When I’ve been away for an extended period of time (from the blog, that is), I tend to feel I must come up with something weighty to write about. As time increases away from writing, the pressure grows ever greater to produce or perform. To kill that nasty beast, I decide to get back to this, tonight, when I seem to have way too many things on my mind to be able to string together something coherent.
My espresso pot hisses, and it’s time to serve myself a demitasse of my favourite hot drink (good British tea running in a tie for first, however). A spoon of demerara but then I notice: the milk’s gone off. I’ve got some creamer on hand, and of course, for tonight, that’ll do. So much of my life seems like this right now: I’ve gone and made the coffee, but I can’t seem to bring all the ingredients of a cortado together, all at once. Right ingredients matched with good timing.
My hopes raised for a job I pray to get. My heart lingering on thoughts of a certain someone I’ve met. The wave rises in hope, in anticipation, and then, waiting for that movement forward, a rush of sea foam and turbulence and joy, and, then, just then, blinking, I am met with silence. No word from the employer, many days overdue, no assurance that mutualities exist, no returns. I’ve sent my hopes out, and now will they return on the wind, answered, embraced?
Jesus told the disciples when he met them out on a midnight stroll on the Sea of Galilee, “Courage! It’s me. Don’t be afraid.” Those guys, they just couldn’t quite put it all together. Their screams and shouts told the real story. The meal for five thousand, the miracles of healing, the wise words, the authority, it just hadn’t gelled yet. Their brains and hearts were freaking out at what they had seen, heard, felt. And so would I have been. And so I do now.
I’ve seen, heard, felt things that cause wonderment, curiosity, awe, fear, and confusion, and I, just like the Boys, am, “straining at rowing, for the wind was against them.” I am straining at my oars, trying to put cause and effect together, trying to make sense of all this business which is my days. I keep feeling like I’ve got the right ingredients for abundance and bounty and pleasure – that robust, creamy, sweet espresso -- but something’s amiss. I am still waiting for it to come together. I am still waiting to taste it. The disciples may have witnessed all those things Jesus did up until that time, but they still hadn’t accepted how badly this would shake up their worlds if what they saw, they believed.
And then with what feels to me like compassion, Jesus tells them to not fear, even in their incomprehension. He sees them straining, “the boat now in the middle of the sea, tossed by waves, for the wind was contrary,” and “in the fourth watch of the night, he went to them, walking on the sea.”
He came to them, in his own way, on his own time. They didn’t understand still, and somehow, that was okay. I guess, it’s okay for me too, to keep on with all this WAITING (that I just completely HATE), not getting it, not knowing where I went wrong OR right, everything good seemingly poised to miraculously rain down on me….or not. I am calling from the boat, “Can’t you see how damn hard I am paddling this thing?”
And then….He comes to me.
26 December, 2005
22 October, 2005
on unpacking dishes and a return to friendship
I saw a friend last night that I haven't seen in a year and a half. This was a purposeful year and a half that I had not seen her. We hit a crisis point in our friendship shortly after I returned to the States, and I stepped back for some serious evaluating. And I dug deeply into my cave of introverted, intuitive processing, and I did not see sunlight break on this particular issue for quite a while. I had a dream a few months before things reached the breaking point; I felt it was a warning not to allow small or petty things to become a point of contention, upon which something fragile might break.
This is my dearest friend from my university days and we have a decade and a half of true friendship together; it was not something I would throw away lightly, nor without regret. Jamie and I were both Spanish majors in college and we shared similar enthusiasm for the outdoors, languages, cultures, and literature, and travel. We worked together at our university bookstore for several years, and saw each other nearly every day during each semester. We made meals for one another at our respective apartments, did the occasional ski trip, studied Latin American poems together, and celebrated our small victories in our classes with bottles of nice beer or a bottle of French wine.
Jamie went to France and to Cote d'Ivoire; I went to Latin America and the UK. She married a wonderful man she met biking up Mount Evans and moved to the Colorado mountains. I stayed in Scotland and eventually made my passage back to Colorado, where I am now home for a while. Letters, post cards, small gifts and treasures have coursed between us for years. Coffee from Central America, a beautiful cafe bowl from France, Alfonsina Storni poems, our dreams, written out in longhand. Jamie is an organizer...definitely a J on the MBTI, and what she doesn't use or want, she throws away. My letters are some of the only things she has kept over the years. I saw them bound up in small packets in a large chest she kept, one time when she was moving, and I mused that my letters had made the final cut. And I have done the same with her correspondence. Certainly not in so organised a fashion, but her thoughts and expressions of friendship, all kept, because they are dear to me.
When I moved to my current flat, I had brought along boxes from my parents' home that had not been opened in over 7 years. Kitchen stuff, utensils, cutlery. As I went about this mundane task of pulling out these necessity items from a box marked Fragile, I unwrapped the newspaper from a small, porcelain bowl that bore the words, Pillivuyt, France on it's simple foot. Jamie's bowl. I held the bowl and felt it's smooth lines and thought how elegant yet uncomplicated it was. I wished for this in our relationship, now fraught with what I don't even know, just fraught, and unresolved. Perhaps it was time to be in contact again?
And so, I decided to return to her bearing "a plate of cookies" as she likes to say; a way back, a place to meet and reconvene, and begin afresh. We had dinner in Golden and went to a presentation by one of America's foremost mountaineers, Arlene Blum. She had written a book that inspired me in my late teens and early 20s called Annapurna. It documented the story of the first all-female team to climb one of the world's 8,000 meter peaks. It brought us back to what brought us together at the beginning of our friendship, our love of mountains and challenges, and our desire to live lives of passion.
I think this was a good place to start.
Bienvenida, Jamie.
This is my dearest friend from my university days and we have a decade and a half of true friendship together; it was not something I would throw away lightly, nor without regret. Jamie and I were both Spanish majors in college and we shared similar enthusiasm for the outdoors, languages, cultures, and literature, and travel. We worked together at our university bookstore for several years, and saw each other nearly every day during each semester. We made meals for one another at our respective apartments, did the occasional ski trip, studied Latin American poems together, and celebrated our small victories in our classes with bottles of nice beer or a bottle of French wine.
Jamie went to France and to Cote d'Ivoire; I went to Latin America and the UK. She married a wonderful man she met biking up Mount Evans and moved to the Colorado mountains. I stayed in Scotland and eventually made my passage back to Colorado, where I am now home for a while. Letters, post cards, small gifts and treasures have coursed between us for years. Coffee from Central America, a beautiful cafe bowl from France, Alfonsina Storni poems, our dreams, written out in longhand. Jamie is an organizer...definitely a J on the MBTI, and what she doesn't use or want, she throws away. My letters are some of the only things she has kept over the years. I saw them bound up in small packets in a large chest she kept, one time when she was moving, and I mused that my letters had made the final cut. And I have done the same with her correspondence. Certainly not in so organised a fashion, but her thoughts and expressions of friendship, all kept, because they are dear to me.
When I moved to my current flat, I had brought along boxes from my parents' home that had not been opened in over 7 years. Kitchen stuff, utensils, cutlery. As I went about this mundane task of pulling out these necessity items from a box marked Fragile, I unwrapped the newspaper from a small, porcelain bowl that bore the words, Pillivuyt, France on it's simple foot. Jamie's bowl. I held the bowl and felt it's smooth lines and thought how elegant yet uncomplicated it was. I wished for this in our relationship, now fraught with what I don't even know, just fraught, and unresolved. Perhaps it was time to be in contact again?
And so, I decided to return to her bearing "a plate of cookies" as she likes to say; a way back, a place to meet and reconvene, and begin afresh. We had dinner in Golden and went to a presentation by one of America's foremost mountaineers, Arlene Blum. She had written a book that inspired me in my late teens and early 20s called Annapurna. It documented the story of the first all-female team to climb one of the world's 8,000 meter peaks. It brought us back to what brought us together at the beginning of our friendship, our love of mountains and challenges, and our desire to live lives of passion.
I think this was a good place to start.
Bienvenida, Jamie.
08 October, 2005
Saturday leaves Sunday
Tomorrow's Sunday, and with Sunday comes The Decision. To church or not to church? I grew up going every Sunday with my parents. Well, until I became a Christian at 16, and decided it was too "establishment" for me, so I refused to go.
Every week for years I have agonised about going to church. I hate it (usually). It's boring. The sermons are long-winded and like store bought bread just leave you wanting for the real thing.
Fresh bread, made by people's hands -- not pushed through some lifeless machine --, moving and pushing and kneading the dough, changing the proofing time and baking time, based on the conditions of that particular morning. There is nothing quite so sustaining or yummy.
Hmmmm. The Rules say: Good Christians go to church every Sunday (or most Sundays!). But when I go, you can always know, I forced myself to be there. I never go because I want to. When I lived in the UK and the village church bell rang at 10:55am to 11:00am to remind everyone it was time to go to church, I would cringe. My flatmate and I called them the Bells of Guilt as we stayed at home and read the paper.
Sometimes when I go to my homegroup, I feel that is more like church for me. We worship, pray, talk, laugh, cry, eat, and discuss hard stuff together. And I certainly felt like the group of people I worked with in the UK...with them, I had my deepest experience of a living, breathing, moving church. Mess, pain, and difficulty it was definitely fraught with, but it moved me, changed me profoundly, drew my attention to Jesus and what he has to say about life and how we treat one another. I could only wish this experience for everyone. Though, I do know that some, even if offered it would not want it. It is not polished or perfect, it can be threatening, harrowing, and downright hard. But it is worth it.
I miss that, and long for church to be that. But I don't ever think it will be. I grew up in a liturgical tradition, and when I feel the need to worship, I most often am pulled back to the kneeler in the pew, to the Eucharist, to Cross hanging above the altar. I read in someone else's blog today that "liturgy is not preaching", it is pared down of extraneous unnecessaries -- those things that preachers, pastors, teachers like to add on to embellish, but really only seem to diminish. I think this is what I want. I am tired of the perpetual footrace to make church "appealing" or relevant as if it were a show to be staged each week. Putting on a good face. It's so incredibly boring because it is a reflection of mere human personality. It is not a place open to the many voices of Us, We, that is Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and The Bride -- together --empowered to reveal the Risen Christ, the Glorious Lamb of God. I am tired of the one-man band that heaves on its harmonica, pounds it drum, and crashes its cymbals together each week.
Bread and wine, Jesus, forgiveness, mercy, goodness, a hand to hold. Here I am at home.
Every week for years I have agonised about going to church. I hate it (usually). It's boring. The sermons are long-winded and like store bought bread just leave you wanting for the real thing.
Fresh bread, made by people's hands -- not pushed through some lifeless machine --, moving and pushing and kneading the dough, changing the proofing time and baking time, based on the conditions of that particular morning. There is nothing quite so sustaining or yummy.
Hmmmm. The Rules say: Good Christians go to church every Sunday (or most Sundays!). But when I go, you can always know, I forced myself to be there. I never go because I want to. When I lived in the UK and the village church bell rang at 10:55am to 11:00am to remind everyone it was time to go to church, I would cringe. My flatmate and I called them the Bells of Guilt as we stayed at home and read the paper.
Sometimes when I go to my homegroup, I feel that is more like church for me. We worship, pray, talk, laugh, cry, eat, and discuss hard stuff together. And I certainly felt like the group of people I worked with in the UK...with them, I had my deepest experience of a living, breathing, moving church. Mess, pain, and difficulty it was definitely fraught with, but it moved me, changed me profoundly, drew my attention to Jesus and what he has to say about life and how we treat one another. I could only wish this experience for everyone. Though, I do know that some, even if offered it would not want it. It is not polished or perfect, it can be threatening, harrowing, and downright hard. But it is worth it.
I miss that, and long for church to be that. But I don't ever think it will be. I grew up in a liturgical tradition, and when I feel the need to worship, I most often am pulled back to the kneeler in the pew, to the Eucharist, to Cross hanging above the altar. I read in someone else's blog today that "liturgy is not preaching", it is pared down of extraneous unnecessaries -- those things that preachers, pastors, teachers like to add on to embellish, but really only seem to diminish. I think this is what I want. I am tired of the perpetual footrace to make church "appealing" or relevant as if it were a show to be staged each week. Putting on a good face. It's so incredibly boring because it is a reflection of mere human personality. It is not a place open to the many voices of Us, We, that is Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and The Bride -- together --empowered to reveal the Risen Christ, the Glorious Lamb of God. I am tired of the one-man band that heaves on its harmonica, pounds it drum, and crashes its cymbals together each week.
Bread and wine, Jesus, forgiveness, mercy, goodness, a hand to hold. Here I am at home.
20 September, 2005
kingdom & me
I haven't felt very creative lately. Weeds. The weeds of life have been pestering me, cropping up around my ankles, and I've been madly trying to root them out. Moving and changing jobs again has meant many are the "cares of life" , and of course, many are the questions: have I made a good decision? was the timing right? should I have waited until I was more secure financially? The questions are really kind of rhetorical at this point. The deed is done. I am moved, employed, and living HERE now. These questions are like a favourite record (yep, the vinyl type) that has a groove where you have most often played it, and once it plays through that section, it just slips right back to the beginning. Over and over again.
Thankfully, during this present round of questioning, I have been able to ask a better question: Lord, are you with me on all this? And what are you up to?
