They say that writing a story is a lot like pulling teeth. I think they know a thing or two, whoever they may be.  You sit down and have it planned out in your head. Open the computer. Open the program, adjust your coffee cup over the coaster. Turn your mouse pad so it’s straight. Adjust the chair. And when your space is perfect, you put fingers to the keyboard. 

There’s a little nub sticking out from a wet mess of swollen gums.  It’s been irritating you every morning until you get busy and let yourself forget. Every morning it’s there -  doesn’t go away. Then, one morning pain reaches the point where there is no avoiding it, it has to come out. 

You start out just getting through the mess. Writing like mad, tossing typos on the screen, digging into the pain a little, piercing the tight swollen skin.  You can grab that nub, finally and start to pull.

It looks dark, maybe cracked, but you get an even better grip. As you pull, blood pours out and stains your hands, mingling with saliva. You have to stop sometimes to spit. Rinse. Start again with the tugging as the stained enamel loosens, underneath emerges a long - shockingly long - hard fang that was embedded under that flawed tooth - soft as a baby’s bottom. Smooth. Pointed like a knife and revealing so much more than you thought it would be. But there’s more to come out. 

It won’t release. It’s there, you’ve gotten to the polished part, the hidden is revealed and you think you are done. But you have to keep tugging. Slowing, you pull, eyes squeezed shut, it all comes out.  Blood, flesh, pain and the tooth is out. The story is written.

You open your eyes and stretch out your clenched fist. It’s never what you thought you were pulling out. It’s never simple.  Attached to the bottom is a weird, deformed, twisted root that had been hidden, forming below the surface. It’s where your story came from and what it really means and the frightening influences that you don’t want to admit have created it. There is the root.

Book Review

Surprised by Laughter: The Comic World of C.S. Lewis

Terry Lindvall, Ph. D.

Thomas Nelson, 1996

Terry Lindvall’s Surprised by Laughter: The Comic World of C.S. Lewis is a brilliant title. What? The serious doctrinarian, the weighty theologian, delving into the realms of grief, repentance, conversion and evil, for goodness’ sake, has a funny side? I wish I had written it.

No, I really wish I had written it. Lindvall’s writing stumbles all over itself and the title puts the bar way higher than the reality can ever reach.  And there is nothing funny about that.

You kind of know you’re in trouble when he writes in the acknowledgements, “This book owes itself to the merry band of friends, colleagues and guides who contributed generously to my seeing and thinking and to my learning and laughter.”  Who writes like that? Oh, that’s right. C. S. Lewis does. Lindvall’s continuous slipping into the “voice” of Lewis is like hearing a soft chuckle turn into a series of snorts and gasps.  Not really laughter. Not really good writing.

“Flippancy is the laughter that keeps one out of the kingdom of God. For those who would feast on tainted laughter, and not be satisfied with daily bread, it is the sad, cotton-candy taste of death. Flippancy does not nourish, but devours and even cannibalizes others and eventually the self. And yet at the table of this earthly life, when one is hungry for a laugh, it appears the tastiest and most tempting dessert and the easiest to make.” (p. 431)

I’ve read nearly all of Lewis’ works – several times. There was a touch of this malady in Sheldon Vanauken’s A Severe Mercy as he describes his correspondence with Lewis.  There was even a touch of this voice plagiarism in the recent Surprised by Oxford by Barbara Weber. Lindvall’s insistence of adding homilies in the voice of Lewis are a huge distraction. And not funny.

The book does a good job of presenting material from the Lewis catalogue into various types of humor, such as “Humor of the Self,” “Joy and Suffering,” “Laughter as Thanksgiving,” “Humor and Humility,” “the Fun in Nature,” and the “Sword of Satire.” Within these various chapters are examples from a range of works and then a discussion of the use of humor by others close to Lewis, heavy on G.K. Chesterton.  There are extensive examples of what is NOT funny – examples of laughter mixed with pain, laughter mixed with longing, even laughter mixed with sarcasm or meanness.

