New Year. Old questions. And new ones. Do I have anything fresh to answer them with? Maybe. Just maybe.
This year I want to respect my creative self a bit more. Give it more air time. Let it breathe and stretch. Help it grow by giving it some sunshine and also pushing it off the front porch when it's time to go to work everyday. I wonder how I do this?
Julia Cameron says it's all about 'recovery'. As in 12 steps and facing your demons and believing enough to start dreaming again. How did she get this audacious I also wonder -- to believe that the Universe will answer if you start throwing those attempts out like fishing line into a deep, dark pool? The Universe will fill your net and you'll bring in the haul. Whatever the haul might look like -- I think it's different for each person.
Her Universe. My God. I think he'll answer. It's just his answers I am scared of.
Another thing: avoidance.
How much avoidant behaviour is bad? To avoid crossing the street when cars are whizzing past is a good thing. To avoid hard situations and crap you just don't want to with other people or with yourself can be okay in the short term, but what do you do in the long term when you feel you don't have answers for the questions that prompted the avoidance in the first place?
I'll leave you with that for the day.
10 January, 2007
i wonder
I wonder what would happen if I just started writing a post every day or something absurd like that? How long would it take people to realize that I had come out of my dormant mode and had started to blog again?
30 September, 2006
life questions
I have a few life questions:
Why can we put satellites in outer space, have cell phones, create nuclear power, and we STILL cannot invent a lotion bottle that gets ALL the lotion out of it, even as it gets empty?
Why does cheese in great quantities have to make you fat? It's my favourite protein, hands down. Middle age and cheese, can I reconcile the two? Deep sigh.......
Why do we grow hair, to shave it off? I'm not advocating extreme hairiness, which would be disturbing I am sure, but I do wonder at the point of it all.
Is there ever any point at which one has enough chapstick?
Why do people drive in the left lane when they want to go the speed limit or under? Do they not SEE the long line of cars behind them? I'd like to be a member of the Voluntary Left-Lane Patrol. I'd be good, damn good, at my job.
Should we believe in the pre-hensile tail? All the doctors say we have one.
Do we really need directions on a bottle of salad dressing?
Why does the width of the brim of a hat corollate to age? As age increases, so the width of the brim. Is the sun MORE dangerous as you get older or does the sun just give people another reason to be cantankerous, and they must therefore have more sun protection? I'd suggest then, also, that there is an inverse relationship to hipness -- as the width of the brim expands, so the fashion of the wearee diminishes.
Why do people say they love the natural world, but then go to the mountains in a ready made home on wheels, so that they can have all the 'comforts of home'?
Why does Citibank tell you to use credit responsibly and then send you a notice that says, Guess what? We've increased your credit line by 5,000 bucks?
What did they do before dental floss?
As you can see my mind is just brimming with any number of significant ponderings. Put me out of my misery and write to me: please answer my questions if you can.
By the way, Autumn is HERE!!!! The sky is blue, the trees are turning and the air is crisp. Yahoo! I've been loving my rides lately as I fly through the leaves and listen to them rustling. Snowshoeing, winter camping, and skiing are right around the corner, but biking is now. On that note, I think I'll head out for a ride!
Get out and enjoy the blessed creation -- ain't it amazin'?
Why can we put satellites in outer space, have cell phones, create nuclear power, and we STILL cannot invent a lotion bottle that gets ALL the lotion out of it, even as it gets empty?
Why does cheese in great quantities have to make you fat? It's my favourite protein, hands down. Middle age and cheese, can I reconcile the two? Deep sigh.......
Why do we grow hair, to shave it off? I'm not advocating extreme hairiness, which would be disturbing I am sure, but I do wonder at the point of it all.
Is there ever any point at which one has enough chapstick?
Why do people drive in the left lane when they want to go the speed limit or under? Do they not SEE the long line of cars behind them? I'd like to be a member of the Voluntary Left-Lane Patrol. I'd be good, damn good, at my job.
Should we believe in the pre-hensile tail? All the doctors say we have one.
Do we really need directions on a bottle of salad dressing?