ANSWER: What kind of deal is it to get everything you want but lose yourself?
I've been thinking hard about his answer which was a question and wasn't the direct answer to anything I asked anyway. But my soul knew the congruency right away in that answer. The last two years have been ALL about this. Why should Jesus, who has promised me the Kingdom -- in the here and now as well as later -- give me everything I want, albeit good, if what I sacrifice, to have it, is my truest self ? The self that was borne of his heart, the me that he knows is becoming? The soul that is uniquely being conformed to his nature?
So, he put his foot down. And what I have discovered is that part of what is restored to us and given to us in the Kingdom, part of that pearl of great price, is actually....me. The me that he knew existed and knew was hidden by sin, shame, and sadness is part of what is promised to us. I used to to have the idea that you sacrifice everything -- including your truest self -- to gain all the good of the Kingdom. Jesus is not a bad trade up. But my conclusion in this banked on the idea that my truest self must have been bad, and therefore in need of getting rid of. Isn't that what we read about all the time in the Bible? Die to yourself daily, forsake your old life? This is different, and unfortunately, I had thrown the best part of me -- my little piece of the mosaic of the Body of Christ -- to sink in a cesspool, because I thought it belonged there.
I and my me IS Kingdom. Who would have thought?
Thankfully, during this present round of questioning, I have been able to ask a better question: Lord, are you with me on all this? And what are you up to?
ANSWER: What kind of deal is it to get everything you want but lose yourself?
I've been thinking hard about his answer which was a question and wasn't the direct answer to anything I asked anyway. But my soul knew the congruency right away in that answer. The last two years have been ALL about this. Why should Jesus, who has promised me the Kingdom -- in the here and now as well as later -- give me everything I want, albeit good, if what I sacrifice, to have it, is my truest self ? The self that was borne of his heart, the me that he knows is becoming? The soul that is uniquely being conformed to his nature?
So, he put his foot down. And what I have discovered is that part of what is restored to us and given to us in the Kingdom, part of that pearl of great price, is actually....me. The me that he knew existed and knew was hidden by sin, shame, and sadness is part of what is promised to us. I used to to have the idea that you sacrifice everything -- including your truest self -- to gain all the good of the Kingdom. Jesus is not a bad trade up. But my conclusion in this banked on the idea that my truest self must have been bad, and therefore in need of getting rid of. Isn't that what we read about all the time in the Bible? Die to yourself daily, forsake your old life? This is different, and unfortunately, I had thrown the best part of me -- my little piece of the mosaic of the Body of Christ -- to sink in a cesspool, because I thought it belonged there.
I and my me IS Kingdom. Who would have thought?
04 September, 2005
back in the saddle
hi there dear friends of Blog World....I have MISSED you!!!!
i am here tonight to tell you i am back in action. I did a little disappearing act for the summer. Things got hectic and my computer schmatzed on me and it wasn't until just today that by an act of God (truly) I was able to get it up and running and hooked up to some telecom devices.
lots has changed since i last weighed in on films, books, life issues, so i will leave you with this much: new job, new flat, a return to Denver and friends and a church. i think it's gonna work this time around. and I can't tell you how special it is to have a place of my own where I am not subject to the dictates of others and how they prefer to have their lives organised. i love that i can leave a glass on the kitchen counter and return hours later to find it in EXACTLY the same spot. Home. For a season. And it IS good.
now that my computer has been delivered from its Windows demon and i live alone, i shall be blogging a bit more i hope. as always, TALK to ME....comment! Tell me what you're thinking and doing these days or what the blog gets you thinking about.
that's it for tonight. let's pray for the folks in New Orleans....and I WILL be back SOON!
hugs to you all :-)
i am here tonight to tell you i am back in action. I did a little disappearing act for the summer. Things got hectic and my computer schmatzed on me and it wasn't until just today that by an act of God (truly) I was able to get it up and running and hooked up to some telecom devices.
lots has changed since i last weighed in on films, books, life issues, so i will leave you with this much: new job, new flat, a return to Denver and friends and a church. i think it's gonna work this time around. and I can't tell you how special it is to have a place of my own where I am not subject to the dictates of others and how they prefer to have their lives organised. i love that i can leave a glass on the kitchen counter and return hours later to find it in EXACTLY the same spot. Home. For a season. And it IS good.
now that my computer has been delivered from its Windows demon and i live alone, i shall be blogging a bit more i hope. as always, TALK to ME....comment! Tell me what you're thinking and doing these days or what the blog gets you thinking about.
that's it for tonight. let's pray for the folks in New Orleans....and I WILL be back SOON!
hugs to you all :-)
20 June, 2005
bloggo blether
It's been a while since I blogged in. That last piece cost me a couple of night's sleep after I posted it. It felt too personal, too real to share in such a public place. I debated taking it off, but have left it for now. I have deep fears about "certain people" reading my vulnerable stuff because I can be intensely private about my feelings. I've heard from a few of you, said you liked it, but I just sort of freaked. I hate being found out. And worse yet, I do it to myself.
No theological topics tonight just a few thoughts and recommendations:
Saw Annette Bening's latest film...Being Julia. She is superb, and I loved the film because it revolved around - (gasp!) a woman over 40! It was refreshing to see a truly complex, robust female role. There's a bit I love when Julia, an esteemed actress in the West End, bemoans the matronly roles that middle-aged women get "Bugger all the playwrites. They're all men anyway." The film explores some interesting issues regarding the double standard for men and women when it comes to being "bad". Julia has an affair with a younger man and when she half-seriously suggests to a close friend that a play be written with that concept as the theme her friend replies, "Oh, you mean a farce." The film takes place in 1930s London, but things haven't changed much. Anyway, I am recommending the film, but obviously, if you can't stand immorality on film, don't watch this one. I've already given you one of the main plot lines. Enjoy!
Meet the Press with Tim Russert. On every Sunday. If you like current affairs and like to see quality journalism and some excellent interviews with significant political figures, this is one to watch. Besides, Tim Russert is just such a likeable guy, and I liked him even more after I read his memoir of his relationship with his dad, Big Russ and Me.
Garcia Lorca's Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding) is superbly done by Vanessa Redgrave and supporting cast (it's a play). I was sceptical about it being in English, but it is so well done, so powerful. It held true to what I envisioned when I read it. It's a tragedy, so if you're a sanguine and hate to deal with reality, don't watch -- untimely death happens. Wonderful use of colour and amazing staging.
The Guardian Weekly newspaper. Great summation of world events from three of the biggies (in addition to The Guardian itself): Washington Post, Le Monde, and the Observer. Paper format or you can check them out on-line. News junkies rejoice!
Barbara Ehrenreich's book, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by In America. From Publisher Weekly's review: "...Ehrenreich (Fear of Falling: The Inner Life of the Middle Class, etc.) turns her gimlet eye on the view from the workforce's bottom rung. Determined to find out how anyone could make ends meet on $7 an hour, she left behind her middle class life as a journalist except for $1000 in start-up funds, a car and her laptop computer to try to sustain herself as a low-skilled worker for a month at a time."
Lighter reading: Anne Lamott's latest, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. Not in at the library? Then try my (second) favourite childhood book, The Silly Book by Stoo Hample, http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0763622567/qid=1119246869/sr=8-1/ref=pd_csp_1/103-6319156-5750243?v=glance&s=books&n=507846 . It went out-of-print for years but due to popular demand, it's now back in-print for another generation of silliness. Now, I bet you wanna know my FIRST favourite childhood book, right? The Tomten by Astrid Lindgren: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0698115910/qid=1119247071/sr=8-1/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i1_xgl14/103-6319156-5750243?v=glance&s=books&n=507846 . (Sorry for the long links...I haven't taken the time to figure out how to do them slick-ly -- low geek factor right now). I always wanted to BE the Tomten..living outdoors in the Scandinavian countryside, being able to talk to animals in my own little language, protecting the family inside the cozy cabin without them ever seeing me, appearing by night, disappearing by day. :-)
That ought to do for tonight. If you watch or read any of my recommendations, let me know; I would love to hear what you think of them. Or pass along your own recs. I always find my best reading material through friends. Though, wait...and I am putting up my hands now, wait, wait: there is one exception to this that I relish mentioning. That Mitford book...the first one. Several people recommended Karon's first book to me, so I tried to read it. Not once, but THREE times. And I HATED it every time I tried. And I do say tried, as I never could get past around page 125. People whose opinions I respect and trust told me they thought this was a good read, but I simply could not, could not get what they saw in it. If you'd like to weigh in on this one, please feel free, though you will never convince me to go for a fourth attempt at such a dowdy, banal book. When you have a dog drooling on a man's shoe as your opening scene shouldn't that shout -- low quality! -- to any reasonable reader. Apparently not. I now sniff and thumb my nose and throw my head high....
Goodnight! ;-)
No theological topics tonight just a few thoughts and recommendations:
Saw Annette Bening's latest film...Being Julia. She is superb, and I loved the film because it revolved around - (gasp!) a woman over 40! It was refreshing to see a truly complex, robust female role. There's a bit I love when Julia, an esteemed actress in the West End, bemoans the matronly roles that middle-aged women get "Bugger all the playwrites. They're all men anyway." The film explores some interesting issues regarding the double standard for men and women when it comes to being "bad". Julia has an affair with a younger man and when she half-seriously suggests to a close friend that a play be written with that concept as the theme her friend replies, "Oh, you mean a farce." The film takes place in 1930s London, but things haven't changed much. Anyway, I am recommending the film, but obviously, if you can't stand immorality on film, don't watch this one. I've already given you one of the main plot lines. Enjoy!
Meet the Press with Tim Russert. On every Sunday. If you like current affairs and like to see quality journalism and some excellent interviews with significant political figures, this is one to watch. Besides, Tim Russert is just such a likeable guy, and I liked him even more after I read his memoir of his relationship with his dad, Big Russ and Me.
Garcia Lorca's Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding) is superbly done by Vanessa Redgrave and supporting cast (it's a play). I was sceptical about it being in English, but it is so well done, so powerful. It held true to what I envisioned when I read it. It's a tragedy, so if you're a sanguine and hate to deal with reality, don't watch -- untimely death happens. Wonderful use of colour and amazing staging.
The Guardian Weekly newspaper. Great summation of world events from three of the biggies (in addition to The Guardian itself): Washington Post, Le Monde, and the Observer. Paper format or you can check them out on-line. News junkies rejoice!
Barbara Ehrenreich's book, Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by In America. From Publisher Weekly's review: "...Ehrenreich (Fear of Falling: The Inner Life of the Middle Class, etc.) turns her gimlet eye on the view from the workforce's bottom rung. Determined to find out how anyone could make ends meet on $7 an hour, she left behind her middle class life as a journalist except for $1000 in start-up funds, a car and her laptop computer to try to sustain herself as a low-skilled worker for a month at a time."
Lighter reading: Anne Lamott's latest, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith. Not in at the library? Then try my (second) favourite childhood book, The Silly Book by Stoo Hample, http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0763622567/qid=1119246869/sr=8-1/ref=pd_csp_1/103-6319156-5750243?v=glance&s=books&n=507846 . It went out-of-print for years but due to popular demand, it's now back in-print for another generation of silliness. Now, I bet you wanna know my FIRST favourite childhood book, right? The Tomten by Astrid Lindgren: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0698115910/qid=1119247071/sr=8-1/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i1_xgl14/103-6319156-5750243?v=glance&s=books&n=507846 . (Sorry for the long links...I haven't taken the time to figure out how to do them slick-ly -- low geek factor right now). I always wanted to BE the Tomten..living outdoors in the Scandinavian countryside, being able to talk to animals in my own little language, protecting the family inside the cozy cabin without them ever seeing me, appearing by night, disappearing by day. :-)
That ought to do for tonight. If you watch or read any of my recommendations, let me know; I would love to hear what you think of them. Or pass along your own recs. I always find my best reading material through friends. Though, wait...and I am putting up my hands now, wait, wait: there is one exception to this that I relish mentioning. That Mitford book...the first one. Several people recommended Karon's first book to me, so I tried to read it. Not once, but THREE times. And I HATED it every time I tried. And I do say tried, as I never could get past around page 125. People whose opinions I respect and trust told me they thought this was a good read, but I simply could not, could not get what they saw in it. If you'd like to weigh in on this one, please feel free, though you will never convince me to go for a fourth attempt at such a dowdy, banal book. When you have a dog drooling on a man's shoe as your opening scene shouldn't that shout -- low quality! -- to any reasonable reader. Apparently not. I now sniff and thumb my nose and throw my head high....
Goodnight! ;-)
07 June, 2005
things that go bump
Sometimes you know you're in for a weird day just by the way you wake up. I forced myself out of a deep sleep this morning when I realised I was giving Lara Spencer (of Antiques Rdshow and some rubbish gossip show on tv) tips on healthy living. I hope she remembers to eat plenty of cruciferous vegetables this week.
