Hi Saint Brigid. I need to introduce you...

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A milkmaid. A shepherdess. A philanthropist. An evangelist. Saint Brigid is one of the most beloved figures of Western Christianity, and for good reason. She holds special reign in the hearts of the Irish and once I discovered her story I became completely enamored with her spirit of kindness and giving and adventure. Christ has used her... to change me...

First of all, you need to know that she was born many, many years ago, in the fifth century, when Christianity was just being brought to England and Ireland. During that time in history-a time of feuding tribes, of small kingdoms, of thatched roofs and people worshiping the natural world-a time when it was against the law not to be hospitable to travelers and strangers, lived this young, and I like to think, feisty girl who through her life experiences learned to embody Christ himself. She put Him on, completely, and changed her whole land by her example...

Can you imagine, one young girl, today, an American, sweet and giving, a girl scout, maybe? Working at a food pantry with her mom on Saturdays, changing the entire land? I like to think it's still possible. That God is that big...

Brigid was many things. She milked cows; she managed her father's kitchens. She tended flocks of sheep and spoke of her love for Christ. She cared for her mother. An entire community grew up around her-she as the abbess. She must have been a charismatic yet humble leader for so many to follow-for so many monks and nuns and lay people alike to live under her care. But more than anything, she was a giving soul. This spirit of kindness and generosity comes out in every account of Saint Brigid's life and this is the legacy I'm hoping to highlight as children of our own century learn her story...

We live in times of abundance and greed. Of potato chips and lounging in front of the television watching re-runs of Drake and Josh or Hannah Montana. Our children have few examples of folks fighting for the underprivileged, the poor or the homeless. People do not walk to our front doors asking for food or shelter. No Trespassing! Call the Police! So in conjunction with the release of this book, I'm hoping to also speak regularly about all the work that is being done in the spirit of Saint Brigid to help others. I'm hoping to do something myself... hoping to give more of what I have-to help others, and to help save myself!

Since my life is a busy one, I've been racking my brain trying to figure out what more I can do to help-along with the now and then checks and donations to shelters and ministries. I've come up with two things. One, is not to judge.

I've been struggling with this for some time. In Santa Monica, where I grew up, there was (still is) a sign at the intersection of Chautauqua and Pacific Coast Highway that says not to give money to the homeless-(paraphrasing) that it would facilitate alcohol and drug abuse and hurt the community. I read that sign almost every day as we traveled through that intersection and I learned to look away when I saw those unfortunate beggars standing there in the median. I learned that being compassionate meant giving them bus tokens and McDonald's vouchers. I learned to avoid their faces and pleas, and take my donations to thrift shops, all those bags cradled in the back of the blue Volvo. I never had to look at one unfortunate face along the way.

I can tell I'm about to launch off topic, so I'll save the stories welling up in my heart for another time... Looking away hurts, so now I try to see these people as icons of Christ. Try my hardest to look them in the eye. They are God's creation, though broken and hurt. I am not the judge. I look at them, teeth missing and all, and ask their names. I give them money-say a prayer for their safety-and leave it at that.

The second thing I've started doing is baking bread. Baking is something I enjoy that satisfies me on many levels-not just the food one! I find the many phases of baking prayerful and soul-building... I bake often and have made it a practice to always make more than I need. The rest is bagged up and given away. Most of the time it simply goes to those closest: my next-door neighbors or someone walking by when I happen to open the front door. But we're making more and more of an effort to take the bread out into the streets. It's one, very small, thing that I can do.

I'll finish my introduction of Saint Brigid with this traditional poem-listing those things Brigid most wished for.

I would like the angels of Heaven to be among us.
I would like an abundance of peace.
I would like full vessels of charity.
I would like rich treasures of mercy.
I would like cheerfulness to preside over all.
I would like Jesus to be present.
I would like the three Marys of illustrious renown to be with us.
I would like the friends of Heaven to be gathered around us from all parts.
I would like myself to be a rent payer to the Lord; that I should suffer distress, that he would bestow a good blessing upon me.
I would like a great lake of beer for the King of Kings.
I would like to be watching Heaven's family drinking it through all eternity.

What's on your wish list? :) In the spirit of Saint Brigid, I'd love to know your name, read your words, and have you write your wishes, too...

In order to write well, and often, I need to have experiences that will feed my imagination. There's certainly adventure found doing the mundane-who knows when your dishwasher might revolt and flood your house with torrents of water, which would certainly set in motion an unexpected adventure-but I've found that being in nature brings many of my best ideas forward. It's a fueling stop for my sometimes blah imagination. Because I still have a little one in tow, I've searched for ways that he and I can both benefit from our outings; he in play and fun and movement and exploring creation, and me, doing the same, with a very cute companion!

