Bo of the Bales . . . Bountiful Mercies

Giving dignity to those who suffer

2012-01-31T09:22:00.000-06:00

Prompted by a student of mine, I have been thinking about struggle. I have often wondered about the fact that struggle seems to typlify some lives more than others. To try to make sense of struggle, some people universalize it: "We all struggle and suffer." Who can argue with a statement like that? It's true that we do. However, I often become bothered by such a naive statement of reduction. I believe I can quantify and qualify struggle better since I am a parent of a child who has struggled with autism/schizophrenia/adhd, and the combination thereof which has impacted his daily life. However, I don't wish to reduce the suffering of others, yet I see two big differences to consider when normalizing some kinds of struggles.

1) Some struggles involve a chronic painful nature. They are not episodes or stages, no matter the intensity of these. This struggle has been there from the beginning or for a long time, both in the past, the present, and the future.

2) Some struggles have an all-encompassing nature. This kind of struggle involves multiple outcomes such as the inability to have relationships; to hold a job; to go to college; to be safe in a school environment; the inability to get out of a bed; out of a chair; to speak to others; to have a stability of health whether physical, mental, or emotional and etcetera. Life itself can be threatened by these struggles which includes many chronic and encompassing barbs.

I'm sure there are more, but these are what I can think of right now.

In thinking about my student who struggles with mental issues, I can see that his fight is fiercer than the normal adolescent, who is also suffering from various things. His fight is both chronic and encompassing for him. To compare many others' struggles with his is like comparing a cancer to a cold. If others did that his mother would say, "They have no idea," and she is right. She knows about the mental institution, the run after the suicidal son in the night, the continous psychiatric visits, the chronic worry, despair, need for full reliance upon help, the courage it requires.

I like the example of Christ who recognized each person's dignity in their struggle. He knew the great fighters during his day: the woman who touched his robe; the leper banned from community; the mental anguish of the demon-possessed man. He gave them dignity when they were normalized or blamed or shunned. Great sufferers of the Bible are depicted also as heroic in their fight for light. I think that we can learn much from these examples. We don't have to laud or give an award to those who have greater struggles, but we can give them dignity and respect without trying to take that away from them by reducing their struggle through inadequate comparisons.

My friend who recently lost her husband to brain cancer and her home to a fire wrote this morning about her necessity in resting in Christ's arms through her suffering. She also referenced a hope-filled and dignity-providing verse to those who suffer; a verse which gives purpose and hope and comfort to those who go through certain intense fires. She underlined the meaningful part to her. I'm glad this verse shows the understanding vision and care for those who struggle, both normally and greatly. May we believe in it. Amen.

2 Corinthians1:3-5 ³ all praise to God, theFather of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source ofall comfort. ⁴ Hecomforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When theyare troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has givenus. ⁵ Forthe more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfortthrough Christ.

What if I'm the one who is hiding?

2012-01-28T09:01:00.000-06:00

"For most of my life I have struggled to find God, to know God, to love God. I have tried hard to follow the guidelines of the spiritual life -- pray always, work for others, read the Scriptures -- and to avoid the many temptations to dissipate myself. I have failed many times but always tried again, even when I was close to despair.

Now I wonder whether I have sufficiently realized that during all this time God has been trying to find me, to know me, and to love me. The question is not 'How am I to find God?' but 'How am I to let myself be found by him?" The question is not 'How am I to know God?' but 'How am I to let myself be loved by God?' God is looking into the distance for me, trying to find me, and longing to bring me home. In all three parables which Jesus tells in response to the question of why he eats with sinners, he puts the emphasis on God's initiative. God is the shepherd who goes looking for his lost sheep. God is the woman who lights a lamp, sweeps out the house, and searches everywhere for her lost coin until she has found it. God is the father who watches and waits for his children, runs out to meet them, embraces them, pleads with them, begs and urges them to come home . . . .

I am beginning now to see how radically the character of my spiritual journey will change when I no longer think of God hiding out and making it as difficult as possible for me to find him, but, instead, as the one who is looking for me while I am doing the hiding. When I look through God's eyes at my lost self and discover God's joy at my coming home, then my life may become less anguished and more trusting" (106-107). Henri Nouwen The Return of the Prodigal Son.

A trail runs through it

2012-01-27T06:36:00.001-06:00

We have a trail which runs through our town which connects to a trail which runs through our state. And, although we have no mountains, no ocean, no recreational waterside to speak of, this trail does a body and spirit good. Makes one stay around.

I dropped my son off at indoor soccer yesterday evening and pulled into a nearby trail parking lot. Secured the van, keys, shoestrings, calf muscles by stretching, and began the jog. Invariably, the desire to stop in the first mile hit me. Legs felt heavy; all my weight of the world required a rest. The choice to walk or stop flitted in my mind, landing on a big branch to sing a poignant song. But, the one miler must scare it away, knowing that the two miler will obtain a comfortable pace. The end-runner, the one who makes it to the final finishing place, will be grateful for that one-miler who made a decision to keep going, to keep going, to work the kinks out of the body and mind in order to keep going and succeed.

Finishing the race is biblical. God tells us to finish the race we have started: endurance, perseverance, obedience to the call to begin are valued traits to develop.

I like running because it tests my resolve like that; it's a parallel activity. I like our trail because of the trees, the rustles in the side brush, the faces of those I pass who are working spiritual and physical matters out. At times there are unexpected surprises -- like a bluebird landing nearby bright in a gray day; like a friend one passes; like a bench which offers a place for prayers or curses; like a sudden hail storm; like memories of talks, walks, runs, perseverance, process.

I don't know where I would be today if there wasn't a trail which runs through our town.

Safe place

2012-01-26T09:05:00.000-06:00

I haven't blogged for a while. Life happens; the route becomes circuitous, dangerous. One of my friends had a serious car accident, and I haven't felt like doing the journey with full energy myself while she lies in the hospital bed, suffering. Today, I'll go visit her mother and help her wait out a surgery.

School life has been going well. The students and I share deep thoughts and deep laughs. I'm truly blessed by them, and I know some of them might say the same back. :)

I have been reading snippets from books. Right now, in the process of handing over a book to a struggling former student's mother, I am reading Larry Crabb's The Safest Place on Earth. I want to capture some thought provoking quotes before the book leaves, maybe never to be seen. May it go with seeds full of potential growth.

Memorable quotes about confusion and disappointment (and hope!):

"Confusion isn't always a bad thing. If we're not confused about anything it's likely we're grasping the truth about nothing important" (4).

"Disappointment, too, is inevitable. More than that, it is good. Following Christ must take us through seasons of disappointment because Christianity remakes our dreams before it fulfills them. The process is excruciating. It can include divorce, bankruptcy, accidents, murder, near apostasy -- anything" (5).

"Disappointment, severe enough to be called death, is unavoidable in a true spiritual journey" (5).

"The upside of confusion is openness. Confused people listen better, not always, but more often than people whose minds are made up. Those folks listen only in order to critique, to see if someone else is on the right track, namely theirs. Confused people are more likely to combine kindness with whatever convictions emerge our of their confusion. And, because of their eagerness for meaningful dialogue with honest people, the convictions they develop tend to speak to the realities of life as it really is lived" (5).

"Disappointment has an upside as well. It inspires hope by making hope necessary" (6).

"Soul-crushing struggle supplies the energy that nudges us along in the process of shifting from token hope, the kind that generates pleasant feelings, to the real thing that anchors us through life's storms" (6).

That's all for now. I need to make a homemade card with enthralling pictures of Tom Hardy and Jesus on it for my friend. See below:

Wind

2012-01-17T12:48:00.000-06:00

Anxiety can ram into a person mid-waking up, early in the morning. Earlier, then, I prayed with desperation for my son whose anxiety became known to me. I prayed that there is a God who cares, even though I believe. I prayed for supernatural interference of which I'm at times uncertain. I prayed to release the griphold of fear which can make me suffer all day. God and emotional decisions delivered peace, though, and I'm trying not to pick up the strings again of a diving kite in a driving wind.

There's much to do instead:

transition meeting for son at school to arrange

graduate application

classes to plan tomorrow

a blog entry to write for my friend :)

mother's support group dinner this evening

a special needs school plan to write

baking for tomorrow

always e-mails to answer.

But an artist friend came over this morning, and we had a lovely talk at my table. Anxiety can be so dispelled when you have another good place to look and interesting things to think about.

Yet inside, where calm can also be, I'm pleading, "Help!" "Support!" "Lifeboat!" "Please!" And, I'm listening, remembering promises, needing proof, sailing upwards for answers.

The Tree of Life

2012-01-15T08:43:00.003-06:00

Yes, like my fellow blogger who sent me a comment yesterday, I too watched The Tree of Life yesterday by coincidence. Above are pictures from the movie. In the first one, Sean Penn, as the older brother whose younger brother died, is remembering life as a child. His memories are impressionistic which is true to how the natural mind works. If I think of my childhood, I see bursts of images held together in small packages, tied together by a ribbon of the mind which groups, recalls, and forgets. Impressions, perceptions, interpretations are also in the swirl making the memory not at all as it was. Repackaged, represented. Meaning floats to the surface like cream in milk.

In the second picture, family tension, the tension of leaving childhood to take on greater responsibility, fulfill greater expectations is portrayed. Often, we begin to despise one of our parents then, especially if, like in the movie, they are demanding. The Sean Penn character (the older brother) remembers clearly the confusion and sadness of this time. Images of his dead younger brother are outlining these remembrances.

Then, in the final shot, after death, the family is reunited on the eternal beach, waiting for one another, or the Savior, to carry them across the tide. They are joyful, yet resolute to the environment, yet so happy to be reunited. Life has moved on to another stage, and they are together immemorially.

The movie was deeply sad to me because, although life is interconnected -- the tree branches out for us all -- grace is there -- the trials of the human were shown. The calling out for proof of His care was sounded; the confusion, the loss, the layer below the happy -- all lurked. Even the ending was forlorn due to the beach and people walking alone or waiting for their loved ones. After the family reunites, I wondered, "What's next? Do they wander now? What fulfillment do they finally receive for their souls?"

However, the movie is open to interpretation and impressions, and those are mine. I went to bed knowing that I can't think about the film too much; can't let the movie root in me because of the not enough quality to it. I would become depressed. When I think of eternity, I think of the last stage Narnia and a more biblically described place -- where all is warm, goodness inundates, and divine relationship is established. No more floating, wandering, walking as a small person by the side of a gigantic, cold ocean. Love will flourish. Love will dispel. Loved ones will be reunited in the context of light and Love who will embrace and hold forever.

Hands out, for now, loving others and seeking the eternal culmination of that hope and desire. The end does await. I can dare to believe the old texts as I walk in my brief here and now, alongside the ocean, under the tree, beside an old house where once lived those I laughed with and loved.

Trust and gratitude

2012-01-14T08:40:00.001-06:00

"Although we are incapable of liberating ourselves from our frozen anger, we can allow ourselves to be found by God and healed by his love through the concrete and daily practice of trust and gratitude" (Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son 84).

Beautiful words a relative I know might scoff at. Yet I think she works on finding positive currents in her life, although healing through and through isn't something she believes in. She's too scarred. Life just hasn't been that easy. She's too angry about circumstances; He really doesn't even seem there much of the time. Some words about God are simply surface beautiful. Like a maple tree emblazoned and then bare.

I validate that way of thinking. But, I would hate to stop there. For example, I have a habit of staring at recipes in my recipe books, wondering if the recipes are possible, visualizing myself purchasing ingredients, imagining that first taste. But, invariably, I decide that the recipe isn't worth much effort; that my boys wouldn't like it; that I can't coordinate the shopping with the making with the time. My book becomes shelved once again.

However, every so often, I have a breakthrough! The book comes off the shelf, I open it, and I follow the guidance and instruction in order to come up with a dish. Many times, not always, it is tasty and my cooking experience has expanded for good.

I often wonder why, with God, we want to shelf him. Even if we're not desirous of active seeking, or if we become suspicious of beautiful pictures or words, or if there's some ingredient we don't like which the spiritual life calls for, to me, we simply lack courage. There is a necessary courage to trust that what we find will be good, regardless of what others think or experience. There is a courage to practice gratitude in the face of mountains.

May we be brave today. And be open to God's desire for us. If we have a small amount of belief, let us be courageous enough to follow that to the promised feast of healing and life for today.

Selah.

Planking

2012-01-13T11:21:00.003-06:00

In "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"a memorable short story from the excellent writer Ambrose Bierce, Peyton Farquhar must stand on a plank with a noose around his neck. When orders are given, the soldier on the other end of the plank will step aside and Mr. Farquhar, the Southern loyalist, will hang for his crime of planning to set this bridge on fire to stop Federal advance.

We read this story in class today. I must admit to a great love for literature and for teaching it, and I love the students and our interactions. So, right now, I feel like a woman on a plank. If I become accepted to the graduate counseling program which I applied to yesterday, I could hang and find myself away from the teaching of wonderful students and literature. However, if I don't apply and pursue a future professional teaching career, I feel on a plank of weariness, low pay, and assault (especially in the public school where behaviors are such a problem).

I need God-guidance. I need to make the right decision. Good night, Mr. Farquhar. May the best person awaken to the right kind of reality.

Inundation

2012-01-12T09:55:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I felt funny about my earlier posting about going to my music lesson. I sometimes get into an ecstatic type of trance about something which simply feels transcendent or like heaven. And, my language goes up, and ridicule is possible, and I myself become a sceptical onlooker to my own communicated experience. When Wordsworth reread his fanciful "Tintern Abbey," he perhaps wanted to chuck it into the fire because of its elevated emotion.

However, as I returned to a book by Barbara Brown Taylor called An Altar in the World, I simply share her belief that we find God, not simply inside a church, a limited square, but everywhere. Many have that belief; stories of it are written all in the Bible. But, often we forget the holiness in moments, in special places, in ordinary paths, wherever we travel. God simple is -- he Inundates -- he Overwhelms -- he Overflows, and we move within as if swimming in an incredible deep.

I just want to sense and see and respond, removing blinders from my eyes which designate, partition, divide. If I believe that God can be only seen and experienced with certain people, in a certain place, or with certain structures in place, than I am lost; my oxygen line cut. I would be swimming, focused on the last exhaled breath which intakes water. I want to see through my goggles wherever I am and see his Beauty all around, the wondrous variety of fish, the sights which pass my way (even the dangerous ones to avoid). Lord of All, help us not to limit our vision of your grand (and invasive) Inundation.

Amen.

Lost in therapy

2012-01-10T21:26:00.000-06:00

In the popular television series Lost, survivors of a plane crash find themselves upon a strange and dangerous island. Beasts of unknown proportion whip through cane and foilage to attack suddenly. A group of wild humans called the Others desire to war and capture the survivors for unknown purposes. Enemies of spirit, soul, and flesh seem to want to put an end to those who accidentally abide upon the beaches in meager shelters constructed from wreckage. Vulnerability defined.

Lovingly, I recalled this show tonight, as I walked toward DL's home nestled by a large cedar tree. I trailed my son whose guitar strap always trailed him in the dirt. Inside, two fiddles swung up and down, desiring "Soldier's Joy" reunion, desiring the pronouncement of war victory, war return, dancing cues, partner held, peace reigning upon the soldier's return home. An old tune of weighty- turned-jubilant times.

My shoulders started to relax.

I pushed my way inside the oval-framed door. Heard my fiddle friend's familiar laugh. Heard the Teacher encourage. Heard my son speak.

I could stop. Stop. Stop. It was truly enough.

Yet more was offered, and I brought an empty basket. And a mandolin. And a son. And one of my dearest oldest girlfriends was learning the fiddle in the lesson before us. She decided to stay, and we all sat in a circle. Cats around our feet. A dimmed light. A peacefulness and a brimming happiness overtook us.

Our son said to close our eyes while playing "Cripple Creek." And, we did, laughing at first, then removed by sound and seal, removed from everything but fingers and notes, and then opening to restoration in one completed moment.

Our Teacher, DL, promotes such goodness. My son is healed while there, highly encouraged, happy. The finest therapy money can purchase. I am also healed. My friend once said that she is too.

When I think of the survivors on Lost, I remember that they too had such moments within a few discovered safe places, with people whom they could share such beneficent exchange. Darkness surrounding yet light splaying.

Grace, grow; spread; illuminate to rescue all.

Cody at Dierik's house one day.

D's cat.

Frankenstein funk

2012-01-10T07:18:00.001-06:00

Frankie. Why did you do it? Why do you have such insatiable desires for revenge upon your Maker? Yes, he abandoned you. Yes, you repulsed him. But, why kill innocent victims as a means to a vile end?