Summer of 1999 I was invited to Lake Powell with some boating enthusiasts from my church. It was two weeks of gorgeous sunsets, sleeping on the roof of the houseboat, water play, and sea doo's - my absolute favourite toy on that vacation. Having grown up owning motorcycles and liking the words full throttle, I decided to get on one of those things as often as I could to explore the miles and miles of canyon. Between races with my friends and wake jumping, we found some serene, wee spaces. One in particular was like a small oasis with a shallow sandy beach and warm red rock to walk around on. All of it, a tranquil inner fold in the enormous body of the canyon itself. I could have stayed there for hours. I was fascinated with the quality of sound and how my voice found its way out to the sandstone walls and then came back to me in patterns, clear but not harsh, still sounding familiar, but having a nearly transcendent, intimate quality. It reminded me of being in the underground, choral area of a convent I visited in Guatemala once and how the acoustic effect of the rounded, enclosed room made my quiet singing voice completely fill the atmosphere; it felt as if you could almost touch it, it was so close.
I had a similar experience today which ties in to what I was writing about in the chump and bump section (see previous post)... It feels a bit personal, but I want to share it because it seems pertinent to what I was getting at in that blog....
Everyone was out of the house for a few hours this morning, so per the advice of a dear friend, I got out my guitar (she knows how it helps me muddle through stuff I can't understand....like unemployment, familial imbroglio, the unanswerables of the faith), and I just started to play a intuitive, rambling sort of ellenspiece. These are meditations, a lot like pieces in Taize worship, where there are long, reflective repetitions of melodies and verses. I have written reams of lyrics to fragmented songs over the years, and I like just picking out a few at a time and trying them from any musical angle I feel like. I had the lines: You are Good. You are Great. None like You, coursing through my mind, so I went over and over them, smoothing down the courseness in my soul.
The strangest thing began to happen as I repeated those verses, and I feel a little sheepish saying this in a public place, but I began to hear those words, repeated back to me, directed at me. You are good. You are great. None like you. And just as my voice had skipped away from me in the canyons of Lake Powell and had returned to me transformed as a closer, nearer voice, so I heard God, my Nearest One, in the echo saying the same to me. I couldn't imagine it... I really couldn't. I felt like a heretic...How could God be saying these things, that I have just said in reverence, respect, and love...back to me? He's the only one who deserves to hear stuff like that, right?
I gotta be honest, I felt like the Grinch when his heart grows 10 sizes all at once and that crazy smile breaks out on his face. What the freakin heck could this mean? Does He really read my blog and all that stuff I wrote about Him thinking we are good? Could He possibly agree with what I wrote? Could there be a connection between Him being All Goodness, Love, and Light and how we are -- ontologically --, ones who are created in His Image? Could He possibly say these things to me and mean it?!!!
Stunned and incredulous, I just sat on the couch, trembling. Could God really think so highly, so warmly, so lover-ly of me? I don't have words to explain why or elegant theology to "prove it", but, yes, I do believe He does. Cut from the same cloth as Him, child of his desiring, I find the mirror I have craved, the echo I long for has a voice of its own, and it is trustworthy.
Summer of 1999 I was invited to Lake Powell with some boating enthusiasts from my church. It was two weeks of gorgeous sunsets, sleeping on the roof of the houseboat, water play, and sea doo's - my absolute favourite toy on that vacation. Having grown up owning motorcycles and liking the words full throttle, I decided to get on one of those things as often as I could to explore the miles and miles of canyon. Between races with my friends and wake jumping, we found some serene, wee spaces. One in particular was like a small oasis with a shallow sandy beach and warm red rock to walk around on. All of it, a tranquil inner fold in the enormous body of the canyon itself. I could have stayed there for hours. I was fascinated with the quality of sound and how my voice found its way out to the sandstone walls and then came back to me in patterns, clear but not harsh, still sounding familiar, but having a nearly transcendent, intimate quality. It reminded me of being in the underground, choral area of a convent I visited in Guatemala once and how the acoustic effect of the rounded, enclosed room made my quiet singing voice completely fill the atmosphere; it felt as if you could almost touch it, it was so close.
I had a similar experience today which ties in to what I was writing about in the chump and bump section (see previous post)... It feels a bit personal, but I want to share it because it seems pertinent to what I was getting at in that blog....
Everyone was out of the house for a few hours this morning, so per the advice of a dear friend, I got out my guitar (she knows how it helps me muddle through stuff I can't understand....like unemployment, familial imbroglio, the unanswerables of the faith), and I just started to play a intuitive, rambling sort of ellenspiece. These are meditations, a lot like pieces in Taize worship, where there are long, reflective repetitions of melodies and verses. I have written reams of lyrics to fragmented songs over the years, and I like just picking out a few at a time and trying them from any musical angle I feel like. I had the lines: You are Good. You are Great. None like You, coursing through my mind, so I went over and over them, smoothing down the courseness in my soul.
The strangest thing began to happen as I repeated those verses, and I feel a little sheepish saying this in a public place, but I began to hear those words, repeated back to me, directed at me. You are good. You are great. None like you. And just as my voice had skipped away from me in the canyons of Lake Powell and had returned to me transformed as a closer, nearer voice, so I heard God, my Nearest One, in the echo saying the same to me. I couldn't imagine it... I really couldn't. I felt like a heretic...How could God be saying these things, that I have just said in reverence, respect, and love...back to me? He's the only one who deserves to hear stuff like that, right?
I gotta be honest, I felt like the Grinch when his heart grows 10 sizes all at once and that crazy smile breaks out on his face. What the freakin heck could this mean? Does He really read my blog and all that stuff I wrote about Him thinking we are good? Could He possibly agree with what I wrote? Could there be a connection between Him being All Goodness, Love, and Light and how we are -- ontologically --, ones who are created in His Image? Could He possibly say these things to me and mean it?!!!
Stunned and incredulous, I just sat on the couch, trembling. Could God really think so highly, so warmly, so lover-ly of me? I don't have words to explain why or elegant theology to "prove it", but, yes, I do believe He does. Cut from the same cloth as Him, child of his desiring, I find the mirror I have craved, the echo I long for has a voice of its own, and it is trustworthy.
02 June, 2005
as if your life depended on it!
Okay, I'll get right on that!
Hey, another special find at Engrish.com . I couldn't resist brightening your day with this! Have a good one and remember, before you plunge into making dinner tonight, MARINATE!
31 May, 2005
chump and bump
Someone raised a topic at homegroup the other night that has my mind rolling up its sleeves. I know it's probably got some high brow theological title, this topic, but the best I could do was chump and bump, at least for now, until one of you can enlighten me. Okay, let me explain...and please bear with me...I am trying to work this one out of my intuition into words that make sense.
We often seem to be confused about something in our lives that is of rather huge importance: the "stance" of God towards us humans. We spend an exorbitant amount of time striving to impress, persuade, dissuade, humour, please, awe, and dazzle our Creator (though most of this is more about us and our anxieties than it is about Him). But here's my question, is he so in need of our bedazzling, our religious effort? How much of what we do changes anything fundamental about him as he looks at us? What is the manner in which he knows or perceives us?
I jump to the beginning of the Great Book. God's first acts, as we know him described to us, are creative. Creativity, by my definition, is a generous act, and generally benevolent (though creativity isn't necessarily incorruptible obviously). In God's case, we count on his absolute holiness, so we consider his creative acts as pure, perfect, and good. He started out with creating and blessing and saying "good" was the proper descriptor for men and women as he created them. We like all this: those lovely, dreamy days before we gave God the finger in the garden. And we can believe that what he said was true: we were wonderfully, gloriously "good". But that part, I just mentioned, about us dissing God did, in fact, bring darkness upon our souls and into our hearts. Hold that thought....
Race through Old Testament Messianic prophecy now, and pull yourself to a halt after it's fulfillment....Jesus has lived, died, and has risen from the dead. Jesus is the Consolation of Israel, Immanuel, the Revelation of God Himself among us. His first witnesses and those who follow after them take on the huge task of helping us understand what that means. They preach, teach, leave family, friends, vocations to get the message out, and they row and contend and struggle about what Jesus and his greatest Act meant. Did it really mean that Jesus had done something magnificent, so magnificent that it restored us, in God's eyes, to those early glory days of being "good". Where God Himself would smile and say, That's a wrap! We got it this time! Now THAT's what I had in mind. Or was it simply an adjudication: passport stamped, justified and heaven-bound. Or was it something, so wholly about God and His Son being true to their nature that it sort of overwhelms the whole issue of sin and actually reveals the sheer grandeur and terrifying might of an awesome, loving God?
What I mean is: is it more about God showing us who He is and his tender act of reaching toward us, or is it about the issue of sin and venality. You see, that seems a critical question to me. Because if you say it was more about God dealing with sin, then sin suddenly gets a promotion: it is Sin. If this act was more about God, vulnerably yet all powerfully, revealing Himself to us, telling us about His Person, then He remains exactly where he always has been: on His throne, but now visible and accessible through His Son.
If we take the capital S Sin route (doctrine of original sin, right?), I think we extrapolate and end up going with all the theology that's been based on verses like the one in Psalms when David says "I was conceived in sin" : we started out as chumps and chumps we do remain. And if one is a chump, a chump has to work very hard in life to get anywhere with God, because having started out bad, it's a perpetual battle to hack back through the jungle of the Garden to find, and point at, Adam and Eve's Hollywood Stars in the paving stones of Eden: See, we were GOOD once, and GOOD again we will be! This is an overgrown Garden and you have a very dull machete: translation....endless toil.
Now, if we go with that idea about God showing up and bedazzling US, I think the theological outcome is bump-ness. In Britain, before a baby is born it's often referred to as bump. Used in its best sense, I've heard it said in endearing, tender tones. For me, it embodies the openhearted warmth, joy, and expectation that many parents have as they await their baby's arrival. Their hearts are set on bump and though they know sleepless nights and self-sacrifice will follow, their hearts are purely FOR this child whom they do not yet know. The "posture" of the heart is, YES, You are good. Before you have arrived, before you have done right or wrong, you are good.
So, I ponder scripture and what I personally know of God, and what I arrive at is this: in the heart of God, we were conceived, and we ARE good. Not just because Jesus died for us and restored us to relationship with the Father. I know, I know...we all know the verses...while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, and so I am stating the obvious, right? Well, no. I don't actually think this is all that obvious to us. We primarily (from what I have lived and seen) see ourselves in relationship to God through what we do rather than Who He is and what that means about His disposition toward us. God is love. In Him there is no darkness at all. That means no cursing us under His breath and wishing He could wrap us around a tree (my parents' favourite threat!) when we are bad. He is not so inclined. And I think we are called to bank not so much on our badness --- and all the implications of our badness -- as His Goodness.
Hold His Goodness and your own bumpness right there...in your heart...let it sink in, and what does it say to you? Life is not about forever attempting to extricate ourselves from our badness (and failing miserably at it I might add) but about living into a fullness that is the breadth and depth of the universe - a thrilling, jolting, screaming glory of a ride into the heart of a good and holy God that is forever FOR us.
Yeah....
We often seem to be confused about something in our lives that is of rather huge importance: the "stance" of God towards us humans. We spend an exorbitant amount of time striving to impress, persuade, dissuade, humour, please, awe, and dazzle our Creator (though most of this is more about us and our anxieties than it is about Him). But here's my question, is he so in need of our bedazzling, our religious effort? How much of what we do changes anything fundamental about him as he looks at us? What is the manner in which he knows or perceives us?
I jump to the beginning of the Great Book. God's first acts, as we know him described to us, are creative. Creativity, by my definition, is a generous act, and generally benevolent (though creativity isn't necessarily incorruptible obviously). In God's case, we count on his absolute holiness, so we consider his creative acts as pure, perfect, and good. He started out with creating and blessing and saying "good" was the proper descriptor for men and women as he created them. We like all this: those lovely, dreamy days before we gave God the finger in the garden. And we can believe that what he said was true: we were wonderfully, gloriously "good". But that part, I just mentioned, about us dissing God did, in fact, bring darkness upon our souls and into our hearts. Hold that thought....
Race through Old Testament Messianic prophecy now, and pull yourself to a halt after it's fulfillment....Jesus has lived, died, and has risen from the dead. Jesus is the Consolation of Israel, Immanuel, the Revelation of God Himself among us. His first witnesses and those who follow after them take on the huge task of helping us understand what that means. They preach, teach, leave family, friends, vocations to get the message out, and they row and contend and struggle about what Jesus and his greatest Act meant. Did it really mean that Jesus had done something magnificent, so magnificent that it restored us, in God's eyes, to those early glory days of being "good". Where God Himself would smile and say, That's a wrap! We got it this time! Now THAT's what I had in mind. Or was it simply an adjudication: passport stamped, justified and heaven-bound. Or was it something, so wholly about God and His Son being true to their nature that it sort of overwhelms the whole issue of sin and actually reveals the sheer grandeur and terrifying might of an awesome, loving God?
What I mean is: is it more about God showing us who He is and his tender act of reaching toward us, or is it about the issue of sin and venality. You see, that seems a critical question to me. Because if you say it was more about God dealing with sin, then sin suddenly gets a promotion: it is Sin. If this act was more about God, vulnerably yet all powerfully, revealing Himself to us, telling us about His Person, then He remains exactly where he always has been: on His throne, but now visible and accessible through His Son.
