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Tall Trees

I‘ve come to the conclusion that I need to let my brain have its way. Take this column, for instance. Backstories is a behind-the-scene look at what incubates certain topics. Don’t ask for a formula, though, because Brain informs me there isn’t one.

I suspect this is the case with many of you Squidoo types. An idea hitches a ride, pecking at your head like a baby croc knocking frantically on the inside of its shell: Let me outa here! I gotta get a move on! You have a choice: to squeeze all you can out of it, let it incubate for a few days, or ignore it and hope it’ll go away.

This morning, Brain presented me with the skeleton of a new Squidoo lens topic, so you might say this is the way-back story behind an upcoming lens that I’ll be launching early next week:

How to Become a Millionaire in 3 Minutes

If you’re the crying type, better bring a hankie. If you’re a cynic at heart, let me just say that I’m terribly shocked. Keep that up, and you’re in  for an ulcer, or at the very least an ulcerette. And if you’re one of the few who are already bank-vault deep in your own get-rich-quick scheme, then congratulations. We are singin’ the same tune.

Well, sort of.

I can’t possibly promise you the world, but could I offer you a small rock I dug up in my backyard? If you sleep with it under your pillow, your life will change. No doubt about it.

Your life may change with this upcoming lens, too.  Hang onto your hat, and don’t say I didn’t warn you. When I’ve written the last word and hit that Publish button, I’ll sound an alarm. Bring your open wallets and a bodyguard. This is heavyweight stuff, folks.

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April showers bring May flowers. I remember my third-grade teacher telling us that when we couldn’t go outside for recess. When gloomy weather interrupts adulthood, though—whether it be actual rainfall or a personal “storm”—there’s a remedy that works every time. Seek out something to laugh at, and someone who will laugh with you.

Have you noticed? Laughter lightens burdens. It binds people together and helps them forget their cares for a while. As lensmasters, we have a weighty responsibility. Our words are so much more than  letters arranged in row after row. I truly believe that our words have the power to help or harm, encourage or discourage. And sometimes, it’s good to write just for laughter’s sake.

When I created Help! I’ve Lost my Hippocampus!, I wasn’t planning to open my brain up to dissection by the general populace. Once that lens was published, though, the truth was out. I am over the hill and bumbly at times. I lose things.  The response I’ve received to that single lens has cracked me up. One woman wrote, “Thanks for explaining why my kids stare me down like I’ve got three heads.”

Growing older isn’t for the fainthearted and weak-kneed. Might as well expect it – and laugh about it.

Squidoo has a way of bringing out the zany.  In fact, I personally think it contributes to borderline insanity.  The day I began work on Blame it on Squidoo I was trying to recall life before I discovered Squidoo, but that was like trying to glue Jello to my kitchen wall. Squidoo has seeped into my language and my brainwaves to the point where I sometimes assume that everyone knows all about it. Not so! In fact, I’ve found that if I bring Squidoo up at the wrong moment, I must be prepared to receive a long, blank stare. (See? You understand exactly what I’m talking about.)

Whether you’re dealing with a forgetful parent, your own bumbly behavior, or experiencing personal stress, here’s advice that’s good for the soul and cheaper than a psychiatrist: Choose a funny topic and write until you drop laugh!

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When I was growing up, my favorite uncle managed apple orchards for a large packing plant in Washington.  We lived two states away, and every year around harvest time, a wooden crate would arrive at our house bearing 24 apples individually wrapped in yellow tissue paper. To this day, I can’t bite into a Red Delicious or Golden Delicious apple without thinking of my uncle. I remember sticking a handful of apple seeds in a shallow hole in my backyard, hoping to grow my own orchard. That was my first attempt at backyard “gardening” and it failed miserably.

Lenscrafting is similar to seed-planting.  A Welsh proverb describes the potential of every seed: “A seed hidden in the heart of an apple is an orchard invisible.”   Whether it be lenscrafting or writing a book, photography or another art form, every single project begins at seed level. Planted in the fertile recesses of a creative mind, the idea grows, germinates, and eventually basks in nourishing light. Add plenty of water, weed out the excess, then stand back and hope for a good harvest.

The lenses that have brought me the most satisfying harvests are those that stir someone’s heart and bring a flow of comments or emails my way. I still remember how I felt the day I began The Gift of Honesty. It struck a familiar chord in readers and generated a good conversation.  I’m not sure whether it was the nostalgic factor, or the mere topic of honesty that created such an interest, but that single “seed” began a row of trees that I hope will eventually grow into a healthy orchard. The Gift of Kindness came next, followed by The Gift of Patience.  A new follower on Twitter has put in a request for The Gift of Commitment, which I will be working on soon.

Within every apple lies the promise of an orchard, and lenscrafting places each of us in the position of seedplanter. The next time a good idea strikes, why not open your mind to wider possibilities? Look ahead to the harvest and imagine how one good seed has the potential to spread into a whole orchard of lenses.

