Speaking of News: Why I Love the Christian Science Monitor

Posted on May 24, 2014 by gretchenwing

First, you have to know: I’m not a Christian Scientist. There are probably others who are LESS of a Christian Scientist than I am, but…not too many.

But if you’ve never looked at one, don’t let the Christian Science Monitor’s name scare you away. This is one SUPERB magazine. I know I described in my last post how I use my husband as my news source, but that’s for TV. My daily breakfast (when I’m not at the bakery) = cereal + Monitor.

It used to be a 5 days-a-week newspaper, which I received as a Christmas gift over a decade ago from my parents. I was soon driving myself crazy trying to keep up with the daily waves of great writing that washed into my mailbox, and usually ended up reading the last pages of each issue–the op-eds and book reviews, plus the PMADs (I’ll get to those in a minute)–on weekends.

Problem was, EVERY ARTICLE gave me something to chew on. First of all, the Monitor has an enormous staff, so their writers are all over the globe, deeply embedded into the population of some pretty out-of-the-way places. So you get REAL stories about Mali, about Bolivia, about Uzbekistan. (If Herman Cain had read the Monitor, he would have remembered much more than who was the President of “Uzbeki-bekistan.”)

I may be a little shaky on Justin Bieber’s latest exploits, but even without my regular dose of NPR or The Mate’s updates from Al Jazeera and CNN, I can tell you what’s going on in South Sudan.

A few years ago, the Monitor switched to a weekly focus. Thank goodness! Even now, though, if I travel, I get behind, but I can NOT throw away an unread issue. I just work through ’em slowly, like good novels.

The main reason for this savoring has to do with the penultimate page, which is always the PMAD: People Making a Difference.

When my heart is sick of terrorist bombings and imperialistic annexations, I flip to the back of any issue and read about a woman who lost her brother but finds peace helping kids in the Philippines. Or an Indian woman who recruits men in the fight against domestic violence against women. Or a former gang-member tutoring inmates in reading. Or a guy adopting a houseful of Nepalese orphans. Or someone living on a remote beach to protect endangered sea turtle nesting sites. Or…

The stories go on and on. Good news in a troubled world. They all include resources to get in touch, or to contribute if the story has touched you. They all leave me feeling heartened, and renewed in my own commitment to continue making my own small difference in the world.

What if…hold up, here’s the craziest thought: what if ALL news media included a bit of that, in between the important pieces on terrorist bombings and Justin Bieber?

I know. I know. But a girl can dream.

And I can collect my own PMADs…from you. Tell me (briefly) about an unsung hero that you know about. Who is someone in your own life who is Making a Difference?

Brandon Marshall and The View: Why It Pays to Have a Personal News-Hound

Posted on May 21, 2014 by gretchenwing

You know how some people have personal trainers? Personal shoppers? I have a personal news-watcher: my husband.

Don’t laugh–it’s a necessity! Now that I only drive a couple of times a week to work –the rest of the time I’m on my bike–I don’t get my former daily dose of radio news. Same with listening to the news while making dinner, as I used to: these days, with just the two of us, it’s leftovers more often than not, so there’s barely enough time to turn on the radio before, hey–dinner’s ready!

We don’t get a daily newspaper on the island. And I haven’t been able to make myself watch TV news on a regular basis since the days of Walter Cronkite. So I can easily get a little behind.

Thank goodness for The Mate. Not only does he keep me updated on real news like the war in Syria, the upheaval in Ukraine, and the (horribly upsetting) abduction of girls in Kenya, he’s also my go-to guy for all things sports and scandal-related. Sports scandals are even better (thank you, Donald Sterling!).

So when I came home the other day and found him laughing at the TV, I asked why. Turns out he had been watching some news program, and they’d switched over to show a football player signing a mega-million-dollar NFL contract on…The View. Wait–what? NFL and The View? Isn’t that kind of like tuning into the fishing channel to watch a story on make-up tips?

“I was annoyed,” The Mate said. “Why’s this guy making such a big deal of signing his contract, flourishing his pen and all in front of these adoring women? I almost turned it off.”