I am teaching Frankenstein once more which explains my dream of him right before waking. My "Frankie" was a woman (yet recognized as Frankenstein) who took young schoolboys and drowned them in a bathtub. Even my own son's turn came up, and I followed her spluttering, "Stop!" but was unable to prevent her from holding him under.

Later, I had the painful thought, "Why didn't I stop her? Why didn't I immediately go to the authorities? Why did none of the eyewitnesses do so?" And, no soothing answers were found. So, I've awakened in a bit of a sad funk, wondering what my dream was about. Knowing, though.

Yesterday the issue of school came up. A mother of a son with dyslexia and I spoke of our fantasy schools which would accept and work with our sons. Then, later at my school's basketball game, various people asked about my son's public school experience. Politeness dictates that you don't spew forth your own anxieties; you respond as favorably as possible. But, on the way home, your son tells you how much he hates school. I trust his reasons. A child must learn to march on, though. Real life means this, right?

School placement has always been a Frankenstein for us.

Thus, I need God this morning to help me not sink into the despair and helplessness of the dream. Therefore, I'll end with a picture to counter the monster, and I'll trust in Christ's goodness to walk alongside us in the sometimes foggy and fearful world. Amen.

Blessed aggression

2012-01-09T06:59:00.000-06:00

I'm sure there's a Bible verse which applies to doing the opposite of what's shown above. But, I can look at the violence depicted with warmth and gratitude. Thank you, Aggressive Competitor Spirit, who overtook my son last night during an indoor soccer match.

In our family, soccer has a story of its own, beginning with adorable little soccer outfits which had to be discarded. Autism and adhd made a team sport virtually impossible. From the sidelines, we were in pain. On the field, our son was in lalaland or anti-team land or coach-yelling-his-name-a-thousand-times-land or other players looking at him with repulsion and anger land. When he came off the field, he was broken in a thousand pieces; one more piece of ground where he was asked to leave and not be a part of. I can see his contorted face now, remember our contorted hearts, and the persisent thought, "One more thing to give up."

Then there was a period of martial arts, independent work.

However, as my son matured (and with the love of his dad for sports), he sought activity, running, kicking, throwing => adopted the ball fascination boys have. It's one of the dreams his father desired.

Soccer returned for a trial at the private Christian school where I teach and where my son attended for awhile. The first week was a disaster as my son told the coach not to tell him what to do; when the boys tried to help him along by yell-instructing him, my son spoke back; when he got in the van afterwards, we listened, calmed, encouraged incessantly. Some practices were psychologically disastrous; some were alright. We held our breath.

Yet he continued on. The boys accepted him. He had an incredible spurt of speed, and he improved quickly. He was complimented upon his success on the field. I'll never forget a certain smile: rare pride of self; a flash of wholesome happiness. We had all been in a desert for so long in many areas besides sports.

Thus to help him with his skills, I signed him up for a privace recreation center's indoor soccer league. I was afraid, prayerful => how would the boys treat him? Would the coach be a yeller? Would this backfire? Would he get hurt? I called and spoke with the coach for reassurance. Alright, who needs her St. John's Wort now in horse-pill size?

Last year in this league, my son was timid, just as I was fearful. The playing was good, though. The boys were kind like at school. My son was 50/50 on his perceptual playing. We van-counseled in the van, yes, but we enjoyed, and he endured again.

Last night was his first game this year in the same league. The timid boy is gone. He can sprint like lightening, and he can push and shove against the indoor wall. His father and I had smiles on our faces to see such boldness. We all celebrated in the car on the way home as Cody, with wholesome happiness, related how he did it, and to whom, and how it felt so good.

Amen for paths which signify more than one knows.

Warrior, the movie, and the Prodigal Son, the parable

2012-01-08T07:56:00.005-06:00

When reading Nouwen's The Return of the Prodigal Son this morning, I realized that a recent movie, Warrior, somewhat paralleled the parable. The two brothers, however, get to slug and kick and maim and injure each other in the martial arts cage, a modern vicious sport. The brothers carry with them the baggage of resentment, past offenses, father injustice, family division, death, hurt, pain, dysfunction. How good it feels to them to slam one another, pounding out the filth they see in each other's eyes and lives.

In the Bible, the younger son returns after a squalid life. However, in Warrior, the younger son, played by Tom Hardy on the left, returns after leaving his alcoholic father with his mother who later dies of cancer. The older son, portrayed by Joel Edgerton, has stayed with his father, mainly because of a girlfriend and perhaps because of a desire to be the father's favorite. Clues tell us that the younger son, a fighting champion who the father coached, had been the perceived favorite. When the younger son runs away with his mother, he doesn't communicate out of resentment back to his two family members.

Yet in the movie he returns: broken, hardened, in pain. He doesn't ask directly for his father's forgiveness; rather, he torments his father some at the same time he holds the door open a little for a relationship. The older brother / son leads a quieter domesticated life, but he too has rejected his father for the pain caused. As fate would have it, he must fight to retain his home loan, and the two brothers meet accidentally (and have a tense, unresolved confrontation) as they walk outside of the arena where they will later fight for the championship.

Okay, the parable connection becomes muddled. Yet Nouwen talks about how the tension between the two brothers in the biblical parallel revolves around a father-figure and choices made. Same here. The father figure in the movie, played by the great Nick Nolte, is pitiable in his dysfunction, not like the biblical father who represents God. Yet we capture him trying to also find redemption in his life through sobriety and belief. The younger son who wants his dad to coach him again to win the martial arts championship, sees a Bible laying on the table and scoffs at it. The brothers, throughout the movie, circle the father, inside wanting clearance, love, function, normalcy, although the father is still fighting to receive these gifts himself.

So, in the ring, the brothers find themselves (of course, this is Hollywood!), and they are deeply at odds with one another, although they long for brotherhood. They return, and apart from the father, they get to work their differences out. The last scene in the movie is one of the best; the focus on the finished faces of both brothers is monumental. You'll have to see the movie to appreciate it.

In the biblical story, we don't know how the brothers end. And, in Warrior, it is implied rather than directly pronounced too, yet with more of a possibility given than the parable. We do know that the father implores the responsible older son to forgive and to love and to welcome. Yet the older son doesn't concede openly in the parable.

It's as if he needs a cage to enter into where he and his brother can duke it all out.

Selah.

Holy language

2012-01-07T09:14:00.002-06:00

Within one's mouth words can brim from the heart, soul, being, and almost feel like you are overflowing or choking with their goodness, or their ire, or their full descriptors which Signify.

When reading from The Valley of Vision, A Collection of Puritan Prayers and Devotions, I sense that overfullness which these words promote, particularly when they praise, when they pronounce, when they praise pronouncedly in promotion of the God our Lord, his magnificent son Jesus Christ, and the friendly fierce protector, the Holy Spirit.

And, thus, I share the book's cover and one of its first prayers to convey what I mean without undue explanation.

The Valley of Vision

Lord, high and holy, meek and lowly,
Thou hast brought me to the valley of vision,
where I live in the depths but see thee in the heights;
hemmed in by mountains of sin I behold thy glory.

Let me learn by paradox
that the way down is the way up,
that to be low is to be high,
that the broken heart is the healed heart,
that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,
that the repenting soul is the victorious soul,
that to have nothing is to possess all,
that to bear the cross is to wear the crown,
that to give is to receive,
that the valley is the place of vision.

Lord, in the daytime stars can be seen from deepest well,
and the deeper the wells the brighter thy stars shine;

Let me find thy light in my darkness,
thy life in my death,
thy joy in my sorrow,
thy grace in my sin,
thy riches in my poverty
thy glory in my valley.

Stick and Pumps

2012-01-06T18:29:00.001-06:00

I apologize for my literary geekiness in my last post; I realize that it's not kind to all readers.

Yet I am the English teacher lady at the board with a stick-it-to-them pole and wearing high-heeled pumps . . . I must speak the part.

Speaking of career, earlier today I was a graduate study social worker and a professional counselor, while signed up for a graduate education course. This evening, I am now a possible counselor and the same, smiling English teacher (with high heeled pumps and stick-it-to-them-stick). I have been swirling in the possibilities of a career move, researching, calling, caffeinating, but for now, the counselor track seems like a possibility as still does the teaching track.

Work. Ambition. Macbeth.

Work. Ambition. Hillary Clinton.

Work. Ambition. Mother Mabel Carter.

Work. Ambition. Rebecca Skloot, Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf.

And, then there's Clara Barton, and Mother Theresa, and women who are the fabric of our society. Money isn't an issue. Their role, conviction, courage in everyday, faith are exemplary.

Illuminate my path, Counselor.

Portrayal of Faith in The Life of Henrietta Lacks

2012-01-06T08:10:00.003-06:00

I stayed up late to finish the nonfiction book The Life of Henrietta Lacks regarding the woman whose cells became immortal, living, dividing, spreading, and contributing monumentally to world-wide scientific research. Of course, there's a backstory which the author Rebecca Skloot adeptly investigated of the woman herself, her family, discrimination (always a good agenda item in today's modern lit), patient rights, and ethical medical practices.

When Skloot interviews the family of Henrietta, she finds them impoverished and angry that the cells have been used without their knowledge for many years and used to create a multi-million dollar industry without any windfall for them. The outrage indicated too is that Henrietta's family struggle with medical issues and can't even afford to see a doctor or pay medical bills. The family is African American, descendants from the slave trade, from the old colonial tobacco farms. They are struggling.

Within the Lacks' family are contrasts of those who stay out of legal trouble and those who are deep in it, but as Skloot enters their world, she describes encounters/brushes with their Christian faith (except for one brother who converted to Muslim, which didn't help his anger or his conflict with the law).

At times, Skloot seems to mix superstition with the family's religious beliefs quite heavily. And, their beliefs seem in much conflict with the ideas of science. She shows how the family's educational ignorance caused them to supplant their lack of knowledge in science with concepts from their categorized belief system which they can understand. For example, the family connects thoughts about how God is using Henrietta's cells to a) destroy (in some cases); b) pay retribution (in other cases); c) save the world from cancer; d) be angelic forms, etc. Such spiritual language is not used in the lab, and the family clearly grapples for meaning through their world-view, however wrought with scientific blunders.

Yet near the end of the book, Skloot, who never went to church or read the Bible, had a spiritual encounter when, in her presence, two family members had an intimate prayer meeting. The elder cousin, called a "disciple" for his close Christian faith walk, invites Skloot into faith and places a Bible in her hands as a gift. She senses an authenticity unbeknownst to her from the entire encounter.

Later in the book, many of the family members, including the much focused upon and interviewed daughter Deborah, accepts a spiritual premise which makes sense to them: God used Henrietta's cells for the good of human society, to heal sickness, to be like guardian angels blending into scientific purview. Deborah is able to let go of much strife, heaviness. Some of her brothers find peace with this also, even though the fact remains of the exploitation of this patient and her cells and the money made from them.

At first, I was distrustful with Skloot's presentation of religion. I think she focused a bit too much on the family's scientific ignorance which they applied to spiritual associations which often reeked of strange superstitions. However, on the other hand, I can almost hear this type of connection with people I have known or know. Yet the book, the artistic rendering, in general, can play up something for effect which I thought she did at times. I usually resent that type of manipulation. I was glad, at the end, that Skloot herself entered into the belief world, even for just a little bit, in order to understand the meaning which could be given to such a mysterious, scientific actuality of such disproportionate cell division and the good they provide to fighting sickness in the world.

Astonish

2012-01-05T08:53:00.003-06:00

I don't think I can ever get over the transient nature of life on earth. That truly "Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever" (NIV Ecc. 1:4). I find the perpetual waves of people crashing upon the shore astonishing; I find my being in a particular wave astonishing; I'm forever trying to observe it and access meaning. Dwelling upon this human transience too long is certain to lead to a sense of absurdity and hopelessness (however steadied by the eternal belief).

Today, while taking my son to school, I saw a black man dancing alongside the sidewalk as he listened to his beats with earphones. Dancing is symbolically seen as a happy, romantic thing. But, it can also be one of sorrow. His eyes were glazed; his contention was unnameable; did he stagger? I can't presuppose his dance was happy. Yet, there he was snapping in my perspective, in my secure minivan, in my safe world, across the plain of human existence, the stage, the wave. Tomorrow, he will be gone, and I will no longer be driving as his observer, my morning purpose.

Yesterday, my aunt sent out her normal e-mail which provides an attached copy of an old newspaper from my hometown. She scours these in her geneology studies. This particular one is dated January 28th, 1943, and we are in the throes of war. The main headline reads: "Roosevelt, Churchill Met In Casablanca To Map Strategy." Throughout the paper are names, names, names, names. One man becomes an army chaplain; one local woman is the real heroin of the book/movie They Were Expendable. One man sold a sow to another. One baby was born to this woman. One of my relatives had his obituary listed. One family visited another family. One local soldier was blown up and in critical condition in Kansas City. One couple is urging more locals to sign up for government work to support the troops. One woman made three pies for a fundraiser.

They were expendable; they thrashed; made an early or late exit; and lived, breathed, danced, cried, sat and looked, wondered and wrote.

It's a bit dizzing, really. When I live my life, I think of the significance of now and the despair of now. Like my grandmother and mother before me, I will keep my head up and be grateful.

Yet life is astonishing. So many dead. So few alive.

March, dance, make pies, pray, hope, and believe like crazy for the good high mountainous path toward heaven. Choose it.

Selah.

The Embrace and the Onlooker

2012-01-04T09:00:00.000-06:00

I have a friend who likes to party. She and her husband like to skinnydip as a tradition in each new foreign place to which they travel. She just got a bike tattoo on her arm this past summer. She has been known to participate in "wear little or nothing" bike rides, or midnight jaunts during special occasions. One of her life's philosophies is to live without regrets and to live freely. Yet, she is a good mother and seems to have a sturdy relationship with her husband whom she does most of the above with. Even though she is atheistic in faith, her child was the one God lined up for my son to be first-good friends with. Two socially awkward lonely homeschool kids who were obsessed with Pokemon. Her son and her household opened their hearts to Cody's differences back then. Thank you, Jesus, still for that answer of friendship and acceptance.

I always tell my friend that she lives my wild side, which I can't or don't want to live. When I read more in Nouwen's book (The Return of the Prodigal Son) this morning, I thought of my lively friend. Nouwen says: "It is strang to say this, but, deep in my heart, I have known the feeling of envy toward the wayward son. It is the emotion that arises when I see my friends having a good time doing all sorts of things that I condemn. I called their behavior reprehensible or even immoral, but at the same time I often wondered why I didn't have the nerve to do some of it or all of it myself" (70).

He then talks about how the "good" and "responsible" son who stayed at home is the one, in the end, who becomes lost when he envies and becomes resentful of his brother, who returns, confesses, and is celebrated. The older son represents those who become frozen in their anger and self-righteousness, the moralists who don't love the person as much as the code of behavior.

Being wayward has its consequences on me, for sure, and typically for others. I know my friend struggles with depression during some of her days. I know I have some regrets. I know that bursts of experience can't often last, although they seem monumental in themselves; yet unless they are good for self and others, harmless so to speak, they often last longer in regret than they ever did in reality (thankfully in some cases). I bet the prodigal son looked backwards with remorse; he still carried the memories of his experience; yet acceptance and forgiveness became sweeter with it.

The older son never had the monumental sweetness of return, and when he beheld it, he did not approve. Can we blame him for his ignorance in the face of remaining good? Probably not, but as Nouwen says "anger and envy" becomes a bondage (70). For him, he is frozen in the opposite of free-flowing love.

And, so an indictment again of those, and ourselves, who don't accept and love, who are tied to codes rather than the openness of the arms of the Father. Envy, pride, and rights are such powerful impediments. May we release these to the wind and embrace. Amen.

To be strumming or to not to be strumming

2012-01-03T09:24:00.000-06:00

Career path => elusive, disappearing. I'm rarely completely happy on the one I'm on; however, perhaps I was born to strum music in a coconut grove. For this, I can't be blamed.

Yet something inside me, the Kiersey temperament test designated Idealist-Champion, desires a meaningful work role -- one which makes a difference. One which calls for sacrifice . . . . Sacrifice can be problemmatic to other good things, though, like family, or music strumming time, or a sense of safety and security.

I could become a worker where one puts in her time, makes environmental, surface relationships, learns to ingratiate and integrate, and reaps the paycheck at the end. Yet would the work matter to someone else besides the beneficiary of my paycheck? Would I feel content?

Right now, I teach English at a private Christian school. It's wonderful in its way. The students are pleasing, attentive, appreciative, and I promote writing and thinking. My colleagues are generous and loving. Yet . . . the job consists of full-time hours on a part-time schedule. My nights and weekends are busy fulfilling my needs for, and the job's needs for, satisfaction and excellence. It becomes tiring. Yet I do have flexible hours too and only work on MWF. How perfect is this role which was given during the time I needed it? Fairly perfect.

