I love wordsmithery, shopping for words in the rich aisles of the English language, meshing and moshing and molding them together to paint pictures vernacular and spectacular. And like Ozymandius and his ill-fated stone monument to greatness, I dream that my words will live on when I’m gone. Because I’m all delusional and stuff, too….

About a week ago, I penned a quick blurb and posted it as my Facebook status. A few minutes later, a friend commented and copied it for her status. It’s an awesome feeling, knowing that something you wrote resonated with a fellow traveller on this journey. Another reposted, then another, and soon I was seeing people comment on their postings, saying things like “I like this—I’m going to copy and post it, too!”

Somewhere along the way, as I saw my words posted and reposted, taking on a life of their own, reaching people I never could have reached on my own, a thought crossed my mind.

“I’m not getting the credit for this.”

Admitting that makes me cringe.  While a whole community bound together by nothing more than a thread that runs through an extra chromosome in our children saw truth and spread truth, I started pouting that my by-line wasn’t attached to it. Nevermind the fact that somewhere in the wild word, someone might read those words and be changed by them. That person would never realize that it was MY words that changed them.

I related this story to my family today at the lunch table. I asked them if they could identify the sin behind my emotions, and before I had the “-n” tacked on to the end of “si-” Ethan blurted out “PRIDE!” 

Ah, there it was, obvious even to a 10 year old. Pride, we learned this past week, is the root of all contention. The elevation of self-interest over common good. Not to say that my words were such an enormous, world changing contribution to the common good. But boy, did I act as if they were. God’s gift to Facebook.

I’m not going to post the post-in-question here. Believe me, I want to. I toyed with the idea of starting out this post with the quote-in-question. But I’m not going to. Call it an exercise in exorcising the spirit of pride.

A few days later, it happened again. Only this time, the quote was something I’d written a few months back, recirculating among the Facebook community. And here it was, being posted and commented on and reposted. I felt that familiar monster clawing through into my consciousness. And I stopped myself. What does it matter whether anyone knows whose words those are? Isn’t it wonderful that I am part of this community of wonderful people who strive to empower each other in the fight for truth? Isn’t the far greater issue that someone might read one of these posts and see Down syndrome in a different, more truthful light?

It’s been a week of growing for me, to be sure. (And not just because I’ve fallen off of my diet and eaten an entire loaf of homemade bread and 3 boxes of Triscuits and 1/2 a bottle of Shiraz this week. Tomorrow’s another day….)  I’m honored that someone saw promise and hope and truth in my words, and that rather than tossing them into the FB dust-bin that is the “older post” page, they shared them.  That is something real. It doesn’t matter whether I get any credit for it.

At least, not until I’m a published author with an agent and an editor and an option deal. Then I’m pretty sure it’ll be copyright infringement….

Tags: chromosome, community, Down syndrome, Facebook, novel, post, pride, quote, sin

Okay, I’m going to come right out and cop to the fact that I really don’t know what the word “zen” means. I think I have some vague concept, but my grasp is tenuous at best. I just really wanted to use it as a post title.

I’ve been wallowing in self-pity the last couple of days. I have officially cleared the first hurdle to being an actual novelist: my first rejection letter. Actually, it was an e-mail, one of what I’ve been told are the scores–possibly even hundreds–that await every novelist. And it would probably be more accurate to call it the second hurdle, because I’m fairly certain the first hurdle was actually writing the novel.

While I’ve been wallowing, a big ol’ Texas sized brisket has been sitting in the bottom of my fridge, waiting to fullfill its destiny of becoming a mouth-watering thing of beauty on a dinner platter. I just haven’t been in the mood. I’m in a “fix yourself a bowl of cereal and call it dinner, kids” kind of mood.  I’ve made grilled cheese sandwiches twice this week–only the second time I added ham and pretended it was a whole different thing. I haven’t had the energy to think about the brisket.

For one thing, if you do a brisket right, it’s a little time consuming. First, you have to rub it all down with your own special uber-secret recipe brisket rub. If you’re out of uber-secret brisket rub, first you have to concoct more, THEN rub it down. Then you have to sear it all over. If it’s a whole brisket—which this one is—you really need to cut it in half or even thirds first. Or second—after concocting and prior to rubbing. See, I told you it’s complicated.

And the only pan I own that’s big enough to sear a whole brisket–even one that’s cut up into several pieces–has these big handles that come up on each side, and at least once during the brisket-searing process, I will forget about those hot, metal handles and the whole exercise will suddenly become a forearm-searing process, after which my children will go around calling me “Emo” for several days.

Then there’s the matter of the gravy. That’s right, you heard me. Gravy. Don’t get me wrong–I love me some bbq sauce. But for my brisket, I use the drippings—savory sweet chipotle drippings—and whip up a batch of sweet chipotle brisket gravy. My family would look at me like I’d served unfrosted cake if I gave them brisket without gravy. But it is, like the brisket itself, a labor of love: one which involves the same pan and more forearm searing.

But it’s not just the time commitment. There’s also the matter of the spirit of the brisket. To me, brisket is a celebration. It can be as mundane as celebrating that we’ve survived another week without a trip to the ER, but there’s gotta be some celebrating. I don’t feel like celebrating right this minute.

One of my wallowing rituals–which is a direct result of the fact that evidently Fall released a sneak preview, which has been playing all over North Texas since Saturday— has become sitting on the front porch swing with my mug o’tea several times a day to reflect. It’s one of the veryfine things about living in the country–lots of quiet, punctuated only by crickets and birds.

But this morning when I sat down—-which I did only after thouroughly checking the swing for black widows, which is one of the notveryfine things about living in the country—-there was a whole lot of something going on at the neighbors. Lots of cars–I’d say close to twenty. That many cars at 8:30am is never a good thing.

Turns out, the grandfather is really sick. Really, really sick. As in might-not-make-it sick. Mesothelioma. He has surgery scheduled in a couple of weeks. The doctors hope that it will give him a few more months to a year, but there’s a big chance he won’t survive the surgery.

Dang.

Not only that, but these kids just lost their other grandfather a few weeks ago.

Dang again.

Amazing how our troubles shrink like shadows when exposed to the light of someone else’s. I’m reminded of the words of Psalm 118, “This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Life is a celebration, each and every day of it. We exist day-to-day along a continuum between grief and elation. Hopefully, we’ll spend more time toward the latter. But in all our circumstances, there is cause for rejoicing: the love of friends and family, the providence of the Creator. Sunsets and singing birds. In good times, we inhale joy through our experiences; in bad, we exhale it in the form of the memories that sustain us. But in all things, let us find our way to the celebration.

Okay, I guess I’m done wallowing, or reflecting, or whatever I want to call my little pity party.

Because there’s a family next door that needs a brisket.

Tags: agent, bbq, black widow, brisket, Chaos, Clinical Depression, death, Food, novel, novelist, porch swing, rejection, self-pity, zen