Jan Cline

lover of relics and history

Is Your Sanctuary a Prison?

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We have owned our secluded cabin near a lake in Northern Idaho for 3 years now. Access is boat in only. It’s a quiet, serene, and peaceful place. It’s surrounded by trees – cedars, red fir, white fir, cottonwood. In the mornings, the suns filters through the branches into a spot we have cleared that we call the Cathedral. In the middle is a fire pit with an old porch swing on one side, wedged between two trees. The morning birds sing a continuous song, and you can breathe in the forest smells of loam and evergreens.

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Your mind can cease its clatter and clutter in the stillness of our property. It’s so still at times I can hear nothing but by heart beating. We cherish the occasional deer sighting and laugh at the comical large red-headed woodpeckers at play. Gray and white bunnies romp up and down the rocky hill that boarders us. Our dog, Cooper, chases squirrels all day long.

Are you getting the picture? Sound like a place you would want to live?

It might not be what you expected, as I have discovered over the last six weeks of living here full time while our new house is being built.

Sometimes the things you enjoy so much can become a prison of sorts.

After a few weeks of living here I started to notice a certain kind of anxiety come over me from time to time. A slight state of depression. I didn’t know what it was at first, but then figured it out.

I felt trapped by all the trees and quiet. Yes, all the things I love about this place were bringing me down. I couldn’t see out! I would walk down to the water every once in a while, but it wasn’t enough.

Isn’t that the way it goes sometimes? Our heart’s desire can be our undoing if we don’t stand back and get perspective. We must be able to see out – to see what lies beyond the trees, look past our cocoon of peace and serenity, and know that we can’t get too comfortable in the woods.

Many people tell me that I’m so lucky to have a secluded, quiet, inspiring place to write. But to be truthful, I find it more difficult to write here. The peaceful atmosphere is not enough stimulus for my creative brain. Weird huh?

My realization that I need to get out of the trees more has helped my overall attitude, and soon we will be in our new home where I can get back to a more normal routine of writing and life in general.

I encourage you not to turn your sanctuary into a prison.

There are seasons for everything, and being in the trees should be respite, not confinement.

Not many of us are called to live a life of seclusion or isolation. I will enjoy the remaining weeks of my forest cathedral, and come away with a new understanding of my world outside.

Keep reaching,

Jan

 

It’s Where You Belong

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You belong there. Pick up where you left off. Begin again. Start over. Get back to doing what you were doing when you quit doing what you were doing.

I hear these words so often in my head, and sometimes I blow them off as meaningless. I have done all the above so many times, what’s the use? You may have asked yourself the same thing a time or two.

But if my brain is continuing that driving drone, there must be a reason.

The reason, I’ve come to know, is that trying to deny your purpose in life, trying to avoid what you have been given to do, isn’t worth the struggle. Your brain, and most likely your heart, have figured it out. It’s your bruised ego that has yet to surrender.

I have no ego, you may say. Yeah, I used to say that a lot too. Yes you do, just as I do.

The reality of life is that we don’t like to fail, stumble, waver, be a fool, or sit at the bottom of the success ladder when it comes to our talents and gifts. It’s hard to keep plugging away, standing below those who are near the top rung of that ladder you love so much.

Our egos take many hits when we are striving to achieve a place in a field where there is so much competition. I have learned that the writing/publishing world is highly competitive and therefore has the potential to become my source of discouragement instead of my favorite place to be. I know in my head that comparing myself to others in the field is only going to hold me back. It’s the beckoning crook of my ego’s finger that gets me every time.

What’s the cure for this common disease?

How do you get back to where you belong?

Tell your ego to take a hike – a back seat to the truth. The truth is that if you keep going back to it, you are probably doing what you were designed to do. Can’t stop picking up that paint brush? Keep pulling out that computer to jot down a story idea? Is the five lines on that blank music paper still calling you? Putting up with some discomfort, discouragement, disillusionment, and fear is the price for being on the chosen list. I’d rather be chosen to be or do something than spend my life being or doing something I’m not supposed to do at all.

Time to get back to doing what you were doing when you stopped doing what you were designed to do.

Keep reaching,

Jan

10 Things My Grandparents Wouldn’t Understand

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I’ve been thinking lately of how my mom or grandparents would possibly understand all the things going on in the world today. Sometimes I think I would rather have lived in their day and not have to deal with all the changes in attitudes, belief systems, politics, cyber-technology, and societal confusion.

Living in an age where everyone is offended by everything, when being right is more important than being kind, and my computer crashes – taking my precious files with it, is not for the faint of heart. I keep hearing my mom’s words in my head saying

“what is this world coming to?”

