Bar Tab

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

Fortunately, I was a shy child and teenager which has helped me understand some of social paralysis. Only through hard work, intense desire, and some spiritual shoves have I completely defeated it, yet I remember not wanting this for my worst enemy. It was such a place of echoes – echoes of self-defeat, shame, hatred. A battle. But, I am grateful for it because now I can understand somewhat the feeling for my son. It has been helpful.

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

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

The battle can’t be denied. Life can be tough. A tactical plan 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

"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

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

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

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.  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

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

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

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!

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

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

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 upon 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 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 exclusivity.

God-light

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!

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.

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

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 "hypocrisy" 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

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

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

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 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.

Ye ole ...

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

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

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

Calmer here now, even Obama and Hillary agree (per their amicable debate last night)(political humor). 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) (another 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!

Snowfull Entity

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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!

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

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.