If we take the capital S Sin route (doctrine of original sin, right?), I think we extrapolate and end up going with all the theology that's been based on verses like the one in Psalms when David says "I was conceived in sin" : we started out as chumps and chumps we do remain. And if one is a chump, a chump has to work very hard in life to get anywhere with God, because having started out bad, it's a perpetual battle to hack back through the jungle of the Garden to find, and point at, Adam and Eve's Hollywood Stars in the paving stones of Eden: See, we were GOOD once, and GOOD again we will be! This is an overgrown Garden and you have a very dull machete: translation....endless toil.
Now, if we go with that idea about God showing up and bedazzling US, I think the theological outcome is bump-ness. In Britain, before a baby is born it's often referred to as bump. Used in its best sense, I've heard it said in endearing, tender tones. For me, it embodies the openhearted warmth, joy, and expectation that many parents have as they await their baby's arrival. Their hearts are set on bump and though they know sleepless nights and self-sacrifice will follow, their hearts are purely FOR this child whom they do not yet know. The "posture" of the heart is, YES, You are good. Before you have arrived, before you have done right or wrong, you are good.
So, I ponder scripture and what I personally know of God, and what I arrive at is this: in the heart of God, we were conceived, and we ARE good. Not just because Jesus died for us and restored us to relationship with the Father. I know, I know...we all know the verses...while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us, and so I am stating the obvious, right? Well, no. I don't actually think this is all that obvious to us. We primarily (from what I have lived and seen) see ourselves in relationship to God through what we do rather than Who He is and what that means about His disposition toward us. God is love. In Him there is no darkness at all. That means no cursing us under His breath and wishing He could wrap us around a tree (my parents' favourite threat!) when we are bad. He is not so inclined. And I think we are called to bank not so much on our badness --- and all the implications of our badness -- as His Goodness.
Hold His Goodness and your own bumpness right there...in your heart...let it sink in, and what does it say to you? Life is not about forever attempting to extricate ourselves from our badness (and failing miserably at it I might add) but about living into a fullness that is the breadth and depth of the universe - a thrilling, jolting, screaming glory of a ride into the heart of a good and holy God that is forever FOR us.
Yeah....
30 May, 2005
echo
am a bit discouraged at the moment about this blogging thing. i think of endless topics to write about, but it's hard for me to write it out and so rarely hear from anybody. it's pathetic really, how much i depend on feedback or knowing from someone else that what i said mattered to them. it's the classic "artist's dilemma". i remember Madeleine L'Engle writing about this...that although you may create out of a naturalness of soul...meaning...that if you don't do this thing, you cannot fully be yourself...it simply must come out of you and be made manifest to the world....you still desire the resonance or an echo of some kind...the echo sounding different in each place you throw out your voice for it to bang around. i know she was writing about this in the context of rejection, particularly, her manuscript had been rejected and she was reeling from the effect of believing strongly in her story and having no one concur. it took her 10 years to get Wrinkle in Time published and when it finally did get picked up by Farrar, she won the Newberry Medal for it in 1963.
i have to know the answer to this question - for me: why does it matter if I continue to write even if no one listens or cares?
i have to know the answer to this question - for me: why does it matter if I continue to write even if no one listens or cares?
11 May, 2005
does it taste like chicken?
Well, okay, as long as it's deep fried...
Wow, blogging frenzy! My third post in a week! However, I just couldn't resist sharing one of my favourite websites with you all. I figured if I gave you a little taste of what is there you might feel compelled to check it out for yourself, http://www.engrish.com/index.php .
In my travels, I have encountered stuff like this everywhere and have often been in great need of deciphering a menu or a package of some kind, and the English is of absolutely no help at all. It's all still complete roulette.
My favourite food moment in Mongolia was when our team ate at a Chinese hot pot and was completely stumped by the menu, which was kindly translated for us into English from Chinese. It was a free for all, we just started pointing and ordering, having no idea what would arrive at our table. It was a small, family restaurant so everyone got in on the confused Westerners making their peculiar menu selections. When the food came out in courses, we were a little hard pressed about what order the meat and vegetables were supposed to go in the hot pot (and we discovered, we had order way too many items!), but after a little experimenting, we figured it out and ate, hands down, the best meal I had there. Tons of garlic and very spicy. Yum!
When it came to some sort of dessert item, out came the menu again, and we started scratching our heads again. There were some interesting selections none of which made sense in English to have for dessert, so we started the pointing routine again trying to gauge by the waiter's reaction how we were doing...good, yes? We narrowed it down to a couple options and then "ordered", which of course amounted only to gesturing, smiling, and tapping our finger against the greasy, laminated menu card. The waiter stood stock still and gave us a grave look...like Are you the stupidest people on the planet? He wasn't budging and seemed to be telling us that this item was not for sale. What, you don't have this?( I think the item listed as something like 'pancakes'.) We were really keen on 'pancakes' by the time we got round to getting something ordered, so this was a disappointment. We pressed him again. No, pancakes? After a few back and forths, he wavered and finally did the Chinese equivalent of throwing up his hands and giving in. He smiled and went back to the kitchen. A very few minutes later, he emerged from the kitchen with what ended up being the most delicious plum sauce dumplings. Right on! Westerners succeed in decoding menu. We congratulated ourselves on how cross-culturally adept we were. But the waiter, he disappeared again and this time returned with our several orders of 'pancakes'. Down onto the table were placed, a number of small, white bowls filled with little mounds of....dried, fiery red chiles. I am sure, the perfect compliment to our plum dumplings. The whole team sat there, stunned, gaping at the bowls of chiles. And then, gales of discrete laughter at ourselves (re: the whole evening and then the chiles!) and how frustatingly funny the whole business of living in another country can be. You're seriously out of the loop, most of the time.
Anyway, that's my rabbit trail for the day. Enjoy some good Engrish today!
10 May, 2005
More late night thoughts on varied topics...
If I were President of TV, I would:
Reduce sports coverage by about 75 percent. As much as I love Wimbledon and skiing and watching a good nailbiter once in a while, there are far too many opportunities to sit around watching these activities. I think I did discover recently why I think men, in particular, can consume endless amounts of sports tv; it's a simple construct that involves knowing the rules and playing by them and then having an outcome where someone wins and someone loses. In other words, it's not like life and provides an escape from all those things that don't play by a set of fixed rules -- things like relationship and kids.
Onto a predominantly female vice now: chat shows. I figure we could do without these altogether, but just to stave off a revolt, I'll say, reduce by 95 percent, leaving Oprah and Dr Phil intact.
All the airtime saved from sports and chats shows can now be put to good use by running documentaries, adding an additional C-SPAN channel, adding a BBC channel, and broadcasting all those amazing foreign films that no one ever sees outside the Mayan or Esquire.
I like commercial free tv, so I would make a tax on all the corporate fat cats who have retained their salaries and pensions on the proverbial backs of their employees and their pensions. We'd have more than enough to run Ellen TV for many years. Check out, for instance, United Airlines CEO's annual salary and his 4.5 million pension that will remain protected when his employees (mostly blue collar) have only a portion of what they were guaranteed to retire on. Oops, sorry 'bout that!
I would require that an automatic detonating device be installed in all tv sets. At the slightest hint of any car, weightloss, prescription drug, or food commercial, the set would implode.
If you desire to be a part of my new tv scheme for America, please add your comments and pass along your suggestions. I have more ideas, but I'll bring them out slowly. Too much change, too fast may overwhelm the general populace.
Questions:
Since we're on the subject of tv, how about those erectile dysfunction ads. My question is, Why is the person in these commercials, the one who is discussing said problem with the audience, very discretely mind you, The Woman? As far as I am aware, I have never met a woman with this problem. Can the man not speak due to his distress?
Related to corporate bosses: whatever happened to fairness, equity, and believing that businesses were meant to not exclusively serve the greed of those in power, but rather they were meant to function as an institution in society which provided blessing for both boss and employee? When I see lay offs and situations like United and yet see those who are in charge still bringing home more money than most honest folks will ever see even if they win the Lotto, it breaks my heart, truly. How can avarice so cloud and bankrupt a person's soul that they simply do not care about those who make their luxury possible?
Observation:
I read a curious little fact about George Washington the other day. As the first president, he was offered a salary of 25, 000 bucks. That would have gone a long way in 1789. But because he was already a wealthy man, he determined that he didn't need the money, and turned the salary down. How I would love to see this happen in our time. To see people foregoing their own senseless gain for the sake of others. How novel, and how wonderful that would be. I wonder if W really needs that $400,000 salary and $200,000 personal expense account each year? I hear oil goes for a pretty tidy sum these days.
Wrapping it up for another night, folks. Please share your comments. I get tired of writing out here alone. Is anyone reading, I wonder? Issues on your mind that are worth batting around in the blog? Let me know.
Reduce sports coverage by about 75 percent. As much as I love Wimbledon and skiing and watching a good nailbiter once in a while, there are far too many opportunities to sit around watching these activities. I think I did discover recently why I think men, in particular, can consume endless amounts of sports tv; it's a simple construct that involves knowing the rules and playing by them and then having an outcome where someone wins and someone loses. In other words, it's not like life and provides an escape from all those things that don't play by a set of fixed rules -- things like relationship and kids.
Onto a predominantly female vice now: chat shows. I figure we could do without these altogether, but just to stave off a revolt, I'll say, reduce by 95 percent, leaving Oprah and Dr Phil intact.
All the airtime saved from sports and chats shows can now be put to good use by running documentaries, adding an additional C-SPAN channel, adding a BBC channel, and broadcasting all those amazing foreign films that no one ever sees outside the Mayan or Esquire.
I like commercial free tv, so I would make a tax on all the corporate fat cats who have retained their salaries and pensions on the proverbial backs of their employees and their pensions. We'd have more than enough to run Ellen TV for many years. Check out, for instance, United Airlines CEO's annual salary and his 4.5 million pension that will remain protected when his employees (mostly blue collar) have only a portion of what they were guaranteed to retire on. Oops, sorry 'bout that!
I would require that an automatic detonating device be installed in all tv sets. At the slightest hint of any car, weightloss, prescription drug, or food commercial, the set would implode.
If you desire to be a part of my new tv scheme for America, please add your comments and pass along your suggestions. I have more ideas, but I'll bring them out slowly. Too much change, too fast may overwhelm the general populace.
Questions:
Since we're on the subject of tv, how about those erectile dysfunction ads. My question is, Why is the person in these commercials, the one who is discussing said problem with the audience, very discretely mind you, The Woman? As far as I am aware, I have never met a woman with this problem. Can the man not speak due to his distress?
Related to corporate bosses: whatever happened to fairness, equity, and believing that businesses were meant to not exclusively serve the greed of those in power, but rather they were meant to function as an institution in society which provided blessing for both boss and employee? When I see lay offs and situations like United and yet see those who are in charge still bringing home more money than most honest folks will ever see even if they win the Lotto, it breaks my heart, truly. How can avarice so cloud and bankrupt a person's soul that they simply do not care about those who make their luxury possible?
Observation:
I read a curious little fact about George Washington the other day. As the first president, he was offered a salary of 25, 000 bucks. That would have gone a long way in 1789. But because he was already a wealthy man, he determined that he didn't need the money, and turned the salary down. How I would love to see this happen in our time. To see people foregoing their own senseless gain for the sake of others. How novel, and how wonderful that would be. I wonder if W really needs that $400,000 salary and $200,000 personal expense account each year? I hear oil goes for a pretty tidy sum these days.
Wrapping it up for another night, folks. Please share your comments. I get tired of writing out here alone. Is anyone reading, I wonder? Issues on your mind that are worth batting around in the blog? Let me know.
09 May, 2005
just a place to put it down
On long days when thoughts are rocketing around in my mind about nearly anything and everything possible, I kind of feel like I am playing King of the Mountain (or Queen in my case) and fielding dirt clods from every direction. Inevitably one of them is going to catch me on the chin, forehead, or as happened many times when I was a kid, in the temple (I KNOW, this explains it ALL, doesn't it!). Well, it's about 9:30pm, kinda late to write, but by now several of these clods have exploded on my face, and I need a way to clean'em all off, so I feel like I can go to sleep tonight without them lingering. Lots of them have no import for anyone else, but I will still put them down.
So apropos of nothing...
1. Gloria and Norte, the two birds of prey near the wetlands by my house, have vanished. Developers have bought most all the area around the wetlands, but they were forced to leave a conservation easement. Trucks and Caterpillers and all manner of motorized thing have been pushing and hauling dirt, rumbling and bumbling around, pushing up clouds of diesel into the air around the wetlands. And now, the Red-Tail Hawk (that's Gloria because that's what you wanna say when you see her--Gloria!) and Norte, a male Northern Harrier, have decided it's all too busy and noisy. They breed around here every year, but their hunting grounds are turning into cleared lots and driveways. They have been my friends out on my walks since I came back to the US, part of a quiet space that still seemed set aside for animals - to be. To just go about their business of doing animal stuff. And they take my breath away, the way they hunt, they way they fly, catching the thermals, the Red-Tail's cry. I've seen many other animals out there -- foxes, coyotes, pheasants, killdeer (my favourite!), western meadowlarks, American tree sparrows, prairie dogs, rabbits, various ducks and Canada geese. I hope they don't all get so undone by all of our DOING that they decide to up and move for good. What will I do without them?