Until he heard Brandon Marshall explain to ESPN why he chose to sign his Chicago Bears contract on The View. Turns out Brandon Marshall has suffered from mental illness. Brandon Marshall credits his football talents with getting him the help he needed to survive and grow through his disease. Brandon Marshall wants to reach the widest possible audience who might care about helping other people like him, people without multi-million-dollar contracts.

Oh, and by the way, he’s donating a million of those dollars to research on mental illness.

The Mate was laughing at himself for his own knee-jerk reaction to what appeared to be something all too common–yet another spoiled, self-involved athlete–an turned out to be something very rare: an athlete with great personal courage risking an unpleasant stigma to step onto an unfamiliar stage, just to help other people overcome hardships of their own.

And me? I’m grateful to my husband for watching, otherwise I would never have run into this heartening story. Congratulations to Brandon Marshall. Yay for The Mate. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make dinner, so keep your eyes out for more of these kinds of stories, willya?

How deep does your cultural literacy go? Do you rely on others for news tidbits, or do you glean ’em yourself? Or…do you know more about Mr. Marshall? Chime in, please!

Yeah, You Kinda-Sorta Can Go Home Again: Tacoma Tribute Edition

Posted on May 18, 2014 by gretchenwing

I’m not sure I believe in reincarnation, but I do believe in past lives. I have several, and I like to keep in touch with them. After all, to misuse Faulker’s famous line, the past isn’t even past.

This past weekend The Mate and I headed down to Tacoma, where I had scheduled a reading of The Flying Burgowski at King’s Bookstore. Tacoma is also where we moved in 1990, became Northwesterners for good, raised our kids, and spent the bulk of our professional careers.

Although we moved away four years ago when our youngest graduated from high school and The Mate retired, Tacoma is our most recent and vibrant past life. And I do mean VIBRANT.

Need an example? Here’s a shot of said high school from which our boys graduated:

I KNOW, right?!

Tacoma also has its very own zoo and aquarium, at Pt. Defiance, which just happens to be within walking distance of our old house. Seattle’s zoo and aquarium might be bigger and snazzier, but OURS has a walrus (actually 3 at this moment). A WALRUS. ‘Nuff said.

(orig. image courtesy Partner Pages)

I could go on indefinitely with this Tacoma boosterism: the Bridge of Glass (where I used to stop with my students on our History Museum field trips); the Antique Sandwich Company, which serves killer espresso cheesecake, lets you sit all day on their mismatched furniture, grading essays and drinking tea, and is working on its 50th anniversary; Pt. Defiance Park with its giant firs and twittering eagles, right there in the ‘burbs.

But what really draws me back to my latest past life is people.

Despite having moved away four years ago, I still see…

…my same dentist. He’s from Iran, and he gives me tea, even though we both know it stains my teeth. I ADORE my dentist. My favorite hygienist is from the Philippines; we compare notes on our boys. I adore her too. I actually look forward to my dentist appointments like little reunions!

…my same doctor, for annual physicals. He’s a distance runner like me, and doesn’t get freaked out by my resting pulse of 40. I even forgive him for making me do things like get colonoscopies and mammograms.

…my same book club (now starting its 15th year). True, I only make about half the meetings now, and I’ve even skyped in, but I read the books even when I can’t make it off the island. Brownie points!

…my same musical potluck group of former neighbors & forever friends, affectionately known as the WingSing. (Come @ 5 to sing, @6 to eat…except these days it’s pretty much a free-for-all since we only see each other quarterly instead of monthly as we used to.)

I know that someday I will start seeing a dentist and a doctor on Lopez Island. I already have friends there to discuss books with and sing and potluck with, and I suppose it’s possible that someday I will stop leaving the island to discuss books and sing and potluck.

But no time real soon!

Our previous Past Life, in North Carolina, is also still very much with us, and the focus of our annual Cross-Country ACC Basketball (and BBQ) Pilgrimage. But Tacoma, bless its aromatic little heart, is a little easier to get to.

