Wishbones and Monkey Bites

I’ve been a contributor on a wonderful group website dedicated to the craft of writing, but this is my first time having my very own blog. I take this responsibility quite seriously. The relationship between storyteller and reader is precious, and I don’t take it lightly.

via Compfight

If you read my Welcome, you’ll know how I came up with the name Tea with Savages. I've decided it's time to push back against perfectionism and embrace the chaos and beauty of life. My little tribe of savages is made up of my children, my family, and my friends, both old and new. Now I’m hoping to bring together a new tribe who wants to share stories, musings, and ideas: you, whoever you are, reading this post right now, and me. The idea of finding a group of like-minded people resonates with me. When you take the time to open up and share yourself there are always others who reach back.  

I grew up hearing amazing stories from my family. I loved listening to them as much as I loved reading. Now I tell my own tales to my children, along with all the family stories from previous generations. I would like to share some of them with you. Maybe they will entertain you, or maybe they will remind you of your own childhood.

Here’s a little story that my children still love. It's about a monkey. That goes well with the “jungle of my mind theme,” don’t you think? I have a small wishbone shaped scar on the middle finger of my left hand. Yes, it's monkey-related.

 

photo via Compfight

My father's family came from Norway and moved to the United States. He was born in Stavanger, Norway and moved with his parents to Kent, Washington. There his younger siblings Jane and Ruben were born. We have a vast network of Norwegian relatives still in the area. My mother is Canadian. Growing up we moved often, mostly around Washington (and twice in California.) I suspect our somewhat nomadic lifestyle was due to my dad’s Viking blood.

When I was a little girl, my great uncle, who was married with one son, was a quirky man. His favorite pastime was crocheting beautiful things. I can vividly remember the smell of his house. The whole place smelled like Old Spice Cologne. We didn't know him very well, and didn't see him or his family often. The big draw to visit Great Uncle Iver was his pet capuchin monkey. 

We loved the monkey, of course, and begged to get to visit. One day my Grandma Anna took me to see him. Even though it was such a long time ago, I distinctly remember sticking my hand into the cage and feeding the monkey a Tootsie Roll Pop. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Not exactly the best diet for a monkey. I can only imagine how cute a capuchin monkey eating a Tootsie Roll Pop would be. Unfortunately, the monkey wasn't in the mood for candy. The next thing I knew, the little rascal bit my finger. Hard. His sharp little teeth sliced right through the skin.

I got a couple stitches and the doctor cleaned it thoroughly.  My parents weren’t too worried until the next day. My hand had swelled up to an enormous size and turned horrible colors, and I had developed a high fever. They rushed me to the emergency room. The doctors decided it was more than a regular infection, but were stumped as to what could be making me so sick. They took turns examining me, bringing in whoever was on staff. They were stumped. My parents were beside themselves.

After a shift change new doctors came to look at my strange case. This time one of the doctors happened to be a Vietnam vet. He knew immediately what it was: a jungle virus carried by that little monkey. They were finally able to treat me. That doctor's jungle expertise saved my life.

My blue monkey with some Tootsie Roll
Pops. He doesn't bite.

Things improved quickly for me, but not for the monkey. It wasn't safe to own a monkey who liked to chomp on people's fingers, especially if it was carrying a disease. The poor creature had to be put down. To this day I have a wishbone-shaped scar on my middle finger to show people that a monkey once bit me.

Do you have a crazy scar story? 

Let me know in the comments.

Let's Jump In

What’s holding you back? Are you afraid to be wrong? Afraid you’re not good enough? Afraid you can’t make everyone happy? Afraid you will fail?

Me too. But we can’t stay here. We have to jump in.

I know, let’s do it together. We’ll hold hands. Just like when we were kids, afraid to jump in the water. Together we can do it. Together we’re strong enough.

Let’s jump in. We can do it. We will keep each other from sinking.

We are strong enough. We are good enough. Remember when we held hands as we stood with our toes peeking over the edge? We never plummeted like rocks to the bottom. We always burst through the cold water into the sparkling sunshine, laughing and sputtering with the joy of success.

Jump in with me.

<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/67956652@N02/9600530646/">streetwrk.com</a> via <a href="http://compfight.com">Compfight</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

Natural-Born Storytellers

Have you ever noticed that children are natural storytellers? They don't need a muse. Creativity just bubbles out of them.

Some little ones prefer to sing their stories. My sister was one of those. She would happily entertain us with melodies recounting the adventures of a particular balloon or flower. I was older and usually trying to read my own book; I wasn't as enthralled by her singing as I was mesmerized by the tales woven by the authors I loved. The grown-ups usually thought it was adorable. (It was.)

my son and niece (who looks just like her mother) as ninjas

If you've ever babysat, worked with children, or have friends with little ones you might have noticed their amazing abilities. I love to sit down with the ones I know and just listen to their stories. A well-placed question or two does wonders in unlocking their imaginations. Even children you've just met will quickly open up to an engaging smile and listening ear (in their parents' presence, of course.) A smile aimed at a bored child at a grocery store might result in an invitation into their imaginary world.