2. Landscaping in Colorado....and throughout the Southwest for that matter. We're in a season of drought and have been for the last several years. I heard a guy on NPR say it's possible the conditions are making for a time like the Dust Bowl days. And there's a lot of clamouring about water and conservation, but do people really care? Do they really give a damn? No, I don't think so. My evidence. The American lawn. 99.5 percent of Americans somehow believe that a lush green lawn is a birthright, no matter where you live, no matter the climate or the demand for resources. So, for instance, if you live in Phoenix (a DESERT), you still have every right to expect an emerald green lawn, and more importantly, golf course, where millions and millions of gallons of water will be used every year. Here in Colorado, we're just a high plains DESERT, so that must not really count either as a place that is naturally meant to be DRY. My parents have done some very cool xeroscaping and have used all native plants in their garden...and it's BEAUTIFUL. In fact, they have attracted over 85 species of birds and all sorts of animals (I named our raccoon, Bandit), demonstrating you don't have to be a water hog claiming divine right to have a pleasant place to recreate outdoors.
3. Things I must have in several locations:
Sets of keys (my former flatmate took years of convincing to believe this was not a character flaw)
Chapstick (any flavour, but must be located in several convenient locations, purse, bathroom, bedside table, car (except summer months)
Allergy meds/tissues
pens/scratchpaper
a plastic mug for water or tea or coffee (one in car, in bathroom, by bed)
gloves -- year round (Raynaud's sufferers round the world are clapping now!)
books (everywhere except bathroom...who wants to prolong that whole experience anyway? Classify under: something Ellen will never understand.)
AlkaSeltzer (because life is stressful..at least these days)
address books (of varying degrees of currency)
a fleece hoodie
i'm sure there are others, but this list is having the desired soporific effect, and i am getting tired of thinking about these trivialities.....
4. Finding a job stinks. However, since yesterday it has occured to me that maybe i have been shooting for LESS than I ought to in that wise. Perhaps i need to believe that i could get paid a decent amount of money to use the skills i have, and maybe, just maybe, someone would believe in me and hire me for a job like that. Hmmm. I'm having a rubbish day, so I feel reluctant to believe this, but something tells me I am "getting it" finally. Yawn.
5. I need to get my fishing gear tidied up, in order, ready to go for the season. The hatch is on and the fish are hungry. As a treat to myself on a low day about a month ago, I bought my fishing license for 2005. I just needed to feel like life was gonna get better and that I'd get back to doing all that normal fun stuff someday, like fishing. Do you know the thrill of putting a perfect cast onto the water, and just at the moment the fly is making its descent onto the water, WHAM, the trout is out and up and on top of the fly, leaping and straining, and pretty much dazzling the heck out of you? Wow, now that's something to fall asleep thinking about...certainty of lovely, sun-kissed dreams...ah...
Goodnight.
So apropos of nothing...
1. Gloria and Norte, the two birds of prey near the wetlands by my house, have vanished. Developers have bought most all the area around the wetlands, but they were forced to leave a conservation easement. Trucks and Caterpillers and all manner of motorized thing have been pushing and hauling dirt, rumbling and bumbling around, pushing up clouds of diesel into the air around the wetlands. And now, the Red-Tail Hawk (that's Gloria because that's what you wanna say when you see her--Gloria!) and Norte, a male Northern Harrier, have decided it's all too busy and noisy. They breed around here every year, but their hunting grounds are turning into cleared lots and driveways. They have been my friends out on my walks since I came back to the US, part of a quiet space that still seemed set aside for animals - to be. To just go about their business of doing animal stuff. And they take my breath away, the way they hunt, they way they fly, catching the thermals, the Red-Tail's cry. I've seen many other animals out there -- foxes, coyotes, pheasants, killdeer (my favourite!), western meadowlarks, American tree sparrows, prairie dogs, rabbits, various ducks and Canada geese. I hope they don't all get so undone by all of our DOING that they decide to up and move for good. What will I do without them?
2. Landscaping in Colorado....and throughout the Southwest for that matter. We're in a season of drought and have been for the last several years. I heard a guy on NPR say it's possible the conditions are making for a time like the Dust Bowl days. And there's a lot of clamouring about water and conservation, but do people really care? Do they really give a damn? No, I don't think so. My evidence. The American lawn. 99.5 percent of Americans somehow believe that a lush green lawn is a birthright, no matter where you live, no matter the climate or the demand for resources. So, for instance, if you live in Phoenix (a DESERT), you still have every right to expect an emerald green lawn, and more importantly, golf course, where millions and millions of gallons of water will be used every year. Here in Colorado, we're just a high plains DESERT, so that must not really count either as a place that is naturally meant to be DRY. My parents have done some very cool xeroscaping and have used all native plants in their garden...and it's BEAUTIFUL. In fact, they have attracted over 85 species of birds and all sorts of animals (I named our raccoon, Bandit), demonstrating you don't have to be a water hog claiming divine right to have a pleasant place to recreate outdoors.
3. Things I must have in several locations:
Sets of keys (my former flatmate took years of convincing to believe this was not a character flaw)
Chapstick (any flavour, but must be located in several convenient locations, purse, bathroom, bedside table, car (except summer months)
Allergy meds/tissues
pens/scratchpaper
a plastic mug for water or tea or coffee (one in car, in bathroom, by bed)
gloves -- year round (Raynaud's sufferers round the world are clapping now!)
books (everywhere except bathroom...who wants to prolong that whole experience anyway? Classify under: something Ellen will never understand.)
AlkaSeltzer (because life is stressful..at least these days)
address books (of varying degrees of currency)
a fleece hoodie
i'm sure there are others, but this list is having the desired soporific effect, and i am getting tired of thinking about these trivialities.....
4. Finding a job stinks. However, since yesterday it has occured to me that maybe i have been shooting for LESS than I ought to in that wise. Perhaps i need to believe that i could get paid a decent amount of money to use the skills i have, and maybe, just maybe, someone would believe in me and hire me for a job like that. Hmmm. I'm having a rubbish day, so I feel reluctant to believe this, but something tells me I am "getting it" finally. Yawn.
5. I need to get my fishing gear tidied up, in order, ready to go for the season. The hatch is on and the fish are hungry. As a treat to myself on a low day about a month ago, I bought my fishing license for 2005. I just needed to feel like life was gonna get better and that I'd get back to doing all that normal fun stuff someday, like fishing. Do you know the thrill of putting a perfect cast onto the water, and just at the moment the fly is making its descent onto the water, WHAM, the trout is out and up and on top of the fly, leaping and straining, and pretty much dazzling the heck out of you? Wow, now that's something to fall asleep thinking about...certainty of lovely, sun-kissed dreams...ah...
Goodnight.
06 May, 2005
car talk
Whatever happened to the still small voice, I ask you? That inkling in your heart or spirit or your gut that jingles, "this is the way, walk ye in it" and you just know that you know, you have been spoken to and you need to follow that directive? I haven't heard God like that for a LONG time, I think. My part of the conversation certainly hasn't been of the still, small voice variety for quite a while. Screaming out into the empty foothills where I hike, listening to my voice echo off the canyon walls, I have tried the direct route. I am pounding on the door and throwing rocks at it. Anything to get a response. But the response I am getting is altogether weird. I am not "getting a word" or a scripture or having my Bible fly open to some passage I need to read particularly badly; none of that. I think God knows I am fed up with religious crap. In fact, lots of the response is just big, fat, wide open space. Empty, clear blue sky, and sunshine. There's a lot to ponder there. But it's not that part that seems curious to me. The truly bemusing part is his car talk.
I received my car from a church, a very generous church, when I came back from the UK. The title was signed on the back, "Gift". And so it was. The car has a name: Spirit. No kidding. I own a 1990 Dodge Spirit. A holy roller car, for sure. (I could feel some sort of celestial grin already coming on from God from the very beginning of my history with this vehicle.) Once the Gifted Spirit came fully into my possession and I was on the road, this very average, old American car, (FYI: I am not the American car type...meaning, bring on a Toyota or -- dream of dreams -- a Volkswagen or a Volvo, but NOT an American petrol sucking, emissions spewing car!), well, it began to talk to me. I didn't hear it at first. In fact, it's been talking me to me for over a year now, and I think I just understood it yesterday for the first time. And once heard, I am getting all the other nuanced messages from the past year.
I have had a persistant problem since I got my Spirit: the rearview mirror falls off and off and off. I have tried SuperGlue, industrial tape, new mounts, spit and cursing. Nothing will make this mirror stick. I finally relegated it to the front seat and call it my Makeup Mirror, perfect for those last minute touch-ups. I have had to spend a significant amount of time in my car this year, and not having my makeup mirror do its real job has been a PITA. But yesterday, driving home from Denver, minus mirror, I finally got it. Constantly looking backwards can be a really stupid thing, especially in heavy traffic. I don't need a rearview mirror, necessarily. In the Purgatorio, Dante has this fantastic punishment for those with the opposite problem...diviners who attempt to manipulate the prophetic, always seeing into the future, and so end up, compliments of the Almighty, with their heads screwed on backwards, negotiating the road to hell. I wonder what sort of trouble I might be in for always looking over my shoulder? Hmmm. I am paying attention now, and I think I am not in danger of some hellish punishment, but rather I feel some serious reassurance that now is what I need to keep my focus on. The past can dearly mess up your present if you pay too much attention to it.
The Control Panel. Very unreliable. Fuel gauge, speedometer, temperature gauge, oil gauge, and odometer, none of them works accurately, so I play a perpetual game of What's behind door number two, Bob? Are those fumes in my tank or do I have a full tank of gas? Thankfully, no major incidents have resulted. But again, a message comes to me: don't trust all the gauges...the way things look...being in control. Know what's under the hood and take care of it, and you'll keep ticking along. You'll be all right. So maybe I don't need to worry so much about all these rejections I am getting from employers, my mood swings, the living-with-my-parents stigma I feel so keenly, the Loser complex I fear will permanently blight my life, perhaps it WILL all turn out okay, former missionary will make good. So, okay, God I will do what I can to take care of what's under the hood.
You know, I laugh at those highlight Bible moments like when the disciples are out on the Sea of Galilee in their boat, right after the big bread and fish fiesta, and they're wondering what's for lunch, freaking out that they forgot to bring along snacks. Jesus must have groaned and pulled his hair. But if I laugh, I am laughing at myself, too. God's been talking to me for a whole year, just a few basic principles, a few simple lessons. Such simple words, but they wrap up my little package quite nicely. God is at work in my life, no matter how much I feel like denying it, and He's serious about these object lessons, and He seems to be serious about not giving up on me. So for the time being, I will rest content in that and will fire up the Holy Spirit each day, listening for more.
"Speak, for your servant is listening."
I received my car from a church, a very generous church, when I came back from the UK. The title was signed on the back, "Gift". And so it was. The car has a name: Spirit. No kidding. I own a 1990 Dodge Spirit. A holy roller car, for sure. (I could feel some sort of celestial grin already coming on from God from the very beginning of my history with this vehicle.) Once the Gifted Spirit came fully into my possession and I was on the road, this very average, old American car, (FYI: I am not the American car type...meaning, bring on a Toyota or -- dream of dreams -- a Volkswagen or a Volvo, but NOT an American petrol sucking, emissions spewing car!), well, it began to talk to me. I didn't hear it at first. In fact, it's been talking me to me for over a year now, and I think I just understood it yesterday for the first time. And once heard, I am getting all the other nuanced messages from the past year.
I have had a persistant problem since I got my Spirit: the rearview mirror falls off and off and off. I have tried SuperGlue, industrial tape, new mounts, spit and cursing. Nothing will make this mirror stick. I finally relegated it to the front seat and call it my Makeup Mirror, perfect for those last minute touch-ups. I have had to spend a significant amount of time in my car this year, and not having my makeup mirror do its real job has been a PITA. But yesterday, driving home from Denver, minus mirror, I finally got it. Constantly looking backwards can be a really stupid thing, especially in heavy traffic. I don't need a rearview mirror, necessarily. In the Purgatorio, Dante has this fantastic punishment for those with the opposite problem...diviners who attempt to manipulate the prophetic, always seeing into the future, and so end up, compliments of the Almighty, with their heads screwed on backwards, negotiating the road to hell. I wonder what sort of trouble I might be in for always looking over my shoulder? Hmmm. I am paying attention now, and I think I am not in danger of some hellish punishment, but rather I feel some serious reassurance that now is what I need to keep my focus on. The past can dearly mess up your present if you pay too much attention to it.
The Control Panel. Very unreliable. Fuel gauge, speedometer, temperature gauge, oil gauge, and odometer, none of them works accurately, so I play a perpetual game of What's behind door number two, Bob? Are those fumes in my tank or do I have a full tank of gas? Thankfully, no major incidents have resulted. But again, a message comes to me: don't trust all the gauges...the way things look...being in control. Know what's under the hood and take care of it, and you'll keep ticking along. You'll be all right. So maybe I don't need to worry so much about all these rejections I am getting from employers, my mood swings, the living-with-my-parents stigma I feel so keenly, the Loser complex I fear will permanently blight my life, perhaps it WILL all turn out okay, former missionary will make good. So, okay, God I will do what I can to take care of what's under the hood.
