Podcast Beats

 Another too good not to repost post!

https://medium.com/@jillsharris/on-the-power-of-words-and-ideas-32c01e954da2

Dusting Off a Decent Word or Two

Something I Wrote During the Pandemic--On Steinbeck's East of Eden https://medium.com/@jillsharris/on-steinbecks-east-of-eden-f5539c5b1aec

 Today when I read this short essay, I think it’s good!

Flat on Your Back

Rest is hard work. When you are a productive person by nature, laying flat on your back (well, slightly propped up because flat puts too much pressure on your already beat up kidneys) is excruciating. The pain of your unattended to-do lists. The burn of emails piling up in the inbox. The torture of the unchecked boxes mocking you…it’s almost too much to bare. But, the feeling doesn’t last. Because the fever kicks in. The next 12 hours are a blur. You are a baked potato wrapped in foil, broiling in the oven. You drift in and out of sleep, aching waves of chills, pins, and needles cover you from head to toe. You stumble to the bathroom every hour— the doctor said to drink as much water as you can. Your eyeballs feel like balls of yarn inside a ziplock bag of sand. Your lips flake and crack. Twelve hours later, put a fork in: you’re done. You know your body is in all out warfare against an infection when you go from baked potato for 12 hours straight to bed for another 9 hours of sleep with just a 30 minute break for a few bites of food in between. On the outside, you feel like a lump of flesh and bones but just beneath the surface, a highly organized and systematic campaign is underway. If you try to deny that this battle is taking place by, say, getting dressed and driving into work to teach your classes. You may fool yourself into thinking that all is well. Two hours later though, it’s all you can do to park the car, strip down to your couch ware, and get horizontal again. The war isn’t over. Your body needs you to rest.

Portland Seen from the freeway, it’s dirty and its landscape is dotted by homeless encampments or remains of those. Together with the gloomy gray sky, it sets a rather dismal mood. Still, when you get out of the car and walk around, the mood brightens. Store windows are brightly decorated and the people are very eclectic. Especially the women. The death scooters abound; like discarded newspapers, they litter the streets though less so than when I was here last with Lisa. Powell’s Books is still otherworldly and blissful. I found four books I could not resist. Hundreds more I was attracted to. I also found where Plague City would be in the Mystery Thriller section.

Friday in Pioneer Square Pianos decorated with colorful themes dot the square on Fridays. This is lovely. Many, many humans from all walks of life can play piano. It was interesting to see just who would sit down and recall something from their past training and those who were maybe tinkling the ivories for the very first time. All in full view of diners, testers, preachers, workers, travelers, and walkers-by. Kids were by far the most unguarded. They all universally approach the keys with confidence. They don’t know yet that there are good, better, and best sounds from the piano. Never mind a bad sound. These didn’t exist for the young ones. My favorite vignette was of a delicate woman with dark hair and fair skin, playing some Beethoven with great precision and energy on the elevated platform while a rough bearded man with a kindly smile and scraggly beard sat and tapped his foot to her music the entire time. He applauded her before he left. There was something beautiful about the scene I won’t forget soon.

What was Your First Favorite Book?

Hello, Covid-19 World! If there was ever a time to wax rhapsodic about books, now works. We’ve been staying at home since 13 March. (That’s 13 March of 2020 if you signed up for updates to this blog nine years ago...) What was the first book I read on my own? My mom swears it was Erich Segal’s Love Story. She said I was five years old and she found me reading the dog-eared copy from the book shelf in her room. I think the sexy and sad parts were equally lost on me. But,I do kind of remember feeling guilty/ashamed/ and naughty for lifting it from her room. I don’t recall any better options though. I did love Nancy Drew mysteries and read them all. Even owned the matching collection. The ones with the yellow spines and the version of Nancy with the “That Girl” hair style and matching sweater sets and pearls. I liked Nancy’s spunk, keen mind, and confidence. I imagined I could make my way down a damp poorly lit stairwell with nothing but a flashlight even if reading the passage made me put off going to the bathroom on my own at night. I favored Carolyn Keene over Laura Ingalls Wilder. I had that set, too, but the covers were bland beige and a pinafore was not my idea of fun. Laura’s dad was cool and a musician. He seemed a better father than Nancy’s always engaged sleuth dad. I guess I liked my stories with a little more materialism and less pioneer spirit.