Once while shopping I kept bumping into a pair of preschoolers, a boy and a girl, who seemed to always be half a row ahead of their mother. The sister looked older and seemed to be the ringleader. They were hiding behind carts and baskets and jumping out at each other, their mother, and other shoppers. The little boy would smile at me as he passed, but the girl would only look at me cautiously. The third time I passed, by she grabbed his arm as he smiled at me again and whispered loudly, "She's one of the bad people!" He looked at me, puzzled, and said, "She doesn't look bad." So I raised my egyebrows and grinned mischievously at them. They both giggled gleefully and ran back to their mom. Any time I passed them again I received giggles and smiles from both.

my daughter in her imaginary world

The best little storyteller I've met in a while was a charming girl named Shae-Lynn. I met her and her mother when I was stuck spending a long evening in the emergency room with my daughter. Her mother was a lovely and friendly young woman who kept a watchful eye on Shae-Lynn while she made friends with the patients around her. There were seven or eight of us confined for several hours in a cubicle meant for one hospital bed, sitting in uncomfortable chairs. It was late and crowded, and the wait would have been dreadful without our little entertainer.

First she decided that she was a restaurant doctor. Yes, a restaurant doctor. We were served imaginary food and had our injuries attended to by Shae-Lynn. We were quite happy to play along. Sometimes she was the doctor/server. Sometimes she was the patient. On the wall there were boxes of purple surgival gloves. They bewitched her. First she wore a pair while "examining" us. Even the smallest size flopped off the ends of her little hands. Then she tried her best to persuade the rest of us to wear them. When that bored her, she was easily convinced to sing songs for us. Her mother was obviously proud of Shae-Lynn's precocious and still well mannered behavior.

my son immersed in a book

After the songs I asked Shae-Lynn to tell us a story. She was quite happy to invent one for us. My daughter Emilia was a part of our little imaginary world, too, so the main characters of her story were Emilia, Shae-Lynn's mom, and me. Since she loved the movie Frozen, she named me Princes Anna (declaring that I had the right color hair to be Anna). She decided her mother should be Princess Amma (not to be confused with Princess Anna), and Emilia she named Princess Rose (which pleased Emilia because her best friend's middle name is Rose). It was a lovely, rambling story. We climbed up a high mountain, there was a Prince, one of the Princesses got angry and the other Princesses had to go find her. Eventually she gave us a happy ending.

Not only did the time fly by while we listenend, but this sweet girl made all the sick, sad people trapped in that little room feel better. It took us out of our painful reality for a little while. We lost ourselves in her imagination. And that's what true storytellers do, whatever their age.

Welcome to my World

I have this strange habit of waking up in the middle of the night with words and phrases in my head. If I’m even slightly coherent I will grab my iPhone and write them down. Sometimes I find these notes to myself and wonder why I kept them. Other times I find something that resonates with meaning.


“Tea with Savages” was one of those phrases. It was the embodiment of so many years of my life spent trying to make everything perfect. I tried so hard to have the perfect tea party that I didn’t realize the savages were as unhappy as I was. Now I’m attempting to live life as graciously as possible, and I’m trying to stop worrying about others’ expectations of me. It’s a long road.


For many years my writing was my last priority, but I’m trying to change that. Tea with Savages is a place to tell my stories. Thank you for visiting and sharing this journey with me. Welcome to the jungle of my mind. Care for a cup of tea?

Are You Hearing Voices?

What is it about being a writer that makes us constantly question our identities? Why do I hear that nagging little voice in my head that tells me "you're not really a writer"?

How often do you hear that voice? Published and unpublished authors alike are prone to fits of self-doubt. Listening regularly to that voice can seriously shake your confidence and derail your writing goals. Here are a few tips to help you silence that disparaging creature.


1. Listen to the Voice

The first step to fighting that belittling voice is to find out when it is most likely to come and what it usually says. Are you just feeling negative about your writing, or is there a larger pattern?

A Swedish mental health study in 2011 showed that, of people in the creative arts, authors had the highest rate of depression, anxiety syndrome, schizophrenia, substance abuse, and a 50% higher rate of suicide than the general population. (Read the article here.)

Depression has a voice and is very persistent. Its strategy is to isolate you and bombard you with negative thoughts. If you think you might be depressed, here is a link to a depression self-test.

I suspect most writers are like me, and it's more an issue of self-doubt. I don't hate my writing or myself. I just feel that somehow I'm a fraud, and one of these days the "real" writers will find out. Whenever I tell anyone I'm a writer, the little voice immediately hisses "No, you're not!" in my ear.

Does this sound familiar? Maybe the next step will help.


2. Find Some Cheerleaders

Your cheerleaders can be many different people. Friends and family are a great support. Even if they don't understand why you write (or what you write), as long as they back you up and are there when you need them it can be a huge help.

Two of my cheerleaders: my daughter, Emilia (right), and her best friend.