You know, I laugh at those highlight Bible moments like when the disciples are out on the Sea of Galilee in their boat, right after the big bread and fish fiesta, and they're wondering what's for lunch, freaking out that they forgot to bring along snacks. Jesus must have groaned and pulled his hair. But if I laugh, I am laughing at myself, too. God's been talking to me for a whole year, just a few basic principles, a few simple lessons. Such simple words, but they wrap up my little package quite nicely. God is at work in my life, no matter how much I feel like denying it, and He's serious about these object lessons, and He seems to be serious about not giving up on me. So for the time being, I will rest content in that and will fire up the Holy Spirit each day, listening for more.
"Speak, for your servant is listening."
04 May, 2005
it's hard to cry with your mouth full...
Sobs and salad don't mix. I was reminded of this a few days ago as wave after wave of tears tried to make it past The Guardian. I was eating lunch and not doing a very good job of it. Do not cry in front of others. Especially, do not cry in front of parents. Do not reveal to anyone you are having a hard time. Do not show defeat. Crying outloud and with lots of pathos, in front of everyone, with no apologies, is an horrible act of treason against the Family Way. Achtung! Continue eating salad. Swallow hard.
I am not naturally predisposed to being tearful, and I am often confused about why I am actually crying when I do. Maybe only a hyperanalytical person would ask that, but it's important for me to know why I am crying, because it's truly an event when emotion breaks free and does its thing. And it often is in complete isolation from a triggering event. I sometimes cry weeks or months after something has disturbed me...it's simply a long way up to my lacrimal glands, I guess. All in all, I have come to scrap most of the chapters of the said Family Way on the subject of Emotion, so I am charged with the weighty duty of writing some new content, and so I am pondering all this, for research.
I was a little worried a several weeks back when I realised that over a period of months only two things had brought me to tears, one which seemed very reasonable, the other dissonant. The reason it (not crying for so long) worried me was that I could feel myself diving beneath the surface waters of my life -- churn, churn, churn -- to greater depths where the water is calmer, more quiescent, but not necessarily safer (sharks and scary stuff lurk there). Watching The Hiding Place was the first thing that brought everything to a halt, which seemed wholly reasonable. The second was when I thought I had broken my beloved short wave radio. Yes, true. I sat down on my bed, clutching my radio, and wept.
My little Sangean has taken on a life of its own. It travels with me, sits on my bedside table, talks to me in the shower, wakes me up in the morning. It's not that I listen to my radio an inordinate number of hours, it's just that it's there, as so few things have been these last few years. And during a tremendously difficult time, when I felt the world closing in on me, it was there, with its shortwave capability, reminding me that the world was expansive yet, and open, so much left to touch and learn of. Because sleep was eluding me then, I would lie in my loft at night, up near the ceiling, where I could study the texture of the anaglypta and look for cracks, and I would turn on my radio. Softly, voices spoke in the night. They spoke to me in tongues...ones I knew and others that I didn't. They ran over me, through me, taking my mind to far off places and peoples, and so I could sleep. Like a lullaby, like a bedtime story.
Lately, I have all sorts of data to collect....ridiculous moments -- catching myself tearing up watching a Hallmark advert (so NOT me!), crying in my dreams because I keep getting lost and can't find my way back to Centre Station, crying because someone who has rarely been able to show me tenderness did, and now I am reading a book that although it's a speedy read, it's got a grip on my insides in a way I cannot fully get. And I keep water-damaging the pages.
I am not sure why it's important for me to tell you this, fill you in on my research, but somehow this particular process of discovery doesn't seem to work well in the safe environment of a laboratory where all the proper controls can be placed on things...meaning its all contained and hidden and unknown. Here, out in the public place of my trusted friends, I am doing my hypothesizing and trials. I have been letting myself off the hook to try and reach grand conclusions about all this (not a very good scientist - can't stick to the rules); I just keep following these smaller insights like a trail of crumbs - to somewhere or someone I want to get to.
I am not naturally predisposed to being tearful, and I am often confused about why I am actually crying when I do. Maybe only a hyperanalytical person would ask that, but it's important for me to know why I am crying, because it's truly an event when emotion breaks free and does its thing. And it often is in complete isolation from a triggering event. I sometimes cry weeks or months after something has disturbed me...it's simply a long way up to my lacrimal glands, I guess. All in all, I have come to scrap most of the chapters of the said Family Way on the subject of Emotion, so I am charged with the weighty duty of writing some new content, and so I am pondering all this, for research.
I was a little worried a several weeks back when I realised that over a period of months only two things had brought me to tears, one which seemed very reasonable, the other dissonant. The reason it (not crying for so long) worried me was that I could feel myself diving beneath the surface waters of my life -- churn, churn, churn -- to greater depths where the water is calmer, more quiescent, but not necessarily safer (sharks and scary stuff lurk there). Watching The Hiding Place was the first thing that brought everything to a halt, which seemed wholly reasonable. The second was when I thought I had broken my beloved short wave radio. Yes, true. I sat down on my bed, clutching my radio, and wept.
My little Sangean has taken on a life of its own. It travels with me, sits on my bedside table, talks to me in the shower, wakes me up in the morning. It's not that I listen to my radio an inordinate number of hours, it's just that it's there, as so few things have been these last few years. And during a tremendously difficult time, when I felt the world closing in on me, it was there, with its shortwave capability, reminding me that the world was expansive yet, and open, so much left to touch and learn of. Because sleep was eluding me then, I would lie in my loft at night, up near the ceiling, where I could study the texture of the anaglypta and look for cracks, and I would turn on my radio. Softly, voices spoke in the night. They spoke to me in tongues...ones I knew and others that I didn't. They ran over me, through me, taking my mind to far off places and peoples, and so I could sleep. Like a lullaby, like a bedtime story.
Lately, I have all sorts of data to collect....ridiculous moments -- catching myself tearing up watching a Hallmark advert (so NOT me!), crying in my dreams because I keep getting lost and can't find my way back to Centre Station, crying because someone who has rarely been able to show me tenderness did, and now I am reading a book that although it's a speedy read, it's got a grip on my insides in a way I cannot fully get. And I keep water-damaging the pages.
I am not sure why it's important for me to tell you this, fill you in on my research, but somehow this particular process of discovery doesn't seem to work well in the safe environment of a laboratory where all the proper controls can be placed on things...meaning its all contained and hidden and unknown. Here, out in the public place of my trusted friends, I am doing my hypothesizing and trials. I have been letting myself off the hook to try and reach grand conclusions about all this (not a very good scientist - can't stick to the rules); I just keep following these smaller insights like a trail of crumbs - to somewhere or someone I want to get to.
28 April, 2005
blogs and sisters
The twenty minute countdown to ER is on, so I have to be brief about all this, but I wanted to do something a little unconventional and possibly illegal in the 'sphere. I am swiping my sister's blog entry and posting it here.
My sister started a blog last month, and while her significant other was away in Italy, she hammered out several days worth. She started out with a bang, and I loved reading her stuff because it was my Jannie, the lovely person I know she is, funny, witty, intelligent, and full, full, full of heart. She is, and I love saying that! Not absence (see last blog) but presence. And she keeps showing up as Anne Lamott likes to say. And though it may not always form a cohesive picture, this showing up that she does day after day, it all seems to count most profoundly with the Author of her life. When she defies, even for a moment, the call from certain others or even herself to play traitor to herself, and she shows up and She is, I can honestly say I feel, yes, feel the pleasure of God.
She's going through a rough time right now, and this is my little tribute to her. I want you to read her last blog. She wrote it right before her SO came back from Bella Italia, and she hasn't written since. I want you, reader, to also know how lovely and tender my sometimes missing sister is. Jan, may you discover in the ensuing days, while you're trying to get the wayward Subaru turned around, how truly wonderful She is. I love you.
An excerpt from Jannie's Jumbles:
March 27, 2005
clipping toenails
I just have to say that the best thing about this day was not the fact that my 17, in a few days, son went to church with us this morning for the 2nd time in a year. No, even better, he asked me if I would cut his toenails.They are as hard as rhinoceros nails and he needed them trimmed so that his soccer cleats would fit(don't think too hard about this) This request came from a boy who probably hugs me twice a year and stiffly at that. I got to hold his size 13 feet in my hands and ,as yucky as they were, I wanted to kiss them and never let them go. They were as precious to me in that moment as when I first counted his tiny newborn toes. This was exquisite. There I was,at last, connecting with Drummer boy in the most unlikely way and I took as long as I could to do the job. I felt like someone who'd been trying to make friends with a wild animal and after months it finally lets you pet it and talk to it a little. Of course, I could not let on that I was having this transcendent moment, so I went on about having his bunion looked at and about where in the world he got such substantially thick toenails. Thank you Lord for letting me be awake enough to recognize your presence in the smell of sweaty boy feet.
My sister started a blog last month, and while her significant other was away in Italy, she hammered out several days worth. She started out with a bang, and I loved reading her stuff because it was my Jannie, the lovely person I know she is, funny, witty, intelligent, and full, full, full of heart. She is, and I love saying that! Not absence (see last blog) but presence. And she keeps showing up as Anne Lamott likes to say. And though it may not always form a cohesive picture, this showing up that she does day after day, it all seems to count most profoundly with the Author of her life. When she defies, even for a moment, the call from certain others or even herself to play traitor to herself, and she shows up and She is, I can honestly say I feel, yes, feel the pleasure of God.
She's going through a rough time right now, and this is my little tribute to her. I want you to read her last blog. She wrote it right before her SO came back from Bella Italia, and she hasn't written since. I want you, reader, to also know how lovely and tender my sometimes missing sister is. Jan, may you discover in the ensuing days, while you're trying to get the wayward Subaru turned around, how truly wonderful She is. I love you.
An excerpt from Jannie's Jumbles:
March 27, 2005
clipping toenails
I just have to say that the best thing about this day was not the fact that my 17, in a few days, son went to church with us this morning for the 2nd time in a year. No, even better, he asked me if I would cut his toenails.They are as hard as rhinoceros nails and he needed them trimmed so that his soccer cleats would fit(don't think too hard about this) This request came from a boy who probably hugs me twice a year and stiffly at that. I got to hold his size 13 feet in my hands and ,as yucky as they were, I wanted to kiss them and never let them go. They were as precious to me in that moment as when I first counted his tiny newborn toes. This was exquisite. There I was,at last, connecting with Drummer boy in the most unlikely way and I took as long as I could to do the job. I felt like someone who'd been trying to make friends with a wild animal and after months it finally lets you pet it and talk to it a little. Of course, I could not let on that I was having this transcendent moment, so I went on about having his bunion looked at and about where in the world he got such substantially thick toenails. Thank you Lord for letting me be awake enough to recognize your presence in the smell of sweaty boy feet.
25 April, 2005
she says
"...si no habla, no habla."
This is what a professor of mine once said to my Spanish oral proficiency class. In the context of trying to learn another language, she simply said that if you don't talk (or practice speaking), you will not talk or speak. While that is self evident, those words jumped inside of me and shook me, terrified me, and I remember them still; I wrote them down in a small journal I brought to class. If I do not speak, I will not speak. If I do not have my say or speak what is in my heart for others to actually hear or read, I will never have spoken. To live my life out in silence...silence of body, of mind, of spirit; this would be a tomb.
There is a famous poem by Rosario Castellanos entitled, "Meditación en el umbral" (Meditation on the Threshold) in which a litany of women and their voices and their lives are held out as reminders that to be a woman that says or does in this life is dangerous. I wish I could share the poem with all of you, but I know most of you speak other languages besides Spanish (I am sure there must be good English translation out there). It's a rending poem about the injustices women, who haven't resigned themselves to absence, suffer for being and becoming. I'll include it here, just in case you'd like to read it.
I am 37 and have carried my professor's words with me now for probably a decade and a half. I still struggle to find this "other way of being" that Castellanos writes so poignantly about. Another way in which I listen to the truest part of myself, hear her out, let her tirades fly, feel her stabs of brokenness, rumble in her anger, recognise her tenderness, taste her salt, love her sparks, and then express, create, tell. Be. Perhaps it is not so important to whom the story would be of significance. Perhaps it is becoming of greatest importance to no one but me.
Hablo. Digo. Soy.
---------------------------------------
Rosario Castellanos
Meditación en el umbral (en Otros poemas, 1972)
No, no es la solución
tirarse bajo un tren como la Ana de Tolstoi
ni apurar el arsénico de Madame Bovary
ni aguardar en los páramos de Ávila la visita
del ángel con venablo
antes de liarse el manto a la cabeza
y comenzar a actuar.
No concluir las leyes geométricas, contando
las vigas de la celda de castigo
como lo hizo Sor Juana. No es la solución
escribir, mientras llegan las visitas
en la sala de estar de la familia Austen
ni encerrarse en el ático
de alguna residencia de la Nueva Inglaterra
y soñar, con la Biblia de los Dickinson
debajo de una almohada de soltera.
Debe haber otro modo que no se llame Safo
ni Mesalina ni María Egipciaca
ni Magdalena ni Clemencia Isaura.
Otro modo de ser humano y libre.
Otro modo de ser.
This is what a professor of mine once said to my Spanish oral proficiency class. In the context of trying to learn another language, she simply said that if you don't talk (or practice speaking), you will not talk or speak. While that is self evident, those words jumped inside of me and shook me, terrified me, and I remember them still; I wrote them down in a small journal I brought to class. If I do not speak, I will not speak. If I do not have my say or speak what is in my heart for others to actually hear or read, I will never have spoken. To live my life out in silence...silence of body, of mind, of spirit; this would be a tomb.