Sanctuary for Unwanted Things

That's what Wylie referred to his room as this week. That Boy! When asked for instances he says: you know, the Bionicles, Transformers, old CDs and stuff like that. Since I have been saturated in fiction this summer, I immediately go for the metaphor. Why do you think your room was chosen as the Sanctuary?

He didn't get a chance to answer because something distracted us in the car and another conversation began. But, I can tell you a bit about sanctuary...

Wylie is the ultimate re-user in the reduce, reuse, recycle mantra. If given the chance to save something or throw it away, he never throws away. Now, in the extreme this is called hoarding I think. But, Wylie doesn't keep trash, etc. Only things of purpose and value. So, his room is a safe spot for unwanted items because Wylie sees value and purpose as unchanging constants. And, not only does he perceive these values as constant, he has catalogued them in his mind and can provide details about the time and place the things were acquired.

All of this could set Wylie up to be an amazing docent or curator. Maybe of his own collection?

The Meaning of Life

Above the white noise of his HALO REACH game comes the question: "Mom, what is the meaning of Life?"

Keeping with my professional training as a skilled educator--I stall for time.

"What do you think the meaning is?"

Wylie expands his original question: "What I want to know is, why is life so full of happy, good times but then sad and hard times?"

And, that shames me into thinking about this sad, lonely, ZigZagStraight blog....without a good post in almost a year.

The conversation that followed will be the subject of the next new posts!

A Tale of Two Dental Visits

One of my favorite chapters of ZigZagStraight has to do with Wylie's first dental visit. A couple weeks ago, Wylie and I had dueling dental appointments. Mine--a routine crown replacement--was on Monday, Wylie's was on Tuesday. (I have to shout out, I go to one of the most respected dentists in the Loma Linda & Redlands areas. He is the dentist of dentists. Seriously. I highly recommend him). My dentist drew first: "Hmmm...well, uh...Jill...there's just not enough good tooth left for me to build a crown..." Next came words like "peridontist", "root canal", and then finaly "implant". And, with that last shot, I was down for oral surgery in two days. Until then, a steady diet of nothing--the temporary crown was hanging on through sheer force of my will--and motrin 24 hours a day. (I did receive excellent care under the careful precision of Dr. Zalsman in Redlands). Yes, #19 is no longer. And, in its place some bone from a dearly departed. My titanium root will be installed in a couple months. I am robot.

That was all on the Monday before Wylie's visit the next day to his dentist.

Now, if you didn't link to the previous post part deux of the duel will not really resonate with you, but for those of you who recall...

I pick up Wylie from school and begin the drive to Dr. Jiminez . We had a very positive experience there for the boys' cleanings. Wylie knew about the appointment so there was no surprises here. However, as we drove over anxiety began to leak out of Wylie like Niagra Falls.

"I'm not getting a shot, right?"

"No."

"It's not going to hurt me, right?"

"No."

"They're not going to make me smell anything, right?"

"Um...well, " I had to be honest. The doctor and I had agreed to use nitrous to help Wylie relax for the appointment. This revelation sends Wylie into full-panic mode. Campbell does his best to encourage him. This only increases the water pressure. I keep saying "You'll have to ask Dr. Jiminez, Wylie, do you trust him?" More water.

By the time we got to the office, the falls had dried up and Wylie presented himself stoically. The capable assistant invited "mom" to come back with Wylie, but I deferred to him. He said he was fine with just he and the doctor.

Out in the waiting room, Campbell did his homework sitting in the stump of an old tree and I immersed myself in a short novel under the watchful eyes of forest critters (Dr. Jiminez's office is fashioned after the 100 Acre wood). I tried to avoid all references to time so as to remain calm, cool, collected, detached.

A very short 45 mintues later, the capable assistant comes out with a briefing:

"He did great, Mom. Four fillings done and he did just fine. No tears or resistance. We had The Secret of Nimh playing on the screen and he was completely engrossed. Even told Doctor to move out of the way one time. He didn't want to get up because the movie wasn't over. Just so you know...he did tell us after that it was incredibly painful for him and that he was screaming in his mind." Because the staff had only seen Wylie once before, she didn't know how to take this declaration. I assured her it was quite normal for Wylie and they had succeeded where others had failed.

