Welcome to my blog! I keep looking for ways to live a little lighter, so there's more room for love, simplicity, wonder, wellness, and compassion.
Feel free to browse my Writing Credits to read a few samples of my published articles.
Deborah Jansen
Today's guest post is from a young mom named Lisa Ruiter, who happens to be in my local Writer's Circle. "Ten Minutes of Math" models an important moment. When she let go of "should-ing" on herself, her mind was free to pay attention to a young "teacher" who inspired her. She walked just a little lighter that day, and she shared it with our writing group.
by Lisa Ruiter
Each Tuesday and Thursday morning, I volunteer in the office at my daughter’s school. Yesterday, a teacher associate for the 4th grade room was gone, so the principal asked me to fill in by helping students with math for just 10 minutes. Fearing trouble, I hoped I could swing 10 minutes.
The teacher smiled at me as I entered the room, handed me the answer book, and reassured me, “You just need to oversee five 4th graders while they figure out their math problems.”
Moments after sitting at the small oblong table with the students, a boy asked me,” How do I figure M in question 10?” It was written something like 3 x M = 180 + ____. All the answer book gave me was the number 90, and I didn’t know how M could be 90.
I couldn’t remember how to calculate problems with letters—besides, I never liked math in school. I asked the student as many questions as I could in hopes he would figure out M on his own. Exhausted, I finally confessed, “I have no idea how to do the problem but the answer is 90!”
The answer was not good enough for this 4th grader. “But, I still don’t know how to figure out what M is,” the boy replied. Having great pity on me, the student sitting next to him taught the boy how to calculate M. When I was a kid, all I cared about was getting the right answer! I guess things have changed. The 10 minutes were finally up, so I happily returned to the school office where I found out I gave the answer to one of the brightest boys in school. I guess I don’t have to worry about volunteering in the classroom again!
Left of Snow by Peter Andringa What is left of snow? You asked it knowing-- Nothing. Why was there snow? You asked it knowing-- I couldn't stop it, snowing.
Photo courtesy of Mister Wind-up Bird and Flickr's Creative Commons
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Musings on “Left of Snow” by Deborah Jansen We think we know all about snow. After all, we shovel it, drive through it, and listen to school cancellations when we get too much of it. Scientifically and rationally, we remind ourselves that snow starts as moisture droplets that cling and freeze together randomly. Melting and refreezing takes place, which produces intricate, crystalline shapes that finally reach the ground as snow. But if we stop rehearsing all that we think we know rationally, we finally have room for mystery. When I read my Uncle Peter’s “Left of Snow,” it hushes me and leaves me open to the sacred. It’s an invitation to be present in simple, daily beauty that’s laced with grace. What is it that keeps us gazing at a sparkling prairie under a winter moon? What is it about mystery that keeps us coming back for more? Writing Prompts. . . 1. When was an important first time you remember gazing with childlike wonder at the snow? Did it involve looking out the window, running in it, sledding, building a snowman, making snow angels? Tell me that story. Ten minutes. Go. 2. When was an important first time you remember snow stopping you from doing something you had planned? Did it involve school closing, getting stuck in the snow, a sledding accident, being homebound for days at a time? Tell me that story. Ten minutes. Go.
Want to walk lightly and boost your creativity? Daydream of spring’s buttery tulips while you write, paint, or work? I can vouch for “about yellow” by Tammy Haze and Cheryl Murphy of Watercolor Harps. Click here to sample one of the tracks entitled, “Your Smile.” The harpists say they composed the music to frame a simple question, “What will you do with your smile?”
During the CD release party on a sultry afternoon, I met nine-year-old Karina, who painted the CD’s cover art (above). She could mentor the world—she knows how to wrap up her smile and give it as a gift!
When she painted "about yellow," she inserted the essence of joy with extravagant yellow brush strokes and hid a secret or two. “Can you find the hidden treasures in the sun?” she tests me with a clever grin.
A riddle. How about you, what do you see?
You can be frugal and flourish! Thanks to Practicing Writer for pointing the way to this article, "How to Run a DIY Writer's Retreat." Kudos to Eirka Dreifus and Lisa Tiffin.
"Even From the Ditches They Praise You," painted by Katy Wilson at Galerie of Pella. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
There are hundreds--even thousands--of dark stories of loss, desperation, and violence in Haiti. Let us all pray, grieve with them, and remember what Boston or LA might look like if all our stores were closed and stealing food was the only way to feed our families.
[Enter a simple woman with hope. . .] When the NPR radio host asked how she had the energy to stand on a hot street corner to prepare and sell patties made of cabbage, she said, "God is giving me strength. That is how I'm able to support my family."
