, from 1999 and 2005. But that’s not so weird.

My husband saves notes from homilies (sermons) he’s given over the years, filed on index cards by topic or Gospel passage or date or something. So when he’s running short on time to prepare a homily, he pulls out his index cards and goes from there. Works for me.

And really, my family wants pretty much the same menu every Christmas, so why re-invent the wheel?

Everything is a bit downsized this year…. Tiny tiny tiny little fake tree with lights and no ornaments.

Just brought it down from the attic and plugged it in the other day.

But we do have stockings hung… but not the usual display of St. Nicholases that we’ve collected over the years. And nothing much else around the house that’s Christmassy. Oh, but Jon and his dad (yes!) did hang the outdoor lights today! I’d take a picture but it’s raining outside. They’re the icicycle kind. I love them.

The point is I’ve done most of this BY MYSELF many years, for one reason or another. So this year I said No. I’m a full time writer and iconographer and wife and daughter and mother to three and Godmother to thirteen and I just decided it was time to slow down. And un-decorating is always such a chore… and the house is still on the market and my foot surgery is still scheduled for January 8 and… well, you get it.

So this morning I got up early, at 7 a.m., because my dear friends Sarah and Keith were leaving town for Christmas and were stopping by to swap gifts at the last minute… After they left, I sat with my coffee and read more in Anne Lamott’s wonderful book, Traveling Mercies. Every page is a treasure, but here are a couple that really helped me start my day out right:

I prayed for the stamina to bear mystery and stillness.

What a great way to say it. And yes, bearing mystery and stillness does require stamina. A different kind of stamina than the frantic energy we sometimes use when we’re trying to be perfect.

And this one:

“Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.” – Persian mystical poet Rumi

So I combine these two thoughts and come up with this:

“When I can be still enough to bear mystery, in the midst of the messiness of life, I can find the treasure.”

Here we are, at the end of this post, with you waiting for me tie the thread of these thoughts together.

It is what it is.

The phrase I learned from my precious God daughter, Stacy, who is celebrating her Name Day today. Because of the wisdom and example of people like Stacy, I’m learning to accept the ruin and believe there’s a treasure to be found. Thank you, Stacy, and Happy Name Day!

>My Life

>On August 6, I wrote my second ever blog post and called it “These Are My People.” Because I was taking another big step towards re-embracing my roots by attending the first Mississippi Writers Guild Conference in Clinton, Mississippi.

Since then I’ve returned over and over to (Oxford) Mississippi for monthly meetings of my writers critique group, workshops, and regular visits to my mother, who lives in an assisted living home in Ridgeland, Mississippi. She’s at a stage with her Alzheimers where she’s more comfortable staying in her “small world” at Ridgeland Pointe rather than coming up to Memphis for Christmas, so I made a pre-Christmas trip to see her this week. More about that later in this post.

First I want to talk about reconnecting with my best friend from childhood. Jan and I became best friends in 1960 when her family moved to Jackson from Memphis. We were 8 and 9 years old. (I’m one year older.) Last night I searched for photo albums but couldn’t find the ones that showed us at Daphne, Alabama, where her family owned a summer home on the Mobile Bay. They taught me to water ski. And crab. And play poker. And eat homemade pickled watermelon rinds (the best). We haven’t seen eachother much since 1969, when I went to college. Except that she was Maid of Honor in my wedding in 1970. (Yes, I already loved hats!) We were 18 and 19. Then our paths pretty much parted for most of 37 years. She lived and worked in Atlanta, DC, and Nashville. Until she moved back to Jackson to take care of her mom, one of my mom’s best friends, a few years ago. (Her mom also had Alzheimers, and died in 2006.)

Oh, and she came to my brother’s funeral on February 1, 2007. And we started emailing more frequently. Her dad lives in Memphis (he’s 84) so when she called to ask me a favor the other day (to run some faxed papers out to his apartment) she invited me to stay with her when I came down to see Mom. She lives about a mile from Mom. So, I said yes.