Why does the width of the brim of a hat corollate to age? As age increases, so the width of the brim. Is the sun MORE dangerous as you get older or does the sun just give people another reason to be cantankerous, and they must therefore have more sun protection? I'd suggest then, also, that there is an inverse relationship to hipness -- as the width of the brim expands, so the fashion of the wearee diminishes.
Why do people say they love the natural world, but then go to the mountains in a ready made home on wheels, so that they can have all the 'comforts of home'?
Why does Citibank tell you to use credit responsibly and then send you a notice that says, Guess what? We've increased your credit line by 5,000 bucks?
What did they do before dental floss?
As you can see my mind is just brimming with any number of significant ponderings. Put me out of my misery and write to me: please answer my questions if you can.
By the way, Autumn is HERE!!!! The sky is blue, the trees are turning and the air is crisp. Yahoo! I've been loving my rides lately as I fly through the leaves and listen to them rustling. Snowshoeing, winter camping, and skiing are right around the corner, but biking is now. On that note, I think I'll head out for a ride!
Get out and enjoy the blessed creation -- ain't it amazin'?
15 September, 2006
land rock
Apparently I have what's called Land Rock. It's been two days now since coming off Cynthia's brother's boat, and I can't quite shake it: the terra firma ain't feeling so firma. The computer screen sways in front of me as I write this.I had a blast -- see pictures. Sea, sky, autumn air, orcas and salmon and river otters and osprey. My heart, in many ways, is replete. Being on a boat causes one to focus on the moment. There are no distractions (when you're not the captain or the engineer or the chef!), only the journey. Not surprisingly, I slept -- a lot. The motion, the enforced silencing of mundane activities, and the cessation of all things normal was a lullaby and nighty night.
In my more wakeful times, my soul was trailing its fingers in the water as I kayaked and explored the bays we anchored in. Salmon leapt around us everywhere one night, desperately flinging themselves toward the spawn -- the stream where they themselves were hatched. Am I doing that, too? Desperately trying to find, not the metaphor for where my life is headed, but the actual life of which I have come? Out of the heart of God borne, am I finding my way back?
Attraction and response -- the salmon climb the ladders not out of want or preference, they do this because they must. They are attracted -- by what, no one really knows -- to return at whatever their internally appointed time is (when they reach a certain state of maturity in their life cycle) and when that time is now, they respond and go. Upstream. For weeks. They don't eat or linger. They swim and jump and flail until they have returned. And somehow also, they know when they have come back to that place of genesis.
With my soul-fingers in the water, I am listening: what am I incorrigibly attracted to and respond to?
I have a few days at home to let this sit, not so much in my head, but in my belly. I know I can't reason out the answer, can't call upon the Great Magician (i.e. the Analyst) to bail me out this time. I have to stay with the motion of my soul as it rocks upon the waters, even though I am back on hard ground.
04 September, 2006
darkroom
Cynthia made a deal with me: she would do the dishes if I wrote a blog. Hmmmm. Conundrum. Either avoid a creative activity or do the nightly cleanup. Okay, so you know which one I opted for! But, perhaps surprisingly, the choice was a hard one.
Creative acts still scare me. They seem too risky. Too fraught. To likely to cause tangles. And I am not much for tangles. Tedious. Tiresome. Making me, Testy.
When I was 12, I used to ride my bike to the creative arts center, based out of an old, beautiful home, circa 1920, in my home town for a photography class and for the occasional tye-dying workshop. In the photography class, I learned how to develop film, how to alter negatives for different effects, how to play with light and the side of photography which is often forgotten -- processing. Alot happens in that hermetic, basement environment. Things grow in the dark. Images, colours, light. Too much or too little of one or the other and it changes everything.
The red light is glowing in my little darkroom, and I am fiddling with the canister of film, rolling precious celloid exposed to secret slants of light round and round. In preparation. The images embedded, out-of-sight, will be called out and defined, for others to see and perceive. I wonder, in the obscurity of this imposed night, of what will emerge when the lights of daytime and industry are switched back on. What will they see?
Creative acts still scare me. They seem too risky. Too fraught. To likely to cause tangles. And I am not much for tangles. Tedious. Tiresome. Making me, Testy.