The painting above is entitled "Even from the Ditches They Praise You," and to me, it reflects the beauty of an open soul reaching upward.
The woman making cabbage patties has that kind of beauty and light.
Our hearts go out to people in Haiti this morning. We’re grateful a mission team from our community arrived there safely. They reached their destination in Fedja just hours before the earthquake on Tuesday.
While the earth shook, a news stream revealed a woman who wailed, “Oh my God, the world’s coming to an end!” Streets jammed with panicked people. The injured moaned from beneath the rubble. The sky filled with dust.
A Facebook comment asks, “Will this catastrophe help us pay attention to a suffering nation so close to us?”
I pray it will be so.
While our hearts are open and eager to give, let's also be wise. Unfortunately, there are people who have no trouble scamming in a time like this. Do a little homework, so those in need can truly benefit.
I’m sure there are other credible lists, but CNN offers a good one. Click here.
“Just so you know, Grandma, get ready for your butt to hurt,” my granddaughter cautioned me. I nodded, grabbed my sled, plopped down on it, and pushed off toward the snow jump.
She was right. Foolish Grandma, jumps are for kids. Well, at least if you’re this grandma.
When I landed, my butt wasn’t the only thing that hurt—so did every vertebrae, the base of my neck, my tongue, and my teeth. I stood up, brushed off the snow, scooped up the plastic saucer, and yelled, “You’re right! I’ll stick to the bunny slope now.”
She flashed an I-told-you-so smile and giggled.
Play! That’s what I love about being a grandma. Stuart Brown, the play guru, says you travel to a parallel universe of free-floating time and creativity when you play. You get to do stupid things, laugh about them, and hopefully learn something. You get to taste the joy of getting a little bit of air—even if your butt still hurts the next morning. <sigh. . .>
Big, hairy deals at work translate into hours in the conference room and cubicle. Mounds of tedious, physical labor yield 60 hour work weeks and cancelled hiking trips. What is it about work that colors outside the lines? I live in the Midwest—a region known for its Clydesdale work ethic—but even here we don’t always enjoy our work.
Whether we’re self-employed or not, we see something that’s possible, get it done, notch it to the next level, and repeat as needed. We ante up passion for a project only to discover a monster guzzles marrow from our bones.
A month ago, I led a bicycle tour for 20 friends. I reveled in camaraderie, conversation, cabernet, and chocolate. But the same thing was true of my pleasure as is true of my work—I gave 110 percent. I planned colorful appetizers, scoured farmers’ markets for the tastiest fruit, reserved tickets at an award-winning theater, and booked dinners at the finest restaurants. In the wake of that “power” vacation, I forgot to call my son on his birthday. I crashed in a near-comatose state when I returned home. I watched more hours of television than I care to admit.
Will I ever be able work on something and sustain balance?
I happen to believe in something bigger than myself. The work of my hands (and mind) gives expression to creativity and craftsmanship, and my spirit responds to a Creator. But, somehow the ground slips away and I begin to enjoy the clapping more than a sacred calling. How do I become trapped into proving my productivity in the tribe?
The Chinese symbol for the firstborn is Earth or Grounded One. Ironic isn’t it—given the firstborn tends to be a self-appointed workhorse in the family? I wonder what it would be like to wear that symbol as a daily call to serenity. To stay grounded in contemplative prayer. To trust the still small voice that speaks.
My friend Amos just came back from an internship in a Ugandan orphanage. When I listen to his stories, at first I think of a hopeless place where children have been permanently scarred by AIDS. Their mothers have died or realized they couldn’t care for a child who needed medical attention. The orphanage’s goal is to bring children back to stable health, so they can possibly return to family members where they’ll be loved even though they can’t be cured.
One child’s story, particularly, touched my heart as I listened to Amos. In his arms, he held a baby named Yuben, whose lungs had filled with fluid. His breathing was labored and shallow much like the rasping of an old man near death. Oxygen tubes delivered air he needed to stay alive, but recovery didn’t seem all that possible. In that hour, Amos cradled and rocked him. Tears streamed down his face. He was firmly seated in a place of deep suffering. Optimism was no match for this scene. What they both needed was hope.
In that frozen moment, Amos instinctively held out his finger for Yuben to grasp. A prayer floated from his lips, “God, hold out just a finger of your love for him to hold.” His other hand rested on the little boy’s chest. “Let him breathe.”
Weeks later, it was obvious that Yuben’s infant mind and spirit had turned a corner. He was gaining weight and breathing on his own.
Amos still fights back tears today when he tells this story. He sees that place of deep suffering. But, he also sees a light-infused time when he and Yuben reached beyond reason into hope.
