Archive for August 18th, 2013

Anne Lamott

Did you ever want to know what writer Anne Lamott would choose, if she had a “real job”?  She tells us here. I am going to repeat it word for word from her post. And then also let you know she has a new book coming out soon, so here are the connections to it.   I am currently reading her Help Wow Thanks book which are the three prayers we all say. Suffice it to say, since “Bird by Bird”, I am a FAN.

Count this as a SHARE, which I will duplicate on Facebook to spread the good news of wisdom words from Anne Lamott.

And as this is being posted by Sunday morning, you could probably have a discussion with her directly, for you will find her at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian for the 11:00 a.m. service and she would love to see you there.


From Anne:

“During the chat at peopl.com, someone asked what job I would like if I wasn’t a writer, and I wish I could reprint it here. But as I also said during the chat, I am a completely hilariously incompetent humanoid when it comes to technology, so I can’t do that.

But I can try to answer it again. I semi-sort-of remember what I said.

I’d like to sit out in the very quiet courtyard at St. Andrew Presbyterian, with a bowl of cherries, and a bowl of M&M’s as communion elements, and talk to people one at a time.

I’d teach people what we tell our Sunday School kids, that they are loved and chosen, AS IS. My grandson says things like, “There’s another boy in with class with beautiful brown skin, like me.” And he’s four. If women confided that they don’t swim even when it’s very hot because they have tummy roll or jiggly thighs, I would show them mine, and we’d go off to swim together in our terrible underwear together, even if it was just in a little kid’s inflatable pool in the projects across the street.

If people were grieving, I would sit with them while they cried, and I would not say a single word, like “Time heals all,” or “This too shall pass.” I would practice having the elegance of spirit to let them cry, and feel like shit, for as long a they need to, because tears are the way home–baptism, hydration–and I would let our shoulders touch, and every so often I’d point out something beautiful in the sky–a bird, clouds, the hint of a moon. Then we’d share some cherries and/or M&M’s, and go find a little kid who would let us swim in his or her inflatable pool. I’d tell the sad person, “Come back next week, I’ll be here–and you don’t have to feel ONE speck better. It’s a come-as-you-are meeting, like with God, who says, “You just show up, my honey.”

If people want to know the secret of writing and art, I would say, “Write badly. That’s what we all do. Just do it. No one cares if you write or paint or dance, so YOU’d better. Nevr give up. read more poetry. Then find someone who will edit your work for you, like a friend or associate who needs someone to edit his or her work; or a teacher; or someone you pay, if you can. Without this, you are doomed. No one can help you if you don’t have a tough and respectful reader. Not even Jesus can help you. But you are still loved and chosen. Here, have some cherries.”

I would also be available in the courtyard to register voters. This is what we re going to do when we’re very old and the ice caps are like Slurpees: we are going to stick together, huddle together for warmth, register voters, and share our cherries and chocolate. I promise, this will be enough–always has been, always will be.

Also, I would subtly be trying to suck people into coming to St. Andrew on Sunday to worship with us. (services at 11:00.). You will end up feeling TOO loved, and maybe a little overly chosen. It’s incredibly sweet.

I would tell people that no matter how awful their thoughts and behavior, God HAS to love them–that’s His job. And I am Exhibit A–God has to love me, and this is not my fault. I didn’t trick Him or Her, or hide the grossest stuff. God just loves; period. Go figure. It’s a great system. My pastor Veronica says that when you want God to enter your life, you don’t invite Her to have tea in your living room, which you’ve completely cleaned for the occasion. You have to invite her all the way in, and let her see the closets, as is, AND–this is the bad news–you have to show her the Bad Drawer. The one in the kitchen, or in your bedside table–you know the one I mean, the one filled with thumbtacks and patches for inner tubes, and the broken dog collar, litter and stuff you couldn’t give away–the dump would barely take it–that proves how insane. You have to pull it all the way open, and say, “This is part of the package…” There won’t be anything there god doesn’t see every day. God, will say, “Dude. Thanks for showing me. Let’s get to work. Hey–are the any of those cherries left?”

This to me would be a perfect job, sitting with God and you, at the safest place on the earth for me, being real, together, shoulders touching, looking up at the sky from time to time.”

About her new book, “Stiches” — “I have a book out in TWO months. Oh my god. This can’t be right. It actually just snuck up on me when I recorded the audio on Wednesday–which is its own special little nightmare, which I’ll tell you about in a moment. Yikes. Or to quote the aliens in Mars Attack, ACK ACK ACK.

The book “Stitches” is a companion to “Help Thanks Wow” and I began it the day after the massacre at Newtown. The subtitle is A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair. And yes, quite a lot is about the search for meaning that some of us spiritual seekers and religious nuts have been on our whole lives, after reading “Wrinkle in Time,” Heinlein’s “Stranger in a Strange Land.”

But a lot of it is about where on earth we find the meaning of life after Newtown, after a suicide in the family, after a desperately unwanted divorce.

How do we stay centered (or semi-centered) and faithful when we have young grandsons and nieces in this wired modern world, where images of polar bears floating off to sea on ice chips will soon be the relatively-good old days for our young, who will almost certainly live in a world of environmental catastrophe?

But it is also very much about finding meaning in the face of the speeding passage of time, when about three weeks ago, your grandchild was born, and is now swimming the width of the pool, and dating. Or your son, whom you thought must be nearly 17, will be 24 in days. Or you glance at your arms and they look EXACTLY like Ruth Gordon’s, in Harold and Maude, when you’re only 30 something. Well, maybe thirty-29…

You probably know the answer (I can save you the cost of the book). We stick together. We trust that Love bats last; that laughter is carbonated holiness: that everything that happened to us belongs to us and we can write about it, and heal; that the most direct experience of the Divine will be in the love of our pets”

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During our recent roadtrip to Kentucky and North Carolina, I was delighted by the yellow butterfly. My friend, Lucretia, spoke of the sparkling bright yellow and black butterflies playing in her deck garden. I said, “Maybe they will come and say hello to me while I am here.”

And one night after dinner they did just that. They dipped and fluttered around and behind the flowers and green leaves just to let us know they were there.



They came to play and gave us a delightful time. We felt serenaded and thrilled at the same time.


It was a butterfly ballet.


and a beautiful girlfriend time for Lucretia and Sue.


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