What to Believe

Janet thinks I'm skeptical — one of the most skeptical people she's ever run into.

It's always interesting when people make observations like that about you. You get to compare how they perceive you with how you perceive yourself. The truth is, I have always been a very trusting person, and I choose to remain trusting, generally speaking, in spite of everything.

But I know why Janet thinks I'm skeptical. It's because I argue with her on matters of faith.

Janet has become a serious student of the Bible again after years of exploring other paths. I'm more interested in the other paths.

I no longer call myself a Christian because I think it's a loaded term, loaded with preconceptions, and I'm trying to move beyond that — beyond my own preconceptions and the confining concepts of others.

(As an aside, I had the great good fortune of studying under the late Dr. Gordan Frazee, a self-described Christian mystic, at Linfield College in Oregon. While he had a deep knowledge of the Bible and all it's possible interpretations, his most lasting lesson was simply the way he lived his life. One of his great virtues was not trying to make his students see things his way — a virtue I'm still striving toward. Not that I have any students, but you know what I mean.)

When Janet talks about the Bible, I tend to point out what I see as lapses in logic and flawed reasoning. She, on the other hand, seems to think of logic as a tired argument that no longer works for her.

The surprise here is that I don't really disagree with her on that point (if I understood her correctly). Logic and reason will only take you so far.

Janet doesn't believe in hell.

I don't either.

She says she came to that conclusion from studying the Bible.

I came to the same conclusion, not through the Bible and not through reason. Some things you just know, deep down, and that's what I trust. More than the Bible. More than reason.

No Particular Order

For the man and woman who brought me into the world.
For the sisters who taught me how to play tennis.
For the surgeon who removed my appendix before it burst.
For the dentist who capped my broken tooth.
For the master who taught me yoga.
For the mechanic who fixes my car.
For the singer who sings that song I like.
For the friends who lift me up when I'm down.
For the woman who still loves me after all these years.
Thanks.

Don't Stop Now

We spread a blanket off to one side of the boat launch, under some trees. Island Lake, in Shelton, Washington, is surrounded by small private homes, and this is the only public access. Since it's still early in the season and the homeowners tend to take the lake for granted, there are no boats or skiers out.

It's 1972, and we're both seventeen.

That's how the story begins. The story "Don't Stop Now" in Hobart.

Hobart is one of my favorite literary journals, and the story appears this month in the online edition.

It's basically a distillation of a novel I started writing in 1972 when I was 17. Two hundred forty-four pages down to five. Reader's Digest, eat your heart out.

Like many first novels, mine was awful (embarrassingly so) and now languishes in the back of a closet, where it belongs. The short story, on the other hand, is pretty darn good. An editor at Esquire called it "a pleasure to read," even if it wasn't really appropriate for the magazine.

More importantly, Hobart loved it.

So, don't stop now; hop on over to Hobart and check it out.

Testing: One, Two, Three?

I'm not the target audience for Literary Momma. It is, after all, "A Literary Magazine for the Maternally Inclined."

Can a man be maternally inclined, or would we call that paternally inclined? Are they different? I couldn't say. I'm not even a parent.

So why do I find myself reading Literary Momma today? Because of a great article called "Testing: One, Two, Three?" by Gretchen Clark.

To me, this piece of creative nonfiction does what great literature is supposed to do: Put you in someone else's shoes and let you experience what it's like to be them. Even if you're not like them. Even if you're someone of a different gender, someone in completely different circumstances.

In just 14 paragraphs, "Testing: One, Two, Three?" gave me a vivid glimpse into the complex and conflicting emotions of motherhood.

What's more, I now feel like I know Gretchen Clark, even though I've already known her for more than 30 years.

She's my sister-in-law.

Writer's Profile

Childhood Ambition: Be the best writer who ever lived. (I was 10 and had never heard of Shakespeare.)

Little-Known Fact: Had first story published (on a mimeograph machine) when in the fourth grade.

Honors: Won first place in a feature-writing contest in high school, despite horrible spelling.

Influences: John Knowles, Earnest Hemingway, Philip Roth, Truman Capote, Norman Mailer, Joan Didion, Elizabeth Tallent, Milan Kundera.

