Road to heart

Good morning!
The election is only four short days away. We have candidate drama at our house still as my son went through the neighborhood with a permanent black marker to write BUSH on the KERRY EDWARDS signs.
A pack of law-conscious kids showed up at my door to tattle-tale.
I'm still unsure who to vote for. Maybe the third party, as a non-choice, is the way to avoid the personal responsibility of a dismal outcome. Would it be dismal? Who would most likely give us a dimal situation?

The sounds of the day are upon me: a baying, yard-encased dog, my loyal windchime, the washing machine ... I have had several hours of solitude this morning, and it has been comfortable, good.
Earlier this week, I struggled again during a gray, long day. I'm not sure where this is coming from. Perhaps my last active year set me back a bit in the ability to face the external and internal in an extended space. I very much do not want to lose that. All writers need the solitude. All contemplatives need the quiet.
Yet, like the writer in the book I'm still reading, I have the blend of extroversion which at times cancels out the other desire. Could be called: Schizophrenia. Meyer-Briggs balancing act between categories. Gemini. Spiritual warfare. This generation's distractability. ADD. Sugarholism.
Relationally, though, things are excellent. I have two workout partners now: one on Fridays, and the other on the trail on Mondays. Much needed. I also received a friend's recorded music in the mail. Last night, I talked with an acquaintance about her writing. Both creatively inspiring. That takes me back to the balancing act of time and focus and, at time, my lack of it.

Teen parenting has been difficult this week. She has hated me several times. I have reacted with boundaries, fear, protectiveness, and a strange version of love. I do love her and want her to thrive, but I can't control her. How do I guide her?

Well, the day is passing, and I have much still to do. Here's an excellent quote that I just found to leave with you:

The road to the heart is the ear. Voltaire

Junior band boy

I asked him to prove himself worthy, and he showed me his babysitting license, his boyscout card, and told me how excellent (yet sometimes creepy to customers) his work is at a local grocery store.
He told me that he studied religions beyond the teacher's expectations last year.
He told me that he helped an autistic person for a while.
He told me drugs and alcohol use were stupid and that he kicked off the lead singer from his band for using pot (and getting caught).
He told me that he wants to produce music one day as a career.
He told me that it was a compliment to my daughter to look like me.
Okay, I guess this 11th grade boy can hang around some more. Yet last night he showed up at our door at 9:30; I was in my pajamas and told him at the door, and he said, "Ooooh can I see?"
Okay. Maybe he needs to take the boundaries class.
My daughter said that he was very interesting as we talked later on the couch. How many dimensions of 'interesting' are permitted? :)
I'm just in new territory. Help me. Help me. Help us.

As a follow-up, my "good" goal went pretty well on Wednesday. Even though I was a bit flaky and shallow and awkward on Wednesday evening, mostly it was good. We laughed a lot in the small group as we wrapped boxes for a service project. Our discussion didn't go as well -- I know a lot, I've read much apologetics, yet sometimes it gels in me and at other times it doesn't. Yet, it was good. It was all gooooooood.

Then on Thursday morning, my sweet, artsy intellectual young co-leader who was struggling with intense "issues" led our group, and, wow, she was brilliant. I can still see her big smile of relief and possibility afterwards as she said goodbye to me and went out the classroom door. I pray that she admits her own goodness of self. Don't beat it down -- our sense of self is a gift not a curse. Please allow it to saturate within.

Ah, Father, everyone is so cynical these days. Even my daughter as we talked about faith on the couch last night. Confusion, hurt, rejection pattern as it relates to acceptance of a divine and personal good. Please permeate and saturate and make yourself more fully known. The cry of history, the cry of the day. You work and breathe, heal and inspire, please, please heed.

The Red Sox and the Cardinals are in the World Series! Who do I vote for? I love both teams; however, don't tell the fellow Missourians that I may end up cheering for those Easterners. I've always needed an Eastern fix, a visit, an author, so I guess it's coming out in baseball this year.

Au Revoir, mon Chere!

Guilt-free Apple Pie and Red Sox

Mmmm.... nothing like my apple crumb pie for breakfast. Perhaps I should sell my pies?