When I was 12, I used to ride my bike to the creative arts center, based out of an old, beautiful home, circa 1920, in my home town for a photography class and for the occasional tye-dying workshop. In the photography class, I learned how to develop film, how to alter negatives for different effects, how to play with light and the side of photography which is often forgotten -- processing. Alot happens in that hermetic, basement environment. Things grow in the dark. Images, colours, light. Too much or too little of one or the other and it changes everything.
The red light is glowing in my little darkroom, and I am fiddling with the canister of film, rolling precious celloid exposed to secret slants of light round and round. In preparation. The images embedded, out-of-sight, will be called out and defined, for others to see and perceive. I wonder, in the obscurity of this imposed night, of what will emerge when the lights of daytime and industry are switched back on. What will they see?
23 August, 2006
Kickin'
Some of you have been wondering if I am still alive and kicking....well, here's the proof!It's been a summer of fun days on the rock, as well as hiking, backpacking, fishing, riding, birdwatching, whatever it takes it get outdoors. I figured I would try out the new photo feature on the website and throw up a pic from one of this summer's climbs. That's Cynthia at the bottom belaying me. I wish I could look more stylish and cool like they do in all the climbing mags, but I happen to like my brain a whole lot and prefer to keep it intact with the bucket on my head (just in case you didn't recognise me!)
Climbing is such a focused activity for me, allowing absolutely no other thought besides -- where's my next hold and, deeper down, that intuitive sense of -- thrill. I have been wondering lately if I have kept myself too busy this summer with activity as a means of distancing myself from things I don't want to ponder. As I've circled around that question any number of times, the consistent answer I seem to be getting from my insides is that NO, the activity hasn't been an escapist activity, but a functional one. Let me explain.
One of America's greatest female mountaineers says that because of the prolonged periods of focus she experiences on her climbs, she is more able and more creative as a scientist. Her greatest scientific insights, she says, have always come shortly after returning from one of her expeditions, during which, there is precious little time to think about anything beyond the immediate task. My theory is that when the mind is forced to cut out all static -- particularly when your physical survival is dependent upon this -- the soul-bear stirs and stretches and smells the air. Hibernation, in its season, has almost passed, and it is time to awake from a winter of necessary rest into a summer of eating and reproducing. (Sounds like a good time to me!)
So that's what my soul has been doing -- eating and reproducing ;-) It has been in a state of expansion and growth. Imperceptible movements to those who look on, but I know, that within me there is some serious frolicking going on. That bear is about to break down the house! And when she's done, there will be some provocative reorganisation that will have happened.
Thus, returning to the question I posed to myself above about activity's role in either avoidance or growth, I am casting my vote for the Yea side. I've ranted about how too many people glorify over-activity in our culture (I still believe that), but when there is a beckoning to the Spirit of God to be present in the midst of what is not avoidance, but focused occupation, the Soul can live, rattle around, and remember what the smell of blueberries is like, and grow -- something that I really do think pleases God to no end.
22 July, 2006
for john
I know it's been since April. I know. I know. But sometimes the deep don't wanna creep out to the pages of a public place and show its face. I've had a lot on my mind.
Tonight I just want to remember. To remember a dear childhood friend of mine who died this past week. I can't believe that at 43 he has flown away and is gone.
John was the older brother of a friend of mine from church. She was 3 years older than I, and we met when I was 5 and she 8. That made John, the older brother, really old. All of about 9. He was the spark behind many a scheme, dirt clod fight, fort, and army game. In the housing development where my friends lived when I first met them, we played in the dug-out earth of all the houses going up around them, leaping into the foundation pits and clawing our way out again. John was always the one with the most daring-do, the bravado, and on many occasion taunted his sister for her caution, which either produced angry action or tears on her part.
When my friends decided to move house at some point, they moved into my neighbourhood. A mere 5 blocks away. Glory. Sleepovers ensued and Legos and torturing their pet cats, and once we got older, nighttime adventures.
Catching a few hours of sleep in a blanket fort we had thrown together in John's room, we three would awake to the sound of the alarm which we had set for a 3am-ish time. A very cool time to be awake when you are 10. The commander had a plan and his minions waited in the wings for their orders.
-TP house of schoolmate X, Y, Z
-Run across main street only wearing underwear
-Climb into rich neighbour's yard. Spell his name out in clothes pins on his backyard walk.