How about you? How many places do you count as really having LIVED there? How well–or how–do you stay in touch? Is it the place, the people…or both?

On Teenagers, Butcher Paper, Writing, and Confidence: What Have We Learned Today?

Posted on May 14, 2014 by gretchenwing

Hey, I got to play with butcher paper, markers and stickers again! I got to spend my day with teenagers, then leave without carrying any of their essays with me!

Doesn’t get any better. Plus, it made me think harder about my own topic: What it means to be a writer.

Anacortes High School has about 800 students, mostly white, mostly working-to-middle class. It also has a super-energetic, friendly librarian who invited me to come in and speak to some classes, and to any interested students after school, about being an Author. I did read them a bit of my novel, The Flying Burgowski, but first I wanted to stir the pot a little.

So here’s an exercise I ran with three different classes of 9th graders.

handed out two stickers to each kid
posted a piece of butcher paper marked with the numbers from zero to ten on its long side, headed “I Think I’m a Writer”
asked each kid to stick one sticker next to the number which best matched how they’d agree or disagree with that statement

Then we all took a look at the distribution of stickers. I asked kids to share why they might have put theirs in the middle, then at the top, then at the bottom. Responses were pretty predictable: “I know I CAN write, but I only do it when I have to.” “I love writing; I write all the time.” “I hate it.”

Next, we ran the exercise again, but this time the statement at the top of the butcher paper read, “I Think I Could Be a Writer.”

And that’s when things got interesting.

Period One was full of what are usually labelled “Honors” students. This wasn’t Honors English, but one honors course anywhere in the schedule tends to clump that level of students together. Period One had a few stickers at “10” on the first paper, but on the second? Double the number. These guys were confident. When we discussed the difference, their statements tended to be about unlocking their potential and releasing their inherent creativity. They did not use those words exactly, but when I did, summarizing their comments, they all nodded eagerly–Yup, that’s me.

Period Two was the opposite. Remember those clumps of students? This was the clump that would never identify themselves as Honors students–whether they could have been or not. They also had a few stars at “10,” a handful of kids who thought of themselves as writers. But when the statement changed to reflect possibility and the future…those stars fell. Down to 6 and 7.

“What happened?” I asked the class, and they were ready. Their answers all included references to professional standards, deadlines, being paid, being good enough. Even the kids who thought they were writers now did not think they could pass muster “out there” in the “real world.”

Period Three was larger–in fact it was a class and half, as another teacher brought some students in to join us–and more mixed, harder to categorize. Their sticker pattern polarized on the “I Could Be a Writer” butcher paper, with many 9-10s and 0-2s, and almost no 4-7s.

So, what conclusions do we draw from this? I have my own theories, but I prefer to use Wing’s World as a classroom today (just as it once was). So, consider this me calling on y’all. Who would like to share first?

Back in the Classroom Again, Minus the Essays–What’s Not to Like?

Posted on May 10, 2014 by gretchenwing

It’s been nearly four years. At any hour between 7:45 and 2:15 I can still tell you exactly what period it is at my old high school, Franklin Pierce, Home of the Cardinals. This week is AP testing (as was last, which was also state testing for all ages in Washington). My former colleagues, and the younger siblings and–yikes!–high school-age children of my long-ago former students, are stressed to the max.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Week, everyone. I no longer include myself in that comment.

Except when I do.

Next week, as part of my promotion of my new YA novel, The Flying Burgowski, I am meeting with several 9th grade English classes at Anacortes High School. Anacortes is the closest mainland town to our little island, its high school many times the size of ours. I may get to spend my day with over 100 kids–just like I used to, day after day. Just like most high school and middle school teachers do.

I am PUMPED. Yes, I’m going to read a chapter, just as I will have done the night before at Village Books in Bellingham, but the high school event won’t just be another ~~boring~~ author reading/Q & A/book signing. (Note to self: don’t ever sound jaded about such an extraordinary privilege.) Nope–I’m still a teacher, turns out, and I’m going to engage the heck out of those kids. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that butcher paper, markers, shiny stickers, and movement around the classroom are involved.

