An Aspiring Puddleglum

IMG_0957, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

As some are aware, I have certain reading rituals and traditions that are unique only to me. Every year around Christmas time, I read Frances Hodges Burnett's "A Little Princess". The holiday warm-fuzzies will cease to occur unless I've been absorbed into the sparsity of Sarah's attic bedroom where her dreams become tangible realities her active imagine couldn't even conjure. And every summer without fail and in correct chronological order according to when they were written ( which means The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe should be read before The Magicians Nephew, though they are placed in opposite order in the series) I get lost in Narnia.

My favorite Narnian adventure is found in the seventh book, The Silver Chair. The Silver Chair, considered by most critics and readers alike, is one of the darker if not darkest books of the series. This turns many readers off- The Chronicles are a fantasy series, after all, meant to take readers far from elements too close to reality. It's not just the construction of the novel that I love, however, but one of the characters in particular.

I am a trademark Puddleglum. I assume the worst and try to put my best face on. I am beyond a pessimist, really, which makes Puddleglum and I kindred spirits, soulmates if you will. Except...there's one chapter in The Silver Chair in which Puddleglum rises as a hero and gives me hope that, perhaps experience in darkness makes identifying the light easier.

The story's hero, Prince Rilian had been put under a terrible spell by the Queen of the Underworld in which kept him bound in a Silver Chair every night, preventing him from returning to his home and becoming the King he was meant to be. Eustace, Jill and Puddleglum had released him from the spell and all were getting ready to flee the underworld when the Queen showed up to stand in their way. Releasing a certain drug into the air that clouds their thinking, the Queen tries to convince the group that Narnia, Aslan and everything they believed to be true was all a fabrication and the only thing that was real was the underworld in which they belong. It is here, in the darkest of hours, that Puddleglum is able to see through the lies of the Queen and hold to what is true, stating that even if everything they stood for turned out to be a lie, he would rather spend the rest of his days searching for a fake Narnia than serve a woman like her.

Puddleglum was able to rise above physical discomfort, logic, reason and disbelief to stand on the foundation he knew was the only vessel of hope. He stood right in the face of the devil and told her that he didn't care if she was right or wrong. That it mattered not at all what she thought, said or did. He was standing firm no matter how foolish it made him. Not only would he stand, but he would seek Narnia, strive to please Aslan and live as a Narnian- even if Narnia never existed. Not even the devil can argue with that.

I cheer Puddleglum on every July when I get to his shining chapter. He's certainly not as interesting as Badger, as entertaining as
Reepicheep or as endearing as Mr. Tumnus but in my opinion, he's the bravest of them all.

Goal Update

News Flash:  I have worked (almost to completion) on three songs this week, have taken my first Portuguese lesson (which I will post about later), and am preparing myself to spend the morning to early afternoon at either Panera or Whole Foods in an attempt to finish three (!) chapters of at least one novel right after I take a trip to the bank to grab the one bank statement I'm missing for the mortgage application.  I have, however, gained a pound this week.  Oh, well.  Four out of five ain't bad.

Rainy Day Reflections

DSC_0051, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I am sick of the rain. Generally speaking, I'm not a sunshiny kind of girl. I hate the heat. I hate-gasp-the jersey shore with the sticky sand, creepy mullets and all kinds of inedible confections, that, combined with too much sun and insecure beachwear turns my tummy into a squirmy mess. However, this rainy streak may be too much for even this rainy day girl, so, I've decided that on my second day of summer vacation I would curtail the stormy feelings by dreaming and planning how I'll be spending the next two and a half months I have free of teenage angst and quick thinking in the classroom. I've made a list of all of the things that I am thrilled to be doing to inspire me to think sunny thoughts.

1. Lose 10 lbs. ( Warning: teachers, in celebratory enthusiasm during the entire last month of school, place fresh donuts in the teacher's room. Stay away.)

2. Finish 30 pages each in the two manuscripts I've been working on for what feels like forever, never getting past the first two chapters.

3. Finish the composition of and iron out the kinks of the 12 songs that I've written...and run them by a great friend during my visit to Nashville!

4. Take some sweet Portuguese lessons from my favorite Brazilian.

5. Close on my house (!) and spend all of August elbow deep in paint, my vernacular limited to words like "crown molding" and "wainscoating".