-Continue on to -- of course -- Winchells. Buy donuts.
-Stop at 7-11. Buy milk.
-Walk home, eating donuts, celebrating a successful evening.
Who else, I now wonder, could have gotten me to run across 14th Avenue, in the middle of the night, in my underwear? The things my parents never knew!
Adventures were followed by duties and because John had a paper route 7 days a week, his sister and I were also commandeered into helping with that. Our nighttime glory was shortlived as we would have to return home, fold a 150 Tribunes, pack up the bikes and set out for morning delivery.
I was the little tagalong. Appropriately named Radar by John's parents. I just wanted to be on the action, and John had that magnetic, charismatic personality that drew me in nodding 'yes' to whatever he might suggest. Where he led, I would follow.
When we got to be teenagers, we would all board Ski Bus together at 6am in our hometown and set out for a day on the slopes. Little sister and Radar followed Big Bro along, hoping only that we weren't being led to our deaths. He was an incredible daredevil. So much so, that his parents wouldn't let him get his driving license until he was 17 or 18, which nearly killed him for wanting. When he did finally manage to convince his parents he was ready for the adult world of driving, I saw him, more than once, driving their gorgeous, apricot-coloured 57 Chevy like he was prepping for Indy. Speed, risk, flight, adventure. They all seemed to speak to him.
It was no surprise then that when it came time to choose a career path, he decided to be an engineer. Of rockets. Harnessing all that brain power that whirred in his busy head, he built the object of his fascination, something which so characterized how I saw him when I was that tripping-along-behind little kid: a force blasting beyond the ordinary.
As such, I find it odd that he should die, on an ordinary day, after a game of softball, his heart bursting in such a way that he had probably died by the time he even fell to the ground. Right there on a field, in a parking lot, on his way home...somewhere common....returning to his routine, his evening, his wife. I hate thinking of it.
Rather, I like remembering him, seated next to his dad in the small Cessna that they took out to practice their flying, each of them with a headset on, and John's dad telling him to take over the rudder. From my backseat perspective, all I remember was the roller coaster, the air pockets, the fun he seemed to have being the pilot of an acrobatic aircraft, and that Oreos was not a good choice of food to eat before flying in a small plane. Messy. Very messy.
Right now, I am thankful for these moments which reflected, looking back on things now as an adult, essence-- the true self in motion. I am grateful to have beheld you, John, and will grieve the day you took up wings of a dove and flew away to be at rest.
12 April, 2006
ni idea
Sitting here at my desk, after a long day, nursing a Heineken (my fave summer beer since it seems to be nearly summer already -- until the next snow storm, that is). My dinner is eaten, groceries put away -- dishes not done, however, -- and wishing. Wishing that life were sometimes easier. Pollyannas step aside, sometimes life just sucks. Purely sucks.
I hate sin. I hate mental illness. I hate disease. I hate having to work through crap. I hate having weaknesses. I hate sore feet. I admit it. I feel overwhelmed in the crapness of it all. I want to bury my head in a cryogenic freezer and not surface for another 100 or more years until a time when it's "all better."
Of course, I know this panacea doesn't ever materialize. I got it right there in the Book. Don't get any better. Not till you make it all the way up to St Teresa de Avila's or San Juan's place. (They have a sign out front, you can't miss it.) Now there, there, all is well (guess I gotta include St Julian of Norwich, too in that case). For now I get to kill time drinking beer, making myself a salmon dinner, writing a blaaahg out into lah lah land hoping a few friends will hear me, and dreaming about doing the Colorado Trail this summer. Is there anything in between the sublime and the, well, I am not going to call eating salmon or drinking beer ridiculous or banal, but, you know what I mean....? Bliss or ....? I don't know how to fill that in.
I am tired of things being a slog, hard. I am tired of seeing people I love suffer things like MS and mental illness. I am heartbroken that my nephews have no father who can show them how to be good men in this world....that they have to go it on their own. I am tired of being single. Tired of men who are well past the age of oughting to know who can't get their shit together and make a decision about how to take a wife. (I guess I better start referring them to Shakespeare for life direction: see Taming of the Shrew. Decide to marry. Then, do so. -- of course there was a bit of coercion that had to go take place in this particular example :-) ) But hey, this is MY blog, so I can say whatever I want!
