a smear of ash, a pinch of salt, a stick of buter: tears in my lentils

why are girls so terrible to each other? i don't think i've ever been friends with a group of girls where there hasn't been some back biting, gossip and cat fights. usually, you just move on, but sometimes it hurts terribly and becomes very damaging. the broad answer is that we're all depraved, and our insecurities and personal fears are temporarily assuaged by pointing out someone else's flaws. the relief only lasts so long, and soon we're once again pushing down our rising internal panic by talking about someone else. and so it goes.

in kansas city i have a group of friends who are committed to their faith in the Lord and try hard to love each other in a Christ-like way. a conscious effort is made to support one another in love and be discreet about what we say about someone else when that person isn't around. at least, that's how i see it. we aren't perfect, but i'd like to think we're all giving it our best effort. we have a long way to go, but who doesn't?

as long as women have been around, talking behind one another's backs and causing mischief, there have been lentils. the lentil is a legume that originated in the middle east. it's still used there as a staple in many dishes, and for all it's fiber and protein, it's really quite simple. lentils come in green, yellow, red, brown and black varieties, but very rarely would you ever see someone eating a bowl of plain lentils, the way one might eat rice. they're always simmered down, seasoned up, and served with another dish.

while i was preparing my lentil soup this week, something about the way the dish was coming together convinced me i needed to share it with my friends. the lentil is not really date food. it's a stressed-out-from-work, worried-about-the-future, need-to-pray-about-this with my friends over big bowls of soup and crusty bread type dish.

so that's exactly what i did. as everyone congregated in my dining room, each anxious and worried about something different, we vented a little and cried a lot, but after we prayed and started eating, some of the stress fell away and we were left with a table full of giggling girls and a big pot of soup.



lentil and green collard soup
feeds about 6, with leftovers
4 tablespoons olive oil, divided
1 onion, finely diced
several cloves of garlic,minced
2 cups of red lentils
1 tablespoon cumin
1 teaspoon cinnamon
salt and pepper
2 cups vegetable stock
6 cups water
a large bunch of collard greens, cleaned, stemmed and thinly sliced
lemon juice, to taste
Parmesan cheese, to taste

soak your lentils in cold water for 20 minutes. while they're soaking, pour 2 teaspoons olive oil in a large pot over medium heat, and then sautee the onion and garlic until the onion is transparent. drain your lentils and add them to the onion and garlic. add the cumin, cinnamon and salt and pepper to taste, and sautee for about 4 minutes. add the stock and water and bring to a boil over high heat. when it's boiled, lower the heat to medium low, cover and simmer for 15 minutes. while it's simmering, in a large skillet, heat the remaining olive oil over medium-high heat and sautee the collard greens with salt and pepper until they're wilted, about 10 minutes. add them to the pot and simmer the soup for about 10 more minutes. add the lemon juice to brighten the flavor. serve with Parmesan cheese.

a smear of ash, a pinch of salt, a stick of butter

"Lent is the time for trimming the soul and scrapping the sludge off a life turned slipshod. Lent is about taking stock of time, even religious time. Lent is about exercising the control that enables us to say no to ourselves... Lent is the time to make new efforts to be what we say we want to be." - sister Joan Chittister

lent has always facinated me. at my non-denominational mega-church we never broached the idea of mystical spirituality; icons, liturgies, and rituals were eschewed for stage lights, a chorus of guitars and didactic sermons. when i attended the catholic wedding ceremony of one of my distant cousins or tagged along for a friend's first communion i was awed by the heavy symbolism and tradition that pervaded everything. sitting down, standing up, keeling. chanting, praying, hearing. drinking and eating. my observations mingled equal parts awe and terror; i marveled that spiritual practices could be so markedly complex yet horrified they were missing the point.

for a dramatic 10-year old, lent was a perfect mix of spiritual symbols that ended with a clincher: kneeling penitently before a priest has he smears ash on my forehead, a display of complete personal culpability. i relished the mysterious and shadowy environment even if i didn't fully understand the meaning.

now i'm part of a community that observes a traditional church calendar and we've finally arrived at lent. in the decade since my first lent experience, i've had more enlightenment about my lenten practice. i give things up, but the meaning isn't really in the sacrifice. instead, it's in the willingness to search for habits, people or actions that we've become addicted to, and allow those things to fall away in favor of Christ's grace and His ability to fill us. we're weeding out the irrelevant, creating space for Him to fill us with more love. it never works to simply give something up; in the giving we must choose to be filled with something else.

this year, i've decided to give up eating out. it was initially a knee-jerk decision. i thought, "lent is coming. i go out too much, so i'll give that up," but the more thought i gave it, i felt it was increasingly important. i eat out when i'm hurried and haven't given enough thought to the shape of my day. i grab a burrito or slice of pizza, or heaven forbid, a quick-trip hot dog, because it's a last-ditch option on my way to my next activity. often i'm simply too lazy to prepare something at home. when i eliminate the option of eating at a restaurant, i create an opportunity to consider nourishment, hospitality, frugality and discipline; i begin to cultivate a home life, one that carefully considers the natural rhythm of my day and includes a community of friends.