However, my exclusive and pristine school doesn't accept or make accomodations for special needs kids. My son could go there and take a few classes, however, if he dipped below a C, there would be no help for him. And, had I not been teaching there in the first place, he wouldn't have been accepted. I dislike this fact intensely and feel like Jesus operates differently. It's a big thorn to me, and I disagree. I am writing for change, but will "core policy" be adapted? I have a sinking feeling.

I also feel a push to seek a career which involves higher education. How can I better myself? How can I fulfill who I was created to be in a work role? Although my work life has been delayed in lieu of family commitment multiple times over (with worthwhile outcomes), time is opening up a larger door for me to walk through. It could be time to pack the bag and do it.

Therefore, today I investigate and think and make some calls. Tomorrow, we shall see.

The new year rolls on . . .

Chia to you too

2012-01-02T12:19:00.002-06:00

Going green. Leaves sticking all out of my shopping cart. Round fruit of multiple variety. I'm acting the part of an Ozark hippi, an Ozark goodfarmer grower, a liberal in my collegetown. When I arrive home, I wonder what will be the effects of the nutrient rush: less wrinkles, immediate radiance, erased colesterol, flatulence, angry boys, rotten vegetables forgotten in the lower tray. Yet, there they are -- my year's hopes to eat well, live longer, look good, and repair irreparable junk food damage.

Half an hour later, my son drinks the concocted, grocery-result smoothie with discretely pureed spinach -- and he asks for another glass! He's the most wonderful teenager in the world! I know you must have such a miraculous recipe, and here it is:

A handful of spinach leaves
About 1/2 cup of fruit juice
About 3/4 cup of frozen blueberries
One banana
A tablespoon of Chia seeds (which I didn't know existed until yesterday)
3/4 cup of fozen strawberries

Delightful, discrete. Aren't I the famer market's connoisseur; the smug natural foods shopper; the conscientious mother; the woman aging into her 70's and 80's on the shimmering hem of Omega 3?

Well. Next week I return to the busy schedule which makes vegetables rot in the lower tray. I will try to overcome with spinach leaves and blueberry visions still dancing in my head, arteries, brain connections => at least, at least, until the end of the month.

Best wishes on your healthy endeavors.

2012

2012-01-01T22:44:00.004-06:00

January 1st.

A day of raising my hands to God in bed asking him to provide for my son. Ask big and often.

A day of conversing with my husband all the way to his mother's farm, sharing our year's goals. I informed him of one or two of my goals for him.

A day of throwing a soft ball from grandparent to grandchild to mother to grandfather to father. In the living room, from the chairs. Giggles. Children once again.

A day of wantonly eating pie. Whipped cream on top. Flaunting in the face of tomorrow's annual sugar fast.

A day of letting my son drive halfway home on a fast road with a gravelly shoulder => my unrelenting tense shoulders.

A day of scouring sugar and gluten free recipes on the internet. Really?

A day of marinating a roast with garlic and accompanying herbal companions. Grateful.

A day of making two green smoothies -- throwing in some parsley, lettuce, banana, blueberries. The first, acceptable to the teenager; the second, not so much. Understandable.

A day of looking forward to health, happiness, family, and God in the new year. Let 2012 begin, amen.

2011-12-28T08:57:00.002-06:00

I'm reading a small book called TheReturn of the Prodigal Son by Henri Nouwen. We know the circuit of the story -- restless boy, asks for partying money/early inheritance, drunkenness, women, pigs, awareness, return, embrace, fattened calf, surly older brother, reprimand.

Rembrandt painted this parable. Nouwen became obsessed with his painting, staring, electrically, studying, contemplating. He unfolds his connections, God's punching, in this book.

Nouwen speaks of how we're all like the prodigal son -- not happy until we're home, until we have the heart for home, until we reach our father's arms who welcomes our wandering.

He speaks of how we're all like the elder son and ends Chapter 4 with this quote: "Both [elder and younger son] needed healing and fogiveness. Both needed to come home. Both needed the embrace of a forgiving father. But from the story itself, as well as from Rembrandt's painting, it is clear that the hardest conversion to go through is the conversion of the one who stayed home" (66).

There's pride. There's anger. There's "what's mine is mine." All are reasonable. All don't allow a growth but a tightening. I can imagine the continued looks of animosity between the two brothers, building even though the younger desires a new life. Will this conflict run him off again? What happens when the father dies?

What do you do when a family member is jealous of your choices which has caused you pain and sacrifice to make as you turn on a better path?

Perhaps embrace that person? Perhaps define your territory as one which involves love but peace? Perhaps take their pain and carry it? Perhaps focus only on God's delight in who you're becoming through him?

I am relating to this story.

2011-12-27T13:44:00.004-06:00

I always do such a thing => ignore the blog, write, and then wish to write again and again before the long silence. The space of time, right now with the sun shining into my beautiful office room where my mandolin and guitar are splayed in light, is right; I have some minutes before I drive to retrieve my son from a rare playdate. He wouldn't like me to call it a playdate now that he is seventeen, but the mothers coordinate it as dates, times, arrangements still are elusive.

Anyway, it's a beautiful December day; some kind of pollen is blowing in the air; the green grass is waving to defy winter. Defy on. I'm in love with the potential in my flower beds as the sun pulls upwards.

I am wondering about something as pleasure brims: I am wondering about guilt. At times when I enjoy my surroundings and my easy living, I feel it. I think of others and feel for their lack. I think of my friend whose children are gone over the holiday and a new wife has appeared; I think of my student who just lost a grandfather; I think of the tired mother at work; I think of the parents and kids who just burned up on Christmas day during a house fire, or the . . . , or the . . . ; headlines scream and rant and let you know that your sunny room full of musical instruments is not everyone's experience. You are not all there is; it's good to have peace and to have "safe pasture" but one should not live for only this. (Did you see how language lapses into "one should" as if the deep voice of parents are still monitoring?) I sadly think we seek this and nothing much more.

However, guilt has a shelf which can be useful. Love doesn't need one but is often left up there with guilt, shame, fear, selfishness.

Did an unnecessary shadow fall upon my room? Can't I just enjoy? Yes, yes, yes! and yes can lead to an extension outside here as well.

It's a dilemma. One of my old friends thought one should just live for one's experience only, which is the highest form of living. It always sounded like a self-centered philosophy to me. Yet, my codependent urges to help or fix or feel something for someone has also interfered and made my living for others complicated and ridiculous.

For now, I am going to enjoy my sunlit musical room; however, for me, I desire a deeper awareness than just this, one that involves sympathy, compassion, wise discernment, and love in movement, not in isolation of my own self-serving joys -- although I am thankful, God, for the joys that each human being, regardless of loss, hardship, have available ==> your potential in the soil, your sunshine of pull.

May we all respond and feel the joyful freedom it gives. Selah.

2011-12-27T12:08:00.002-06:00

Two days after Christmas. I would like to give a shout out to my friend, NP! When she, a most contemplative, brilliant, analogy-maker writer, creates her own blog, I will try to put her on my blogroll, which has not been edited for a while, due to remiss, ignorance, forgetfulness. Yet, it's good to keep old blogs regardless if they are used any more -- they were a stage for me, when I was home alone with a son who needed lots, a teenage daughter who broke us down, an escape needing a depository, a way to make new, smart friends, a room with a view to call my own. Blogs, an interesting room with a view. Now, we have Facebook where epigrammatic, superficial, or agitated sentence blurts are the norm. I don't think I would ever say, "Yay, Mizzou!" on my blog which I have many times on Facebook. It seems important to share team wins with others, immediately getting those gratifying thumbs-up. We're in this together, right now, in real time -- no need to pretend that anything else matters in our life right now other than a Tiger victory!

With a blog, one must be more thoughtful, perhaps that's why I don't write as much any more. However, I still do think. I still do wonder. I still hold open my hands for understanding regarding relationships, hope in God, a child with high functioning autism, a daughter who has turned the corner, and sees me now as a person. Life is good. Age is good. I can still run three miles, although running away from things doesn't matter as much as it used to, thankfully. God has broken me of that, still with the freedom to make my own choices and reap my own consequences, though.

My friend NP, the brilliant, contemplative, analogy-maker, beautiful writer, shared a video link by Brene Brown who is a researcher on shame which I watched today. In it, she says one of the keys to being happy is having the courage to accept your own imperfections. I've gotten better at this through the years, still walking the path into knowing that the outlines of perfection are illusionary blurry lines which mess with my perceptions and cause me angst. I am accepted the way that I am, created, loved, held together by the encompassing Grace of the land. I can relax and relax more into being imperfect but worthy of love and acceptance.

Yes, I wish I was better at things: loving, accepting others as they are, forgiving, hoping, believing, being more like Jesus, that historical and exemplary figure => for this I lean into the source and dip in my cup. And, dip desiring the dip.

Clinging

2011-10-15T20:40:00.000-05:00

Finally finding the campus of College of the Ozarks, I lined up to wait to hug my friend who just lost her husband to brain cancer. She was my best friend in high school, radiant then as she is now in her faith. She was radiant at the end of the line, almost like a bride.

But, the deal was that the earthly healing she "claimed" in the name of Jesus was denied to her husband. Way down the aisle in the chapel, he was cold and pale.

Throughout the 11 month ordeal, my friend would send faith-infused updates. Her labor for healing resulted in a glowing testimony of amazing hope and assurance that her husband would be healed. I forwarded these to friends because of their power; I dared to hope that God would show himself, that he would involve himself, that maybe I could hope too in connection to my prayers for my son.

Yet, as the updates came, finally came an admission that the healing might happen in heaven. However, I have never seen such a demonstration in expectancy that God would deliver healing upon earth, even to the last moment.

Her last update on Tuesday stated that her husband was now in heaven. However, he "is alive and well" in a recovered body and looking into the eyes of Jesus.

When I approached her at the visitation, she dry-eyed squealed out my name, and we clung to each other crying. Once upon a time, we had been high school best friends dreaming about boyfriends and husbands and what God would do in our lives. We were both earnest, faith-full girls. We both trusted in good futures.

We both have been down hard paths.

My friend has lost her gift, the man whom she treasured more than anything else. Brain cancer. Life gone. Prayer denied.

Yet there she was quite radiant, whispering to me that Vince didn't suffer due to God's grace in his last hours. I was happy for her.

However, I cried much driving back.

For her. And, that God didn't allow us hopeful onlookers some more, solid, unquestionable proof of his existence and reported upon active care.

Bar Tab

2011-09-25T09:05:00.002-05:00

Above on my tab bar (words to reverse!), I have several openblogs written by individuals with Asperger’s. I became aware of them from afriend and now I can’t walk away from reading them. One in particular “My Lifeon the Other Side of the Wall” by Aaron Leakes, who works alongside an autismagency in town, is especially good. In it he describes indepth, what a socialanxiety looks and feels like for him. I’m reading knowing that I get tounderstand my son better through Aaron’s openness and honesty.

Fortunately, I was a shy child and teenager which has helpedme understand some of social paralysis. Only through hard work, intense desire,and some spiritual shoves have I completely defeated it, yet I remember notwanting this for my worst enemy. It was such a place of echoes – echoes ofself-defeat, shame, hatred. A battle. But, I am grateful for it because now Ican understand somewhat the feeling for my son. It has been helpful.

Reading the blogs of these individuals has shown me both anopen and swinging door. The open door shows me the similar experiences, thesimilar battles, and similar hopes which these people have. If I can learn fromthem, I might know better how to understand or help. However, I also see theperpetual swinging door of hope, despair, energy, weariness, optimism,depression which accompanies my parenting and the individual’s experience. Weswing, and the world pushes their way through.

Each day seems a battle to confront and win. I think, in away, that’s a universal thing, though, for some it happens in a more intensemanner. I rolled out of bed wondering what it would be like to not be able toroll out of bed, what it would be like to be facing a terminal illness, whatwould it be like to have a spouse leave you, or a child die.

The battle can’t be denied. Life can be tough. A tacticalplan must be conceived.

Today’s plan consists of:

Church

Me completing some of my overhanging schoolwork

Me playing the banjo some

Me choosing to be hopeful and not fearful

My son hitting golf balls with dad

My son running a mile with his dad

We as a family being united to be in this together.

Love.

Adjustment at the Movies

2011-07-26T22:57:00.004-05:00

I'm stymied. Seems like lately, I do not enjoy movies. I should like movies, and I have some in the past. However, lately, they all fall short. It makes me wonder if movies meet us where we are at times, or if many movies truly do not have merits as they should.

My husband and I just watched "The Adjustment Bureau," and it was okay. If I apply all the liteary dimensions, I can perhaps see clearer where it went wrong.

Setting: New York with supernatural elements; the unseen "force" becomes visible. The setting seems plausible even within the "willing suspension of disbelief" and the few, fantastical elements. The buses don't morph into fighting machines; they are real. The buildings are quite normal too.

Style: I haven't thought much about style in movies, but, now that I am, I believe this film's style is somewhat jerky to me. There isn't an emphasis on cinematography or mood setting. Perhaps I want more layers which style offers in a movie.

Plot: A story is told. A senator-to-become realizes an outer, directive layer exists which comprise of men, angels, agents on a mission to keep him on course for his life plan. Falling in love with someone who he is meant to be with in an earlier plan, but not current plan, causes these agents to trail him and try to intercept this off-path love. Of course, love is stronger than fate because it illustrates free will, and the main characters maintain their love and receive permission in the end. I don't think the plot is a problem. If I want to enter into a story, why not this one? It's as good as another.

Characters: At times, plot interferes with characters, though. Although Matt Damon is a good character actor, his character is too busy running, like many modern movie thriller characters want to do. Not enough time is given to develop motivation or personality or anything to help the audience deeply identify. It must be a dilemma in action movies, and I don't think the movie fails completely -- probably does a little better job than most --at characterization. However, I think that the lack of this element causes the movie to be flat.

Theme: People can control their own destiny if they want it badly enough and assert their individual rights. "Fight for your right to party," as the song goes. Well, sort-of here. I think that the theme is a good one. The voice at the end hammers in the theme to make sure we know it, because we need interpretors of meaning in our modern day stupors (it seems they think so).

Overall, it seems the style (lack of mood setting) and the lack of character development robbed this movie, which is making me analyze it late at night. Well, I might be able to sleep afterall soon. :) Perhaps it isn't me and my unrealistic standards.

One last thought -- as I assess my appreciation of movies, I am wondering if I had more appreciation when I was younger because I wanted what the movies offered more than I do now. I will have to think about that late at night one night.

Blizzard philosophy -- trying to answer a friend's question

2011-02-02T08:59:00.005-06:00

So...here is my question: When you see suffering, injustice, oppression...do you accept that God is in charge and it is all from God...and submit and accept? For example in Egypt right now...the people have been living with the oppressive regime of first Sadat, and now Mubarak for over 30 years. The U.S. has supported Mubarak all these years...because it's better than a power vacuum in the Middle East?! Now after a generation, thousands are ready to break the yoke and stand up and say "no more". Did they suddenly hear from God?

I'll try to give you my meager perspective on your question. Or, at least what I've used to placate my questions. First one about suffering, injustice and oppression -- is God in charge and is it all from God, so we should submit and accept. I think we are a multi-layered world. We have the "natural law" layer -- if one lives on the Sahara Desert, one may be hungry and thirsty; if one lives in the Midwest, one might get blown away by a tornado. God doesn't mess with natural laws --- they are set in motion, and unless it's highly necessary to prove something (like Jesus walking on the water, or the talk with Moses, etc), He doesn't alter anything. He made the potential for the wind to blow at high rates of speed. He made volcanic plates. Our earth is dynamic and continues to roil and boil, and provide pleasant retreat too. The idea of God is one of Supremacy over it all, but He lets it operate. The other layer we have is the man-organized layer: we have social, human conditions which add to life's complexities. We have petty bosses who want to let their issues spill out and make others' lives miserable. We have Hitler. We have Mubarak and his protesters and his supporters. We have Mother Teresa's response. We have the Salvation Army. We have political institutions, religious ones, everything man has created to support his own base or good nature.

The people of Egypt want change. Perhaps their ideas are shaped by their beliefs in God. Their perceptions of what is good for a human being operating in a political system might be supported by their particular religious outlook. We did the same thing when we broke from England. The United States, whose religious beliefs are shaped by God supposedly, who attaches itself to Israel because of religious heritage outlook, acts primarily for the good of itself, although colored by the lens of religion somewhat, yet really is concerned about holding onto peaceful economic conditions which also means staving off one's enemies. We can support this conveniently by the mentioned religious dimension. Here in America, we live the good life. None of us want our enemies to press in on us. We're about self-preservation, like it or not.