Baseball fever has hit our home. Yes, I admit to being one of those late-season MLB fans which makes me wonder why I don't watch games throughout the season. (Baseball is much slower than football.) Last night, Cody and I sat and watched the Red Soxs pitch to victory. The Yankees tried to cheat with a couple of plays, but the refs proved themselves true. The fans were both prayerful (hands clasped, looks of contrition for a run) and violent (the mob police lined left and right field at the beginning of the 9th). I love to ponder about such things. It always hearkens back to the nature of man, n'est-ce pas?

I taught Cody about 'the count' and 'the strike zone' and what innings are. I envisioned lots of future time watching games. Fun. Tonight is the final game of the series. Go Sox!

Cody has been sick these last couple of days. One morning, he had problems breathing. I'm glad that I'm here to hand him water and medicine; I'm glad I don't need to worry about outside work without me. I'm glad that he's improving now. One more day at home, and he'll be ready to go.

I've been thinking about guilt this morning (perhaps the pie?). I know that the Christian belief is sometimes synonymous with the presence of guilt. I am guilty, therefore I confess. I thought a wrong thought, therefore I am sinful. Our entire nature is sinful, therefore I am thoroughly drenched with guilt. Yes, and if you believe the story, Christ came and saved us from our sins, but, still here I am heavy with the 'natural man', guilty at every corner, sinful still despite a grace.

I'm tired of carrying this around, and, furthermore, it's not intended that I do. Within my belief system, it's not intended that guilt hang like an anchor around my neck. Guilt intertwines with insecurity -- I'm not good enough. I ended a phone conversation quickly yesterday w/o reason. I'm socially inadequate. I can't do things well, etc, etc. An endless barrage if you let it. And, sometimes justifiable if you're an admitted 'guilt-carrying natural man' through the spiritual lens. Justifiable in the sense that we use the guilt tag as an excuse to allow these thoughts access to us. I'm bad, we might say, I need God. See how guilty and inadequate I am all the time? I need God. To an extent, that stance is acceptable; however, it's not our lot in life to carry the woebegone attitude around due to an initial guilt (which is pardoned) or a struggle to choose good.

I know several friends who would disagree with me. And, if we could talk for hours, we would probably arrive on very similar ground. Personally, though, I have to release the guilt as much as possible. For some reason, I can carry destructive levels of it around for hardly any reason.

So, today, everything I do will be good. If I don't read the books I need to, if I stumble over my words as a leader in a small group this evening, if I don't reconcile with a friend, if I only eat crumb apple pie for meals, if the house lays splintered with odds and ends, if I don't practice the mandolin, I will be doing good by breathing and desiring to be, inwardly, good despite the outward actions which are inconsequential to this fact.

Alrighty then, onward to the next bite!

Settle the ball

"Settle the ball now," soccer coaches call everywhere.
And, that's what it feels like I'm avoiding today. The ball is bouncing off, rolling toward the marked boundary, snaking across the field with its player in tow. That would be me today.
The space I long for is here. Nervously, I thought of friendships and wondered if they were still solid. Should I schedule something? Nervously I thought of the house and its contents and my recent powerful urge to compulsively order and remove (a bare home sounds heavenly). I even felt a shudder of chest-stress for the first time about it. Nervously, I thought of the small project that I have for a Wednesday evening group. I thought of the prayer time I avoided today (midnight Red Sox game) (distraction and space). I'm reacting to every thought and feel like the ball spirals at my feet. I have this desire to work again and fill my life at the first taste of still life, yet still life with small endless duties (home, ministry, relationships). But, I'm here because of prior choice. I want to be here.
Yet Jones in the Dead Bird book talks about having to bring "me" along to his lovely hermitage in the Ozarks (near my brother's house). The "me" part which is heavily hooked into the three P's of society: power, prestige, and possessions. It's difficult to face ourselves in a silent, removed atmosphere, though, given these P's which influence the inner strains of being human. We want to be affirmed, we want distinction, we want to feel successful, we want distractions. Yes, I would like my own money, an ability to feel a part of something outside of the home, a desire for independence, yet when I try to grasp this, I end up despising it, and I choose to stay home again, to be balanced, to be available for kids and volunteerism, and to be able to think. I often feel it's my own weakness that causes me to be here. Yet, I know, after analysis, that it's not this at all. It takes more strength in ways to deny the other things and to affirm the opening in which I find myself.
Settle the ball.
I want to remain healthy in my perspective.
I want to be able to be in the space, and in the solitude, without the feelings of it enveloping me and separating me from society. I want to trust that good will be and emerge to enable me.
Thank you for the state of being, God. Help me to know the difference between action and being and to know when to jump and when to settle.