What a trip down memory lane. As I walked down the hall to her guest room, I stopped in my tracks, captivated by the photos on the wall. Pictures of me when I was 9 or 10, on a ski boat at Daphne. (That’s me, with the criss-cross straps on the back of my swim suit. A picture of a picture, hanging on the wall, so the quality is pretty bad.) Pictures of my parents when they were young and beautiful, also on a boat, on the deck and in the cabin at Daphne, in the late 50s. My mom was always wearing HATS! I didn’t remember that about her. Of course, it was the 50s, and maybe lots of women wore hats then.

Jan and I were cheerleaders together in junior high school. But mostly I remember the fun, crazy times at her house. They had a pool table. And her stepfather would stay up all night with all us kids, cooking steak at 2 in the morning and playing games with us. It was the antithesis of my home, where everything was always so uptight. So… we drank wine and talked about the good and the bad things about our childhoods. And how sometimes they were the same thing. Because people aren’t all good or all bad. Just all human.

This is a fuzzy picture taken by her TV repairman (yes) on Wednesday night at her house. We both look just a bit older than we did back in 1970, you think? Sigh. And we’re both looking so much like our mothers. (a good thing)

Oh, and the next day Jan came to Mom’s apartment and visited with her, which thrilled Mom, once she figured out who Jan was. Jan will visit her again on Christmas Day, since I’ll have a house full here in Memphis. What a treasure to rediscover this dear friend so many years later. She’s My People.

Pre-Christmas with Mom was really fun. I took her some Ugg boots (I love them!) because her feet are always cold and she loved them and wore them around the facility showing them off. After lunch the daughter of another resident was playing the piano in the upstairs lobby, so we gathered around and sang and danced to her beautiful Christmas music. This is me and mom with her best friend, Elizabeth (in red). And with the piano-playing daughter (who lives in Los Angelos and came home to see her mother for Christmas) and another resident here. Yes. LA. Makes me feel better about living 200 miles from Mom!

Sitting in her apartment earlier, Mom had said, “I’m really happy here.” (She’s been in assisted living almost two years.) I can’t remember her ever, ever saying those words. “I’m happy.” That was probably the best Christmas present I could ever receive.

Driving back to Memphis yesterday afternoon, I was listening to one of my Iris Dement CDs, “My Life,” and especially to the cover song, “My Life,” when a dear friend called in tears. One of her children had a medical emergency and she was asking for my prayers. It always seems that the Christmas holidays are charged with more intensity about family situations. I think she mainly needed some comfort. I don’t know if my words helped her or not, but I hope so. Iris’ song says how I feel about my friends… and my mother. They save me from myself. Over and over again. You can listen to it here.

My life, it’s tangled in wishes

And so many things that never turned out right…

But I gave joy to my mother

And I made my lover smile
I can give comfort to my friends when they’re hurting,
I can make it seem better for a while.

>Icons Will Save the World

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Today my article, “Icons Will Save the World” is appearing on the website of First Things: A Journal of Religion, Culture and Public Life. To read the article, click on the link here and then click on the brown square on the left side of the page that says “Read Our Daily Article.”

I have a listing at http://www.iconofile.com/ for my studio, Mandorla Icon Studio. On the Iconofile website, click on “Resource Guide” and then “Icons-Instruction” and also “Icons-Hand-Painted.” Iconofile lists a number of iconographers, workshops, etc. And they sell good pigments and other supplies. I’ve been to one of the workshops they sponsor and learned much from the instructors and from George O’Hanlon, Iconofle’s founder.

The icon at right is similar to the one that is described in the article at First Things… in the scene where the woman is sitting in the nave looking at the icon of Christ on the cross.

A few more icons that I have painted are included in this post, which will be short on words so that you’ll have time to read the article at First Things.

Leave me a comment here (by clicking on comments at the end of this post and then signing in and leaving your comment) … or email me at susanmaryecushman@yahoo.com.