President Obama is seemingly going along with the change too, per his last talk. Maybe we can hold onto preservation and the ideas of democracy, maybe we won't lose relationship, maybe we just have to say the Egypt people are winning, so let's be part of the inevitable and be conciliatory.

Did they hear from God? They might think so. Yet the religious dimension is being used to support a world view and a political action. Happens all the time in that human layer. It's not always bad or good. It might be valid or invalid.

The last layer we might have is the spiritual layer. God, Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha (or are the last two man-made?), etc. I choose the first two because of my heritage and because of historical and logical reasons. This layer is one we try to manipulate and understand and emulate. We try to praise it; we try to force it; we try to verify it constantly; we use it. It's very complex. Even if I'm tempted to say "and it's very simple", I know that isn't true. It's complex. Because how does God infuse the layers? And, does He? Remember the devotion I sent which was my friend's writing regarding her husband's brain tumor? It's a test. If he isn't healed, God did not in fact intervene, and the voice my friend heard isn't more than her intense wishful thinking. If he is healed, it could be the science involved, but it could be God involved, and perhaps because she tapped into his layer repetitively and with great assurance and seeking, she is rewarded for her faith. It will be interesting to see what happens. Admitted or not, we'll all be disappointed if this faith test isn't resolved positively.

This spiritual layer seems to be more individualistic than corporate. It seems like it works despite the tornado, earthquake, monsoon, even cancer. My friend will make peace with God even if her husband dies. Is it possible to believe in God when you have no earth's resources? Or, when the social layer is so intense and full of problems? Seems as if there are blocks, obstacles, yet we all universally live within the circle of our conscience, of our soul working toward meaning of some sort. Is the meaning our family, our social connections, our homes, our meal providing, our politics? I can't believe that this search for meaning is non-existent. Therefore, we have religion; we have religious stories and religious paths to take. We have an awareness that we may not be all there is. Some of us are free-er to explore this in our comfort and leisure than others, yet that too has a distraction side. Some of us don't have much of a chance due to our culture or restraints or our suffering. Yet there are undeniable currents -- morality issues, meaning issues, etc.

Where is God? Sometimes what we require of Him is more than what He has permitted Himself to do. Who knows why? Sure doesn't help our beliefs out at times. Yet the layer is there. His layer.

I know some people won't like this because I make him sound very passive, and I don't expect a lot of intervention. Yet I pray for it despite myself. But, I think my prayers would be best served if I could just understand the layers better and why He, in Being, is necessary in our daily operations, search for meaning, and pathway through the layers of this life.

I don't know if I've answered your question. I'm doing a lot of articulation of my thoughts here too which I haven't before. I could definitely be sounding vague, but what is crystal clear anyway?

Bits

2011-01-23T13:13:00.003-06:00

After my last post, I tromped through the serenity of the nearest grocery story which was like Mardi Gras since people were out shopping for the first time and for another upcoming snowstorm. No natural headiness happening. However, I saw several friends and we yacked and perhaps they thought I wouldn't let them return to shopping? Well, such is social desperation during snow-time.

Thoughts:

** perhaps I'll return to my women's ministry group this session; yet, can I take it? So much skin flailing at times. I wish to be okay with me. However, I realize that I determine that and no one else.

** my son's soccer game is tonight; a newly discovered sport, a blessing. He's doing well at 16. He will make it.

** just heard from my long-lost CA cousin who married a black man. We found her again after discovering that my aunt and uncle disowned her. Seriously, this day and age? Julie and I are writing, and I'm getting acquainted with my second cousins I never knew I had.

** I have a printed NYTimes article entitled "The One-Eyed Man is King" regarding the remake of "True Grit." Here's a good line: "Like classic Hollywood Westerns before it, 'True Grit' in all its iterations has an elegiac lilt." Like Shane, an order is established; transgressions are answered.

** Too many book tidbits are floating on my tables. Perhaps I should pick just one instead of 20. Now, there's an idea.

** Served the K-2 grade students at church this morning. Love them. Love their faces while jumping rope. Love their progress from kindergarten to second grade. Love the little buddies who always sit by me and put their heads on my shoulder. Love kids.

** Many papers to grade.

** Much snow to melt.

** It's a good life when things don't go wrong.

Snow-locked

2011-01-21T08:26:00.004-06:00

Yes, Jack London wouldn't think it's that bad at all. I should remove my flowery robe, dress in thickness, and go outside to tromp. The wind isn't even whistling; wolves from an upper NW pack have not even descended into my state. The one to three mountain lions spotted in rural areas do not like this university town. A malicious deer with a weaponry rack only exists in the imagination of a city-slicker.

It's tame. Each sequestered back yard here might have a cat's trail, or a squirrel's brush, or a dog's plow marking the snowscape. Yesterday, I saw one terrified deer bounding into our yard and over the neighbor's fence, marking wide leaps of horror. Yet no danger exists.

I could go outside and walk off this fancy cabin malaise. When I was younger, I always did just that, dressing in old green coveralls and an old Chiefs hat, some old tennis shoes, some old black work gloves. I would dodge the heat wave from Mom's wood stove. I would dodge the loudness of Dad's television. I would dodge getting involved in the third book of the day. The cold air would hit; the dog would fall in behind; freedom came from striding down the hill, past the pond not quite safe for skating, past the summer's blackberry bushes, past the Mulberry playhouse tree with the old teakettle swinging coldly from a branch. Finally, into the back acreage; finally down the steep hill where the quartz rock could always sparkle to be found. Down to the secret pond, surrounded by cedar, and away from everything.

I never was not greeted graciously in the winter-time outside. Some sort of beauty awaited. Some sort of treat presented itself. Some type of freedom assented inside my spirit.

I would focus on small things, and they would focus back, like two aliens studying each other's habits; two aliens living under each others' noses until one says, "Hello" and the other says, "Finally!"

Prayer and love, or release from loneliness, or spiritual un-chokedness would always happen. In the winter-time, the desperation for such would be extreme. In the winter-time, such outlines inside and outside just occurred. The snow on the branches gave me pause; the greyish ice on the spring-fed pond made me think; the sound of the branches spoke. Wow, I'm a bit crazy like Thoreau and Wordsworth themselves! Yet when a country girl needed a vacation which was never taken otherwise because of money, she could find it on the land -- the Ozarkian land especially. I don't know what the crazed city kids did, and for them, I feel sympathy.

When walking back up the steep, rocky hill towards our small house, I would be ready for it again. Another night of television or books and thick wood heat. Another cancellation of school or basketball practice. Another grapple with closeness, sounds and silence.

I think I must try to walk today outside. I think I will just be one of those neighborhood women who walk to shape up. I think I must go find a creek bed too if possible.

Amen and amen.

Asking for it back

2011-01-21T08:16:00.003-06:00

from "The Age of Reason" by Kathleen Norris

Now it begins: the search for a God
who has moved on, the
God-please-help-me need
you still can't imagine, strangely
twisted landscapes
in which you may not rest.
The pillar of cloud
you saw march across the plain
will pass you by; some younger child
will see it.

It was given
so readily, and now you must learn
to ask for it back.
It's not so terrible;
it's like the piano lessons you love
and hate. You know how you want
the music to sound,
but have to practice, half in tears,
without much hope.

Not forgotten

2011-01-20T07:14:00.002-06:00

Writing in the blog, non. Living in the life, oui. I was reminded this week of how powerful writing can be to capture the fast-movement of life. I was reminded of my place here, an open square for words to write and capture.

For a writing assignment given to my freshmen students, I wrote about homemade ice cream. I created a sensory map in which I captured all the sensory details of the ice cream family event which we used to have each summer at Grandma Cora's house. The piece has captivated me. I keep reading it over and over again reliving all of those southern Missouri moments of that specific time which represented complete harmony in the universe to me. Grandma's laugh, the smell of the grass, the spicy smell of hydrangea, the feel of the hugging humidity, the sight of aunts, cousins, uncles in the lit circle by the food table, the cicadas, the men hunched over, turning, turning the crank, pouring in the ice, the creamy delectableness of the gift. Grandma's bustle and joy. The wealthy life. God and pleasure.

Therefore, motivated by the writer's desire for preservation, canning, going to the cellar and unscrewing the jar which holds experience.

Grateful for the ever present possibility.

Submerged emerged

2010-08-14T21:54:00.002-05:00

On Friday, I wrote a short story and painted my first canvas painting. It was an ecstatic day for me. I loved both of my productions, even if, in fact, they are not, or won't be, critically acclaimed. But, I was in heaven. I had produced. I had expressed something buried inside of me. Not one but two forms had emerged and waved their hands to say, "I am here. Finally, you let me out."

This was especially true with the painting, which was supposed to be a base coat for a bigger plan. Yet, a face emerged after the base coat dried. My husband and I both described it in similar ways, as if we both turned as the ghost departed the room and both bore witness and could testify. A young man with a well-proportioned face appears in my painting. I had no intention or skill at drawing such a face, but there he is. I knew immediately that I couldn't paint over him, so I went to the art store for another canvas. Now, if another face emerges, I will be wondering and worried, but yet, strangely and unexpectedly . . . . honored?

My short story is quite expressionistic, drawn from a painting of Kokoshka's 'The Degenerate Artist" which I found in my art book. Yet the story has clear progression and unity, of which I'm thankful. I need to fill in the gaps and make it less bony and more muscular. I think I'll get it ready for a competition in November. I wrote it in two hours, and I really did like the results.

Now, I'm writing curriculum, which is also a creative act of gathering and/or bringing forth.

My husband has been jokingly calling me an artist all day. When I rode the bike with him, he said that I was an athlete artist wonder woman beauty. I love husbands.:) He is supportive of me taking a hike in a mountain meadow while he counts things somewhere. I am blessed. Thank you, God, for wonder and goodness and support. Amen.

Walden moment

2010-06-26T13:36:00.004-05:00

I am on the back porch and the air presses hotly down, suppressing buoyant plans. Inside, the television is on, and the air is cool. Outside, I hear the elm tree blowing against the pine tree. I hear the lawn sprinkler pattering, and I hear my rough-edged rear neighbor whose voice belts out, and I wish I was far away down a lane, away from society. Yet I could be in a city, like Paris, where you see and hear and experience all the human drama around you, and you adapt and perhaps call it good. I'm not sure how I could adapt unless I had natural sounds transmitted by ear buds into my ears. All that commotion would be hard for me to call good.

I wanted to come outside and think on what Thoreau is saying in his next, second chapter which is called "Where I Lived, and What I Lived for." He talks here about living a life which is full and deep and not "frittered away by details." Again his theme is to live freely from encumbrances which detract from having "lived life fully."

Thoreau was quite detached in principal. He advised his readers to avoid commitment to anything and to value simplicity and solitude: "I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself than be crowded on a velvet cushion" (30). He's funny too.

I think many of us long to live Thorea-styled lives because we have many interruptions, commitments, lives full of those who depend upon us. We've already entrenched ourselves into the life that Thoreau would not promote, although he concedes at times that if this what you love, by golly, love and live it fully. But, many times, we find ourselves living a life that we didn't really intend. My husband says this which give me permission to say it as well.

What life did I intend to live? And, is it even possible to reach that life because it would also be fraught with uncomfortable stretches, of swamps, of people which I wouldn't know what to do with when they tried to do something with me. My sympathies have been like a trumpet vine which want to climb up rocks and wrap around branches. I doubt that it would have even been possible to live the life I wanted, given my personality, dispositions.

However, I know a few people who have tried to retrain what used to cling on to others' hopes for them and not their own. I've taken a small group at church to assert my claim to me (as the self-identity wave of Christianity is favorable right now). But yet I still have fish nibbling at my legs when I stand in the pure creek, and those fish are mine to feed, and I have character to develop as I go outside myself and tend to others. Somehow Thoreau seems to promote both in a way that begins with self: "Set about doing good." By good, he means by living well, healthfully, and without giving anyone else your "disease" of living without awareness. Among other ways, awareness hits one while outside tending to one's own garden, listening to the birds, being industrious without the work itself becoming the master, but the means to a better end of freedom from it. I've heard these ideas before on walks and from books.

But for me, I have a few minutes until I'll be called to go shop at Home Depot for new bathroom tile. I will have to make do with this because it's calling me to attend to it. I want the spirit of awareness to be part of what I must do, rather than expectantly waiting for detachment which isn't where I am or will be. And, do I really want detachment? I don't think so.

Yet Thoreau makes us strip things bare, and he tells us to look and see for what we're living. If there's a pack of bottle rockets I can avoid setting off, then I still do have the chance to live worthily by not lighting the match that makes chaos happen. Just yesterday morning, a lily with sparkling dew snuffed my disquieted thoughts. I walked away having bathed in my own under-nose Walden Pond. A Walden moment, a God call.

Those moment retreats can happen in any setting and in every life which finds itself in places unintended but yet unfurling with a wave of hello.

Off to the building store.

Henry David

2010-06-25T21:19:00.003-05:00

I've turned to my blog again to state and express how much I'm enjoying reading Thoreau again. If I stated the same on Facebook, my relatives might think I'm uppity -- one relative said as such about some of my postings which had to do with thinking or reading.

The point is, though, that I'm enjoying reading Thoreau quite a lot. His humor in the chapter "Economy" is really making me chuckle. He inspires me to think again of the "less is more" stance and to question what freedom really is. What owns us? Does our house? Our knickknacks, our mode of travel, our inheritance, our clothes, our strife? Would true freedom even interest us? If not, then he would surmise that we have something growing crooked within us.

When I think of Henry bucking the traditional way, going against the grain, being looked at as an oddity, I am inspired by his vision which looked toward the elemental - consciousness as being the clearest. So often our vision is impaired and obstructed by things and ideas. Even in a faith walk, my vision can be cluttered by what isn't even there, or necessary, or projected.

My blogging time is up, but pleasantly reading Thoreau continues!

Quitting

2010-04-25T18:40:00.003-05:00

It's easier for me to walk away than to stay. I used to go into hiding all too often when young -- down the hill into the wooded back 20, into the hall closet, out and up in the grain bin in the old milk barn. Quiet places for quitting. Thinking, detaching. Human emotions were too strong to deal with. Sounds were too loud in our small house. I was best as a quitter which meant peacefulness and restoration.

I'm reading a book now about quitting called, "Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith" by Barbara Brown Taylor. It helps a quitter to know a quitter, and to realize that quitting isn't a full response; it's a partial punch at something threatening, and it's often a sacrifice of what poses as good to what is better, or necessary.

I've always felt badly about quitting. Even now, after I've quit my first local music group, I've agonized about what I'll be missing even though I know I will not miss the : frustrations : complexities : the dullness : the time : the lack of challenge in a new direction: lack of developed friendships. I will miss the singing : the laughs : the nursing home residents : the songs, their small group histories : members.

All in all, I really despise quitting. I know that I desire something different and new; however, the stepping off and away can be like a lonely girl moving off down the cow path in tears for something she can't control or find.

Perhaps the idea of permanence is one of the best appeals of the Christian faith. A permanence of joy and belonging, a permanence of relationship, a permanence of goodness. Here in this world, quitting can mean ourselves seeking for the best, seeking a way out of impermanence (turmoil) which can be threatening in some way or the other. Striking out for the one-day, perhaps today, hope of a strand of permanence.

Fruit

2010-04-24T21:52:00.003-05:00

No wallops; no self-improvement programs to become Christian Barbie; no shame; no apple blame. Tonight, at church, a woman spoke about how women bear God's image and how we shouldn't be ashamed about our femininity because of tradition, or abuse, or misogyny, subtle or direct. There were video voices, faces from women speaking about how they --
hid being a girl when they were a tomboy, hating pink
hid being smart
hid behind baggy clothes after their figures had been violated
hid from church leadership
hid from shame of desires, ambition
hid from judgment of working outside the home
hid who they were created to be

and had to learn that who they are is Good. Ordained. Fashioned for strength. Promoted for clearer identity. An Image Bearer of their Creator. A thing to ponder and proclaim.

The sermon was quite unusual. Dare say "empowering" of women. Women empowerment has definitely been looked down upon, caveat-ed, constrained, retrained. My husband says it's because of fear, always when someone might be better than you. And, lack of control over a segment which could potentially overpower the other at times. (The police with clubs in Memphis during the MLK's peace march.) Placing one in a category/role to be tidy. We all do this.

A message specifically relevant to women without the wallop, perfection-plea, apple blame. Amazing. I sat at the edge of my seat for this new and startling and positive message sent to men and women alike throughout our congregation.

Fruit. May it grow.

Swinging on the front porch while Bo bale jumps

2010-04-22T15:09:00.004-05:00

A new/old friend reminded me of blogs, and, thus, I remembered Bo out jumping the figurative bales, waiting for me to join in writing-wise. I'm glad, always needing the writing reminder, the water-splash in the face. Good! Thanks.