Soon after, Wylie comes out with a triumphant, yet somewhat nitrous-y grin. He never heard a word the assistant said about the visit. We all walk out to the car.

Campbell asks: "So, Wylie how did you do?"

Wylie: "It was so painful. I was screaming in my mind. But, The Secret of Nimh was on and the doctor couldn't hear it. I can eat in 30 minutes. Can we go to Blockbuster and rent Secret of Nimh and then to McDonalds, Mom? It will be 30 minutes then."

We drove into the sunset. Campbell looked at me through the rearview mirror, shook his head and rolled his eyes. Wylie was lost somewhere between his first and tenth nugget only 29 minutes away. As for me? I shook my head, too, except that made my mouth hurt and reminded me of my impending dental drama. With the entire left side of my bite shut down, 800 mg of motrin coursing through my veins and an empty stomach, I was pretty close to those Niagra Falls myself. But, looking over at my brave son, I decided to smile in my mind instead.

What's in a Name?

Like this blog name for example?

Power.

There's a lot of zig zag going on at the Harris Ranch right now. Who knew that title would be at once descriptive and prophetic? This is a place-holder entry for future blogs on:

• Wylie & I: dueling dental drama
• 8/10 of a mile
• Jehovah Jireh
• Band mania

Wait for it!

The New Diary (of a Non-Wimpy Kid)

We are 11 days out from the adventure of middle school for Wylie and Campbell. Coincidentally, the movie "Diary of A Wimpy Kid" came out on DvD this week. We watched it and it is well-done, laugh-outloud funny.

Not surprisingly, Wylie is a big fan of this author and this series.

I cannot know now if Wylie's experiences in a couple weeks will mirror Greg and Rowley's, but one thing is certain: there will be stuff to write about.

Stay-tuned...

Calling C.S. Lewis

I profess faith in God and in his son, Jesus. This defines many of the boundaries and templates of my life and my perspective. Having just celebrated Easter--the Super Bowl of Christian tradition some might say--it is especially troubling to me that I am having such a difficult time witnessing the end of my friend's life after a long battle with cancer.

It's difficult for me to even articulate my difficulty.

I don't think it's anger about the injustice of her struggles with a buffet of chemotherapies.

I don't think it's frustration about the cycle of hope and despair I've seen her go through.

I don't think it's sorrow for the days she will not have ahead.

Although all of these things are catalogued in my emotions, these are not the root causes of my own pathos.

I think it's fear.

And, if I am fearful about my friend's transition from this side of eternity to the other side, what does that imply about my own inevitable transition?

C.S. Lewis said, "Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret?  There are better things ahead than any we leave behind."

The first time I read those words I believed them, I think.

But, these past two days give me pause.

One good quote deserves another, so here's another:  

I would rather be ashes than dust!  I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than should be stifled by dry-rot.  I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow than a sleepy and permanent planet.  The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.  I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.  I shall use my time.  (Jack London)

 

I am all for living and not simply prolonging. But, I wonder why I am seemingly unconvinced about the better things ahead just now.

I'm calling C.S. Lewis.  I'm using a spiritual shout-out on Christianity Cash-Cab.  I don't know the answer and time is running out.

Rest

Was that for the wicked or the weary?

A group of us are learning about life's healing choices and we read a verse from the bible where Jesus says:

"Come to me, all who are burdened and weary, and you will find rest for your souls."

What does that mean?

What does it mean for my soul to rest? In our culture, we never really rest. How can we rest when we are perpetually reachable via text? How can we rest when multiple tasks are tackled with the greatest of ease through technology? Instead of lightening our load this efficiency in tasking has weighed us down. I don't believe anyone truly rests anymore.

But, maybe that's not the kind of rest Jesus was describing.

When I put my feet up, my body rests temporarily. What do I have to put up for my soul to rest?

One common definition explains that if something rests it's in a position such that its weight is supported. Am I in position such that my soul--the weight of my soul--is supported? As I consider this question, my mind wanders to the image of a mother cradling a baby while it sleeps. We envy this position; we boast sometimes about "sleeping like a baby". Babies sleep quite well nestled against a parents' soft, warm skin where the entire weight of the child is supported by loving, secure arms. How long has it been since my body or soul has known rest like that?

Maybe the question is not what do I have to put up for my soul to rest.

Maybe the question is what do I have to take down?

