January 29, 2012

I am a tad resistant to blogging, as illustrated by the fact that I’ve only added a couple of comments per year–and I have but one dear and loyal follower. But it is January 29 again–this year, there has been almost NO snow–and life is very different than last year, right now. Last year, I had just terrified myself by signing my first book contract. Now I am in my SIXTIETH year; my book has been published, and the molecules of my little brain have been rearranged accordingly. I have definitely scared myself by getting this book published; I have gotten this childhood (and sometimes childish) dream over the wall into freedom–and now I need to find out who I am because of it. People are starting to respond positively about “To See the Sky,” and my “vignettes of grace” (subtitle). I’m being asked to speak at women’s groups at church–and at other churches. And I am a writer, not a talker, and I’d prefer it if you’d all just read the book and see what I have to say, so I don’t have to come say it to your group or organization. But if I want to sell more than 12 books, I’m going to have to be Ms. Marketing of 2012–so here we go. I have a good start, lots of great contacts, and friends who’ve come out of the woodwork with fabulous ideas for how to sell a million copies–which would be just fine, thank you, plus 10% of the proceeds–my tithe–goes to the Community Soup Kitchen in Morristown, New Jersey. Now I need to get Judith over the wall and into the modern world of book publishing. It, apparently, ain’t for sissies.

But–and I’m forgetting this too often–it isn’t just about me and a book. The book is about my life with the God who I love and believe in. It’s about how I found Him in the rubble of a lot of other dreams. The purpose of the book is to help others as they contemplate their lives while sitting on top of their own stashes of inexplicable rubble. I can follow God into this morass; He promises to be with me, never forsake me, restore my soul, give me a purpose and a life worth living. So here, world (well, for now, just dear Caitlin!) is Judith Hugg, authoress and general menace to polite society. Here am I, Lord. Bring me.

(Sending me would mean I’m on my own, which I’m not.)

…and now it’s SUMMER

I was just writing about a January snow, and now it is July, the Fourth is long past and it is getting hotter and hotter. Today allegedly set a record; in Newark, New Jersey, it hit 105. Frankly, I would prefer the snow to this! I feel more trapped in the house when, every time I go outside, I sweat like I’m Niagara Falls, and feel like the wilted porch candle which will be lovely for Halloween now, melted all over its hot holder.

God makes all the seasons and promised that He’ll never rip them out from under us (“summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease”–Forget this end of the world stuff!), and there is obvious good purpose for each one: one’s for planting and growing crops, one’s for harvesting, and a couple are for rest and regrouping and letting the roots dig deep. I like the variety of the seasons–but there are downsides for me. Like the “seasons of my life,” some of them involve sitting around waiting, some involve intense growth (ouch!), some involve being the simple fertile soil for God’s creative ideas.

Someone made the kind-of sweet mistake today of asking me whether the woman I was with was my daughter, and her children, my grandchildren. I had a second of looking around–who, what?–and then my friend corrected her, saying that it was a nice idea. Yes, I am old enough to be her Mom, and her little ones could be…but (fortunately for the planet) I was never called to have offspring. It pointed out to me that, despite the buckets of Oil of Olay used over many years, I am FIFTY-EIGHT years old; I am in the grandma years, and there’s no turning back. I am not old yet, but I’m looking OLD straight in the eyeballs, and it’s a little scary, a little humiliating, a little, well, sudden. Wasn’t I just in college…oh, it was forty years ago. Didn’t I just meet Tom not so long ago…twenty-six years ago. I am no longer young, and it feels like I’m losing a power in society that I once had when I had the title “young person.” American society doesn’t respect its elders. It tries to take better care of elders than in previous generations, but grey hair, baldness and the restaurant conversations mostly about medications and hip surgeries give us away, and we are not looking as promising as we used to. Welcome to my season.

Seasons come and go. This is a new one that I haven’t quite accepted because it’s not really in full-bloom yet for me to get my head and heart around it. But I will. I’ll put on the appropriate clothing and shoes for it and I’ll probably rail against it as much as possible, and maybe I’ll learn to dance without worrying about how idiotic I might look. I’ll get the hang of this aging thing and become Judith 59.0. My hair’s still brunette (no it’s not colored, thanks!) and I can still haul cinderblocks and mix cement and walk pretty good distances before my legs feel like Jello. I will not enjoy every moment of my new season of aging, but I will get the hang of it and report back to you. If I haven’t given up by now, I guess I’m in it for the long haul. I’m going to be one cranky, obstinate old lady. Look out, young world.