But no essays to grade! I feel like the grandma, picking the kids up for a fun day at the zoo, then dropping ’em back off with their exhausted parents. (Okay, OKAY, I know an author coming to one’s class does not exactly = a day at the zoo. Well, maybe one of those tiny, small-town zoos with, like, a bunch of pygmy goats and one sad wallaby.)

Yes, I can hear a question begging. “Gretchen, if you love teaching so much, and there’s a school on your island, why not…? You know. At least you could be a sub!”

Here, in sped-up form, is the scenario I envision should I step back through those doors with lesson plans and tea mug in hand:

I start subbing.
Since subs are so few, I sub every single day.
Pretty soon, this test is posed:

A) A full-time position opens.

B) Some students and/or parents, who have become my fans, start begging me to apply.

C) Looking at the plans of the teacher(s) I’m called to sub for, I start believing I could do it better.

D) All of the above.

4. Result: there goes my new career as a writer/baker/singer-songwriter. I know myself, and the teaching profession, too well. It is WAY MORE THAN A FULL-TIME JOB. If I want to be true to my commitment to my own creativity now, I have to keep my distance.

But next week, I’m still gonna enjoy the heck out of my day at school.

In honor of Teacher Appreciation Week (a week late, but when is appreciation ever misplaced?), would you guys please chime in with some teacher-stories of your own? Or thoughts about what REAL teacher appreciation might look like?

Sorry, Dolly Parton: Wildflowers DO Care Where They Grow…And That’s Cool

Posted on May 7, 2014 by gretchenwing

Dolly Parton’s lovely song notwithstanding, wildflowers can be very picky about their habitat. But when they find a home, oh wow, do they show their appreciation. This week I’m giving special thanks for that. Since my sweet dog left us last weekend, I’ve been going for walks without a dog for the first time in ten years, and the flowers act like comforting hugs.

The Mate and I are especially blessed to live not only on a beautiful island, but adjacent to a piece of land that has recently been declared part of a National Monument (thanks, President Obama!). We walk out into the meadow to be greeted by a riot of flowers.

Sometimes it’s enough just to appreciate them in a blanket. But usually I’m drawn down to my knees to inspect their delicacy up close. These flowers deserve a better photographer than me, but in my mind’s eye they’re captured exactly as they should be.

But it’s the picky ones that are my favorites. The Calypso Orchid only grows in patches of woods where it can find a particular fungus it likes. Spotting one, so perfect in its intricate fleshiness, feels like a special gift.

Then there’s the chocolate lily. I don’t think I love it just for its name, but that doesn’t hurt. Nearly brown (although with the sun shining through their petals, they are actually a gorgeous burgundy), they camouflage themselves among the buttercups and field chickweed. Then you spot one. Oh. There’s another. Oh, my. Suddenly you realize you are looking at an entire sweep of these tiny creatures that look like something from a very expensive bouquet.

I was thinking about writing about the question, “Why do I care so much about knowing the ‘names’ of these flowers?” Or, “What is it about IDing something in nature that makes me feel so good?” But I’m really not feeling that philosophical right now. I am content to feel comforted.

Thanks, flowers. I needed that.

Favorite flower experiences? What do wildflowers do for you? Please share your special ones.

Life After Dogs: Is There?

Posted on May 4, 2014 by gretchenwing

I’ll have to get back to you on that one. This is a new phase for us.

As a couple, The Mate and I have never been without at least one dog or cat, if not two of each. As an individual, I have not been without a pet for 33 years, and then only for a couple of years in college when I was still going home to my parents’ farm during breaks.

Our sweet malamute Juniper left us Saturday morning, exactly the way we were hoping she would: she went to sleep under a tree. Since she had been diagnosed with cancer several months ago, and since she had stopped eating a week and a half ago, we had many goodbyes. I am still very sad and will be for a while yet. Juni was only ten, and I thought we’d have more time together.