There is a famous poem by Rosario Castellanos entitled, "Meditación en el umbral" (Meditation on the Threshold) in which a litany of women and their voices and their lives are held out as reminders that to be a woman that says or does in this life is dangerous. I wish I could share the poem with all of you, but I know most of you speak other languages besides Spanish (I am sure there must be good English translation out there). It's a rending poem about the injustices women, who haven't resigned themselves to absence, suffer for being and becoming. I'll include it here, just in case you'd like to read it.
I am 37 and have carried my professor's words with me now for probably a decade and a half. I still struggle to find this "other way of being" that Castellanos writes so poignantly about. Another way in which I listen to the truest part of myself, hear her out, let her tirades fly, feel her stabs of brokenness, rumble in her anger, recognise her tenderness, taste her salt, love her sparks, and then express, create, tell. Be. Perhaps it is not so important to whom the story would be of significance. Perhaps it is becoming of greatest importance to no one but me.
Hablo. Digo. Soy.
---------------------------------------
Rosario Castellanos
Meditación en el umbral (en Otros poemas, 1972)
No, no es la solución
tirarse bajo un tren como la Ana de Tolstoi
ni apurar el arsénico de Madame Bovary
ni aguardar en los páramos de Ávila la visita
del ángel con venablo
antes de liarse el manto a la cabeza
y comenzar a actuar.
No concluir las leyes geométricas, contando
las vigas de la celda de castigo
como lo hizo Sor Juana. No es la solución
escribir, mientras llegan las visitas
en la sala de estar de la familia Austen
ni encerrarse en el ático
de alguna residencia de la Nueva Inglaterra
y soñar, con la Biblia de los Dickinson
debajo de una almohada de soltera.
Debe haber otro modo que no se llame Safo
ni Mesalina ni María Egipciaca
ni Magdalena ni Clemencia Isaura.
Otro modo de ser humano y libre.
Otro modo de ser.
15 April, 2005
chuckles in the night
It's the middle of the night usually when it happens. I awake for no reason...3am or thereabouts....and I am wide awake. I don't usually know what to do with this. WHY is the first question out of my mouth about anything, so after I have tried to analyse WHY I would be waking up....stress?....too much caffeine?....foot pain?..., whatever, I lie there and do what I do best: think. "To think is to work" for the INTP, so I am not sure why I feel like working that time of day, but I do. But it's a different kind of work and I have less control over what floats by on the monitor. Lately, funny things have been appearing...things that literally make me laugh outloud.
Out of nowhere...bing...! A night I spent in the Gobi desert in the cab of a Russian lorry. Lying end to end like sardines with Elaine, a (thankfully) very thin team member of mine, sharing our impromptu bed. We hadn't expected to be out all night with our vodka drunk driver. We had hoped to make it to the capital of the Middle Gobi province. But somewhere between UB (Ulanbaatar) and the middle of the Gobi, the vodka had it's way...and the bat out hell lorry, screaming across the desert (no roads...just "ways" and ruts and ditches) almost bought it. It was around 2am. That's when I was banged out of the bone jarring, head bobbing slumber I was in when I realised I was airborne and the banging sound was my head hitting the metal ceiling of the truck's cab. We were hauling commodities for the UN and I suppose the prospect of dying under a tonne of rice or milk powder and not getting paid sobered our driver enough to say, Enough.
It's damn cold in the Gobi in springtime, and we froze our asses off, to be straight about it. No sleep for the weary. An unexpected stop means no sleeping bag, no blankies, no thermos of hot tea. No cosy, cosy. Why do I do this job, I wondered to myself that night, exasperated and tired already by all the bureaucratic tedium we had had to wait on to finally get this little mission underway. But inside, secretly, I was chuckling. Chuckling when our driver gave us the heads up that he was "going to check on the horses" : a gesture rather, meaning....he tugged at the corner of his eye with his index finger, made donkey ears behind his head with two fingers on each hand, and then promptly staggered to one of the back tires and peed on it. At last, Mongolian I could understand. And chuckling that this HAD to be one of the best places in the world to spend the night, and in such company. And then, sunrise on the Gobi. Between the cold, the sunrise, and my own quick trip to the back tire, I was breathless, too. Another chuckle.
Not unexpectedly, the remainder of the trip played out similarly, complete with a meeting with the Governer of the whole province, on just one hour's sleep (which is the one hour I got on the concrete floor of our "hotel"). I surely impressed in my dust covered clothes, hiking boots, and matted hair. And on it all went.....
And still goes. You know, some people talk of waking up to nightmares or bad dreams, but I'll be content if this is the sort of thing that keeps peeking its head out, from under the covers, to surprise me. No amount of world-weariness or personal confusion can take away the good and outright fun of those moments. I am blessed. Truly.
Out of nowhere...bing...! A night I spent in the Gobi desert in the cab of a Russian lorry. Lying end to end like sardines with Elaine, a (thankfully) very thin team member of mine, sharing our impromptu bed. We hadn't expected to be out all night with our vodka drunk driver. We had hoped to make it to the capital of the Middle Gobi province. But somewhere between UB (Ulanbaatar) and the middle of the Gobi, the vodka had it's way...and the bat out hell lorry, screaming across the desert (no roads...just "ways" and ruts and ditches) almost bought it. It was around 2am. That's when I was banged out of the bone jarring, head bobbing slumber I was in when I realised I was airborne and the banging sound was my head hitting the metal ceiling of the truck's cab. We were hauling commodities for the UN and I suppose the prospect of dying under a tonne of rice or milk powder and not getting paid sobered our driver enough to say, Enough.
It's damn cold in the Gobi in springtime, and we froze our asses off, to be straight about it. No sleep for the weary. An unexpected stop means no sleeping bag, no blankies, no thermos of hot tea. No cosy, cosy. Why do I do this job, I wondered to myself that night, exasperated and tired already by all the bureaucratic tedium we had had to wait on to finally get this little mission underway. But inside, secretly, I was chuckling. Chuckling when our driver gave us the heads up that he was "going to check on the horses" : a gesture rather, meaning....he tugged at the corner of his eye with his index finger, made donkey ears behind his head with two fingers on each hand, and then promptly staggered to one of the back tires and peed on it. At last, Mongolian I could understand. And chuckling that this HAD to be one of the best places in the world to spend the night, and in such company. And then, sunrise on the Gobi. Between the cold, the sunrise, and my own quick trip to the back tire, I was breathless, too. Another chuckle.
Not unexpectedly, the remainder of the trip played out similarly, complete with a meeting with the Governer of the whole province, on just one hour's sleep (which is the one hour I got on the concrete floor of our "hotel"). I surely impressed in my dust covered clothes, hiking boots, and matted hair. And on it all went.....
And still goes. You know, some people talk of waking up to nightmares or bad dreams, but I'll be content if this is the sort of thing that keeps peeking its head out, from under the covers, to surprise me. No amount of world-weariness or personal confusion can take away the good and outright fun of those moments. I am blessed. Truly.
05 April, 2005
Pleasure Appeal
Today I am publishing a Pleasure Appeal. I am writing to solicit your ideas, your thoughts, your ruminations on this thing that is so vital to our lives....enjoyment, pleasure, happiness...whatever it's called. Someone reminded me yesterday that I have a bent (or affinity for, whichever way you see it!) toward intensity, which I suppose I will take as a compliment; I certainly like this about myself. However, the same intensity that can inspire a revolution can zealously want to control, too. So hearing these words was both affirmation and admonishment. Admonishment in the sense that I should use intensity to advantage but also that I use it to enjoy life. Am I enjoying, experiencing pleasure in any area of my life, I wondered? Being a creature of earth and air, how can I know what it means to be alive today?
So I am here to ask you all what you do for fun, what makes you feel alive, how pleasure has its proper place in your lives? Here's my expectation: that if you read this...you will hopefully take a moment to reply. I WANT input. Anyone reading this has my personal email, so if you prefer writing that way, do so. Or post a comment. Makes no difference to me. The request for your ideas is not necessarily so I can imitate or recreate what you do. Ideas for me are more like electricity....like leaning onto, by accident, an electrified fence....all I can do is shout and shake myself and say, damn! what was THAT? I have sensations I don't often feel, I experience something that I cannot put words to, and then I know I am going into the realm of the intuitive. And then I know I am getting closer to home, closer. And that's surely a help to me right now.
That's me. Appeal done. Ahora te toca a ti.
So I am here to ask you all what you do for fun, what makes you feel alive, how pleasure has its proper place in your lives? Here's my expectation: that if you read this...you will hopefully take a moment to reply. I WANT input. Anyone reading this has my personal email, so if you prefer writing that way, do so. Or post a comment. Makes no difference to me. The request for your ideas is not necessarily so I can imitate or recreate what you do. Ideas for me are more like electricity....like leaning onto, by accident, an electrified fence....all I can do is shout and shake myself and say, damn! what was THAT? I have sensations I don't often feel, I experience something that I cannot put words to, and then I know I am going into the realm of the intuitive. And then I know I am getting closer to home, closer. And that's surely a help to me right now.
That's me. Appeal done. Ahora te toca a ti.
31 March, 2005
biti
Biti is the Turkish word for finished, all gone, it's over. It is nearly always said with a brushing of the hands, a dusting off of what once was present but now is past. Done.
So biti, I say on this windy day, covered in the dust of many circumstances, words, names, to
lent...for one more year...my time of less was more, but answers to hard questions still elude me. the pascal mystery felt bettered celebrated this year by making a cosy lunch for my parents in their home because my mom, temporarily disabled, could not. Church for me and perhaps for my parents happened around the dinner table. Imperfect, yet a way of declaring peace where peace is not always to be found. I set an extra place for Jesus at this table: the celebrated guest.
to friendships I engaged in, made the decision to be part of because I just did...not much thought as I got myself into them 5, 10, 15 years ago...but with good intentions...but now they have taken turns I no longer understand or want to travel. The curvy road is making me sick. I won't cut off relationship, but I will change who I am in them, and if the weight of those decisions cannot be held by the strength of the bridge, then so be it.
to having to have all the answers. The universe in its grandeur declares to me how little I know. How little I would be capable of explaining to anyone. Scientists cannot even accurately predict how a few drops of milk will move around in your coffee cup each time you make your morning java. How many things I do each day for which I could offer no real explanation as to why they actually work. How would I explain what happens when the tulips in springtime start to pierce the soil in their straining towards daylight and rain....when they unfold themselves, baring their bravest colours?
To end is to rest and to make my small declarations is liberating. I know that with each brushing of my hands and heart, I will start again. Seeds newly planted will cycle through the necessary frames of growth, and so, I suppose, for today, I can hope, hope for what is next, for what seeds will begin to germinate beneath the surface, for what their glorious flowers will say when they arrive.
It's nice to back.
So biti, I say on this windy day, covered in the dust of many circumstances, words, names, to
lent...for one more year...my time of less was more, but answers to hard questions still elude me. the pascal mystery felt bettered celebrated this year by making a cosy lunch for my parents in their home because my mom, temporarily disabled, could not. Church for me and perhaps for my parents happened around the dinner table. Imperfect, yet a way of declaring peace where peace is not always to be found. I set an extra place for Jesus at this table: the celebrated guest.
to friendships I engaged in, made the decision to be part of because I just did...not much thought as I got myself into them 5, 10, 15 years ago...but with good intentions...but now they have taken turns I no longer understand or want to travel. The curvy road is making me sick. I won't cut off relationship, but I will change who I am in them, and if the weight of those decisions cannot be held by the strength of the bridge, then so be it.
to having to have all the answers. The universe in its grandeur declares to me how little I know. How little I would be capable of explaining to anyone. Scientists cannot even accurately predict how a few drops of milk will move around in your coffee cup each time you make your morning java. How many things I do each day for which I could offer no real explanation as to why they actually work. How would I explain what happens when the tulips in springtime start to pierce the soil in their straining towards daylight and rain....when they unfold themselves, baring their bravest colours?
To end is to rest and to make my small declarations is liberating. I know that with each brushing of my hands and heart, I will start again. Seeds newly planted will cycle through the necessary frames of growth, and so, I suppose, for today, I can hope, hope for what is next, for what seeds will begin to germinate beneath the surface, for what their glorious flowers will say when they arrive.
It's nice to back.
22 February, 2005
less
I grew up in the Episcopal church, so Lent always meant, first, Shrove Tuesday and eating pancakes (I had no clue as to why pancakes, normally a breakfast item, took on such prominence to be served at church and at night!), getting ashes smeared on my head during the Eucharist the next day, then all the adults talking about how much they missed desserts, Wednesday night programmes at church where the kids played, and all the adults ate potluck meals of meatless foods and listened to "a talk". Eventually it all turned into Holy Week and then Easter and then on and on the liturgical calendar galloped. I wasn't quite sure what Lent was all about in the midst of this strange routine I witnessed every year. In some ways, I continue to try and understand.
This year, I had a growing sense leading up to Lent that was just a single word: less. I hadn't prayed or meditated to come up with a Lenten discipline or theme. This word just started showing up in my gut, in my intuition anytime I stopped to listen, sometimes even when I wasn't trying at all to listen. Less.