The mailman rings

When you meet someone with similar views, you relax. Yes! you understand what it's like to think and feel in this way. May we walk together for a while and talk about things?
I can't tell you how I've valued these relationships. Sometimes have overvalued them. But, an appreciation lights up the value of the companion tremendously, and so I'm not regretful for any of these types of people. They've been sent my way I do believe.
Many of them have only been sent as word carriers. Mailmen of their own spirit and discoveries. Here, here's my post. Read it quicky because I'm moving on to the next box. I'll be by your house again, but I can't stop because I'm busy, and, really, do you want rumors of tea chats with me, a mailman?
He has a point, and, therefore, distance, propriety, full friend lists already, necessitates that I simply buy his (or her) book without reciprocal conversation. Darn, but acceptable.
I just read a chapter in the book mentioned before in which Jones tries to piece together the patterns of history (by way of a tour to historical sites: Israel, Egypt, Athens, Rome, England) to understand himself and the existence of God. All last year, I did this too with my World Studies material that I tried to teach well to students. But, I was impacted beyond the preparation. My "why" questions were bounding off everything. My intellectual and faith companion teacher also asked questions but his didn't resonate as much in his emotions as mine. Or, in a sense of activism, which was a strange and powerful thing for me. I know that I was difficult at times.
Anyway, Jones encounters the same questions as he thinks about the patterns in history and of the paradox of progress on the back of despair and conflict. The Sistine Chapel, for example, portrays this as the finger of God and finger of Adam almost touch at the ceiling's centerpoint. Then as the the painting plunges down the wall, the figures are more distorted, contorted with greed and self-importance and subjugation. And then Jones, in Africa, ruminates on the imperialism, the rape, of this people and country for the more 'civilized' countries who need Africa's wealth at any cost in order to fund their own self-interests. I learned all about this in greater detail last year, and it bothered me greatly. Yet, you move over to India, China, Haiti, the U.S. in some of our globalization plans, and similar things happen. The nature of man becomes the question. Why do we have so much greed? Why are there such opposing forces?
Jones concludes, "What happened is that wherever I went, I was confronted by my own face-to-face enigma writ large....every change and every advance simply poses more graphically the paradox of human existence."
I'm wondering "but what does that call us to do"? Focus on ourselves? Increased activity in social justice?
As you can see, I identify with this author. I've been trying to make sense of my last year in terms of the knowledge that I was exposed to. Perhaps this book is to help prod me along.
By the way, I was able to get out of bed today. Prayed, journaled from 5:30 to 7. No feeling of exalted nearness. Just glad I plowed in the early morning light. Thank you, God.

Dead bird to sing

The book is called, "Teaching the Dead Bird to Sing" by W. Paul Jones, and it's challenging me to figure out a way to the path.
The path. Sounds supra-spiritual. Sounds new age-ish.
Yet, the path to be on questions me constantly. So be how it sounds.
The book reminds me of my purist-spiritual Buddhist, Christianity early yearnings.
I wanted to live above the rest. Above my own desires. Above world definitions of success and performance. Show me the high path, and I will take it. Pursuing and focusing on the inner, I once felt like my feet were lifting under me as I walked. I floated; my desire for heightened spiritual experience, sharp. I've had a few strange mystical experiences, I must say. The music at night once I submitted to the unfolding of the Judeo-Christian plan for my life. The crafting of the dried floral bride wreaths. The ecstatic awareness. The desert of Hagar. The submission of intellect in order to heighten understanding of the irrational. The death of the idealistic in order to bear the reality. God's taken me places.
Yet, here I am, later, struggling, feeling myself settling for lesser awareness, or should I say lesser experience.
Lesser experience due to the increased consumption of distraction. Distraction which demands its usefulness in its own right. I must clean and be a good wife. I must serve and be a good steward of gifts and commission. I must go to lunch with others and be a good friend. I must be a good mother so I must do this.
All those are good, mandated, yet, I feel like I'm slipping. Can I undergo a future 'desert'? Am I ready for hardship? Should I train myself? Equip, prepare, restrain? Should I pray more (yes)? Should I resist more (yes)? Should I not grow lax in the disciplines (yes)? I'm growing lax and distracted, I know.
Jones' book is making me think. He's making me think that I'm convoluted like him. I'm full of analysis of how I should be. Full of confusion on how to arrive there. Full of oppositional factors.
One example is of the desire to be simple and the desire to be beautiful. I want to be content with little, yet I desire more in order to look good. Or, the desire to be responsible to health concerns (cholesterol, weight) and the gratification of chocolate, bread, and anything else I see that I want. I rarely hold back any more. I'm blessed with predisposition to thinness, yet still the nutrition is bad, and I am feeling more uncomfortable with the slack in physical activity.
Oppositional factors. When I teach at my small groups, I feel like I've found harmony. I project it. And, it's true, spiritual focus has led me to a sharper vision of what and who provides life more abundantly. I know this through release, through feelings, through intellect, through resources, through faith.
Yet, at times, my focus becomes fuzzy when I'm not on call. Call me out into greater stamina and desire. I do not give up longings any more for what can be fulfilled.
Therefore, my book knocks on my door.
Tonight, I'll go to bed, as usual, with great longing for a fresh focus, and, more importantly, a renewed discipline that keeps me actively looking for outer surprises of the inner life. I sleep on it. I wake up and return to old patterns of undue servitude.
What can I do to break this cycle?
Tomorrow morning, I will try to wake up early to pray.
Try to.
Try.
Tomorrow.