so i've decided to give up one thing, eating out, and have replaced it with a series of spiritual disciplines that prepare me for Christ's direction, what He would have me do with my extra time, space and money. i'm anticipating recording the things that i learn from this experiment--insights i have into the season, recipies i try, conversations i have over the dinner table. i wonder what 10-year-old shanna would have thought (she gave up her blankie).

motivate me.

many creative types talk about inspiration. where they find it. how they wish they had some. what it prompts them to make and do.

inspiration, please. i have no lack of stimulating forces sparking my neurons and firing creative thoughts.

what i lack is motivation.

i've often longed for a technology that allows me to download thoughts, unaltered, into a word document and then rearrange them once they're on the page. this is a process i imagine would take about ten minutes or so, central prcessing unit happily humming away while my thoughts were converted into readable files and then opened with a double click. i'd never lose anything to laziness that way, forgetting what i wanted to write because i waited so long to get it down on paper. i suppose, though, that if such a technology existed we'd have bigger problems even than my lack of motivation, problems that involved computers being able to thoroughly probe the human mind.

anyway, it wouldn't really be writing, would it? writing is less about putting pen to paper than it is about losing yourself deep in thought, then looking at the clock and realizing an article you've yet to start is due in seven hours. you think a little bit more, this time about how much you hate writing and wish you'd chosen to be a lion tamer or a barista or anything but this. (you wonder if you could get your old job at the Gap back). the panic starts to rise again, this time coming from your stomach and flooding your brain: you can't do this, you'll embarrass yourself, you won't do this.

all the while, the article remains due at the same time it always has been, so you fight back the panic with promises of a nap once you're finished or a trip to the library or any bribe, really, that happens to work on that particular brand of panic. then you start, keystroke by keystroke, on the article.

query? part II

"And so, I think the idea is good, but needs more direction. I don't think the topic could stand on it's own without a stronger angle."
- An editor.

Yes, queries are difficult, but finally having the guts to query an editor only to receive an e-mail like this is down right terrifying. Support and assert my idea? I thought I would just send it to you and then sit back and listen to your profuse praise while you greenlight this article and any other fleeting idea I've ever considered fit for publication.

Now I'm wondering, am I really smart enough to do this? Do I have the level of intelligence necessary to connect this issue with any kind of insightful thought? Is my creativity a complete sham? Oh, the writer's mind. It is truly fraught with all kinds of anxiety and a touch of bipolar: the confident high I was riding after seeing my name in print last week, the despondent doubt I'm experiencing this morning.

So, you'll kindly excuse me for now. I'm off to fetch a cup of tea, close my eyes and inhale deeply, then hit "reply" and attempt to salvage this article.

query?

there are a lot of worst things about freelance journalism.  developing story ideas is the worst. convincing a subject to agree to an interview is the worst. writing interview questions is fun, but sometime conducting the actual interview is terrible. nerve wracking. the worst. querying editors is the worst.

no, really.

querying editors is the worst. 

i'm not sure what other profession combines mental strain and personal risk as completely as freelance writing does. it's like cultivating a rare and precious fruit in your backyard, ripening it to perfection, then finally plucking it and offering the first taste to a notoriously picky eater who has license to hurl the fruit across the room and watch as it splatters against the wall and slides sloppily to the floor. this is what i endure, myself and my little brainfruits.

every time i query an editor, i have to make a carefully-weighed decision: do i want to offer this apple to someone else, or would i like to eat it myself this time?

a poem is never finished, only abandoned.
~ paul valery (french critic and poet 1871-1945)

this is true about poetry, yes, but i think it is a universal statement about all art. i've never truly finished anything i've ever written, only gotten sick of working on it or declared it "good enough." sometimes things are done, but i believe there's a thin differentiation between done and finished. it is in that small place that most of my projects lie: no longer a work-in-progress, but always somehow needing a little more work.

when writing an article, i often have to call people to arrange interviews or sometimes to do the actual interview over the phone. this is normal. those people are my primary sources and without them, the article couldn't be written. i've probably done this somewhere around 200 times by now, i'd imagine, or maybe more.

there's always this internal struggle. i look up the number. i pause. my heart seizes up. i think of a million things i have to do before i can call the person. my laundry. clean my room. track down an image on a server somewhere. refresh my blog and look for comments. call my boss and ask him a question.

even after i do all of those things, i still have to call the person. no call, no article. i stare at the phone. i pick up the receiver. i put it back down. up. down. swallow. i dial the number. i dialed the wrong number. i hang up and dial the right number. those rings are always the hardest. i pray it goes to voicemail. it would be easier on me if an actual someone answered. but i always pray it goes to voicemail. i leave such good voicemails.

the actual someone actually picks up. i experience one more flash of panic, so tight and intense i think i might cry. then, from some quadrant in my brain, professionalism takes over. i hear my voice saying the right things, acting friendly. i hear my voice asking intelligent questions. i see that i've taken a few pointed notes. i'm joking, i'm laughing, i'm having a good time talking to this person i so desperately did not want to call.

i hang up, high on the kind of adrenaline that releases after you do something that you're good at, and you do it well.

i don't think i'll ever get over the panic, though, no matter how many times i do it. writer's panic. even joan didion had it.