Before I moved back to America, the Lord warned me that it would be rough going against the materialistic tide here. I took heed, but I figured I had endured plenty of things, suffered enough privation that all that materialism and consumerism would be easy to resist. Sure enough, when I got back to the land of Starbucks, Best Buy, and dread WalMart, most of it just reeked to me. I shuddered at the sheer number of shops and shopping venues and the endless push for personalisation and customization: "Have it your way!" -- the endless choices. But as overt as some of this is, I have realised over the last year that much of the ideology behind the marketing and promotion is quieter, more insidious, and it preys upon our basic fears, insecurities, and worries. The essential message, whether you're talking cars, money, food, clothes, phones, travel, prescription drugs, relationships, sex, or weapons is: more. You must have more. If something is good, it is better to have more of it. And you are not okay until you have The More.
Thankfully, Jesus does not think or act this way. Thankfully, through Him, we have a way out of this sticky web of deceit. Thankfully, He says things like: less.
So while I am not abstaining from desserts or alcohol or television or whatever during these 40 days, I am considering everything I do from the vantage point of less. This is not ascetic deprivation, it is a more temperate and steady choosing throughout the day that what I have, and more importantly, who I am, is okay. I can be content not having all of what I might want, either materially or otherwise. And wonderfully, I already feel so much the richer.
Jesus, one word from You, rocks me!
This year, I had a growing sense leading up to Lent that was just a single word: less. I hadn't prayed or meditated to come up with a Lenten discipline or theme. This word just started showing up in my gut, in my intuition anytime I stopped to listen, sometimes even when I wasn't trying at all to listen. Less.
Before I moved back to America, the Lord warned me that it would be rough going against the materialistic tide here. I took heed, but I figured I had endured plenty of things, suffered enough privation that all that materialism and consumerism would be easy to resist. Sure enough, when I got back to the land of Starbucks, Best Buy, and dread WalMart, most of it just reeked to me. I shuddered at the sheer number of shops and shopping venues and the endless push for personalisation and customization: "Have it your way!" -- the endless choices. But as overt as some of this is, I have realised over the last year that much of the ideology behind the marketing and promotion is quieter, more insidious, and it preys upon our basic fears, insecurities, and worries. The essential message, whether you're talking cars, money, food, clothes, phones, travel, prescription drugs, relationships, sex, or weapons is: more. You must have more. If something is good, it is better to have more of it. And you are not okay until you have The More.
Thankfully, Jesus does not think or act this way. Thankfully, through Him, we have a way out of this sticky web of deceit. Thankfully, He says things like: less.
So while I am not abstaining from desserts or alcohol or television or whatever during these 40 days, I am considering everything I do from the vantage point of less. This is not ascetic deprivation, it is a more temperate and steady choosing throughout the day that what I have, and more importantly, who I am, is okay. I can be content not having all of what I might want, either materially or otherwise. And wonderfully, I already feel so much the richer.
Jesus, one word from You, rocks me!
20 February, 2005
UP
Have been watching a brilliant documentary the past few days called the U;p Series. (I'd give you a link to it, but I don't know how to put that in yet. If you want more info...just write me an email.) I had seen portions of it on the BBC when I lived in the UK, but I have now, in the space of a few days, watched all five DVD's worth. In 1964, a documentary filmmaker decided to follow a group of 15 children from the ages of 7 to 42, visiting them every 7 years for an update. The premise of making the film was the famous quote, "Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man."
Has anyone else seen this? I know a few of you must have. How did it strike you? I was fascinated watching these kids, then adults, as they made choices about school, spouses, family, career, and lifestyle. I guess I find it of particular interest at the moment as my life feels all scattered about like a bowl of bits and bobs dumped out on a carpet, and I am evaluating decisions, choices, roads I've travelled. I could get all very broody about it, but I am trying not to. Analysis is good, to a point. In fact, I am trying to re-learn The Way of the Gut (a celebrated yogi teaching from the 7thC). That is, a way of knowing that bypasses the Analyst and goes straight south: How does it feel -- in my soul, in my ME, in my gut? I think God speaks to me far more clearly there than He does to my head. My head is a giant blender and garbles the message so often, I don't think it can act as a reliable relay anymore. I wonder if this means I am currently experiencing/having a brain bypass compliments of the Holy Surgeon?
Reflecting on the quote above, I try and recollect what or who I was at seven, and what I wanted from life, how I would have answered the same questions put to those kids. Can I remember what it was like to be seven, my seven? One very amusing memory that has come to me in all this and one that actually has something to do with decisions I have just made recently is this: I got sent to pre-school at about age 4/5, and I hated it. I, in fact, hated it almost immediately. I didn't like being fenced in in the playground area or having limits on where I could go. I didn't like being called, "Honey" by some woman that didn't even know me or maybe even my name. I figured out very quickly (first day at pre-school) my way of escape. I threw a ball over the fence and told the nice lady who was calling me honey that I was going to get the ball. Well, once the gate latch was open, I never looked back. I found my way home and was not discovered until my mother came home from work and found me alone in our family room, feet propped up, watching television, eating a peanut butter sandwich. Aha, I don't like institutions. I knew it at 5, and I am just now remembering it at 37. I could have saved myself a lot of hassle if I had passed on that knowledge from my kid self to my adult one!
So, watching this series has been enlightening, simply because it has stirred me and my memory and has reminded me that all that stuff I thought was important at 7, my books about the Wright Brothers, my love of sport and movement, the bright colours of tempera paint, my desire to be and feel connected with others, is just that: important.
Has anyone else seen this? I know a few of you must have. How did it strike you? I was fascinated watching these kids, then adults, as they made choices about school, spouses, family, career, and lifestyle. I guess I find it of particular interest at the moment as my life feels all scattered about like a bowl of bits and bobs dumped out on a carpet, and I am evaluating decisions, choices, roads I've travelled. I could get all very broody about it, but I am trying not to. Analysis is good, to a point. In fact, I am trying to re-learn The Way of the Gut (a celebrated yogi teaching from the 7thC). That is, a way of knowing that bypasses the Analyst and goes straight south: How does it feel -- in my soul, in my ME, in my gut? I think God speaks to me far more clearly there than He does to my head. My head is a giant blender and garbles the message so often, I don't think it can act as a reliable relay anymore. I wonder if this means I am currently experiencing/having a brain bypass compliments of the Holy Surgeon?
Reflecting on the quote above, I try and recollect what or who I was at seven, and what I wanted from life, how I would have answered the same questions put to those kids. Can I remember what it was like to be seven, my seven? One very amusing memory that has come to me in all this and one that actually has something to do with decisions I have just made recently is this: I got sent to pre-school at about age 4/5, and I hated it. I, in fact, hated it almost immediately. I didn't like being fenced in in the playground area or having limits on where I could go. I didn't like being called, "Honey" by some woman that didn't even know me or maybe even my name. I figured out very quickly (first day at pre-school) my way of escape. I threw a ball over the fence and told the nice lady who was calling me honey that I was going to get the ball. Well, once the gate latch was open, I never looked back. I found my way home and was not discovered until my mother came home from work and found me alone in our family room, feet propped up, watching television, eating a peanut butter sandwich. Aha, I don't like institutions. I knew it at 5, and I am just now remembering it at 37. I could have saved myself a lot of hassle if I had passed on that knowledge from my kid self to my adult one!
So, watching this series has been enlightening, simply because it has stirred me and my memory and has reminded me that all that stuff I thought was important at 7, my books about the Wright Brothers, my love of sport and movement, the bright colours of tempera paint, my desire to be and feel connected with others, is just that: important.
16 February, 2005
my doing
I'm back at the blogging thing...at least...I have energy for it for today...who knows about tomorrow.
Decision:
Talking about The Journey and Doing it are two different things. Zillions (no exaggeration, I am sure) of what I call "standing outside yourself" posts are beamed up to the blognet daily by lots of people who wanna talk about this big, phat journey we are part of: this following Jesus, this Process, this often cryptic and mysterious, and no matter what, whether we like it or not, this conveyor belt towards eternity and The End. And I tire of incessant blether about it all...pointless, parenthetical commentary on what we look like from a corrupt and slanted inner eye, which does lots of supposing and conjecturing but fails in actual perception of what IS. We miss the mark. I miss the mark.
I stand on the precipice of the What's Next for me, in my life, on my Journey. And I am scared. And my stomach turns wondering where this new state highway will take me. I've no money, no job, a complicated family, and a grab bag of personal crap that I would like to get worked out. And I feel angry at all the above-noted BS that masquerades as poignancy and depth that I read in blogs or in the news. We are fascinated with talking about how the Journey might turn out or what mutations it might suffer over time....we wonder and wonder and wonder about it all. And while we're doing all that wondering...the Journey marches. It goes on but we're sort of freeze-frame several steps behind and the real show lives and moves and breathes. And we watch it as it takes place -- from a distance -- objectified but not experienced.
So, I blog tonight, because these words and this writing are ME and they are my DOING, right now, today for today. I do not know what tomorrow holds. And I want to shake my fist at all that irrelevant din and shout, "you're stuffed!".....full of yourself but no wisdom....you tell me of something to come that you do not know and will never set your hand nor your heart to...you falter in what is most necessary: courage.
Grrrr and no apologies for it.
Decision:
Talking about The Journey and Doing it are two different things. Zillions (no exaggeration, I am sure) of what I call "standing outside yourself" posts are beamed up to the blognet daily by lots of people who wanna talk about this big, phat journey we are part of: this following Jesus, this Process, this often cryptic and mysterious, and no matter what, whether we like it or not, this conveyor belt towards eternity and The End. And I tire of incessant blether about it all...pointless, parenthetical commentary on what we look like from a corrupt and slanted inner eye, which does lots of supposing and conjecturing but fails in actual perception of what IS. We miss the mark. I miss the mark.
I stand on the precipice of the What's Next for me, in my life, on my Journey. And I am scared. And my stomach turns wondering where this new state highway will take me. I've no money, no job, a complicated family, and a grab bag of personal crap that I would like to get worked out. And I feel angry at all the above-noted BS that masquerades as poignancy and depth that I read in blogs or in the news. We are fascinated with talking about how the Journey might turn out or what mutations it might suffer over time....we wonder and wonder and wonder about it all. And while we're doing all that wondering...the Journey marches. It goes on but we're sort of freeze-frame several steps behind and the real show lives and moves and breathes. And we watch it as it takes place -- from a distance -- objectified but not experienced.
So, I blog tonight, because these words and this writing are ME and they are my DOING, right now, today for today. I do not know what tomorrow holds. And I want to shake my fist at all that irrelevant din and shout, "you're stuffed!".....full of yourself but no wisdom....you tell me of something to come that you do not know and will never set your hand nor your heart to...you falter in what is most necessary: courage.
Grrrr and no apologies for it.
14 January, 2005
fainthearted
Blogging is not for the fainthearted. You can write, pour yourself onto the page, and yet can never be assured of either a consistent readership or interest on the part of those who read your stuff.
I've been away for a while. I panicked. It appeared that someone was reading my blog that I didn't want reading it, and the feelings of shame and embarrassment that have kept my creative boat in dry dock all these years told me sternly to get back to safety.
I changed the name of my blog. A faro means lighthouse in Spanish, and its diminutive form is used for smaller lights that would light a path...sort of like a farol, or lantern. We use them at Christmas -- a paper lunch sack filled partway with sand and a votive candle set inside. They are used in las posadas, the re-enactment of Mary and Joseph looking for an inn in Bethlehem, and they light the pathways to where the couple might find shelter.
These blogs are my farolitos, my little lights that I lay down, one by one for myself, and maybe for others, too. They are a way for me to tell the world how I see things, a way for me to mark where I have been.
And I think that marking my way right now is important. I am back in the UK just now, and while it is cheering and good to see friends and visit places that I know well, and to even sleep in the bed I lofted in my flat, I get confused when I wake up and in the morning cloudiness of mind, and I reach for things in my room that are not there any more. I open cupboards and wardrobes and the clothes I expect to find belong to someone else.
All of this unsettles me, and I am wondering where home is anymore and where it will be. I am marking my way, but I do not know where I am going...
I've been away for a while. I panicked. It appeared that someone was reading my blog that I didn't want reading it, and the feelings of shame and embarrassment that have kept my creative boat in dry dock all these years told me sternly to get back to safety.
I changed the name of my blog. A faro means lighthouse in Spanish, and its diminutive form is used for smaller lights that would light a path...sort of like a farol, or lantern. We use them at Christmas -- a paper lunch sack filled partway with sand and a votive candle set inside. They are used in las posadas, the re-enactment of Mary and Joseph looking for an inn in Bethlehem, and they light the pathways to where the couple might find shelter.
These blogs are my farolitos, my little lights that I lay down, one by one for myself, and maybe for others, too. They are a way for me to tell the world how I see things, a way for me to mark where I have been.
And I think that marking my way right now is important. I am back in the UK just now, and while it is cheering and good to see friends and visit places that I know well, and to even sleep in the bed I lofted in my flat, I get confused when I wake up and in the morning cloudiness of mind, and I reach for things in my room that are not there any more. I open cupboards and wardrobes and the clothes I expect to find belong to someone else.
All of this unsettles me, and I am wondering where home is anymore and where it will be. I am marking my way, but I do not know where I am going...
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