Every Wednesday, whether there's wind or scorching sun, or fog or soupy mud-puddly rain we dress accordingly and head to the beach. It's the wildest place we have within a short drive. There, we sometimes dig, or picnic, or walk in the tide pools. The baby always throws rocks and sometimes I join him to see how many skips I can get out of a flat rock across a retreating wave. Sometimes we bring homemade lemonade. Sometimes we collect driftwood. I always wear a hat, and try to look around and see the colors, and smell the salt, and feel the raw elements on my skin.

What I love about going to the same place every week is the joy in seeing the changes. In Southern California we have little opportunity to mark the seasons. June is one of my favorite months because of the fog. It brings something new and varied from our typical sunny and seventy degree day. But at the beach, the moon rules the tides, storms bring in surf from thousands of miles away, and seaweed and driftwood float to the shore, creating their own natural groupings and sculptures in the sand. These changes show the creativity of nature-the many possibilities of color and texture, of smell and sound. All these things feed my creativity-something that is necessary to keep me moving forward.

The routine of things is necessary for our survival; I am fascinated by the twenty-four hour clock. By the waking and sleeping we need, by the automatic grumbling of my tummy three times a day. We live in a structured world, and the ticking of the clock, the passing of the seasons, and the waking and sleeping provides for me a template for my writing life as well. I wake in the fives. Write during the sixes and sometimes the sevens, and am off being a mom and editor, nurse and chauffeur, baker and candlestick maker for the rest of the day.

I bring up routine because, just like in our every day lives, the structure of the routine somehow frees us to be more creative. When the boundaries are there you don't have to fret over potential chaos. There's no worrying about what to do on a Wednesday. I have plans; I'm headed to the beach! So in the framework of my day-I write, the family rises, we eat breakfast, I do a little cleaning, laundry, maybe start a batch of bread... and then we're off to the beach, buckets and shovels in the trunk, hats and sunscreen at the ready. It's something we do-it's Wednesday and we go. And when we're at the beach, time stops. We play, we walk, we throw rocks-it's different every time. There's always a surprise, so we find the unexpected in the framework of the expected...

Stories are just like my Wednesday beach days. They are framed, placed in a structure so that the reader doesn't have to fret about the potential chaos. Boundaries are gently placed around the story so that the writer can then let that imagination fly, but still have the words make sense!

So I encourage you to choose a day, maybe it's even just once a month, when you can get yourself out into nature to see what adventure comes your way. I'm convinced you'll find something unexpected there...And the healthier we are as people, the more refreshed and more productive we will be as writers-as people.

Ever since the fire broke out I've been breaking rules, even laws, daily. Speeding, talking on the cell phone in the car, sneaking through the evacuation lines to grab something left at the house... I do like adventure, so I'm not surprised that it has been quite easy for me to be so unlawful...

I may have crossed the line while driving to LA at 80 miles an hour. Knowing this stretch of road often hosts lurking highway patrolmen I concocted my story, Chapter by chapter. I don't remember much of the drive; I was completely exhausted, but I do remember my story. It's likely I have my priorities completely mixed up. What do you think--how did the story end?

Hello Highway Patrolman, sir. Yes, I realize I was speeding. Yes, I'm wearing an eye patch. No, I don't want to show you my driver's license. Not yet. Can I tell you a story, please? It's one you don't want to miss. Dramatic, exciting, full of daring deeds and sad and sappy moments. I'll make it short.

Chapter One
It was Tuesday and a fire broke out above our house in Santa Barbara.

Chapter Two
The fire was getting too close. On Wednesday I tried to pack but cleaned instead. It was ridiculous-the fire wouldn't care if my counters were wiped down. I even lined up the bikes and trikes and scooters outside.

Chapter Three
I admired the smoke and the fire flare ups. They really were beautiful in an odd and ominous sort of way. I took pictures. The phone rang off the hook.

Chapter Four
I finally finished stuffing things into bags and we had snow peas and chicken for dinner. We took some to the neighbors across the street. They still have our pan.

Chapter Five
The sheriff knocked on our door and told us to leave.

Chapter Six
We evacuated. I left the mink coat.

Chapter Seven
We went to Carla's. She has a lovely house with lots of breakable things. We have a three year-old.

Chapter Eight
Mona brought us date bars and Francesca made us spaghetti. We watched the news. We didn't sleep.

Chapter Nine
We were gypsies. Schools closed. I took the kids to the library, to swim at a friend's and out for smoothies. The foothills erupted in flames. We breathed a lot of smoke. I pretended, on behalf of the kids, that life was normal. They didn't buy it. Not even the three year-old.

Chapter Ten
A large chunk of ash landed in my eye Thursday night. I spent the night at the ER. It was my birthday.

Chapter Eleven
My cell phone died.