The book is a serious, scholarly tomb. It has thorough information packaged in a way so Lindvall gets to indulge his Lewis-like, advice from a great-uncle using archaic language – type commentary. Getting past that annoyance, it’s a good summary to counteract the characterization of Lewis as a heavy-handed, serious doctrinarian.  But the audience for this book, those who have read and enjoyed Lewis’ works, already know that.

That’s the joke.

My daughter wrote her first college paper last weekend on “Euthanasia.” Her dad got sick when she turned 10.

“I wrote one in high school, do you think it’s still on your computer?”

I didn’t know. It wasn’t saved, turned out. I had no idea.

“It has to be five pages!”

She got it right in the first paragraph. “Last April my father died after eight years of a rare brain disease. Why should people have to go through the torture of being unable to take care of themselves, be confused all the time, be in pain, wet their pants and have constant seizures?” she wrote.

I kept reading, “My father was hospitalized 16 times in the last 18 months of his life.”

I looked up at her from the page. “I can add some details,” I said. “He also had 26 MRIs and 11 lumbar punctures. They call them ‘spinal taps’ and are one of the most painful procedures anyone can undergo.”

Her paper went on to say that euthanasia is practiced in the Netherlands and the state of Oregon legalized it with the Death with Dignity Act. Her writing was good; descriptive, but solid and factual. It was compelling even though she struggles with writing, with laying down words to tell a story. She’s a scientist. Facts and measurements tell it to her satisfaction.

“Euthanasia frees up medical funds for those who have a chance to make it,” she wrote.

In one simple, cool sentence, she accepts the present reality that people with money live longer and people who run out of money have to die. And if they have to die, they should be able to choose to do it sooner than later.

We talked about the DNR order as a step toward giving the patient control over the timing of death.

“But that doesn’t always work,” she said. “Dad died a few times and they brought him back.”

Sharp girl. “Yes, sometimes the medical community doesn’t want to accept the DNR as the authority in the matter,” I admitted.

“That’s because they don’t want to accept the patient as the authority,” she said.

Very sharp girl.

“Do you think Dad would have wanted to die sooner than he did?”

She stops to think.

“I think he always tried to make the best of it and be positive, but I also know that he hated being disabled and there were lots of times that he cried and prayed for it to end.”

“Well, in a way, he got some control because I brought the DNR to the hospital and refused any treatment or any procedures. ‘Only painkillers’ was what he said when we went over it on Thursday. On Saturday, he was unconscious and that’s what he got. Only painkillers.”

“That’s when it was the worst. The last few days, when he was unconscious and we had to suction him and hold him down during seizures? He was in misery. He didn’t die until Wednesday. That’s just cruel.”

“Horrible.”

“Mom, how do you think I’ll do on my paper?”

I had no idea.

“Fine, honey. I think you’ll do fine.”

Fallen, September 11, 2001

by Francine Phillips

The air beckoned

As the fire threatened.

A wall of power and heat

Melting the structure of The Important Things -

My Starbucks mug,

My laptop,

My corner office.

The air beckoned

“Throw yourself from this pinnacle and angels will lift you up,”

lured the Evil One.

So I leapt,

Fell,

Exhilarated.

Heat on my face,

Cool loft on my neck.

Swirling, but falling.

Floating - will I float?

Will the laws of gravity suspend to let me live?

Will God let go of order to stop

For me?

Falling?

Fallen?

The air beckoned.

Below,

Scurrying, crumbling,

Smoke billowing.

Can smoke hold me?

Can a crowd break a fall?

Come back! Don’t run! Come break my fall!

Death by elements.

Earth, wind, fire.

Fire, then wind, then, finally, earth.

But not finally.

Earth passed away.

The Holy Spirit rushed like a Wind.

The Refiner’s Fire yielded a river of gold

Flowing around me.

And the Evil One spoke the truth, after all.

Surprised by Oxford: A Memoir by Carolyn Weber

Thomas Nelson 2011

The easy opening is to say that I was not surprised by Surprised by Oxford.

But that’s not entirely the truth. I love the writing of C.S. Lewis and was a little put off by the riff of his title, Surprised by Joy. Yes, the Oxford don wrote within the very walls of the same hallowed university, sat at the same pub benches, walked the cobblestone streets, gazed at the same stained glass windows. But, was this exploitation?