Speaking of faces, I will become one soon above a guitar or a mandolin in a new musical group I've been asked to join: Front Porch Swing. Ah, yes, I'm just one of the girls in Front Porch Swing. Quite excited. I posted, early on in this blog, an account of watching them play downtown, and how I dared to long that one day, I could be one of them. I guitar-subbed for them last month and moped for a week when it was over, until one of the members told me that the democratic process had extended its hand, and I am a new band member. Jubilee! Yet, I must practice and impress by not being any trouble to those who can spin out the songs, particularly the rapid hammer dulcimer ladies, who even though sweet, need quick action so they can fly. All "better" players want the flight. Therefore, here goes ==> a chance to jump off a musical cliff for some kind of results. We shall see what kind.

A new day

2009-09-25T07:16:00.002-05:00

Good Friday! Many morning obligations roll like thunder for my attention, yet here I sit once more. The mood has definitely struck. Today, we drive down the winding road to the South where my parents stillwait for our visit. Sadly, the time dwindles for that lifelong luxury, I'm sure. I must get the boy going, I must prepare some for school, I must clean, I must yield to Christ and schedule and live a life worthy. I must remember the Tigers, playing tonight. I must find some kind of food for lunch. I must straighten my thick, resistant hair.

But, now, a moment in the morning. Coffee. Letters. Time. A remembrance of Love given. A relaxation of shoulders. A look around at sun outlining leaves. Amen to His interaction. Grateful. Opened.

Onward.

Time

2009-09-24T22:46:00.002-05:00

I believe it's confirmed. If my husband was not in my life, my environment wold be in shambles around me as I played with the written word. He's gone, and I type, and express ecstatically. I think he would enjoy me this way, yet I tend to behave differently and act more responsibly like him when he's here, and take care of things, which he's especially good at, and I am blessed by. Yet. I think I need to go away on a writer's retreat with a girlfriend. That thought came to me tonight. I would like to enter into the room of concentrated care and return to those pinpainted expressionistic times. Like now. At home. in the quiet and nonexpectant moments. The kitchen is not so clean. Papers cover. Yet, I am looking away to have a reminiscent word retreat.

News of a young suicide

2009-09-24T21:19:00.003-05:00

soft rain and sad news. together stay.
you cry in sound for him who cried into his grave.
his parents wail and pour and pound and wish
their birth had not been born. soft rain and
sad news. a boy forlorn and torn.

why him? why us? why let the rain let on?
oh god, we tried. we trusted in you, our son.
soft rain turn hail, striking us down, incensed.
we welcome your smashing pellets
into our dual-death soft-templed despondence.

Respite received

2009-09-24T20:52:00.002-05:00

Our Europe trip was amazing. I have multiple photos of Kevin and me snuggling up like we're Siamese twins on the Alps, on the Tower, in front of Verona's arena. I cried due to God's tender care at Chamonix, France. The village at the foot of Mont Blanc spilled over with God's beauty and care and I felt like the BigHeartedSpirit was granting us Respite. Tender respite with beautiful flowers, a silver creek, a fairy-tale village, a glaciered peak to soothe our souls and to thank us for all efforts spent on parenting, marriage, faith-holding. I cried at His generous insistence. It was a designed place for us to rest and beauty-gape and recognize the trails of His majestic kindness.

A staff

2009-09-24T19:54:00.004-05:00

This evening I ran past driveways and utility boxes, and a girl with a fiddle and a small boy sitting on a chair with a guitar. What fills the air when you have strong associations with one image? Much. It is wide, the sweep into childhood, into all those who have played instruments before you, generations preceding, generations present-tense, generations proceeding. I feel time flow at times. Tonight, that. And, my son plays his guitar as well; he can flatpick two songs, and feel the strings and make them modulate the air around one's ears and into one's brain and thoughts and memories and untouched connections. And, I am glad and feel happy to have produced yet another player which flows time onward into one musical stream where we may sit beside and dream.

To be smooching on the Eiffel Tower or to not be

2009-07-27T11:29:00.002-05:00

It begins in the throat:sandpaper. Then the shoulders try to shrug but the sinews feel butter-coated, sloshed. Then the nose tries to enlist like a nasty conformist weakling, and, suddenly, one has an active crawling bug on the week of her trip to Europe.

However, it hasn't overtaken me. I'm drinking Airborne water, popping JuicePlus pills, swallowing zinc and C's. I will overcome and will not even kiss my sweetie to give it to him (he needs to be in good form since romance demands so).

Yet one must think . . . will we be spared from something if we get left behind? Hmmm . . . to be sick or not to be sick, that is the question. I'll do my part to be healthy unless some other force whacks me on my back.

Life's musings, death notices

2009-07-26T20:02:00.002-05:00

My third post in one day. I must truly be procrastinating my grammar decisions and my 9th grade fiction decisions, although grammar will be more innovative than imagined, and multi-tiered for the parents who desire the advanced treatment and for those who rebel and accept the basic package. A car wash approach. But, now, I want the 9th graders to hone their short story writing skills (the 2nd annual writing competition) and read The Hobbit and the obligatory Lord of the Flies all in the fall semester. And with three school days a week, time runs out quickly. Despair! I can't assign layers upon layers upon heads. Dismay!

On the Personal Front:

1. Kevin and I leave for France on Thursday.
2. I can't wait to smooch him on the Eiffel Tower.
3. Cody is going to the school where I teach.
4. I am scared to death for his success.
5. My purple phox is all a-lit outside my window.
6. I'm supposed to be planning for my course instead of blogging.
7. I ate three granola bars in a row.
8. I'm reading the book called "The Book Thief."
9. My husband just knocked on the glass door and told me a neighbor's husband just died; the husband in the house right beside them died about a month ago. I hope this isn't making its way down the street.

Au revoir!

Roll over

2009-07-26T07:21:00.002-05:00

Oh, Grammar, how to teach you? Must I truly teach the correlative conjunction and the compound-complex sentences and the reflexive and intensive pronouns? Should I really use valuable class time to delve into your science, instead of your usage in students' writing? Or, do you really need to be labeled so that the students can so quickly forget about you (which they truly do -- even my smart students forget about you)? Yes, students need to know how punctuation works within your rules. Yes, students need to be able to identify certain parts of a sentence (noun, verbs, adjectives, adverbs), but when did you become a tyrant in my classroom, shaking your algebraic fist at my young learners who would rather be exploring meaning instead of hammering work ants to death. I must rein you in this year. I must! I must. I will:

A Rein Plan:
1) Go through the grammar book and choose the essentials;
2) Send the students home with their paid for books, where the two shall meet more than in the classroom;
3) Perform grammar check-ups throughout the semester, which looks like -- once every two weeks, set a grammar assignment deadline; throughout each week, spend only 30 minutes of class time covering the assignment, answering questions; incorporate the grammar lessons with their writing assignments, making practical sense out of the abstract; cut the abstract good-for-nothing lessons out! Amen, sister, preach it!

Thank you, O Grammar, for cooperating with the Alpha Teacher.

Thought deposit

2009-07-26T06:36:00.003-05:00

My blog has suffered from distraction of good and hard things, but I've been yearning to return lately, so here I am.

Currently, I am downstairs surrounded my papers and books. Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 stands nearby taunting me to a dare to choose it for a student text, a parent's anxiety. Will I receive a letter from a parent which asks me why I don't choose a book by Catherine Marshall or by one of those Christian writers that are making the popular fiction rounds? I'm not sure why I want to choose this book. I've not even read it, but yet I think it might be preparatory for students to figure out how to assimilate belief with social, and perhaps religious, criticism. How is faith firmed when angular worldviews are presented? How do you accept good points about life, truth, government, human nature without scalding your thin skin of Christian paranoia? Well, I want my students to be prepared for all sorts of ideas by learning how to think, filter, toss the damaging but save the good. If God imbues all, then let's see Him in action. Yet we can certainly not get caught up in destructive images, thought patterns, hopelessness. Come on, students, learn!

I'm teaching now obviously, and I love it. I have anxiety, yes, but that spurs me on to be better. I'm going into my second year, and I must go to work right now on my freshman curriculum.

Perhaps I can write in this blog again and trust that I don't have to produce little mini-treatises here but just deposit thoughts as I make my way through the land of potholes and God's grace and love and direction-giving.

Apt

2008-06-14T05:37:00.002-05:00

"If there is a me that curses and struggles and a me that winks and walks in peace, do I have a choice of selves?" Hugh Prather

Iowan friends

2008-06-13T22:03:00.002-05:00

They are all caught in crisis and far away from St. Louis where we were to converge at a Women's Faith Conference this weekend. My friend called me, updating, panicky, unsure of the crest in Iowa City and what that would bring.

Therefore, tomorrow, I'll drive over to the big coliseum alone and sit in a pack of reserved, empty seats where there should be Iowan women leaning in for the personal lesson. Right now, they are poised with buckets and suitcases and calls to one another and pleas upward and dreams of mighty waters.

Appropriate at the moment

2008-06-13T21:57:00.002-05:00

"I sometimes react to mistakes as if I have betrayed myself. My fear of them seems to arise from the assumption that I am potentially perfect and that if I can just be very careful I will not fall from heaven. But a mistake is a declaration of the way I am now, a jolt to the expectations I have unconsciously set, a reminder I am not dealing with facts. When I have listened to my mistakes I have grown. " Hugh Prather

GFCF

2008-05-16T21:42:00.005-05:00

Its happened. The allergist has hit the fan. The anecdotal "proofs" win over: Cody is now on the GFCF diet plan having tested positive to allergies with wheat, milk and corn. Well, what's one more thing, really? So what if barely anything in my cupboard meets the requirements. So what if as a family, we have to give up pizza and mac n' cheese and popcorn and ice cream.

Surely I didn't just write that!

Oh help.

Elements

2008-05-16T17:25:00.004-05:00

We hiked along the shooting star punctuated trail today; the boys with sticks; me with another mother and a father. We came to a creek with a flat moss slippery stone extending across, water flowing overneath. Three boys plopped down; one father splatted on his derriere. It was funny; I was glad for my country skills. The boys dripped on, through the pines, talking, laughing. Cody was smiling, a surrounded kid with magnetic likeability.

Last night before bed, he said, "It all started with a simple smile." And, he smiled and would say no more.

Earlier, and unrelated, he had gone with his mandolin-mother to be the marimbula-son, thumping at the little fiddle-tune-jam with the other two boys and men. We looked at each other, heads nodding appreciatively and focused contentedly on our instruments as the song went on. Can life get better than now?

Prayer at night, before school drop off. God has taught me again to pray for the power of the grasp: that we may have the power to grasp how high and wide and long and deep Christ's love is for us. God has taught me again to approach him with freedom and confidence. God has showed me again that trailing after outer toxins pollutes me. I'm cleansed and confident, and when I pray for Cody, I'm feeling again that He is listening and taking care of things.

Grace-within-challenges has flipped me over. This granted idea has granted me many sights in the last week alone. Cody is the beneficiary, and me too. I'm back in the river, taking in all the scents of the hills, trees, rocks, dirt => the elements which are communion with God wherever.

Thankful breathing. He lives to love.

Amen.

Aspie trails

2008-05-06T07:22:00.002-05:00

Aspie trails to you, until we meet again.

I know last month was autism awareness month, but it should have been name autism flare month. Perhaps the changing weather, the lilting confusing chemicals within mind and body, the increased agitations from the pollens?

Last night, I saw a headline online which said "Autism linked to Parents' Mental Illness." It reminded me of ancient times when having twins meant that evil was within the parents. I looked up causes of autism again this morning and saw a long list, not solely genetics either. No one knows for sure. I hate being blamed. Although I do have the run-of-the-mill mentally down or anxious times, I would not call myself mentally ill. Dealing with autism in my son has caused lots of the mental strain that I experience! Isn't it easy to blame the parents? Parents are doing the best they can, at least we are. It's frustrating ... on we march despite outside critique and finger-pointing and devised correlation from sample groups.

Today, we begin a series of attacks against some of Cody's recent fluctuations -- we go to a new allergist, a whole-person allergist. Then next week, we go to a counselor. First, my husband and I go as parents who are tired, hopeful, needful of counsel, desirous of more tools to help. Then we send Cody -- these early teen years are indicators of new things, new intensity. Finally, we're trying a psychiatrist out, just to talk, perhaps to explore medicines. Aiii, I hate saying that word aloud, yet inner mental pain may need an aspirin. We will be cautious there.

April caused me to seek out that essential spiritual dependence, so God gave me this verse, which is perfect for our worry:

Although he may stumble, he will never fall because the Lord holds him in his right hand. Psalms

May Day

2008-05-01T20:22:00.003-05:00

Delayed posting to the point of blogger password amnesia. Life flows on all around me. My daughter surfaces and hugs me and smiles and thanks me now. That is Good. God is Good. We were even hippies at an Earth day celebration together recently. She sighed and said, "Look, Mom! Liberals!!" because in her college town they are all conservative, rich, church women who aren't kind (this was an early morning quote from her one day when my phone rang, and she chugged out her steam of momentary beliefs to which I had to skirt and debunk and smile at and grant her patience for and find out the true story for her angst). But, we did happily walk amongst the liberals one fine Sunday when she was home. The next Sunday, she hung out with me at church and then went to sing at the nursing home with her grandparents. She also went to one of my homeschooling co-op class days where she took up a like-guitar and sat on the like-quilt with me and my three students outside on a delicious day. She knows G, C, and D, so why not? Then she went into my US Constitution class. When I mentioned an example, using the war in Iraq, she guffawed loudly to which the conservative children students' heads swung around in astonishment. She likes to guffaw about politics these days. She's frightening. She's inherited her father's hothead about such things, and I don't mind pointing the finger. Anyway, it was so fun to have her opt to be part of my normal day, instead of 1) sleeping 2) watching a TLC fashion or design show from potato position 3) hanging out with friends with wild hair too. No, there she sweetly was with her sweet mother just like the days of old, laughing, relaxing, relating. God is good!

Other than that, lots of other things have been going on this last month. I became smarter after a huge dumb period. God gets the credit, I must admit. I became more sought after musically by some non musicians who are related to a man in our band. We're playing in overalls and hats at a Cosmo Club dinner on Friday night. We are supposed to be the Soggy Bottom Boys (&girls) from O Brother Where Art Thou. I am trying to waver like Alison on one of my songs but I am not Alison, and she doesn't want to be me, and so I'm stuck pretending. But, I do think the song sounds pretty ... people have oohed and aaahed already! I sing it with my bandmate, and we blend better than ever.

Cody just walked by; he's getting tall and handsome. Hopefully, those two qualities will wipe out his classmates' memories of his band day throw up this morning. Now he's playing his keyboard for the thousandth time today. Radetsky March, who would have known? Thank you, Johann Strauss for invading my household. What possessed you to do so?

I shot baskets tonight for exercise. Must shower. Must tell all that I must shower.

Happy May Day!

The Linger and the March

2008-03-20T08:06:00.002-05:00

I feel afflicted with a LowGrade winter Linger (even though today is the first day of Spring). These last couple of days, I've been fatigued and walk around lifelessly. However, an unplanned moment can be medicinal. Today when driving Cody to school, he turned on, as usual, our TLC (Teri, Linda, Cody) c.d. that we're creating and which he's been appreciating musically in increasing measure. He played the track of "Radetsky March", a recent recording in which Cody plays the keyboard, I'm on guitar, and Linda's honks on the accordian. Suddenly, in the van, Cody and I couldn't help ourselves as we wildly began clapping and grinning like Austrians at the new year. I had the energy to punch the air a couple of times in coordination with the accent staccato notes, and Cody imperiously titlted his head back and forth to the march beat. We laughed appreciatively at each other's antics before the song was over and we slipped back into our own lingers. Breakthroughs are simply the best.

Thu, thump; thu, thump

2008-03-12T21:19:00.002-05:00

Wow, I showed the man-with-tools a borrowed marimbula. He sketched it, took measurements, and called me with a few muttering questions. And, look, somehow he let loose a real living marimbula which I brought home today! A marimbula is a bass type instrument which originates, in varying forms from the Carribbean. It sounds great with bluegrass and replaces the cumbersome, expensive stand up bass fiddle. I was instructed on how to stain and tune it. I'm still amazed and am engaging in full-fledged idol worship!

2008-03-12T21:12:00.003-05:00

The orange and black belt warrants a couple of grins after the belt ceremony. If I thought Cody was an intense air-choppin' dude while an orange belt, I will have to prepare myself for the total destruction of the orange and black tornado. Lord have mercy on us innocent folks.

about a boy

2008-03-10T11:08:00.002-05:00

I'm so worried about Cody today. Last night at a birthday party for one of the men in my bluegrass group, I was surrounded by their inquisitive wives and other women. They had multiple questions for me about Cody's perfect pitch, about his Asperger's, about, about, about. Today, fresh upon the thought, upon the concerned faces and encouragement, upon the memories of that lost little boy struggling desperately within normal expectations, I woke up realizing our journey and worried worried about his future path. He has found his gift of music, and we engage in it daily, yet he feels still so alone as it relates to his peers. The fear has gripped me again. Please, God, help him grow, releasing inhibitions, toxics, anger, fear, the harsh outer words of the world. Release me to trust you to take care of him. Amen and amen.