I used to describe Juni as a mix between a malamute and a Persian cat, that’s how soft and fluffy she was. Especially the fur around her face. “Stroke her there,” I used to tell kids we’d meet on our walks, kids nervous of such a LARGE-seeming dog (how could they know it was mostly hair?). “Her cheeks are soft as a bunny.” And their eyes would light up when they discovered this was true.

In temperament, too, Juni was more cat than dog, preferring to curl up on my feet –literally–than to go for walks. She was pretty darn lazy, really. Sometimes in response to people’s questions, “What IS she?” I’d throw “part Yak” into the mix, or “Snuffleupagus.” That seemed to capture her table-wide, fluffy profile and her badger-like gait. Our older son called her “Trundle-Bear.”

Besides her fluff, Juni’s main striking point of uniqueness was her vocalization. Malamutes don’t bark, people say, they talk. In Juni’s case, when she was excited to see you, or to eat dinner, it was more of a roar: “Rrrrooooohhhhh!” My friends Dia and Bert would sing trios with her. “Rrrrooooooooooo!”

Damn, I miss her.

But we are not talking about getting another dog. In fact, we are talking about NOT getting another dog.

Four years ago, our youngest child headed off to college. We moved away from our suburban house with its enormous garden and started our new lives on this small island. No children. And no garden: I decided to take a break and let the island’s many farmers grow my veggies for me, and I’m still okay with that decision. But we still had our dogs.

The similarities between the three have always struck me. Gardens, like children and animals, have their seasons of neediness, where you can get pretty cranky with their demands. They have their time of independence where you sit back and watch them romp and grow. And then there are those wonderful harvests: armloads or moments of pure, delicious joy that you gather and hold onto, savorable months and even years later.

Freedom is not a word that you use with kids, nor gardens, nor pets. The Mate and I have grown used to our freedom to come and go as we please during the day, and not to have to worry about watering or weeding when we take a trip. But we’ve always had to find a dogsitter. Now…we look at each other and say in slow disbelief: “We could go camping if we felt like it. Whenever we wanted.”

A young friend of mine, like me, bred to think that life without dogs is no life at all, insists, “You could get a small dog and take it with you whenever you go somewhere!” Maybe. But I’ve always been a large-dog girl. That’s a switch I don’t think I want to make.

I used to think I knew exactly what I’d do when our older malamute, Molly, passed away a year ago: we’d get another older dog as a companion to Juni. But Juni didn’t seem to want a companion; she wasn’t interested in other dogs. Part cat, remember? So then I thought, okay, when Juni passes, I’ll go to the shelter and find another dog who needs us. I even had a great name picked out: Skagit (the name of the closest county on the mainland, and a beautiful agricultural valley–but also a great sound: “Here, Skagit!”)

Now, though? We’re thinking we will let someone else adopt that potential “Skagit” and name him/her whatever they want. We are going to investigate the question of Life After Dogs.

I’ll keep you posted.

But I’d also like to hear from you about your pet/no-pet lives. Have you made the transition from one to another? Have you lived long with, or without? What’s it like out there?

Sterling and Silver: The NBA Shows its True Mettle, and…I Love It!

Posted on May 1, 2014 by gretchenwing

I could go on for awhile with the metallic puns, but I’m going to pass up this ~~golden~~ opportunity and just talk about how weird and wonderful it is all of a sudden to listen to professional sports chat.

But first a quick update, for those of you who don’t care/are too busy to pay attention to the NBA/aren’t sure which sport the NBA involves/don’t live with partners who watch a lot of ESPN/think that ESPN stands for something to do with Spain:

There’s this 84 year-old rich guy, Donald Sterling, okay? Very rich: billionaire rich. Owns a basketball team rich. The LA Clippers, to be precise. Also the kind of rich who can apparently have both a wife AND a 31 year-old girlfriend without that being a news story in itself.

Last week someone (who? Who? Ooooh, news story!) recorded a private phone call between Sterling and said girlfriend, V. Stiviano, in which he berated her for posting pictures on her Instagram account of herself standing with “minorities” .