And there could have been a sense of “been-there, done-that” from Sheldon Vanauken’s amazing story of coming to faith, A Severe Mercy in which Oxford played a hand in bringing the author and his wife, Davy,  to the foot of the cross. Was Weber’s book just a feminist, more hip version of that tale minus the soft touch descriptions of the sky, the estate, the yacht and the love? The “Shining Barrier” of love, so unexpectedly breached by God?

Weber’s memoir is more than that. Like the aforementioned books, the intellectual approach to believing is central. And the intellectual analysis of faith among her scholar friends is fresh and up to date.

“No one gets their knickers in a knot about anyone except Jesus,” Mark said plainly. “If you were telling your fiancé you were considering Buddhism, or Islam, or Wicca, you wouldn’t be so clearly anxious. And he would likely have taken it all in stride, because you would be tolerated, even celebrated…But Jesus, Whoa. That’s a whole other gig.”

But the heart is present in the book as much as the mind. Lucky for Weber, there is a man, nicknamed TDH (tall, dark and handsome) also pulling her to consider the need for salvation. The memoir traces their push/pull relationship that mirrors her own halting steps toward faith.  Will she find love?  Will she fine Love?

If nothing else, however, buy the book for the writing. Weber is gifted at presenting authenticity – wrapped in words that capture anger, irony and longing. She brings us inside and we feel the mind, the heart and the soul entirely. And recognize the feelings.

     I remembered how I stood at our back screen door, yearning but unable to put the desire into words.  I press my hands together against the mesh until tiny find crosses stung into my palms…the inconsolable crux of the human condition; an ache that reminds us of that eternal joy and beauty for which we are made.

     What? What is there?  Only the hush rising up from the evening haze settling on the unlistening grass. No crickets. No birdsong. The smell of a storm. In the distance thunder was tearing through still sky like the opening of an envelope.

I think she puts in all into words just fine. Amazingly fine.

He sailed through life.

Careful preparation was his secret.

Checklists.

Survival was given every opportunity to prevail over

being a helpless speck on a wide, wild ocean.

He was careful.

But once underway, he sailed into the headwind,

preferring the sail to the rudder.

He didn’t like to tack.

Straight ahead.

Confident.

Capturing the wisps of air and current

and channeling them into power.

Powerful.

Until…

a rogue wave, strange and rare,

sucked the bottom out from under him,

pounded relentlessly,

overwhelming,

coming out of nowhere.

Slammed and tossed.

Powerless…

but still afloat.

And he navigated the strategy of letting go of the rigging.

Forsaking the sail after all.

No option to come about.

Allowing himself to float.

His buoyancy maintained

by being positive, cheerful, accepting and loving.

And loving.

It turned out he had a savior.

Jesus.

Yes, that Jesus.

“Even the wind and the sea obey him.”

He survived tumultuous seas on faith, 

forsaking sail and rudder altogether,

and discovered that he had an Anchor.

Now he sails again on glassy seas, the wind at his back.

There’s a screensaver on my monitor that I can’t decide if I love or hate. I don’t remember how I came to use it and I have no idea how I turn it off or change it. Computer functions such as these are beyond my patience to parse. Let’s just call it magic.

What happens is a photograph is pulled randomly from memory and dances across the screen for 10 seconds or so – a smiling face of a friend, a Halloween costume from 15 years ago, that day at the lake, a kiss from my husband, the cover of a book I’ve written. And because the photos are so fleeting and there is no continuity between them, it’s almost a kaleidoscope of emotions to watch. Pieces of memory falling into place then instantly shifting and falling again, then falling again.

If I watch the screen for 60 seconds or so I’ve skimmed 25 years. The down side is that I have a ten-second peek at things I have forgotten but there is no way to go back there, no way to find the file path the photo was pulled from. Somewhere in memory there’s the next moment as well – the hug after the kiss, the lake sunset – but there is no way to get there. If you click on the photo the screensaver disappears. The joy of seeing the image turns to pain as it slips away from view and another appears. At random.