Proudest Moment So Far: Having my first short story published in the Beloit Fiction Journal. (I have another story coming out in Hobart next month that I'm equally proud of.)

Inspiration: Catherine Ryan Hyde, author of Pay It Forward, who told me she collected 120 rejections before her first story was published. (It does pay to be persistent.)

Most Encouraging Note: "I think you're a good writer and I liked what I read ... I cannot flatter where writing is concerned." - L.H., SoHo Press.

Most Discouraging Note: "I'm afraid this is nowhere near the novel I had hoped for." - L.H., SoHo Press.

Best Advice from a Fellow Writer: "Diversify your emotional investments." - Greg Bardsley.

Goal: Be more playful.

Eat, Pray, Love

For both style and substance, it's hard to imagine a better read that Eat, Pray, Love.

The best-selling memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert is billed as "One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia."

Along the way, there's no shortage of candor and comedy, confusion and crises. But clarity is never far behind.

Check it out. You won't be disappointed.

Joshua Tree

The desert is full of things you can’t hold on to — light and heat and sand that slips through your fingers like friendships you once had. But if you’re looking for a sense of permanence, the desert is the place to go.

California’s two deserts — the Mojave and the Colorado — come together at Joshua Tree National Monument, 140 miles east of L.A. If you go there, you’ll see what I mean.

Some of the Joshua trees have been around for hundreds of years and are now nearly 50 feet tall. (They look like overgrown cacti.) But it’s the immovable boulders and massive rock formations jutting up from the desert floor that really make you feel as if nothing ever changes here.

It’s not true, of course. On some of the rocks you’ll find petroglyphs left by an ancient Indian civilization we know little about — experts aren’t even sure if the etchings were a form of writing or just drawings. Even so. Stand in the shade of a boulder, put your hand on its pebbled surface — still cool in the noonday heat — and you’ll know there’s at least one thing you can hold on to.

Climbers from all over the country come here, to the Wonderland of Rocks, to test themselves on innumerable ascents, but you don’t need ropes or carabiners or gymnast’s chalk to appreciate the Wonderland. Although this maze of granite boulders covers 12 square miles, you can get a good feel for it on an easy-to-follow trail of little more than a mile.

But first you may want to get your bearings by driving through this 850-square-mile preserve. Gently winding roads will lead you from the high-desert beauty of the Mojave to the immense low-desert grandeur of the Pinto Basin in the Colorado. To really get the lay of the land, your first stop should be Keys View — if not the highest point in the monument, as least the highest you can get to on a paved road. From here you can see snow-capped Mount San Gorgonio, Palm Springs, and the Salton Sea. On a clear day you can even spot Signal Mountain, just over the Mexican border, 95 miles away.

You won’t get a real feel for the desert, though, until you leave the roads behind. When you can no longer see pavement or campers or even fellow hikers — that’s when you know you’re in the desert.

It’s hot and you’d better carry plenty of water.

On the trail the only sounds you’ll hear are the crunch of rocks under your boots and, if you’re lucky, the wind riffling through your hair. When you stop, and the air is still, the silence is like a ringing in your ears.

Two more things you can’t hold on to: silence and peace.

We felt it on our way to the Lost Palms Oasis. The trail begins at Cottonwood Spring and leads you out past the Mastodon Mine, over rolling hills and through dry washes. It’s four miles to Lost Palms, and before you get there you realize the desert is also full of things you wouldn’t want to hold on to — prickly pear cactus, whiptail lizards, catclaw shrubs, and rattlesnakes. (Not that we saw any rattlers, but you should carry a snakebite kit just in case.) Still, the variety of cactus and birds and other creatures is astonishing.

The Oasis is a cluster of fan palms at the bottom of a deep ravine. It looks like a long way down, but it doesn’t take long (even coming back up). Among the palms, we pass another hiker who says, “What, no pool to dive into?” There’s clearly water here somewhere, but it’s all below the surface.

We sit in the sand, our backs against a sloping chunk of granite, and enjoy our lunch — bananas, grapes, sandwiches, and cookies — in the shade of the palms. A breeze rustles through the ravine. It’s nice here. We decide to let the desert hold on to us for a while.