Those “minorities”? Among others, current NBA star Blake Griffin and NBA LEGEND/philanthropic entrepreneur Magic Johnson. To Mr. Sterling, they are just “black people.”

(orig. image courtesy wikimedia.org)

Here is the transcript of the tape, as offered by Deadspin.com (which also has video):

V: I don’t understand, I don’t see your views. I wasn’t raised the way you were raised.

DS: Well then, if you don’t feel—don’t come to my games. Don’t bring black people, and don’t come.

V: Do you know that you have a whole team that’s black, that plays for you?

DS: You just, do I know? I support them and give them food, and clothes, and cars, and houses. Who gives it to them? Does someone else give it to them?Do I know that I have—Who makes the game? Do I make the game, or do they make the game? Is there 30 owners, that created the league?

Poor Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder Matt Kemp is also dragged into the conversation, having appeared in an Instagram photo with V. Stiviano. It was her photo with Magic Johnson that had apparently started the fight.

V: Honey, if it makes you happy, I will remove all of the black people from my Instagram.

DS: You said that before, you said, “I understand.”

V: I DID remove the people that were independently on my Instagram that are black.

DS: Then why did you start saying that you didn’t? You just said that you didn’t remove them. You didn’t remove every—

V: I didn’t remove Matt Kemp and Magic Johnson, but I thought—

DS: Why?

V: I thought Matt Kemp is mixed, and he was OK, just like me.

DS: OK.

V: He’s lighter and whiter than me.

DS: OK.

V: I met his mother.

DS: You think I’m a racist, and wouldn’t—

V: I don’t think you’re a racist.

DS: Yes you do. Yes you do.

V: I think you, you—

DS: Evil heart.

And there is also this baffling exchange about black Jews in Israel:

DS: It’s the world! You go to Israel, the blacks are just treated like dogs.

V: So do you have to treat them like that too?

DS: The white Jews, there’s white Jews and black Jews, do you understand?

V: And are the black Jews less than the white Jews?

DS: A hundred percent, fifty, a hundred percent.

V: And is that right?

DS: It isn’t a question—we don’t evaluate what’s right and wrong, we live in a society. We live in a culture. We have to live within that culture.

V: But shouldn’t we take a stand for what’s wrong? And be the change and the difference?

DS: I don’t want to change the culture, because I can’t. It’s too big and too [unknown].

V: But you can change yourself.

DS: I don’t want to change. If my girl can’t do what I want, I don’t want the girl. I’ll find a girl that will do what I want! Believe me. I thought you were that girl—because I tried to do what you want. But you’re not that girl.

They close by essentially invoking Hitler and closing down the thread, comparing Sterling’s viewpoints to the Holocaust:

V: It’s like saying, “Let’s just persecute and kill all of the Jews.”

DS: Oh, it’s the same thing, right?

V: Isn’t it wrong? Wasn’t it wrong then? With the Holocaust? And you’re Jewish, you understand discrimination.

DS: You’re a mental case, you’re really a mental case. The Holocaust, we’re comparing with—

V: Racism! Discrimination.

DS: There’s no racism here. If you don’t want to be… walking… into a basketball game with a certain… person, is that racism?

Thank you, Deadspin.com. Seeing this down in black and white, along with your commentary…well, I’m not sure if it’s more chilling than disgusting, or vice versa.

SO. Between Saturday and Tuesday, ESPN and all the other sports chatterers erupted into a conflagration of righteous anger that was beautiful to behold. “Round-Mound-of-Rebound” Charles Barkley, now a commentator, said it “pisses me off” to know that Sterling greets him happily in public but still thinks of him as a lesser human being, and doesn’t see anything wrong with that attitude. (You heard the man, right? “There’s no racism here.”)

On Tuesday, brand-spanking new NBA Commissioner Adam Silver (who, it must be said, looks an awful lot like Dobby the House-Elf), announced the NBA’s response. Donald Sterling is banned from the NBA for life, meaninghe can never attend another game ANYwhere. He must pay a 2.5 million-dollar fine (the highest that can be assessed). And Silver himself will pressure the other NBA owners to force Sterling to sell the team.