Recently I’ve been reconnecting with friends I haven’t seen in years; friends I’ve shared joys with in the past. It started with my husband’s funeral in April, where so many people came from so many places in our memory. Family. Colleagues and former co-workers, distant relatives, clients he served and employees who served him sitting row upon row in a sanctuary filled with love and remembrance.

Next has been the reconstruction of my career after being laid off in June. I went to the San Diego Magazine open house and shared wine and laughter with people I used to work with under deadline. This week I went to the Press Club party and discussed the Coronado murder with folks whose last discussion with me centered on the Republican National Convention coming to San Diego in 1996. Yesterday I had lunch with Sue Garson, last seen some 12 years ago at a fabulous party in her home. For years we were close and I watched her parlay her Reader press pass into free entrance to museums in Istanbul and interview access to royalty in Europe. Amazing woman. We’ve made plans to walk in Balboa Park.

Finally, I’m moving back into a home that I used to live in 25 years ago, newly divorced with two small children. I peeled back the carpet this week – so new and fresh when it was installed, now matted and frayed. Front stoop so small where we stood for that first day of Kindergarten photo. The arbor sagging above the stone patio where icing dropped in globs from cupcakes at the High Tea where rough and tumble Girl Scouts dressed in their mothers’ finery and wore hats. The heater that burned my daughter’s leg. The sidewalk where my son fell again and again and again until he learned to ride without training wheels.

Images startling in their clarity but also fleeting, a wisp only, of the past I want to reconnect to, resurrect, and reconstruct for the future. Let’s just call it magic. 

by Francine Phillips

It makes perfect sense to me. Joe Biden, no offense, can retire now, capping a significant career with leadership of the Senate. He offered the tie to the Old Guard that Obama needed to capture traditional voters the last time around. Thank you, goodbye.

Maria Shriver should be the Obama running mate in 2012. The charisma factor will shoot through the roof.  Shriver is media-savvy, smart, beautiful, she has the political pedigree, and is someone who gets things done.

In the last few years she took on the issue of Alzheimer’s in honor of her father’s battle with the disease and brought it out of the closet. She produced an award-winning HBO series, wrote a book about it (which included an essay from Reagan’s daughter, Patti Davis) and got on every news program in the country to start an Alzheimer’s conversation in America. If she can get people to engage with a horrifying, fatal disease that no one wants to admit happens to anyone under 70, think what she can do with issues of hunger, unemployment, and corporate gouging – things that America WANTS to talk about. I say let her at it. Especially now.

There are really three powerful women in America with name recognition – Hilary Clinton, Sarah Palin, and Maria Shriver. Ok, four. Oprah doesn’t count. Loudmouth Michelle what’s-her-name-running-for-president REALLY doesn’t count. She’s Palin-lite and since Palin herself is a lightweight, that makes her pretty much a – dare I say? – flake. No apology forthcoming.

Hilary is stodgy – which makes her a diplomatic gem. She gets the entire global connection while the rest of us are trying to remember who we are at war with, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan?  How many countries have Taliban presence?  Is there really a Muslimization of Africa campaign. (I first heard this term when I interviewed one of the  Lost Boys of Sudan and it made things so clear.)  Hilary should stay put.

Maria would be great as Vice-President. She can handle the media spin duties so Obama can get back to fixing the country and she can send the e-mails. She can talk the pants off talk show hosts.  She’s had an insider window into the Republican Party as wife of Arnold and knows where the weaknesses are hiding.  Ok, not exactly hiding. Even the Republicans know where their weaknesses are – they can’t unite. Maria could blow them all away in any debate.

Aside: Donald Trump and the birth certificate – really?  Isn’t this the same party that wanted to change the law of the land so Arnold could run for president?

And speaking of Arnold. This is a golden moment.  What woman in America wouldn’t want to support Maria who gave up so much for love – her political views, her home, her career - and got burned? Who wouldn’t want to elect her to an office higher than Arnold can ever attain?  Vice President Shriver is just too delectable to pass up as we stab our ballots in that little private booth.  It’s an extra bonus that Maria is doing what we all wanted Hilary to do – she’s leaving him.