Jesus said "Come to me."

What is in my way today?

Zzzzzzzzzz

Silence is Golden

...or at least...bronze-ish.

It is rare (exceedingly so) that I am ever alone in my home. Sometimes I fantasize about it...(cut to: birthday party for 13 "tweens" last weekend), but it's always in an idealized way. If I were "alone" I would (completely renovate the spare bedroom, replant the garden, spring clean those nasty kitchen cupboards, finish the 12 books I've started reading, write a symphony, scrapbook...ha!) If the idealized version is to manifest it requires more planning and preparation.

I found myself alone in my home because:

a) 15 year old is at camp this weekend
b) 45 year old is on the east coast this weekend
c) 12 year old is at auntie's house (last minute invite)
d) 12 year old is at auntie's house (last minute invite)

Here is the list of what I've done so far:

a) watched two mediocre movies
b) consumed 3/4ths of an individual Brando from Gourmet Pizza Shoppe
c) went to bed without brushing my teeth
d) woke up at 9:30 & currently drinking coffee with cinnamon toast

I'm not proud of myself. But, even as I write this long overdue next blog entry, the silence emphasizes what is so true about my life: I covet the quiet but thrive in the noise.

Off to polish the silver...

2010...Where to Begin?

I'm going to take Vizzini's advice and go back to the beginning...

Among other priority adjustments in the new year, I am committed to reading through the bible this year. Youversion.com (link to the right) has 20 different ways to read through the bible. I've chosen the chronological guide. This will take me through in daily readings roughly the way the events described unfolded in histroy. Exciting.

Truth transforms from the inside out. What better way to begin 2010...transformed every day.

Fellowship of the ....

Ring. Right.

Wasn't it all about traveling together (even though sometimes the friends were apart on different paths)?

Wasn't it all about being right in the middle of something completely scarey and unpredictable--life-threatening even--and trusting the cause was greater than the sacrifice?

Wasn't it terrible, cold, disappointing, discouraging, a drag, and exhilirating, inspiring, engaging, and perfect all at the same time?

I am aware as I zig and zag on my own adventure that others in my fellowship are enduring something I am not. Even though we are together we may be apart. I am sensing the danger and helpless to prevent it.

Nevertheless, we are pressing on...together...

Surfing

In a previous chapter of my life when appointments with people populated my planner...I coined a phrase for myself: surfing the chaos.

There seemed to arise every so often--a day, a week, a month--times when the line between peace and panic would fade and catastrophic chaos loomed. During those times, I grabbed my board and caught the wave.

Those on the shore watching the activity were amazed; it looked so smooth and graceful and choreographed on the surface!

"How does she do it"? They would ask outloud to no one in particular.

The answer is: I had no idea. All I knew to do when faced with those circumstances was stay on the board and hang on through the curl of the wave, mist in my face, roar of the ocean, threat of imminent peril crashing overhead.

In the end it was almost always exhilirating. Sometimes it was dibilitating. Fairly often it was excruiating. But, what other choice was there?

I don't know if it's El Nino, the Mayan Calendar, or the Harvest Moon...but, it's been one of those weeks. Midterms, lectures, office hours. Budgets, evals, baby showers. The lines in my forehead and shadows under my eyes give me away: sleep has been sweet but all too short recently.

My life's current chapter has a different theme, but the predictably random nature of the chaos wave has not changed.

Surfs Up!

Grab your board...

Occupational Therapy for All (forthcoming)!

Hey, ZigZag fans near and far--

I got some good news on Thursday; AOTA (American Occupational Therapy Association) is publishing a collection of stories about therapy...and a submission I sent to them earlier this year will be included in their finished work!

This is exciting on multiplie levels: Wylie's story gets a wider audience, understanding and awareness regarding Asperger-related issues will increase, and the fabric of my writing career has one more thread of credibility stitched into it.

Once the particulars are finalized, I'll be sure to pass along the link and info.

Next writing project: final draft of my GIS/teaching research paper sent off to Journal of Economic Education (before Christmas)!

Thank you to all ZigZag readers for encouraging me to this point.

Later in September

American Vice: Mapping the 7 Deadly Sins

American Vice: Mapping the 7 Deadly Sins

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Life Transformation

Want to fill your bucket? Watch this amazing work by Robbie Carlson capturing real life change here.