Okay, so you get the punto. I am struggling. I need to see a way through all this -- somehow.
Got any ideas?
I hate sin. I hate mental illness. I hate disease. I hate having to work through crap. I hate having weaknesses. I hate sore feet. I admit it. I feel overwhelmed in the crapness of it all. I want to bury my head in a cryogenic freezer and not surface for another 100 or more years until a time when it's "all better."
Of course, I know this panacea doesn't ever materialize. I got it right there in the Book. Don't get any better. Not till you make it all the way up to St Teresa de Avila's or San Juan's place. (They have a sign out front, you can't miss it.) Now there, there, all is well (guess I gotta include St Julian of Norwich, too in that case). For now I get to kill time drinking beer, making myself a salmon dinner, writing a blaaahg out into lah lah land hoping a few friends will hear me, and dreaming about doing the Colorado Trail this summer. Is there anything in between the sublime and the, well, I am not going to call eating salmon or drinking beer ridiculous or banal, but, you know what I mean....? Bliss or ....? I don't know how to fill that in.
I am tired of things being a slog, hard. I am tired of seeing people I love suffer things like MS and mental illness. I am heartbroken that my nephews have no father who can show them how to be good men in this world....that they have to go it on their own. I am tired of being single. Tired of men who are well past the age of oughting to know who can't get their shit together and make a decision about how to take a wife. (I guess I better start referring them to Shakespeare for life direction: see Taming of the Shrew. Decide to marry. Then, do so. -- of course there was a bit of coercion that had to go take place in this particular example :-) ) But hey, this is MY blog, so I can say whatever I want!
Okay, so you get the punto. I am struggling. I need to see a way through all this -- somehow.
Got any ideas?
06 April, 2006
as it happens
Do you like chaos theory? If so, watch Happenstance (with Audrey Tautou of Amelie -- in French with English subtitles). If you don't like intuitive, non-action packed films that don't explain themselves entirely, don't watch it. If you like things that are abstract, that ask the viewer to make possible connections in the film's plotline, minimal but meaningful dialogue -- go for it. I found myself laughing through most of the film (which is a comedy) and was practically rolling around, gripping my sides in one scene where the main character gets locked out of her apartment and her Tarot card reading neighbour offers to have her in for a cup of tea while she waits for her roomate to arrive with the key.
I haven't blogged much lately. You may have noticed. I find it hard to get here more often, especially when life feels like a slog. And it does lately. I am tired. I took three days off (in a row! lovely miracle!) and all I want to do is what I describe to my roomate as "draw in"...for weeks. Months.
Quiet is something I crave. Not just an external quiet, but the inner one, where voices die out and I can hear my own heartbeat, where I can hear God breathing, present with me. How do I find this in my circumstance as it is just now? I must find out or even my own heartbeat and its sound will die out -- or be drowned out by the violence of Noise and Busyness -- two things we seem to enshrine here in the US.
Maybe that's what happens when I don't get to this space more often: the sound of my inner life is distant and rings dull, and I feel it hasn't any meaning for anyone else....why put it into a public forum, I ask? But I know this is not true. I read the thoughts and experiences of others I know who write frequently on their blogs, and I love sharing in their lives. Mind you, I tend to read blogs where others are looking for insight, attempting the "examined life" via their everyday experience.
Am not certain what I am trying to say except: I want to find a way to reclaim creativity in times of duress, so that I do not "go fah fah away" from my Me-self that needs the creative process on a daily basis. Pain and doubt tend to paralyse and yet I think they are given as a means to something greater....something to tap into, that if held tenderly, can lead me to insight and joy and meaning.
Guess I don't know what else to say besides that today. I showed up today because I still have hope that I am one of the chief agents in this reclamation project....and that my words are perhaps the toes in the water to get me there.
I haven't blogged much lately. You may have noticed. I find it hard to get here more often, especially when life feels like a slog. And it does lately. I am tired. I took three days off (in a row! lovely miracle!) and all I want to do is what I describe to my roomate as "draw in"...for weeks. Months.