America is just not going to go back to white men aging gracefully to rule our land. Sorry Mitt and that other look-alike guy.  Sorry Joe. 

I think Maria’s next step should be into the dais of the Senate Chambers. Adding her to the ticket will electrify voters. Leave it all behind and go kick ass. 

I’m reading a book from the Oprah Book Club.  It’s a sad book, the story of misfits and misguided fits and the consequences of their actions, which are tragic – beautifully described, but tragic. In fact, it’s a lot like other Oprah Book Club books I’ve read. There’s a sense of obligation almost, like the reading lists in college or on Facebook. But you read it at arms length, letting in only tiny bits and pieces – turning on NCIS in the background so you don’t completely fall under the spell, the shockingly fascinating spell of people completely screwing up their lives and their children’s lives. Not really reading it, but unable to put it away – quickly forgetting as soon as you’ve turned down a corner and spread it on the side table, breaking the spine. Needing a break. 

  I blame the Chicago diva. She who creates millionaires with the wave of her Book Club wand. Then that made her feel guilty and she stopped it, but not really, so it’s still out there. The power is unimaginable. Power Oprah. With favorites.

The thing is – I used to love the gutsy, robust woman with the country phrases and the big laugh.  I loved the magazine – finally a publication that made me feel good about myself instead of bad about myself!  I loved the search for the spiritual, the center, the new norm, the love of self.

  But somewhere along the way the contradictions have become too much. The little school for the “right” African girls – again the life-changer waves a wand. That hasn’t gone too well. The advocacy for simplicity juxtaposed with the lavish gifting. Who are we kidding, girlfriend? And the scourge of existence – body image – going on and on and on and on in endless, belly-button-examination about eating and exercising and denial and freedom and getting coaching and doing it on your own, liking yourself, but changing your belt. This never-ending dance around self-loathing. Please stop. Step away from the navel.

  So, what is the Oprah Winfrey Network except taking it all to a deeper level?  Behind the shows? Show business about the reality behind the show business? Does anybody still care that much? OWN?  No, Oprah, what happened to Let it Go? Dr. Phil? Nate Burkas? Gayle? Do we really have to see everyone cash in this last year?

  I happened to be home today at the time the show comes on. Thought about it. But couldn’t really bear the thought of twirling on that merry-go-round for an hour. In the end, it’s all been a phenomenon. There will never be another Oprah.  And I don’t think there should be.

So, a new party has “won” the House. The party balance has shifted once again in what seems to be our default love of inbalance in political life. Chaos theory reigns. Take the Congressmembers, shake them up in a cup and scatter them across the White House lawn and they’ll somersault and bounce to a halt at random. Red States. Blue States. Scattered at random.  I don’t really see a winner here.

The last couple of decades has seen it all – House dominance, Senate majority. All one party, same as the President. All one party, opposite the President. Opposite parties. But mostly the default configuration is that the ideas represented and the votes owed to one faction or another are a mix. At odds. In need of confrontation, or, at the very least, dialogue. In the end, that’s not a bad thing. It’s the essence of representative government. It represents my workplace, my family…and, I’ll bet, yours too.

We don’t all get along, Rodney. Ask Adam and Eve what happened to their sons. There is friction, sparks, hurt feelings, competitiveness, smug victory. It’s the human condition. Cutting off the other driver, frosting a prettier cupcake. Everybody needs a “win” now and then. But winning isn’t everything even in a culture that invented the term, “Win-Win.”

“Life is not a dress rehearsal!” Sarah Palin cries in her carefully rehearsed, crafted and packaged series about the last wilderness. (What WAS that?) Sometimes, it is, Sarah. Some would say that’s all it is.  Some would say that this life is practice for an unimaginable eternity where those who would lose in this life become rulers in the next. It’s the cosmic expression of a red slushy being thrown in the face of the football players instead of the Glee club singers.

 What is the antidote to the “Win-Win?” Throw in the towel. Be gracious and kind to all. Drive with courtesy in the slower lane. Don’t show off. Let go of frustration and, win or lose, love each other.