Egg shaking

2008-03-10T08:15:00.005-05:00

The hardest thing to do was to shake the Shabbot egg and sing in Hebrew all at once. But, there I was, alone, near the back, near the sunny windows of the bright synagogue, trying hard to participate in an old Jewish rite: Bat Mitzva. My friend's thirteen year old daughter glowed, particularly when carrying around the Torah in a cloth around the warm, small, bright sanctuary. My friend spoke about the Jewish sense of community and how it had wrapped itself around his daughter, and how her deceased mother had converted to Judaism on the same day many years before. My friend's love interest wiped her eyes one row over in front of me. The ceremony was long, three hours, intense, joyous, mournful (chant for dead), and family-involved with aunts, uncles, cousins arising to read parts of the Torah on their "daughter of the commandments" behalf. The cultural conviction of a spiritual value was high; I felt peaceful. I wondered if, location different, I would attribute this to the Holy Spirit. But, in a Jewish synagogue? I wondered about the relativity of religious belief. I inwardly reaffirmed belief in Christ, although the spiritual expression in front of me impressed me with its call upward to an old Light, to God, to a way of Life. The prayer book was lovely with interpretive readings, poems, insights to which I felt extremely compatible. I wondered about the expressive depths of my Christian heritage, particularly as a "low-church" attendee. It seemed awfully lacking, shallow, reliant upone one's own emotions which often were tangled anyway. The Bible, yes, yet, the Bible used for certain agendas, certain formulas for thinking. Here, certain sacraments were holy, sacred, a bit like the Catholic church. Perhaps they have the same issues of the Catholic church -- rites becoming meaningless with overuse and lack of personal attachment? But, my friend's 13 year old daughter said in her speech that this would not mean for her "rites without personal meaning." We all reach, don't we?

My friend gave me a holding hug afterwards as he received the congratulations of his friends and family. He is a good person and lives his cultural faith well.

I affirm my belief in Christ, yet I could have easily been born Jewish, believing that the Judaic version of truth passed down from Abraham is the Truth. What do others do with this thought? Perhaps it affirms their selection into a God-ordained slot; perhaps we all want to believe that.

God-light

2008-03-01T06:42:00.002-06:00

The week was full of people, good and smart encounters, up until the end. Talks of creativity, spirituality, relationships, aging, film, music, writing. But by yesterday, I was entirely wiped out and feeling that codependent emptiness, which intense focus on others brings to me. Thus before my day of friend and film festival begins which will inevitably pour more of the world's amber liquid into me, it feels essential to hear grounding words for my wayward, wandering nature. And, here they are to root, anchor, restore straight from the third chapter:

baptism into new life
wind hovering over the water
formed by the Spirit
reborn
questions procrastinate against evidence
Son of Man
lifted up
look up to him for eternal life
God loved the world
God gave his son
no one needs to be destroyed
whole and lasting life with belief
He came to help
acquitted
no longer under a death sentence
God-light streamed into the world, but
men and women ran for darkness, not
interested in pleasing God;
practice of doing evil rejects God-light
fears painful exposure.
But anyone working/living in truth/reality
welcomes God-light so that the inner and
outer work can be seen as God-light in us.

Father, help me to not scurry into darkness but to always be exposed to your God-light, even through addiction to fear and unknowingness. Help break the cycle. Forgive my created plights. Thank you for hope and life.

We cry out!

2008-02-28T08:25:00.002-06:00

It was one of those stereotypical song writing moments where I jumped out of bed because the song was going to explode if more and more lines kept alighting in my head. Perhaps it should have, but the subsequent song gave me too much joy regardless of quality (a cool thing about creativity too ~~ the joy in allowing anything to be born).

The satisfying thing about this particular song is that it was written with the nursing home audience in mind. My little band played for them on Tuesday, and our emcee led the residents into a round of shouting "Yahoo!" Old gnarled fists were raised, crooked toothless smiles were lit, white-haired curly ladies yelped, and they all escaped for a moment into that universal need to yell something out: like "Amen!" or "De-fense!" or "Al-right!" Why does that feel so good to us humans?

Anyway my song invites participation of yelling out, raising fists, becoming exhuberant for nothing (except for the 'prettiest train' in the lyrics). I can't wait to play it with them and hear them become part of the living loud no matter what experience once more.

2008-02-25T06:30:00.002-06:00

And then there are the apples, cherries, pears, tooth-wigglers, precious metals, heavy-laden pods. I saw them all weekend, showing that my single perspective protects, yes, but can limit a view of plenty. There is the loving children director who baptized my son with her zest and longlasting service and care to children. There's the assistant minister who, leveled on a lower administrative ladder, accepts, even with welcome sarcasm an Eyeore loyalty to the steady flow of incoming newbies needing discipled who are searching, for once, for a vein they once, or never, tapped into. There's the nurse who gives to women's ministry, glowing, gently, purposefully. Or, my heroine of women's ministry, who commuicates God's love through genuine adherence to his call for her life to serve others with compassion, care, and creativity. There's my old beautiful girlfriend, who served on the board, and who allowed me to move on in my current, as she did herself, due to what was necessary in our lives. There's my longlasting friend, who still expects coffee, who leads others through psychological, spiritual mires, who helped me practically raise a strongwilled, strong-living teenager, who is a call away from being a wise and loving guide, who knows I want to reciprocate as much as I can. There is the impactful pastor who has a gift for speaking and who has offered me sincere counsel and desires Christ-transformation in lives of those who flow through the church. There is the man who smiles to all, whose passion transcends any strong or weak human leadership, in order to convey God's goodness; we see him dutifully every week with his headset on, greeting, smiling, caring, being humble. There are the children, two of whom I saw randomly out and about and who came to smile and hug me, who trust you to love them, to show them God's pure love inside.

These are a few of the reasons that I love my church and wish to remain, despite the basement fires that burn in every church. Overall, its basket carries a wholesome harvest. And, even though, it's my job to eye the fruit, the weave that holds it up, I can relax at times and trust by evidence that some things are good.

An Inner Uglier Look

2008-02-23T13:52:00.002-06:00

Earlier today, my husband and I took our customary Saturday morning jog, walk, talk on the trail, and we discussed again our church and the fine line between leadership servanthood and materialistic usurp-hood. Then later, he sent me this link which reveals the "hypcrisy" or at least greed of some of the major Christian evangelists in our country. Many of this group are being investigated right now by the top Republican on the Senate Finance Committee. Unfortunately, the excesses appear to be true and is an excellent warning of what to look for even in its infancy stages: http://www.inplainsite.org/html/tele-evangelist_lifestyles.html#Index

I liked the ending paragraph to this article which I've copied below:

Conclusion
“There are bound to be some people who will read this article and say to themselves, "So the leadership live in nice houses or nice areas, so what? This is God's way of blessing them. They deserve this for leading God's people." I wonder if these people ever really stop to think about what they are saying? Do they really believe that God would bless those in leadership with lifestyles that totally contradict everything that Jesus taught. He and the men who led the first century church led by example. They were servant leaders. Ask yourself if any of the apostles would've chosen pricey homes or affluent areas for themselves. More to the point, would Jesus have done so? Ask yourself if the apostles would have used the contributions and tithes of the people in order to have done so? More to the point, would Jesus have done so?” (Leadership Lifestyles of the International Churches of Christ. Timothy Greeson)

Pellets

2008-02-21T14:12:00.005-06:00

Today, it's gray once more, February and final(?) ice pellets. Public school was cancelled.

It's been a restful day. Cody and I are watching the story of Wilbur Wilburforce, the movie "Amazing Grace", the abolitionist movement in England. I wonder how Cody will process all of this information given him of oppression, of right-movements, of caring for human needs over economic. I don't want him to be self-centered, nor myself. There are still choices to be made in the world for good. The movie, in fact, seems quite relevant today despite the eventual ban on slavery. It's interesting how justification can always be made to turn away and not look. I want to teach him to stare and think and do.

Well, well, the hopes on a wintery day.

Sixteen Years Worth

2008-02-17T17:48:00.004-06:00

Here we are at an event; we're a couple. I've received his hugs for sixteen marital years now. He likes to do this, grab at me, while my hands are customarily crossed against the cold. He wants to warm me and show affection and be sturdy for me. He's sturdy, steady, steadfast to my whimsical, wandering, wayward nature. To boot, he's kind and loving and reliable; and, a farm kid himself from the cornfields with a nature for the right and good. I don't know how God arranged for us to become a couple as seen above, but he definitely knew how to take care of me through his choice. And, yes, at times, I wonder about his choice, particularly when grabbed and poked and teased and tormented by my hubby who thinks this is funny. And, I wonder when our interests differ widely; however, I couldn't have done a better job at choosing who would make my life more complete and secure. I am blessed by His choice for me. Grateful!

Ben's to Blame

2008-02-13T21:51:00.003-06:00

Late night incriminations like ...

Why did the book club settle on a biography of Ben Franklin? As if we're going to work hard to redeem the character of Ben Franklin through our discussions? As if we're going to dispute what's been known 100fold since his lifetime of his life? As if we're going to be titillated by any new erotic disclosures. Hmmmm..... I feel antagonistic now towards Ben Franklin. American hero -- that's not good.

Mornings. Why did I have to select a running partner who grim-eyed, steel-willed, weather-notwithstanding expects to see me there in the dark, under the light pole, hobbling with my plantar fascitis, cold, draggy and sneezy, in the wee hours of the friendless morning? I should have picked a fence rider. I'm happier with fence riders than the absolutists of SternEye, yet I will set my alarm and grit my teeth and wear my night splint to bed on Valentine Eve. Is this called codependency?

Banjo player. I'm not sure why he's hesitant to pick his stuff and be proud. He's a good singer as well, my senior fun friend who I play and harmonize with on Tuesdays. But, lately, he's been lackluster. I want to blame his wife and son who don't like bluegrass. How could they not? Have they given Rhonda Vincent a try? Don't they at least want to support him and exhort him to have energy for these afternoon practices, and not drive him away ? I guess I have to pray hard for them. Perhaps I'll just pray that the entire world come to know and love bluegrass. They don't have to wear overalls or sip moonshine or have blackened teeth. Praying.

I wish my bed weren't so far away or I would be in it now .... praying, stumbling, dreaming about Ben Franklin, and resolving all thoughts of incrimination.

Good night.

Flashers and Tooth-Wigglers

2008-02-12T16:52:00.000-06:00

Church news.

My pastor drives an expensive BMW and lives in a fancy home in a high-priced subdivision. Is that right? My husband is threatening mutiny; in his business, he sees what fascination with material flash means about a person's character. Would the soup kitchen's director wear huge diamond rings and drive a Lexus? Why does our pastor surround himself primarily with rich friends? This used to bother me more, I must admit, when I seemed more sensitive to the plight of those in poverty. Now, am I not more sensitive since this doesn't bother me? It's just our pastor lends much positive leadership to the church. When I took a class recently from him, he commanded the room with his attentiveness to all there and the issue of drawing closer to God. Isn't he the one, not me, who will have to answer to his materialism issues -- which he admits to the church that he has?

Under his leadership are many wonderful people whose faith I admire and respect. They give according to what they have and are cautious with stumbling block issues. If we left the church, we would leave many people like this. How could they thrive, some working especially close to the pastor, and stay if our pastor's foibles were too great?

Therefore, I'm confused. My husband may want to stay; however, these issues of the leader bother him greatly. I can understand why. They have caused us to withdraw somewhat in church community spiritual practices. However, should one blame the pastor for that?

In other news, the Tooth Wigglers (I thought of that after the millionth time a kid wiggled a tooth at me!) are a good reason to stay. They are the K-2 graders whom I help serve every week during one of the services. I shepherd the kindergarten boys who usually run all over me, but yesterday, I had a talk to them about caring enough to send them out of our circle if they insisted on wrestling, relating all biblical stories to poots, jumping on their chairs, etc. They listened and were respectful. I then got their little hands busy making valentines for their special person (Mom) and told them about how Jesus cared for others. I love these little guys very much.

Ye ole ...

2008-02-04T22:35:00.000-06:00

We ran for the van, kicking up our heels sideways in the air ~~ my 48 year old friend, me and my son. We just saw the lively Natalie MacMaster, and afterwards we were on a cloud of air as we ran laughing and talking and kicking it up. Natalie plays fiddle, accompanied by a cello, a pianist, a drummer, a bass guitarist, and a guy who played the bagpipes, flute, banjo; she's from Scotland and, therefore, so is the music. It was amazing; my blood is still exclaiming in lilt the ole country rhthyms. If you have a chance to see her, do!

Rain-splashed

2008-02-04T09:04:00.000-06:00

Faith is such a crazy thing! Why is it? Or, do I undoubtedly make it crazy with my own offbalance? It could be a peaceful calm lake phenomena, but then the fish and turtles and snakes do lurk beneath, don't they? I guess that 'crazy' faith is just the human experience of it if one attempts to understand, commit, explain, impart its dimensions. Who can filter God? Tame the Spirit? Know and interpret all? No one. We have clues, messages, yes, yes, but even those are nebulous.

However, the morning called me to clearly respond to God due to some inner conflicts. It's crazy when faith seems muddy, happenchance, tilted, yet at times the response needs to be completely forthright as if one is faced with the most sensory (yet comfortable) Thing possible. God asking something of one, me, due to my straightforward human-woman need that needs his intervention.

So out the door into the rain-splashed morning I went anticipating. Running shoes, old paint-dropped sweats, New Orleans T-shirt, pony-tail, hat were acceptable worship material. I followed the old trail, around the lake estates where the geese fly, across the busy road where the morning commuters fly, to a street where it's happened before necessarily. I remember that time God told me to let go of a huge globe of fear and to recommit: from toes to hair, from bones to heart, bit by bit, both to Belief and to husband and to self and to others. It felt good again to release and reorient.

I walked back into the house doubting still, but yet knowingly committed, despite any where my adventurous mind takes me, or any where my body goes. I am committed and that's the clarity that is essential.

Hair care

2008-02-02T11:57:00.000-06:00

I've been curled twice, given new frizz-master products, been finger-sleeked when a strand rebels, and, today, I'm receiving a new style compliments of her scissors. The last two years, I've been the forgotten, the cast-off, the oft-despised, the freedom-slicer, the square, the ugh-mother. Now, I'm cool again, loved, and worthy of pampering by the fashionable, career-stylist daughter. I've somehow regained gratitude which translates into beauty options.

Works for me.

She sent us a loving and gracious card, thanking us for everything. Life is good, and pretty!, right now. Thank you, God!

The Jazz Buzz

2008-02-01T08:08:00.000-06:00

Calmer here now, even Obama and Hillary agree (per their amicable debate last night)(political humor, haha). I'm less apt to wonder as I wander (like Keats, etc) into the snow and ne'er more return.

I am nervously looking forward to Cody's jazz band tryout today. He's been taking drum set lessons for a while now, but how will he perform under pressure? Jazz, who would've-a thunk? That music sounds as remote to me as universal health care for all (per Hillary's plan) (political insert here). I mean "*Jazz*" -- here in the southern Midwest, we don't know much about it, especially me, bluegrass heritage and all. Yet, when I hear it, it's lovely, lively, interactive, puts me on another sort of move, set, expedition. And, Cody, with his ear would be great at improv (on piano or guitar).

Anyway, we shall see if "*Jazz*" becomes kitchen buzz in this household. I hope!

Snowfull Entity

2008-01-31T17:30:00.000-06:00

Despite the calm of the snow (our two cats are perched by the window staring, their mesmerized forward ears pointing, their backs Bingham-humped), I don't feel the calmest. It's a time where a need for a God, directive and informative, calms some anxiety that a good path will be snowed over. I know that one's own footsteps are exciting, yet when one is lost, a beaten path means rescue and safety. I'm not lost, just wondering about the wander in the snowfull woods. Again.

A perception of God, a real Entity, is essential for me to explore towards and be upon.