Quiet is something I crave. Not just an external quiet, but the inner one, where voices die out and I can hear my own heartbeat, where I can hear God breathing, present with me. How do I find this in my circumstance as it is just now? I must find out or even my own heartbeat and its sound will die out -- or be drowned out by the violence of Noise and Busyness -- two things we seem to enshrine here in the US.
Maybe that's what happens when I don't get to this space more often: the sound of my inner life is distant and rings dull, and I feel it hasn't any meaning for anyone else....why put it into a public forum, I ask? But I know this is not true. I read the thoughts and experiences of others I know who write frequently on their blogs, and I love sharing in their lives. Mind you, I tend to read blogs where others are looking for insight, attempting the "examined life" via their everyday experience.
Am not certain what I am trying to say except: I want to find a way to reclaim creativity in times of duress, so that I do not "go fah fah away" from my Me-self that needs the creative process on a daily basis. Pain and doubt tend to paralyse and yet I think they are given as a means to something greater....something to tap into, that if held tenderly, can lead me to insight and joy and meaning.
Guess I don't know what else to say besides that today. I showed up today because I still have hope that I am one of the chief agents in this reclamation project....and that my words are perhaps the toes in the water to get me there.
03 February, 2006
ya basta...ENOUGH already!
Some of you have encouraged me to try blogging more often, getting stuff out there in a more shoot-from-the-hip style. Some of you that I read do that yourselves, and I am always amazed at what that spiritual discipline yields: profound insights, witty observations, wry, sideways looks at what's going on around you. In amongst the quotidian and mundane, of course.
I could really use an order of that banal stuff right now. I am sick of DEEP MEANING. (At least for the next hour or so.) I continue the waiting game with jobs. FYI for those of you waiting along with me about that one job I felt I was possibly going to get: after six weeks of deliberating, their "committee" decided on someone else. Fine. Glad I don't have to work with that kind of indecision on a daily basis, but way to drag it out, guys! Have they forgotten the torture of being on the other side, of being the one waiting for the decision?
I have noticed that the trigger of a lot of the DEEP MEANING that I seem flooded with at this time in my life is waiting. Have I mentioned how much I hate, despise, am fed up with, scream, shout and spit at WAITING? Well, I have reached the colmo ..... the apex....the height of it, and it's making me want to do strange things like chew my fingers off or pull out my eyelashes.
Job, relationship (yes, of the male/female variety), future, church....(fill in a litany of stress/anxiety causing items)....I feel I am in waiting hell. Do any of these parts of life go in a straightforward manner for anyone? Honestly, I don't want to compare, but sometimes I hear the cheery stories of friends who did things like apply for jobs that they then GOT, and relationships that got started because one person liked the other and vice versa and they then DATED, and well.... you get the picture.
My wits' end is that I have waited A LOT and I want STRAIGHTFORWARD. Give me something boring, God, today, like a timely call on a resume, or a phonecall from a guy I have been seeing (even an email would be just fine, Lord), or....blahdy, blah. My rant could go on.
So here I am today, shooting from the mouth instead of the hip because, though I am not powerless in these circumstances, there are just some things you CANNOT CONTROL. Perhaps, deep down, I do not like this fact. Perhaps, I have issues.
Ponder....
Ponder...
Perhaps, I have circled back to the top of the loop where, Enter Stage Right, here comes DEEP MEANING again.
I could really use an order of that banal stuff right now. I am sick of DEEP MEANING. (At least for the next hour or so.) I continue the waiting game with jobs. FYI for those of you waiting along with me about that one job I felt I was possibly going to get: after six weeks of deliberating, their "committee" decided on someone else. Fine. Glad I don't have to work with that kind of indecision on a daily basis, but way to drag it out, guys! Have they forgotten the torture of being on the other side, of being the one waiting for the decision?
I have noticed that the trigger of a lot of the DEEP MEANING that I seem flooded with at this time in my life is waiting. Have I mentioned how much I hate, despise, am fed up with, scream, shout and spit at WAITING? Well, I have reached the colmo ..... the apex....the height of it, and it's making me want to do strange things like chew my fingers off or pull out my eyelashes.