Cooler temps

My dream of last entry called me to action.
I wrote and received and now I know what is happening this year in my co-teacher's life at school without me. He's okay. Some of our formers students are in good hands, and I can mentally move on now. That's all that is needed. Hopefully, now, I won't have the dreams.

It's getting colder outside; the day is gray; I've felt detached today from others (although yesterday in the sun, I felt the happy communal spirit and boasted on it). But like a fireplace sets a mood in the room, the gray atmosphere tells me that winter approaches. I shouldn't dread winter each year. And so, while my daughter took guitar lessons, I went to a nearby bookstore and bought a book with the following introductory lines:

To the countless hermits
who populate our hills, towns, and cities.
Invisible, unknown, unrecognized,
they are blessed with the courage to face
the demons,
without and within,
on behalf of us all.

Winter means hunkering in, choosing to commune or not with others, and figuring out how how to face that feeling of loneliness, detachment, withdrawal. Sometimes I welcome it. I've always been somewhat of a contemplative, and winter gives me more space and mood for it. However, at times, it's somewhat scary. Being a stay-at-homer, I have more empty space to either wrestle with or enjoy. I want to enjoy it this year. I want to live in it's fullness. I'm thinking about how to release some of the pace in order to face it head on again.
On the other hand, this is crazy thinking. Why not enjoy the friendships that I have and not let them slip away? Seems like I always have this dualistic way of thinking about things. Therefore, I will probably try to do both which is probably more healthy ... have friends, yet have space. What's wrong with that?
We'll see what this winter brings.

Accepting the divide

Early this morning, I had the 'teacher dream' where I roamed the halls and classes of the local high school where I taught. I found my co-teacher and cornered him into telling me how his full-time year was going.
I can't sleep now and so I prayed for him, for his maintained faith, for a solid girlfriend, for good influence on his students, for less conflict with his partnering teachers. We went through a lot together last year, both highs and lows.
Prayer helps, yet it doesn't take away the sneaky longing to be there as a more experienced and toughened teacher who knows what's going on for those who remain. The divide is difficult. I feel like crying this early morning. Dreams can disrupt the emotions.
However, life is good now. Many pies have been baked. I've been present for my children. My friendships are stable. My ministry work is fulfilling. I can't have it all, and, therefore, I choose.
Bless the choice and the memory which I submit to your unfolding. On to this day ....