Enunciation

2008-01-31T10:42:00.000-06:00

The big picture window to my right showcases it, reveals how many can fit into one frame. It shows how they swirl prettily to experience their fall, their purpose, their trek. If I were a measurement-taker, perhaps there would be per square foot, about 100, but it would be wrong and hard to contain their flailing merriment before they become bound to the ground. The ground is changing because of them. Life is becoming simple and quiet. I think of the Ingalls in the Big Woods, or Robert upon the sleigh before the woods. The ground holds their effort, holds their purpose, restores them during another season. The ground is becoming them, and they the ground. I would like to have a hat on and walk amongst them. The loveliest woods walks I've taken have been within their lacy friendliness and musical descension. It's right then to think about the day of death because living has remitted its best to you, its natural result of original creation, its amazing moist ingenious cycle of life. Our bald cypress tree now has a lining on its arms to enunciate itself to the looker. The dried monarda pods have a flaky stocking cap.

Slowly, surely, we open for the snow, all of us affected. We can think clearly of the worse now, death, because life has given us her best and shows us deep and lasting beauty.

Steep

2008-01-29T06:37:00.000-06:00

Suffering compresses itself at times upon us at various points of our lives. Still, it does seem that certain people suffer at greater rates than others due to unfortunate situations. A young man was killed here recently on his motorcycle; his mother burned to death in a car fire a couple of years ago. The father/husbands stands alone, shaking. A tragic woman in my bookclub lost a son and a husband within a year.
Now my morning running friend is going through myriad difficulties. We walked/ran this morning (due to injuries), and she poured out some of these ills. Life is tough for her; she's resilient, yet things are definitely steep.

Please, Lord, be the God of care and receive her prayers for light and blessings.

Mull

2008-01-28T10:37:00.000-06:00

One season, we led a women's ministry small group together. We decided to drop all pretenses, cutesy skits, dramatic readings (all of which I admit), as we presented our class to the 150 women before us who were listening to all class options. We might as well have been wearing our black turtlenecks, straight from an existentialist conference. Our study was on questioning God (of course) and hardships. She was reeling from memories of a pastor-father-inflicted-heavy-hand childhood, and I was breaking away from the mold a bit.

We laugh now as we remember our presentation, three years past. It was a wonderful class, although it didn't draw the flocks like my funny skits used to. Now, when I occassionally run into my friend, we chatter like wild birds landing on a safe tree in the fall. We decided to meet regularly, and so I go to her house, and we talk about heady things, about psychology, about faith issues.

We've decided to read Carl Jung's "Memories, Dreams, and Recollections." I've read it before, but I'm happy to mull with her because we have much in common. And, Jung, he is an honest reporter of inner experiences, and what's not to appreciate about that? I'm happy; a compatible friend is worth so much.

Eyes and Notes

2008-01-22T15:33:00.000-06:00

We communicate with our eyes eventually, and so we stared at one another. Her eyes were an arch, they were a violet-blue, and they made her face still beautiful. She couldn't speak, or smile, but could grip my hand, and talk to me with her eyes. I wonder how the physical qualities of those eyes shaped her past, and the thoughts behind them, and the scenes that became and were. Who loved her eyes the most? To whom would she most like to set those eyes upon?

I'm sure it wasn't the mandolin player from the bluegrass group who just played at her nursing home. But, it's my favorite part of the gig ~~ moving around afterwards, shaking hands, smiling, talking silently or aloud, giving honor to those on the precipice. A pilot from WWII was in attendance, shaky with Alzheimers, yet he visibly brightened when the music started. He had been in three bands himself, said the recreation director to me.

Cody played with us for the first time. He was the most versatile player on the mirimbula, guitar, spoons, shakers, and sticks. My dad says to put a stint next to him musically, "the right kind of music" (i.e. bluegrass), and for the first time, Cody responds affirmatively, "This was fun!" A good day.

If music came with the light-in-the-darkness, then all was indeed very good on the day of creation.

Out of the Jar

2008-01-22T08:08:00.000-06:00

Recently I took a short three night course at my church entitled "Do It Yourself Bible Study." (Our church is always about practical application taglines!) The idea is to begin a book (John); read the chapter over three or four times one day; the next day rewrite the passage and observe language clues (repetition, dichotomies, verbs, etc); the next session, write questions regarding the text and search for meaning; and finally, the next day, apply what you've learned to your life (ask the questions: what could this mean given the context? or, perhaps, why am I confused or bothered by what it says? in order to help it impact your life).

Today, I wrote questions about the first 20 or so verses of John 1. I wrote questions until I stopped believing in God's goodness and wondered why he withheld instead of gave. Why didn't he make it so people would recognize him? Why is the darkness more appealing to many? Even his own didn't receive him? Couldn't the heir be more apparent if the stakes were so high? These are "negative" questions, I realize, yet there they were.

I began to swirl and despair. But, I typically love questions. It's interesting that when you open the lid, they fly out like lightening bugs into a dark summer night. You can watch them take flight, you can follow them to a stand of alfalfa, or to peony leaves, or you can recapture them and put them back into your jar for the night, where they die before morning.

My questions led me into a bit of research about mythology. The light/dark motif, the god rescuer ... how is Jesus' entrance different?

I'm following the blinking light, and it's taking an interesting path. Where will it land?

Will It bite?

2008-01-12T22:05:00.000-06:00

Saying you're a Christian homeschooling mom seems to signify a certain stance. I'm not so good at posing. For instance, perhaps I shouldn't be so enthusiastic when my son asked me, "Why should we pray for my sister during the tornado? I'm sure if someone is killed, they will have also had people praying for them. Why would God protect her, but not them?" Inwardly I cheered at his logic and smartness. The little tyke is growing up out of pat answers and needs to understand things for himself. I complimented him for his thoughts and then said something about hope and comfort being an important benefit for us and her, regardless of whom the swirling cloud of natural laws chooses to alight upon (and, unfortunately, there were two killed in this storm). And, I gave him my views that God doesn't create badness and that he cares. If Cody wants to question how much he cares due to his not intervening for those two southwest Missouri women, then I see that as natural; it is curious. Questions of faith ~~ ones that involve throwing out a line to see if possible a fish will bite ~~ are encouraged here, despite my responses from my own hard-won beliefs. Hardcore curriculum with all the answers figured out makes me wary. Search, young man, search your way to your own fitting statements of faith in God. Amen and amen.

D'em bones

2008-01-12T11:47:00.000-06:00

The evening of bones. We rattled, we shook, we gripped them to make primitive music, instructed by "Dr. Bones" himself, who shook, rattle, clacked himself into a dancing jester, or a dancing tribalist, or a dancing freak. The boys of the jam-session home were bright-eyed, happy, unplugged, entranced. I couldn't get the hang of bone-playing, but the doctor said it takes time. He holds a convention for bone-players once a year. The internet, he said, helps to bring freaks together. A place to belong, I added. You're not alone, said the fiddle father.

I went on a good long walk yesterday with a friend on the trail. The sky was bright, the air crisp, the geese drinking, the favored bench facing the lake. I'm most alive outside. The hubby and I went out again this morning, and we heard the geese wings overhead, above the morning-misted lake. I could lie on my (her) bench for a duration just listening and soaking in what the earth says, what God whispers. Former girl woods-walker, yess'um, ah, life and death quite mingled.

Books I'm reading:

The Spiral Staircase, Karen Armstrong ~~ she adapts to "the world" after leaving the convent; she's one of my favorite writers, intellectually honest, attempts to stare at faith and figure out what it is really.

The Teenage Liberation Handbook: how to quit school and get a real life and education, by Grace Llewellyn; her first chapter advises that organized school destroys essential, innate desire for learning by constant control. She advocates unschooling. I don't understand unschooling that much; however, I think I'd like to add some elements of it to Cody's school day instead of me planning and nagging him. What does he want to learn? How can I accomodate that? Less control, more trust in the learning process. We'll see. I doubt if I'm a total convert, yet she has some good points already.

A Saturday ~~ the boys are at a basketball game. I have empty space! The sky is blue, blue, bright outside my window. I wish I were on the trail again!

Chirp-a-Roar-oo!

2008-01-10T06:26:00.000-06:00

I know ... another tribute to a sports tribe, another yelp, another hoot, another chirp. But, I can't help myself .... we're so proud of the Missouri Tiger football team!! Part of my non-blogging activities involved wringing my hands on the couch on game day, or sitting with hubby on the hill (as pictured), or checking polls and stories online at ESPN, or sitting in the stands with my daughter with our old familiar chat n' laugh and cheer. The season was astounding -- we're not used to it here; therefore, giddiness is deserved. We ended the season being # four in the country. Wahoo! Yelp! Hoot! Chirp!

Going forth

2008-01-06T21:25:00.000-06:00

We loaded up her treasures: a big male cardboard poster to keep her company at night; bags of fashion; photo albums of various states; her wicker bed frame, dresser, and night stand; her basket of cosmetics; Oatmeal, her small bear from her birth; her needed technology. We piled them into the truck, and she got behind her wheel, and we all pulled out of our cul-de-sac into the next world. She's gone. Her room is vast and spotless now.

I can imagine her apartment, her first day of school tomorrow, her ventures into college-kid budgeting, her disorientation of being in a different town when all she knows is 3.5 hours away. She called tonight, with a practical question, but her voice wavered some, and we talked for a while. She called me! Is this what wise women friends projected about the future? That there's a definite period of mother/daughter reconnection and need?

My husband just walked by and asked about her, sympathizing about her lonely and difficult plight, plopped in the middle of new. He's done so much for her, a godsend stepfather, 16 years ago, one who cares to be involved (unlike her real father), one who follows through and gives even during the difficult times. I love him for his loving and strong character.

But, back to my daughter, she's gone. It's quiet and empty here. However, I'm cheering for her to go forth and conquer. I know she'll make it.

Active Livin'

2007-12-31T06:32:00.000-06:00

What I'm doing these days:

1) whizzing around town with little musician boy in tow; drumsticks, piano books, guitar colliding in cacophony in the back of the van;

2) sitting on the parent bleachers, watching Cody bow respectfully, kick like a mad mule, and chop like a banchee; I'll be his taekwondo practice guinea pig at home later;

3) making coffee for the Tuesday men in my kitchen in my bluegrass group; they, even though in their sixties, report that not all men must have Folgers like every farm man I'm related to. Perhaps they even drink something different than Mtn. Dew? Wow, cultural expansion for me!

4) enjoying/tolerating my daughter as she prepares to leave on Friday for school in Springfield; it's strange to think that she'll be a city away. It's strange to think that the piles of clothes, sacks, old dishes in her room will magically go with her. It's hard to think that I will be left only with boys. I will miss her, yet will she mature? Yes, the time is now. I'm glad for her and hopeful in her new start for a new life. It's an answer to prayer that she's at this point. Little bird, needs to fly. And soar;

5) getting together with friends; walking on the trail with one of my favorites; playing music with another; going to dinner and discussion; coffee in the mornings. Although it seems like friendship outing-time has diminished, I always have someone to call and get together with. Grateful! Necessary! I'd be sunk otherwise!

6) plunking on my mandolin;

7) reading, reading, reading; in the last 48 hours, I've read chapters from a Joseph Campbell book, an Amy Tan novel, the Bible (Ezra), Charlotte Mason, John Ortberg, and numerous books on Asperger syndrome;

8) baking, gift giving, spending time with family (laughing and crying some because of it);

9) straightening, cleaning, trying to make my husband happy because of it. I'd rather be plunking, reading, any of the above! However, I like semi-order myself; I'm thinking of putting in a system again for doing it without knowing I'm doing it. Is that possible, Fly-Lady??

10) being grateful for the good things in my life; i.e., the possibility of everything on the list above. I'm alive and kickin' -- and, this is essential, and good.

Abandoned blog

2007-12-31T05:58:00.000-06:00

Greetings from the desert. The blog desert, i.e. Mine has turned into one of those blogs where the last date signals a wander, a refusal, a hike over another scape. I've been busy, and I, gasp, have reunited with the scratch on page, my hardback bound, specially-picked-for-beauty, journal which has this irresistable saying on the cover: Go placidly amid the noise and haste, & Remember what peace there may be in silence. How can I refuse those haunting words for a time like this? And to drive in a point, among other quotes, it directs only me, its purchaser five years ago: Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
Therefore, I've grabbed it, forsaken blog-to-world, and sipped my coffee quietly contemplating, contemplating, scratching, scratching. One must think. One must scratch (ah). One must caffeinate. One must escape. A journal welcomes like no other.
But, now, this early morning, I'm back. The boys sleep. I had a dream about a past acquaintance (a word). I remembered a communication. Writing opened up again. A space, a password, a cup of java in my "Etude" oriental china red-floral cup, silence for the tip-tapping of the letters upon the blankness to send out, a longing for more time, more expression, more thought. Is this good enough? One might think of this in relation to the blog. I often do. However, the act itself of writing should be reward enough. I'll let it remain there, with happiness of wording, instead of insecurity with output. Language love upon the eve of a new year. I'll go with it "placidly amid the noise and haste & remember what peace there." Happy New Year from Bo of the Bales!

Anna

2007-10-31T13:07:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking much about Doris Lessing's character, Anna, in the Golden Notebook. She pops into my mind when driving my son to lessons, or pumping gas, or sticking my hands in the dishwater. She will likely be immemorial to me, although to like her is to admit her edged turmoil into an acceptable place. She makes me sad, for her, for her seeking, and her denials, and her utter unmet desires which work to undermine, then bolster, her. She waves, heaves, rolls, flips, dives, flies, and nearly, or does, lose her sanity. Lessing does an amazing job of showing the complex divisions that we often are. At least I am. When I get close to women, and they're vulnerable with their true thoughts, I see it within them too. It's difficult. I know I need the Stabilizer, and even within Hands, I often conflictually toss, and need advice and fingers, and outside help. But, Anna was alone, walking outside "the myth" entirely, caught in her time's disillusionment, being brave, yet weakened too. I'll think of her for a while because Lessing (the recent Nobel prize winner) created someone that you believe in.

2007-10-29T09:26:00.000-05:00

"One bunch of grapes," repeated my uncle. Smack went the paddle. "One bunch of grapes," said my uncle. Smack went the paddle. Mrs. Coble meant to win, but my Dad reported cheerfully his little brother held strong and had the final say, after the final futile smack. They ran out the schoolhouse door, making the other kids smile and yearn or tskk: those boys!

We were treated to more stories this weekend at the propped up feet of my reclining, grinning father. He's a natural storyteller, but he says he won't write a western this winter like I want him to. He'd rather have the immediate stage and laugh from all of us. This weekend, he told one story twice, which made me look at my mother and comment upon this fact, which becomes a hereditary trademark at around age 90 and the mind is an endless spin cycle. My grandmother lives in the nursing home in such a tight circle of memories, frets, pleasures, fears. She has the staff call, every once in a while, when they can't calm her down, her son, my dad, and she tells him that her niece, really her daughter, is lost, and she can't find her, and she's at a restaurant called "Autumn Oaks", and her car won't start. Dad reassures her that this niece is spending the night with them, and she is relieved, and her mind turns to the next groove (when she saw decorative crepe paper hanging on the walls of the nursing home, she turned and said to the attendant, "Well, why are my bras hanging out here!"). She's lived here for about four turning years.

But, for now, we enjoy Dad's stories, even twice told, because he always manages to say one new kicker, one funny line that has us grinning and dimpling up at his propped up feet and bright eyes.

2007-10-20T19:33:00.000-05:00

I've been a bad blogger lately, but I've never agreed that I would tell-all, have I? Perhaps I've promised anyone who reads this now, that I won't tell-all. Perhaps that is the best thing I could do here with this blogger -- to Spare the readers all of my "reports" of daily life. This is my gift to you, bequeathed, held out, withheld...

The Fall has been good. Tiring. With blips of relational excellence. Troubles that clear up with prayer and friendships and home support. Shadows that hang. Yet sun always pierces through. I am grateful.

My dear friend from North Carolina came this week for a visit. We met on Friday morning for our walk/run on the trail of old. I was quite overjoyed to have her as my travelin' companion again that I couldn't talk openly because I was afraid of tears pouring out, needfully, sorrowfully, joyfully, over such a precious gift of her as my good friend. Therefore, I kept it in, only dabbing at my eyes by the lake when the geese lifted off and reminded us of another one of our old weekly times. As usual, we "churched" ; she spoke of her spiritual life in her searching and obedient and joyous way. I truly needed a female spiritual walk / talk again. Grateful for her. Boo hoo, wail, wail, rejoice, rejoice!

We went to lunch with other friends later that day, and at noon, we tailgated before the game with another group. I got to see much of her; we laughed and enjoyed our time before the plane flies in again tomorrow.

And that's my report (along with the excellent Tiger victory 41-10 over Texas Tech today!).