My next icon workshop will be at St. John Orthodox Church in Memphis March 27-30. It’s currently full (10 students) but if you’d like to be on a waiting list, drop me an email and let me know.

These students just finished an icon of the Mother of God.

Thanks for reading!

>Giving Voice to Hopes and Fears

>Why do we read books about people whose lives are broken by addiction, abuse, disabilities, tragedy, and even garden-variety dysfunction? Well, sure, some folks are just drawn to the sensational… the way people rush to the scene of a car wreck or a fire. I’ve never been a fan of horror stories (books or movies) but I get it. The rush. I just like to get my kicks without the dark, scary stuff, thank you.

But reading books about how people deal with their brokenness isn’t about getting kicks. At least it’s not for me. It’s about gaining clarity about my own life and the lives of those I am close to. It’s about the bond we share with other imperfect people. It’s also about the hope we often gain from the stories of people who are fighting or have fought battles similar to our own.

Writers who can get this message across with fiction are just brilliant. I think. To Kill a Mockingbird. There’s so much there for all of us. And sure, Harper Lee brought her own life experiences and relationships and acquaintances and family stuff into the work. But it’s fiction. Some one said that Pat Conroy has made a cottage industry out of writing fiction books about his own broken family. The Prince of Tides is my all time favorite. Not just because it’s a beautiful literary work. And it is. But also because it deals with some hard issues but also gives us hope. For healing.

The other day I was reading some craft essays on the Brevity website and found a link to an interview with Sue William Silverman, author of Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You and other memoirs. Williams said she was drawn to memoir, as a genre, because “it helps me to better understand, mainly through metaphor, the connections between events in my life. Metaphor gives these events a shape, an organization. By ‘collecting’ all my words on pieces of paper, my life becomes a tangible entity that I can hold in my hands, look at, and think: Yes, this is my life. I see it now.”

In my own writing journey, I’ve been recently drawn to creative nonfiction. In fact, I’ve registered for a memoir-writing workshop at the University of Mississippi in February/March. For some of the same reasons Silverman was drawn to it. Here’s a bit more of her history:

Back in the early 1980s, shortly after I began to write, I met a woman I’ll call Lisa at a writers’ conference in Houston. She had recently published an autobiographical novel about her autistic son. I was in awe of her…. But how quickly I was disillusioned when I learned Lisa’s book ha not received a “Times” review. She had not flown to New York City to meet the literati. Instead, she described giving a reading at a conference on autism. How touched she was, she told me to share her experience with other parents of autistic children, touched because she’d giving voice to their hopes and fears.

Silverman wanted to write fiction. She continues here:

From 1980 to 1992, I wrote five (or six) bad novels. I received a MFA degree in creative writing. I published a handful of short stories. Nevertheless, with every bad novel I churned out, I knew I was learning how to write…as much as I feared I didn’t have a voice with which to tell my stories….. I never considered that my own truths could be heard, that my real life was important, that a woman’s story could be art.

That a woman’s story could be art.

Silverman struggled with some ethical issues that I struggle with. About writing, publically, about personal, family stuff. After her parents died, she felt safer about writing about some of her family history. Her therapist encouraged her to tell her story. So she did…. and there was good news and bad news….

But then, amazingly, the moment I began to write I heard my real voice. I felt as if I’d just learned to speak.

You can read the rest of the story here, at her web site. The “bad news” about how women’s “confessional writing” often isn’t taken seriously. Or it’s bashed by the media. She gives advice on promoting your work once you write it. And she reflects on the strokes she gets from real people who are encouraged by her work:

While women memoirists wait for our metaphors to be appreciated, for our work to be judged on literary merit, for our stories to be taken seriously, we must never overlook our equally important and much more heartfelt reviews. I received reviews in whispered phone calls from women who have read my books and need to make a connection. I receive reviews in handwritten notes from women barely holding on, thanking me for giving a voice to their own stories.