©Bonnie Bruno 2009

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Shortly after making my first few Squidoo lenses, I was driving home from the post office late one afternoon.  I love that time of day, when golden lights fills the spaces between branches and bushes. I remember studying an old oak on a street corner, and automatically, my brain spit out keywords like: tree, branches, shadow, sunshine, intersection. You have to understand, I was a very sick Squidoo puppy back then, so coming up with effective tags and keywords was as much a part of my day as brushing my teeth.

The lure of the perfect keyword would sometimes permeate my dreams, too, or interrupt my thoughts at inopportune times. (Don’t ask.) I knew I would need to to rein in my excitement over Squidoo, or I’d surely end up embarrassing myself again, like the time I overheard a middle-schooler asking the librarian for a book on animals who have been taught to paint.  My memory bank dinged, because I instantly recalled a lens I’d seen about certain elephants in Asian conservation centers who like to paint.

So my Squidooey enthusiasm drove me to tap the boy’s shoulder, and I heard myself ask, “Have you Squidooed that topic?”

Blank stare. No, make that two long, blank stares. Neither the kid nor the librarian had heard of Squidoo. I don’t remember much about the rest of our short conversation, but I know I left them grinning.

Oh, and did I mention that I received my Giant Squid t-shirt in the mail recently? I’m proud as can be of that shirt, because it represents long hours at this Mac, tapping out lenses that I hoped would qualify as “quality”. It’s an honor to have crossed that line into Giant Squidom, yet I’ve only told two friends about it. They compare my Squidooing to website-building, which is fine with me, because it’s exhausting to explain why a grown woman would want to be a Giant Squid, let alone wear a t-shirt declaring it to the world at large. (I must confess that I have not worn my t-shirt outside yet. It would require more explaining than this grandma wants to do.)

I figure if my DH and I should be hit by a semi and run off a cliff on our next little roadtrip, I can picture my grown-and-married kids tearfully sorting through our belongings. There will come a moment when they’ll find that lovely white t-shirt hanging in my closet. Their eyebrows will fly up. “What-the-heck-is-this?” Mom was a Giant Squid? How could we not have recognized the signs? We knew she was strange, but not that strange!  Poor Dad.

Yes, bearing the banner of Giant Squid is risky business. It requires a total brainshift, like Forest Gump’s mad dash across the U.S. But, like warm tapioca pudding, I’m beginning to like it.

*Image ©Bonnie Bruno 2009

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One of the nicest people I’ve ever met was a little old lady who lived her days to the rhythm of gratitude. I met her on a warm afternoon in May, after my pastor asked if I’d be willing to deliver a flowering plant to several shut-ins. Margaret’s house was my first stop.

I expected to visit just a few minutes, but her dancing blue eyes and easy laugh captured my heart. She also captured my schedule, and for the next five years, Margaret and I kept a regular Thursday afternoon appointment. She shared exciting childhood stories of growing up in a sod house that sat against a hill in North Dakota; how a rape at age 12 had affected her life; and what it felt like to be entering her thirtieth year of widowhood.

Our friendship grew so precious, there were moments when I felt a strong nudge to memorize a certain conversation.  Somehow, I knew I’d draw upon the wisdom of her experience someday–like the day she shared what it felt like to suddenly be without parents. At the time, I  still had both my mom and dad, and couldn’t imagine life without them. Years later, though, after both of them were gone, I learned the truth of Margaret’s words: During the toughest times of life, don’t worry. God will be enough. He’ll see you through.

When our second grandbaby was born with a rare syndrome involving multiple disabilities, I recalled yet another conversation: Look for a sparkling gem in every situation. This precious granddaughter is, indeed, a priceless gem who has brought such joy into our lives. I wish Margaret had stuck around long enough to know her.

Sometimes we shed tears together but more often, my visits with Margaret found us laughing about the crazy side of life. She passed away at the age of 97, leaving behind one niece and many, many friends who treasured her simple brand of transparency.

Transparency is a rare quality, and when I bump into such a person, it stops me in my tracks.  Squidoo lensmaster mysticmama (Bambi) writes transparently as she shares the riveting story of a tragedy which struck her family. Her story is so horrifying, so beyond imagination, I found myself holding my breath as I began each new paragraph. Her husband was critically injured in a fire, and given such a grim prognosis, few believed he would even pull through the night. Her lens contains a warning of graphic photos, and truthfully, they’re hard to view because they’re pain in visual form.

But throughout this story of one man’s fight to survive–and the hope of a family who desperately needed him–is a raw transparency that blessed my heart. No fancy words needed–just the gut-wrenching, genuine story of a family’s struggle to see their beloved husband and father return home to them.  Prepared to be amazed by In a Flash.

When I think about people like Margaret and Bambi, I have to ask myself, How transparent am I – really? Transparency doesn’t matter if you’re not interested in connecting beyond a polite “Hi, how are you?” I suspect, though, that tough economic times are going to present plenty of opportunities to reach out and help others in need.  Delivering a bag of groceries will become more important than ever, but not nearly as important as the human touch behind the gesture.

It’s something to think about.

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