2007-09-22T14:51:00.000-05:00

Science doesn't hurt when one reads a book like Dr. Jenner and the Speckled Monster, replete with colorful, yet direct stories of the smallpox scourge and the subsequent discovery of smallpox vaccination. I didn't realize how much history has been shaped by this disease. Nor, confidentially, did I understand some of the inner workings of our immune system (T cells, for instance). I never realized that the milk maids of 16th-17th century verse were immortalized because they were immune to smallpox, and therefore, always had a beautiful unscarred face. I didn't realize Queen Elizabeth had it at age 29, was heavily scarred, and wore heavy makeup and a wig to hide the disease's aftereffects. I didn't realize that germ warfare didn't begin on the Arabian Peninsula (with Hussein, for instance), but, right here, when germ-laden blankets were given to an Indian tribe which was mostly wiped out due to the high mortality rate. Gaining their land was the reason.

Cody didn't realize all those things (and more not mentioned!) before we read Albert Marrin's interesting and educational story about Dr. Jenner and how he discovered what worked as an immunity to smallpox (cowpox) and experimented until he had created the first vaccine.

An intriguing story. An excellent book. I recommend it.

Springfield, cousins, and lights

2007-09-21T18:39:00.000-05:00

So many thoughts are going through my mind. A longing for much more knowledge has gripped me. It's a strange aftereffect from my trip to Springfield, where thousands of fast food and quick shopping places stream the streets unashamedly, shantishly, shallowly. But, perhaps that's my springboard, to search beyond these and to understand how life/consciousness/spirit work within this life we lead; one where we badly want distraction and ease and quick beauty treatments and appetite appeasement. Springfield has always negatively engaged me in productive seeking.

And, now, I'm restless. I must learn more. I must be attuned more. I must disengage from all this myself more. I feel as if, momentarily, I want to rid myself of all the extra shoes, papers, furniture, knick-knacks, my long hair, my nice home, all the encumbrances. And then, I'll perhaps be closer to knowing what I need to know. That's a strong feeling right now, but I won't do it. The desire to do what you won't do is frustrating; wise(?) restraint gaps one in.

In Springfield, I also talked with my aunt and uncle, parents of the Harvard graduate cousins. One of my cousins, grandson of our pentecostal preacher grandmother, is attempting to be the one who links us to the monkeys through a genetic study, using all of the hightech medical equipment that is at his disposal at his prestigious university where he is full professor. My uncle would like nothing more than belief in God to be relegated to the impossible/superstitious. My cousin is carrying forth his father's lamp. And, I want God to be brighter than he seems to be in our confused, distracted, struggling, vulnerable world. Doesn't he have better equipment to do this than my brilliant cousin? Why is He giving the job to Christians who seem to me are quite concerned with protecting their own stuff / ideas. Selling their Christian pencils and stickers at big Christian marts. Yelling derisively at large at people on campus. Being arrogant and inclusive. I'm quite tired of the showmanship that I see all around me in this area. Meanwhile the varied lamp carriers are spreading forth with their creations.

Whatever my cousin discovers, nothing will change my stubborness in belief. I'm locked in, have been carried over, a fire within grants warmth. I'm just frustrated, though, that life is short, and I know much too little, and the world groans in multiple ways. Life's tensions. May God help us all.

Anticipation

2007-09-19T06:00:00.000-05:00

I have the cutest kitty companion curled up on the bed beside me this morning. She's using my Norton anthology as a pillow in order to cram for her final, I guess. If my camera was handy, she, literary genius, would be immortalized and presented like Dryden. However, my husband now works from home some and has taken the upstairs office which means things are far away.

Many days, we're all home, stomping around the house, our whole family together while others have commuted, paid lunch out, hunkered in for long hours at a desk. Cody and I zoom away for lessons at various times. My daughter will maybe go out for a four hour shift at her strenuous (ha!) retail job. My husband will shut the door and talk for a four hour conference call, while he rocks furiously upon his chair. But many times, we're here, living our lives communally, watching our cute kitties, eating meals together. I enjoy it. I love my family.

Today my daughter and I are going out, though, for a few days. We're driving down to the farm which makes my whole senses anticipate that turn at the mailbox, onto the narrow rocky lane, through the gate, into my great-grandfather-former fields where we'll roll down the windows and admit the fullblownforce of tree and soil and flower and water and air smells, sensations, sweetness. Ah; it's my favorite part of the journey, heaven-hone, honeysuckle, here-we-be, happiness. We drive into it, park, greet Bo of the bales, and then, on air, meet my mother and father who always seem to be the same, smiling, always there (yet it slices me with sadness to remember their future). We sink into our chairs and begin to chat and laugh and relax. It's wonderful, well-being, worshipful, away from the world. I love them much.

However, my daughter and I will only stay one night (after all that!) because we're touring a school tomorrow in Springfield for her. I think the time together will be lovely. In some ways, the past, painful years of her high school career seem far away. God works to restore senses, relationship. It's good.

Therefore, I must stop writing about my life and live it.

Until later ......... God bless and keep you in your journeys!

Achilles and me

2007-09-18T12:25:00.000-05:00

Perhaps I'm only vulnerable in my heel like Achilles ....
This week, I'm limping around my house, wincing with Achilles tendonitis, a painful muscle strain centered above the heel. Just last week, I was puffed up at the great shape I'm in at my age, running, loving the strength of it all. And, now, the middle-age athlete affliction has struck. Ouch, I think I need to go stretch and swallow a couple of ibuprofen. So much for the glory of the aging athlete. Thanks, Achilles, thanks.

heroic passengers

2007-09-16T07:54:00.000-05:00

Last night, we loaded "United 93" into our DVD player, ready for a movie after a long day in the sun. We knew, of course, the subject would be intense; however, I didn't count on the excellency with which they portrayed the unfortunate situation for these passengers, and the air traffic controllers, and eventually the families. The movie is an example of showing, instead of telling, as we entered into the mundane conversations of the passengers as they waited, loaded, settled into their flight upon the plane, as normal travelers would. The drama of the day spoke for itself, and fortunately the director/writers/producers let this play out instead of superimposing sentimental stories on top of it (which there were probably plenty of).

My heart was pounding through most of it. I'm such an objective-thinker anymore of movies, not wanting to be manipulated by music, excessive camera focus, etc., that the rapid heart beats spoke of the genius of the film.

I'm glad that the heroes of this flight were portrayed in such a manner. I immediately went to a posting of the real people and marveled again at how they reacted, and what/whom they saved. We need to be reminded of their stories, keeping them alive, honoring their deaths.

And 9/11, six years later. Interestingly enough, more American soldiers have died in the Iraq War then were civilians killed on that day. I think, somewhere, that is making our greatest enemy very happy.

It's all sad.

ZOU

2007-09-15T16:43:00.000-05:00

We covered Faurot field memories as we sat, cheering, or laughing at the "Pinkel's a problem!" guffaws from the ticketholders behind us. We held our arms up to the sun for darkening. We swayed to the Missouri Waltz. We cheered at the numerous touchdowns! and fieldgoals! and shouted ZOU! back to the other side. We laughed at the silly father/husband who became emphatic about something male-concerned. It reminded me of the many, many good times that my daughter and I have shared in the past, laughing, peaceful, celebrating-the-moment-times with which we've been blessed. I'm sure that more will come.

Go Tigers!

steaming Viennese

2007-09-13T21:46:00.000-05:00

Today I went to coffee at the university library with an old English professor of mine, a retired 18th century expert, who now sits as a scholar in the stacks, in an office off the Reading Room. We kept running into each other throughout the ten years since I wrote that paper on Evelina, which captured his high mark, and introduced me to intense textual analysis. (I still prize that paper; he was a hard grader. I felt like I was Evelina, as English majors usually have one character that they merge themselves into out of familiarity. She is a character that my proper mother would have approved of.)

Anyway, a friend told me one time that perhaps he had a message for me, since he was one of those people who came out of the folds of the general populace to be in front of me in various places. I agreed that maybe I should go to coffee with him when he asked again (which he did once before). When I ran into him at the library, he greeted me with such glee (and ferocious hug) that I agreed to go downstairs to share a cup together.

So this morning, there we sat, over steaming Viennese coffee, realizing that we didn't have much to say to one another. It was a bit awkward; I tried to ask lots of questions. He has grandkids, and daughters, and a mysterious white four-petal flower in his garden. He asked similar questions. We talked about my master's program, and he offered to help me frame my thesis when the time came. He has twinkling blue eyes and a ready smile.

Then, awkwardness, then time to go. I always wonder about encounters like this. I even prayed for God to show me a purpose as he went to get his lid. What makes two passing people in quick life, stop for a moment to peer, and then continue, passing by one another time and time again at various places, stopping, and then continuing on once more? It's the strangest sensation to me. I feel as if I want to figure it out, but it's larger than myself (or perhaps just arbitrary); it always leaves me with the sense of confusion, though. Perhaps my confusion connects to something that is beyond my present comprehension. But why? Strange.

I was happy to go into the reference section and bury myself in "Columbia Granger's Index to Poetry" and such impersonal books, which only appear when I seek them out.

We'll see. Perhaps the saga will continue, or the saga has been simply played out.

Festival of friends

2007-09-12T08:11:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, we had a first annual blues festival in town. My musical friends were abuzz with what would be a good group here or there to see. One had a plan of where to traipse to see whom. Friday night, I met her in the park, and we listened to the group called The Rounders, sound enhanced by the looks of the lead singer (it helps!). Suddenly, another good friend appeared with her daughter, and she bent down to hug my neck and then sat down beside us. Soon another enjoyable woman friend and her daughter found us. Then later, we added another random friend to our circle, and we happily marched/danced/walked around together, laughing, chatting, sharing happy to have been discovered by one another.

I'm not sure of the overall musical quality at this festival. I am simply glad to still be in this town, surrounded by wonderful friends. I don't ever want to be on the brink of leaving again!

Delight

2007-09-11T20:07:00.000-05:00

My husband went to Back to School Night at the middle school where Cody attends a few morning classes. The language arts teacher made it plain to him that it was unfair that she didn't have Cody in her class too. The word they're using these days is "delight". As in, Cody is a delight. As in it's a delight not to feel a flogging from the teachers for erratic behavior. As in, I can delight in some calm for a while. As in, God has delightedly been answering volumes of prayer. Delight, what a word!

2007-09-05T05:58:00.000-05:00

It's early. The cats have been served. The children lie in bed. I need to crack my big literary research guide book soon. But, one moment to breathe and yawn before it all begins. One moment to think about walking in the footsteps of the One who rose, breathed and exhaled life and love, during the dawn, or noonday, or latenight.

My walk is often replete with pauses where I observe how others are walking. Some walk tightly with lips pursed, carefully outlining their feet into His marks, fearful of looking around. Some walk in circles. Some walk meanderingly, feeding gulls, picking shells, pulling pods from sea oats. Some, I've known, walk liltingly, with a smile, and a regard for those who suffer along the way. Others walk with a spirit and a bravery and a sense of adventure and humor. Still others walk in various combinations.

It's interesting how we all walk once we've made the choice. I find myself, though, hearing some of these walkers bemoan how we don't all do the same strut. I myself become tired of the pursed lip, fearful type, who often look up to scorn or reject. Or, the loud and yelling ones who attack, in the name of God, those who want to walk upon the sands too.

It's often difficult to focus upon His marks in the sand while the winds-of-walks swirl around you. This morning, I rededicate my focus, my loyalty and love, toward the reason, toward His footsteps and ultimately to Him. He knows my walk and willed it. I should trust His design. I will walk with a leap and a skip and a pirouette and a softshoeshuffle in confident jubilant trust, regardless of what others think. I will go toward Him the best that I can, upon the sands, following my Master and Friend, following faithfully. Amen.

ragtime etcetera

2007-08-30T08:04:00.000-05:00

My little (tall-ing) middle school student is amazing me this year. Attentive, mature, thoughtful. What's happened over the summer (after a few dips even)? All I can say is that this is the best start of school yet. Over at the public school for three hours, Cody is doing well, being brave, managing the socialfull, sensory-filled, whole teaching delivery. His science teacher e-mailed and said that he's a delight.
And, he's been delightful at home. We've been working from 10:45 to 3:00, and he is skipping / plodding right along. I am delighting in home school this year as it's incredibly fun to be introducing some concepts to him and to see his brain stretch.
Here's yesterday's schedule for those who are interested in what a home school day might look like:

1) middle school: band, academic lab (where he did home school reading on Scott Joplin); science

2) home where I re-teach Science using the Audubon's Weather book. We create a chart and chart the clouds of the day and read about cloud altitude and mechanics of precipitation.

3) math: mean, mode, and average review; multiplication review -- not many problems, I just want to assess that he still remembers how to do it;

4) Find two Scott Joplin resources: a) a soundfile on the web to listen to Maple Leaf Rag and the Entertainer; b) look him up in the real-world Encyclopadia to improve reference skills; read aloud.

5) Continue a page in his Writing Strands work book;

6) Go to white board and put William Penn on the ongoing leadership chart. Would you call him a strong or weak leader? [Strong due to religious convictions that all people were created equal; selfless as he used his land (now Pennsylvania) to set up a colony for other Quakers).

6) Write and define the word of the day "Universal" on a notecard and tape to the inside of the front entry closet door with other words;

7) Have Cody write about his basic rights as a member of this family in his History journal (playing video games is a basic right??). Discuss.

8) Read about Isaac Newton and John Locke in Story of the World. Talk about how the word "universal" applies to human rights. Talk about early beginnings of democracy and constitutional monarch (William and Mary) vs. absolute monarchy (Louis 14th). Relate the idea of "contract" to Cody's journal entry.

9) Visit word door and have Cody make up a sentence with each of the nine words on door.

10) Alphabetize his band music.

11) Practice piano and drums.
school is dismissed!

12) Go to rockband practice from 6-7

13) Read a chapter from his book (or Bible) right before bed

Whew! Collapse! Its been a productive day, now on to the next.

2007-08-27T11:50:00.000-05:00

There she is, tossing bread upwards, skittishly, delightedly, upon her favorite beach in Destin, Florida, where her family goes periodically. Like her other childhood photos, she can peer (or glare) into the moments that comprise her life, and she can wonder who she is in relationship to it all. Particularly in relation to that restless body of water behind her which always churns, always cycles, always invites, threatens. From tranquil to tumult within twenty-four hours. She within knows the wave types.

She can wonder particularly in relation to the mother who holds the camera, focusing upon her always, desiring her to be captured in a placid moment of unreasonable, safe joy. Perhaps so she can then be captured in writing under a photo, a yearning pressed out; a frayed hope of points and light, which may be illusory. She doesn't know.

However, inevitably, she will look at the photo which frames her, caught, always beside the sea, always with the forty three year old mother who may one day appear full of love, praying, hoping, behind the camera which records a moment with the seagulls in Destin one August evening in 2007.

Will she see?

2007-08-09T07:33:00.000-05:00

Sleds and water balloons, why not? The sleds later became water troughs for the 23 kids who roamed around my yard yesterday, slurping up the cool refreshing liquid into their water guns, wands, later my plastic bowls. It was the beginning (and the end?) of an annual water fight and ice cream party. There were many drenched, dripping smiles and lots of splattery feet. And no whams, bams, thuds, cries, or sirens either, thankfully. Cody's vision of summer fun came true, and even though he made a new girl enemy friend ("She wouldn't stop squirting me, Mom!"), he went to bed sleepy and happy last night. My torn up backyard and raw balloon tying thumb will be just fine (although I do mention them for sympathy). The best thing out of all this is that there will be no more nightly drench-mother-rehearsal-pre-fights. I'm safely dry now and plan to stay that way.

Raised arms, gasping thoughts

2007-08-05T21:27:00.000-05:00

Those little faces looking up to the stage, gasping when a related thought hits them hard, throwing up their arm for me to call on them stays with me. The talk this weekend was on fear and trust. And, as I performed the script for three children services, the kids listened and swung their arms high, wanting me to call on them, listen to their specific fear.

My script didn't call for participation at that point in the talk, but they were insistent arm wavers : "I have a fear that someone is going to walk up the stairs and get me and take me away from my mommy and daddy," said a six year old girl. "I have a fear of losing my sister," said another one. "I have a fear of falling off an airplane," a boy said. Waving arms of fear, gasping thoughts of the innocents filled the room. But I had to keep going, continuing on with the sermon, speaking of the issue of trusting God, giving him your fears, making a wise choice to trust Him. Their eyes glazed. Fears are quite specific, it seems. Something they understand early on. God is less detailed, fuzzy, difficult to sense in the same way. Will fear be supplanted by trust one day?

I hope, but why can't God be as tangible as fear to small children? Even now in their innocence, they feel especially vulnerable to terrible things. Waving arms of fright. Please listen, Teacher, and help us all in our anxious world, especially the young children, protecting them in every nation, because of your love, despite the fallen state, despite the horrible conflicts of man, despite a generational curse, despite a harsh environment. Suffer not the little children as you once willed. Please call on the children and comfort their arms and fears through tangible signs, proving yourself the stronger and more attentive force. Amen.