Frankenstein funk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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!