Another great cheering section is other writers. If you don't belong to a writers group that meets in a physical location, meet up with writers online. There are lots of great Facebook groups who welcome other writers. I belong to a couple and they are always there to encourage me when I'm feeling down or just want to vent. And they have wonderful advice, too.

Sometimes knowing you're not alone is enough to quiet that voice.

Most importantly, you have to cheerlead yourself. This leads us to the next step.

3. Talk Back

So you've listened to the nasty comments of that inner voice. Now it's time to use your writer brain to come up with some witty responses. I'm serious. You have to talk back to that voice to make it shut up.

When you tell someone you're a writer and the voice says "Fraud!" you better have something locked and loaded. You don't have to say it out loud. (Feel free! I bet a lot of us talk to ourselves already. Writers.)

If you don't want to worry about being witty, just be persistent. Every time that toxic voice says that you're not a writer, you tell it: "Yes, I am!" Every time. Tell it to shut up. Swear at it if you want. I won't judge.

Don't just talk back to that nattering in your ear, but declare you are a writer whenever you can. Even if you don't feel like one yet. Even if you are a beginner. Even if you aren't published. If you've read this far, you are a writer.

I've been reading a lot of Jeff Goins lately, and I have been really inspired by his book You are a Writer (So Start Acting Like One). To my amazement I found out that Jeff felt just like me!

"When I started writing, I had all sorts of anxiety. Who was I, pretending to be a writer? How could I possibly call myself one when I hadn't even written a real book, hadn't been published or paid for my work?"

 Jeff talks about a pivotal point in his writing life after getting advice from Steven Pressfield (author of The War of Art, another amazing book). Steven told him, "You are (a writer) when you say you are." Jeff writes:

"So I started saying I was a writer. I put it on my Facebook page. Included it in email signatures. Everywhere I could, I wrote that I was a writer. It was kind of ridiculous, but something crazy happened as a result of this campaign. It actually worked.

Before anyone else called me one, I believed I was a writer. And I started acting like one." 

So get out there and declare you are a writer. Tell that little voice to take a hike!

The Power of Passion

(first published on Obey the Muse, April 20, 2014)

When I first agreed to guest post today, I didn't realize that it was Easter Sunday. I had a completely different topic planned. Then I started thinking about Easter and about Resurrection Day, musing about how much power there is in the telling of a story.

The Bible is full of stories. Jesus was a master storyteller. There has been a lot of controversy about the way the Bible is portrayed in movies these days. If you haven't heard the great debate over the film "Noah," you must be living under a rock. (In which case you probably aren't reading this post.) It brought me back to "The Passion of the Christ." Remember all the controversy about that film?

Before it was released I was part of a church leadership team invited to see an early cut of the film. The drive to the event was almost a party atmosphere. How exciting! We were getting to see "The Passion of the Christ" before anyone else! We felt so special. Like the chosen ones. There were banners and posters and materials we could take home. Oh, to be a VIP was wonderful!

photo by n. pierson

In the beautiful auditorium of Pacific Academy, a posh Christian school, there was a constant buzz of excited voices. We had excellent seats and couldn't wait for the film to begin. After the introduction, the lights went down and the room grew quiet.

photo by n. pierson

Suddenly we weren't moviegoers. The silence was palpable. The air was thick with emotion. I'm not sure when the tears started to flow down my cheeks, but I couldn't stop them. They slowly made a path down my face and there was no use trying to wipe them away. I was desperately trying to regain mastery over my emotions but it was useless.

It wasn't the brutality as much as the humanity of the film that gripped my heart and seemed to rip it out of my body. The love between Jesus and his mother, and her agony as he was arrested, tortured, and executed was haunting. The early scenes of their loving relationship called to me, a young mother myself. 

As the torture scene began I found myself sickened and had a hard time watching, yet I could barely look away. The leering Roman soldiers took turns riping the flesh off Jesus' body and Mary looked on in horror and despair.

Suddenly I had the most visceral physical experience. I began to cry much harder and hyperventilate. I couldn't take it any more. Struggling past the people in my row, I staggered up the aisle and into the ladies room. Finding myself alone, I let out the waves of emotion and cried violently.

What a strange feeling. I had never felt so overcome, so unable to control myself. It was like everything about the heart of God came into focus for me in that ugly, brutal scene. It wasn't a sanitized, Sunday School version of events. It was a harsh, painful, bloody sacrifice, done because of great love. To be able to see Jesus' love for his mother, his friends, and all people was mesmerizing. Watching his mother's love for him was heart breaking, and it helped me see the sacrifice God made in sending and sacrificing His own Son.

Most of all in my spirit I realized that this was done for me. This awful, brutal, bloody sacrifice is what makes all of humanity VIPs. My whole adult life so far I had tried to be a perfect wife, mother, and Christian. But all of my efforts really meant nothing. We are saved by grace, not by our works. "The Passion of the Christ" brought that point home in all its heartbreaking beauty. 

That is the power of story.

All Pictures are Copyright 2004 by Icon Distribution, INC. The Passion of the Christ

All rights reserved. Still photographs taken on film location by Ken Duncan and Philippe Antonello.