In other words: whatever else you want to complain about, in terms of our Moneyball sports culture, we have achieved this progress: we ALL AGREE that RACISM IS REPUGNANT.

(orig. image courtesy wikimedia.org)

The reaction among the sports chatterers has been one of authentic relief, pride, and yes, joy. I can’t get enough of it. Finally…we’re talking about something REAL here! We’re discussing the importance of human dignity in the workplace! We’re drawing parallels between “minorities” and women! We are sounding full-on progressive.

I know pretty soon it’ll all die down and I’ll go back to being annoyed by cheerleaders, badly-behaved spoiled stars, and coverage of things like the Masters golf tournament that still excludes women and still plays on a course with a proud history of excluding both women and people of color. But for now, I want to celebrate Adam Silver, the NBA, and this moment of joy in the power of standing up for what’s decent.

Care to tune in? What do you make of this moment in sports history? What does it say to you?

Anne Lamott 2.0: Why I’m Starting to Dig This Blogging Thing

Posted on April 28, 2014 by gretchenwing

First of all, thank you to all who sent me kind words or plain ol’ “likes” on my last post. I was (obviously) feeling pretty down about my dog and my book and my responses to both. One wonderful response came from my friend Shan Jeniah Burton, who quoted Vulcan wisdom to me:

“You are very adept at listing the questionable decisions you’ve made. But there have been other decisions – many of them – that no one would question. ”

Thanks, SJ. I call her SJ. I have NO IDEA if anyone else does, because, see, we’ve never met. We were both ~~prisoners~~ students in Kristen Lamb’s blogging-for-writers class over a year ago (Hotel Californians, we call ourselves, ’cause we can check out any time we like, but…yeah). Now we’re soul sisters…remotely.

This is why I can say with perfect honesty, 14 months since starting that class in order to kick-start my reluctant, anti-blogging self into doing something I was pretty sure authors just needed to suck-it-up-and-DO, I like my blog. I like this weird way of connecting with people. I have made real–not “virtual,” but REAL real–friends this way. Not to mention how lovely it is to re-connect with existing friends through this medium. Way more room to roam than on Facebook.

Then there’s the “please help” aspect. Granted, this works on Facebook and Twitter too, but I’m thinking I’m going to get a much more meaningful and useful response if I try this here on Wing’s World.

Can anyone advise me on how to get in touch with Anne Lamott? Her own blog does not have a “contact me” button (for obvious reasons; she’s a famous gal!). I’ve tweeted her and left a message on her Facebook page, but never heard anything, and I don’t want to be a stalker about it.

See, I wrote a song that I really want her to hear. It’s based on her famous quote about having only two prayers, “Help me help me help me” and “Thank you thank you thank you.” (That was in her book Traveling Mercies. Since then she’s added a third prayer, “Oh, wow,” which I guess is detailed in her book Help, Thanks, Wow, which is on my reading list.)

I started to write a song about that, but the lyrics got intertwined with another story, that of a friend of mine who died of cancer at age 42, just after delivering a baby. I do not know if my friend actually said Annie’s prayers, but the way she lived in her final year made me think that she might have, and so I wrote the song that way.

Here’s my song, “Help Me Help Me, Thank You, Thank You,” from our little Chicken Biscuit concert on Lopez Island, October 2012. I’m backed up by my friend Bruce Creps, who’s a much better guitarist than I am:

I don’t want Annie Lamott to help me “market” this song. I have zero ambitions for a career as a singer-songwriter; my plate is full! I just want her reaction.

So, internet friends and friends-I’ve-already-met-in-the-flesh (’cause “flesh friends sounds REALLY nasty), here’s my question: Can you help me figure out a way to get this song to Anne’s ears? I look forward to your help, advice, or support in this endeavor.