My Grandparents lived sheltered from most everything on a little farm in California.

I used to wonder why they lived such a simple disconnected life. Now I understand.

In my grandparent’s world:

 

Spam was something you ate from a can – the poor man’s convenience food.

 

Mail was something you looked forward to getting, but not every day. It meant nice Mr. McClary would stop by, hand you a letter from your cousin Margaret and a post card from Uncle Ben vacationing at the Grand Canyon. Then Mr. McClary would sit and enjoy a glass of lemonade with you. Now it’s something that clogs your “inbox” – whatever that is.

 

Conference Call? Well, that was when you cranked the handle on a little wooden box on the wall and Mildred, the operator, connected you with Bessie Porterfield, and then stayed on the line to listen in.

 

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Hacked was what you did to the head of a chicken after you chased them down in the yard. It meant something good was coming for dinner. Now it’s a very bad thing.

 

Friending someone meant you had them over for dinner, sent them home with a jar of cherry preserves, and took a basket of baked goods over to them when they were sick. Then, of course, you would do their chores and sit and visit for a spell.

 

Political Correctness meant you didn’t have time to protest the election because you were too busy being patriotic by fighting in the war – and not coming home for four years straight, or not coming home at all.

 

Twitter was something your heart did when you saw handsome Billy Singleton sitting in the next pew at church. Googling was what he caught you doing at him when he turned around.

 

A mouse was the little creature Grandpa had been chasing through the kitchen for days, unable to get close enough to stomp on it.

 

Entitled meant you had worked very, very hard for something and you were proud to earn the reward. It meant you understood nothing automatically came to you and you never expected anything more than you earned yourself – just happy and grateful to get what you had.

 

Yes, I think I’d like to return to those days. If for no other reason than to get back some perspective on values, fears, communication, and life in general. I hear you, Mom…what’s this world coming to?

 

Ever ask yourself that question?

Keep reaching,

Jan

The Power of the Pen

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When was the last time you received a hand-written letter or note in the mail?

Once in a while I get a thank you note or invitation. But I think for the most part the world is all about emails and texts. They don’t even teach or encourage cursive in schools anymore. How sad.

I miss the art of using pen and paper and I appreciate when someone takes the time to use them. I received a wonderful hand-written note the other day from an unexpected source. It meant more than any email or text could.

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(Dear Mr & Mrs Cline, My name is Jane Ellen, an RN with WAMC. This past week I had the honor of serving your daughter, Laura. Know that she has a knowledgeable compassionate physician, and a loving nursing staff. She has been prayed for and will continue to be throughout her treatment.)

What a blessing it was to know this cancer care nurse took the time to do this for us as Laura’s parents.

Makes me want to go out and buy some stationery and see if my hand will be able to hold up for a whole letter!

I hope you will make a point to get out your address book and jot someone a line or two this week.

A more intimate encouragement is just a few words away with the power of the pen.

 

Keep reaching,

Jan

Failure…friend or foe?

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Sometimes there are hurdles you can’t jump over. Sometimes the cracked doors are not going to open all the way. And it’s a certainty that man’s plans will never trump God’s.

 

Facing failure is not usually an enjoyable experience. I’ve never met anyone who said, “I like this feeling of falling flat on my face.” I have known some who pick themselves up more quickly than others, or are able to use failure to a bigger advantage. But for the most part, failure is an enemy to us humans.

 

I’ve always been a risk taker. Having taken a leap into many ventures, there have been some colossal failures. I find that the older I get, the less likely I am to jump into the boiling pot of risk. I am a bit more leery of being scalded than I used to be. I find myself growing lazy at jumping those hurdles and spend more time wishing for a measure of success. Just being honest.

 

But I know that success is not in my ultimate control – at least in the way I personally define success for the venture of being an author. I can learn the craft, pour my heart and life onto the page, market myself into bankruptcy, and do all the social media I can find time for. But when even marginal success eludes me, I have to do what we all do in the face of what we consider failure. Fight or fly. Lie down or stand firm. Be discouraged or be diligent.

 

I don’t always make the right choice. Life has a way of stepping in front of you and holding out its arms – trying to block you from making any decision at all. But we wake up the next day and at some point decide to decide again.

 

I don’t like failure. So I must redefine success, or make up my mind that it doesn’t matter as much as I think it does. The best outcome will be when I can lean on the One who lights my path, knows the plans He has for me, and opens doors in His time. There are worse things than failure. Like never having tried at all.

 

So what do you do in the face of failure? Do you struggle to define success?

 

Keep reaching, she said to herself.

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