I've kept my list to 5 things- I've learned a few things about being overly ambitious during the period of time given to teachers to perhaps learn to breath again and stop waiting anxiously to hear the first period bell in their sleep. I have to say, however, even for those who aren't teachers, the summer seems to be a great time to re-evaluate, learn something new, try something fun and reconnect. So, embrace this damp day, light a few candles, say a quick prayer of thanks for an opportunity to reflect and get started on your list. Then, tell me all about it! ( I need some reading material if I'm going to be stuck on the treadmill:)

There's no Place like Home....

My mother has been insanely gracious in extending her home to Rich and I for the last few weeks while our bid has been pending on a house in Montclair. Though, it certainly has not been easy adjusting to being back in her house, it's been a blessing in more ways than one. Now, after 7 long weeks of waiting (anyone bidding on short sales, please mark my words and be prepared to grow old and wrinkly before you hear back from anyone) we were finally notified on the day that we were going to pull our bid off the table, that it was accepted. This news is more than exciting. In fact, it's more than we ever anticipated it to be.

Wanderers that we are, Rich and I were fairly concerned that upon notification of acceptance we would flip out under the weight of responsibility and the idea of "roots"; particularly in the Northern Jersey area. Finances were also a concern, as well as the foreboding thought that this huge step in life might mean we will have to hang around in the jobs we've been less than satisfied with for the last few years. All valid concerns, some may say, but thanks to God and this book my mother-in-law gently, but firmly suggested I read (Running Scared, by Ed Welch. go ahead and read it- I dare you) none of those concerns seemed to be hovering over our new house.

We are aware of exactly what this house means and exactly what it doesn't. It represents a place where we can explore, create, grow and love. It provides ample space to fill with people and their stories. There is space for our children-when or if ever we decide to have them. It signifies a new part of life Rich and I are about to embark upon together.

We've been all over the world by plane and by car, we've survived beneath the poverty level and above, we've supported each other through sicknesses and death, we've served and loved others passionately and without withholding and we're so grateful our adventures are only beginning.

We're buying a house, true. But the people we love and have yet to know, places we've been, things we've seen and done and the God we serve will make anywhere we are a home.

Wisdom in a Jar

I am the annoying woman in the Dunkin Donuts line making everyone late for work just so she can scrap the gum off of a lone dime she found at the bottom of her bag to avoid breaking a dollar. I will only purchase non-name brand items at supermarkets even if it means buying things I will never eat or use(but I saved 35 cents!). I re-use plastic sandwich bags. I call myself resourceful. Thrifty. Frugal. All very decent rhetoric to avoid the clanging gong of truth- I'm just, downright cheap.

It's a sickness, really, passed down through generations of budget-conscious Vanderbergs and the weight of it drags disparagingly through every mall encounter, every Shoprite aisle. A damp sweat breaks out on my upper lip as my fingers gingerly brush the price-tag in a desperate attempt at nonchalant perusal. I have stress dreams about buying more than two tee-shirts at a time.

I am a firm believer that consuming never leads to fulfillment. Not only are my purse-strings padlocked, but I have been known to scoff at others who spend more than what I deem necessary for any certain product that could be made from the contents of your pantry or refrigerator.

Here is where I hang my head in shame and publicly declare my deepest apologies for my hypocritical behavior. I have tasted the riches of a well-made body scrub and I am not turning back. Not matter-gulp-how much it costs.

The Body Shop's line of Spa Wisdom's African Sea Salt Scrub has, with one peaches and cream tub, changed the course of my skin's history. At 30 bucks a pop, this little African beauty scrubs these unfortunately rainy June doldrums into distant, scale-y memories. Who can resist Community Trade, organic beeswax and shea butter? I mean, it's the very essence of shrewd spending. I'm basically donating money to perpetuate the fair trade cycle- and happen to have skin as smooth as petals and smell lightly of the earth after it rains in the process.

There, see? Nothing hypocritical at all. I take back my aforementioned apology. Not only am I frugal but globally aware and empowering as well. And as soon as my penny jar fills up, I'll trot to the Body Shop counter and spring for another. (I usually go between 4 and 5 in case you'd like to avoid the line).