“Hey World, Look How Flawed I Am”: Why I Love Reading Anne Lamott

Posted on April 25, 2014 by gretchenwing

I need to call our vet this morning, and tell him I may be calling him again in the next few days to put our sweet malamute, Juni, to sleep. She hasn’t eaten since Tuesday morning, and I think she’s telling us she’s done.

We went through this exactly 11 months ago with our other malamute, Molly. But Molly was 15; Juni just turned ten. I thought we’d have a little more time with her, but cancer thought otherwise. I am sad.

So I’m doing what I tend to do in this situation: not thinking about it. I can’t WAIT to get to work, where my brain will be too full of bread and pastry to think about big furry dogs and how much they may or may not be suffering.

At the same time, I’m ignoring another unpleasant (though in a completely different way) set of thoughts. (Yep–I’m a multi-tasking avoider!) Apparently the Kindle version of The Flying Burgowski is riddled with formatting errors, which I only discovered this week, a month after the Kindle upload, because of the kindness of a friend. Not my own scrupulousness in CHECKING the Kindle version THOROUGHLY, which any normal author would do. I don’t particularly like Kindle, so I managed to avoid doing that too. So now I’m…let’s see: humiliated, aggravated, fearful (of the work I’m going to have to do fixing the formatting, AND of failure, AND of the inevitable buildup of aggravation/desperation/self-loathing that will ensue), and…sad.

This is why I was so comforted by reading myself to sleep last night in Annie Lamott’s book, Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith.

I know, her author name is Anne, but everyone in the book calls her Annie, and that’s how I think of her too: like this crazy, loving girlfriend you can call when you’re feeling sad or down on yourself or both, because, girl, she’s been through way worse than you.

She’ll make you laugh. She’ll say stuff like, “bananas are great, as they are the only known cure for existential dread” or mention emergency errands “for milk and ice cream sundaes.”

She’ll comfort you with advice, all of which comes directly from the people she credits with the strongest guidance in her life, Father Tom Weston and Veronica Goines, the pastor of her church in Marin City, California. If, for example, you’re feeling put upon by the world, or a co-worker, or your partner,

I tried to look at each person kindly, because I believe that we are family. I don’t always feel it, but I know it. My pastor Veronica often quotes whoever said that it’s not what we’re looking at, but what we’re looking with, so each crooked smile could be like a minimal dose that, however small, helps the healing. Just as a doctor can help you relax for a moment during a spasm, and you remember you’re going to be okay at some point.

See? Helpful. Annie is my kind of religious person.

Her greatest gift, though, to a multi-tasking flaw-avoider like me, is in the way she holds out her flaws to the world. She has many, many struggles (some of which can be handled by her friend’s suggestion, “Drink a glass of water and call a friend,” or her father’s most “spiritual” advice, “Don’t be an asshole.”). The most poignant of the essays in this book, I found, are about her struggles as a parent. In “Samwheel,” where she suddenly–and for the first (and last) time ever–slapped her 17 year-old son in the face during an argument, Annie takes us with her on the drive she immediately took, running away from the house and her shame and rage and fear.

I wept at the wheel on a busy boulevard. At first people were looking over at me as they passed in the next lane. I wiped at my face and snorfled…I started calling out to God, “Help me! Help me! I’m calling on you! I hate myself, I hate my son!” I wanted to die. What is the point? What if the old bumper sticker is right and the hokey-pokey is what it’s all about?

Me? I barely have the courage to admit publicly that I don’t properly proofread. I can’t imagine the kind of guts it takes to write about feelings like that. So I went to sleep humbled, and grateful, and woke up ready to think about the things I don’t want to think about. I stroked my dog for awhile. Soon I will call my vet for that first, sad, preliminary conversation. Then I will start working my way through the ultra-polite advice of the Kindle rep and my friend Michelle, who have emailed me instructions to fix my mess.

But I may take a break to re-read another one of Annie’s thoughts on faith, on flaws, on dealing with being human.

How about sharing some of yours? Not flaws, I mean, but strategies for dealing with them. “Drink a glass of water and call a friend”? Go for a walk? Take a nap? Write? Maybe I can steal from you too.