Silverman’s story is fueling the fire of this long, hard look I’ve been giving the fiction novel I just spent close to a year writing. Revising. Revising again. And again. It might still have potential as a novel. Maybe even a good one. But it might just be that writing it has been part of learning to write. If I can’t find the right voice for Caroline (in the novel)… maybe I need to give voice to some of my own stories. Write memoirs. Or to other people’s stories, in the form of creative nonfiction.

But oh, it’s hard to leave The Sweet Carolines in that drawer. Maybe I won’t abandon them forever. Maybe I’ll learn how to write them better if I tell my own stories first. Maybe. This cartoon from The New Yorker shows how I invision myself trying to sell these stories someday! I’ve drafted two chapters of Oreo Finds Her Voice (Oreo is my 18-year-old cat)… but so far I don’t think it’s working…. we’ll see.

Tonight I went to the last of our church’s Monday night services during the Nativity Fast… the weeks leading up to the celebration of Christ’s Incarnation. These services, as I described here, are called Paraclesis Prayers to the Mother of God.

Just standing in the candle-lit nave, chanting, praying, singing, and listening, reminds me of how the Real Life of this Real Woman changed the course of history for the world. And the more I draw near to Her, the more She changes me.

The Orthodox Church has its own Christmas music. It’s beautiful. We sang a few of those hymns tonight. But as I was leaving the church, it was a hymn from my childhood that came to me, and reminded me of what I wanted to write about on my blog tonight. It was these words from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

The hopes and fears. Because Real Life is full of fears. But it can also be full of hope. Henri J. M. Nouwen, one of my favorite Catholic writers, says, in The Wounded Healer:

Man tries to find in his inner life a connection with the “reality of the unseen,” “the source of being,” the “point of silence.” There he discovers that what is most personal is most universal (cf. Rogers’ On Becoming a Person. Houghton Mifflin, 1961, p. 26). Beyond the superficial laylers of idiosyncrasies, psychological differences and characterological typologies, he finds a center from which he can embrace all other beings at once and experience meaningful connections with all that exists…. There he experiences himself no longer as an isolated individual caught in the diaboli chain of cause and effect, but as a man able to transcend the fences of his own predicament and reach out far beyond the concerns of self. There he touches the place where all people are revealed to him as equal and wehre compassion becomes a human possibility.

In our own woundedness, we can become a source of life for others.

That’s what I want my writing to be. That’s what books like Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies are for me. It’s the next in the line of her nonfiction/memoir books that I’m reading. In fact, that’s where I’m heading now… to soak up some more thoughts on faith….

I’d love to hear your comments on books–fiction or nonfiction–that have given voice to your hopes or fears. That have made you feel connected rather than isolated in your own struggles. Leave me a comment here, or email me at susanmaryecushman@yahoo.com. Good night.

>Once You Know Where True Is

>I started to name this blog post “Manic in Memphis.” I was looking for something catchy like “Sleepless in Seattle” and didn’t want to spend an hour on the title for my blog post. The deal is, I couldn’t sleep at all on Tuesday night. Went to bed at 11:30 or so… tossed and turned until 1:45 a.m. Got up and went to the den, lit the fire, and sat on the couch reading until about 4. Tried to write. Tried to pray. Cried a little bit. And finally just sat still. Fighting back thoughts. Have you ever tried to not think? Poured a glass of sherry at 3. Another at 4. Finally crawled back into bed at 6:15, just before my husband’s alarm would be going off for the day. Maybe I slept a little on and off between 6:30 and 9:00 a.m., when I finally got back up for the day.

Insomnia is an old friend. I took tranquilizers when I was a child. To sleep. Mom called them my “worry pills.” When I was in my twenties I had trouble sleeping. Another wave of it hit me in my early 40s. But I’ve had a good decade and a half of sound sleep. So when it visited me again Tuesday night, I was miffed. A fluke, I thought. Until it happened again on Thursday night.

>These Boots Were Made For….

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