Chapter Twelve
I got the eye patch-that was cool. Do you like it?

Chapter Thirteen
Still my birthday, a never-ending birthday. I snuck back into our neighborhood, into our house, and got Madeleine's Ferrari bag.

Chapter Fourteen
We packed the car and evacuated again. In fact, we are evacuating right now. You are part of my evacuating, sir. I am speeding down the highway. I haven't slept since Tuesday. My eye is a mess. I smell like smoke. I want to get to my parent's. It is still my birthday. My cell phone is lying here lifeless. I have been working on this story in my head, that is the truth, but this story is the truth, and that is the truth, sir.

Chapter Fifteen
So, what do you say, Mr. Highway Patrolman? You look like a brave sort of fellow. The kind of fellow who saved my neighborhood last night. The kind of man who stood on the San Roque bridge in front of a raging fire and aimed his fire hose and knocked those flames into a smoky watery puff.

Can I start the car and be on my way?

I was sitting in a café recently with several women acquaintances, and one of them reported that she was embracing a new philosophy. That she was only interested in keeping those friends who fed her--who helped her to be creative, friends who nourish as opposed to friends who might at times, or maybe even all the time, make you bleed. I listened to her without responding. I was caught off guard; I'm not sure if my mouth dropped open or not...Am I one of those friends?

And then I read this same idea on a blog that I follow, placed nicely beside a black bullet point. The writer is a well-known publisher--someone that I respect and have learned from. He wrote, in so many words (I'm all for exaggeration), to ditch those folks in your life who aren't feeding your creative impulses. That they drain and zap your spirit and keep you from being prolific and productive.

I've lived forty some years now, and in many places from Italy to Colorado... Just like you, I've had the honor of meeting people who fascinate and inspire me, and others who are a bit horrifying, broken, depressed or even desperate. I have to admit, I've run from some of those desperate folk, and probably even talked behind their backs or stuck my tongue out at them when they weren't looking... I'm sorry for that.

Having moved around, I've learned that the biggest mistake I can make when entering a new community is to not be involved. Sitting on the fringes of a community, whether it's a neighborhood, or the office environment, or the church I attend offers safety from some types of hurts, but it's also a lonely place. Many writers are introverts, and I'm no exception. Closeting myself in a small room, with an open view to a budding tree, a warm cup of tea in my hand--that is a natural place for me (sounds a lot like my office, actually!), a place that I long for and need. But it's also a selfish place if I stay there too long, so I take a deep breath, and leave that room grudgingly, and force myself into environments that are less friendly to my personality, but full of unexpected rewards.

In any community, if you stay long enough, you find people of all stripes. Happy/sad, spicy/sweet, needy/giving. Just like in the writing life, folks have seasons of taking in and giving out. Right now, Rhonda has cancer and needs a large network of folks to help her through. She's weepy, and angry, and it's even difficult to be around her at times. I feel zapped when I leave. But last year, she was the one decorating the church on every feast day, scraping the candle wax from the wood floors when nobody was looking, hanging out with the homeless at coffee hour, sending me funny little emails that made my day.

Of course I want to hang out with Jenny, who inspires me to be creative, with Seraphima, who is an exuberance of prayerful energy, with Cheryl who makes me laugh. They give to me... and hopefully I give something in return, but all relationships don't work that way. And after reflecting, I don't agree at all with this philosophy of gutting your contact list deliberately. Let's see:

• Colleen is always negative. Can't remember the last time she asked me a question about MY life. I've known her since kindergarten, but maybe it's time for this friendship to end. Colleen.
• Donny actually growled at me last time we talked politics. He's always looking for some sort of argument. I want peace... I neeeeeed peace. Donny.
• Ah, Rita. Won't even go there... Rita!

Anne Lamott says in her book on writing, Bird by Bird, "Almost all my close friends are walking personality disorders..." In her quirky, unique way she understands how much more real our writing can be when we are living amidst real people. I don't want to spend all my days with perfectly groomed and mannered folk--people who would do anything not to offend or insult me. What kind of story-making friends are those? In order to make beautiful, poignant stories, we need experiences and ideas coming at us from all sides, the good, the bad and the icky. Needy desperate people make really good bad guys.

I'm all for searching out good and healthy friendships. Give and take, isn't that what makes a friendship after all? Yet, what would this world be like if everyone suddenly started shunning the needy people who surround us, the people who spread their hurts and leave us gasping and sore? Would we begin separating not according to economic have's but according to emotional health? Would we then walk around, so proud of our tribe, proud to be one of those who feeds and is fed--plump in good people, creativity pouring out of our hearts and hands?

And for those who don't inspire us. Do we ship them off to the Isle of Defeated Souls? And is that where my friends should ship me when I'm having an off day--or an off year? We're all bound to be off at some point, aren't we?