Job, relationship (yes, of the male/female variety), future, church....(fill in a litany of stress/anxiety causing items)....I feel I am in waiting hell. Do any of these parts of life go in a straightforward manner for anyone? Honestly, I don't want to compare, but sometimes I hear the cheery stories of friends who did things like apply for jobs that they then GOT, and relationships that got started because one person liked the other and vice versa and they then DATED, and well.... you get the picture.
My wits' end is that I have waited A LOT and I want STRAIGHTFORWARD. Give me something boring, God, today, like a timely call on a resume, or a phonecall from a guy I have been seeing (even an email would be just fine, Lord), or....blahdy, blah. My rant could go on.
So here I am today, shooting from the mouth instead of the hip because, though I am not powerless in these circumstances, there are just some things you CANNOT CONTROL. Perhaps, deep down, I do not like this fact. Perhaps, I have issues.
Ponder....
Ponder...
Perhaps, I have circled back to the top of the loop where, Enter Stage Right, here comes DEEP MEANING again.
29 January, 2006
Jesus in a dish drainer
I don’t know how many times I have started this blog in my head…lots of ideas floating around…different things I have been mulling over. Tonight, I write because I MUST! I’ve realized that having a housemate for the last few months (who happens to be in the midst of a personal crisis) has been a distraction that usually is good and a blessing, but sometimes keeps me from my inner work….the place where I really live life out of. I have realized that for me to live, I must dwell in a creative “space”. God, who is the author of creativity, is with me there, speaks to my heart via my intuition, feelings, impressions, and through the natural beauty around me. Every time I see a bird of prey perched alongside the road on my way to work, I feel as if it is God telling me He is with me. He hasn’t forgotten. He hears my prayers. He knows my struggle for being in a harried, hassled world. My most alive me evolves out of the creative space that I am meant to occupy. “A place prepared for me,” if you will.
How do I get there when the needs around me are great? When friends are in distress, when life’s demands shout me out of bed? My heart suffers when I cannot find a place to dwell. I get angry and frustrated, blocked. In my writing, I am travelling a newly trodden path that takes me back there: to the place I can dwell. That is why I am here. In the doing of this – writing – I am journeying to being. A place where I am at peace with myself and others, where I have had my say and I have been heard by God and people alike, and it is good.
Down the block from where I live, I passed a crèche scene that was still up in someone’s yard, well after Christmas. Kitschy figurines of the nativity company are huddled around the centerpiece of the scene: Baby Jesus.
Little Baby Jesus.
In a plastic dish drainer.
Sometimes I ponder the utter humanity of Christ, how he so humbly arrived into this world of demands, pain, misunderstanding, beauty, and joy, and I wonder, “How did he do it?” God Incarnate, the Living Word, enters the human milieu on the rungs of a white, plastic dish drainer. How did he maintain the place inside where he dwelt? The place where glory abides? We offered him little but grief, and yet he was so alive, and creative, and so intent on becoming the fullness, in human flesh, of what he was meant to be.
I wanna be like that and find that place where glory dwells, and I behold it, and I live in it. And it lives in me.
How about you?
How do I get there when the needs around me are great? When friends are in distress, when life’s demands shout me out of bed? My heart suffers when I cannot find a place to dwell. I get angry and frustrated, blocked. In my writing, I am travelling a newly trodden path that takes me back there: to the place I can dwell. That is why I am here. In the doing of this – writing – I am journeying to being. A place where I am at peace with myself and others, where I have had my say and I have been heard by God and people alike, and it is good.
Down the block from where I live, I passed a crèche scene that was still up in someone’s yard, well after Christmas. Kitschy figurines of the nativity company are huddled around the centerpiece of the scene: Baby Jesus.
Little Baby Jesus.
In a plastic dish drainer.
Sometimes I ponder the utter humanity of Christ, how he so humbly arrived into this world of demands, pain, misunderstanding, beauty, and joy, and I wonder, “How did he do it?” God Incarnate, the Living Word, enters the human milieu on the rungs of a white, plastic dish drainer. How did he maintain the place inside where he dwelt? The place where glory abides? We offered him little but grief, and yet he was so alive, and creative, and so intent on becoming the fullness, in human flesh, of what he was meant to be.
I wanna be like that and find that place where glory dwells, and I behold it, and I live in it. And it lives in me.
How about you?
26 December, 2005
en pleno centro
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.
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.
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!
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