Champs

The Cardinals and the Dodgers play in the 9th inning. Reds lead 6 to 2.
However, the Reds lost today at the Parks and Recreation showdown-- the Stars hung strong and scored two goals to their one, winning the age division championship.
The red-clad parents were dejected; yet, we, the white Stars' parents, jumped and ran out into the field and created the tunnel with our upward reaching hands. The boys (and one girl) ran through, and we cheered. Cody was trailing far behind, didn't notice that the others were gone; we yelled at him, and the parents remained to cheer him, smiling big, through. I felt so grateful for them that they wished the celebration to cover him too.
For the first time, Cody belonged to a winning championship team. For the first time, I integrated well with the parents, who are mainly modest incomers from a centrally located elementary school. The stress to look good and achieve with perfection were gone from them. We laughed a lot together. They encouraged Cody with shouts whenever he even touched the ball with his foot.
After the tunnel, we took pictures of the team and walked over to the concession stand to be awarded the medals. Big, gold medals with a soccer foot reaching out for a ball. Coach told us later that Cody looked up at him during the walk and asked, "Did we win?"
I think he didn't say all he intended ... "medals?"
Coach awarded him his medal and gripped him by the shoulders and gave a rare-extra encouragement: "Cody's best game was yesterday morning; he really went after the ball." Cody smiled shyly and hurried back, big medal dripping.
Winning isn't everything, but, for a boy who loses a lot, today's winning was off the hook.
I can't wait for the Spring to cheer with my new friends.
Go Stars!

Open palms

It has been awhile since writing! Honesty, I haven't felt much like it. Yes, I've sat down in front of this empty space to write, but then, I decide to write friends instead. My Type 1 personality (a Jung qualifer) rules the weeks at the moment.
But, it's been good.
I'm amazed at life right now, rather the strain in life that lifts us. I'm amazed at people and how they can open their palms to allow goodness to land into them. A beautiful younger woman acquaintance and I went to coffee on Wednesday a.m., and she told me about her early life: sex, drugs, being on the streets, abuse, child at 17, divorce at 19, food stamps, anxiety disorder, depression.
Somehow she ended up marrying a man who connected her to Missouri. We talked in our favorite coffee shop.
She's still rough around the edges, skeptical, nervous, suffers from post-traumatic stress. However, she smiles a lot, and wonders about how God works in her life. She has become a Christian, yet one with holes and huge unanswerable questions. I like her, she's funny too.
I felt like I was watching a miracle when I looked at her, though. It hung around me the entire day, how redeemable we can be, how improved. I went to my women's ministry large group and told the women how I was inspired by this 'anonymous' person, how God can transform, rework, provide hope even in the bleak. Healing, goodness. I looked out and saw her in the audience.
Later she gave me a hug. Later, she sent me a thanks and a look into her reaction and how she felt hard ice had been moved from her heart this week.
So, I'm feeling humbled, hugged, purposeful, wonderful and I want all women to know that they can be moved forward in Christ's love. I know that I have. Nothing else explains it. Thank you, thank you.
That has been my week. On to the next!

Today, a passion struck that was apart from the mandolin.
It was the desire to lighten a la garage sale. My daughter was amazingly non-sentimental: a box her grandfather carved for her hit the pile. "Yes, sell it!" she continually barked. She's been known as as "aaah" and "oooh-er" (she doesn't know yet that the Mercer Mayer Little Critter books are in the stack too), and we have boxes of her hither-thither joint custody arrangement to prove every step of her life. But since her dad deposited all of her boxes on our doorstep before he moved to the east coast, she has access to sell everything from one household, and she is determined to make enough money for eye brushes, homecoming gowns, American Eagle clothes, and car bank account. Costly aspirations for the next stage, so everything must go. A few things stay, though, like the Steve Erkel and the Starla doll. Reminders of the good life.
For myself, I feel suffocation at the brink of a good clean. I hate clutter; I hate stuff. If I had to move in a day's notice, I would love to be ready to go. As a matter of fact, I've had a huge urge for several years to make the home as empty as possible, to sweep out everything in the basement. If the good Lord said, "GO to Zimbabwe," I'd be petrified yet ready to give up everything: my old college papers (my one-time identity still in the storage bin); my old love letters (Lance, Guy, Stan ... ); my water-damaged C.S. Lewis books; my senior memory book; other correspondence that came and went. Those are the most meaningful things to me. However, I felt tonight that for once I was pulling away from those days. I don't have those longings to return, to be affirmed in such way, like I once did. Ageful progress, I reckon, for which I'm glad in a way.
My son had the most difficult problem with his cascade of toys which have play potential in them yet. Finally, though, he turned over all of his early-year books. Finally, he is growing out of his kindergarten and first grade clothes (even though in fourth grade now). He has a stack downstairs to call his own. He has dollar signs in his eyeballs.
Well, it's late, and I must go to bed. It has been a productive day of load-lightening....
Bon soir!

Hovering Monroe

"Pick up that mandolin! You don't need to clean, or prepare for class, or write someone a nice, polite, useless card. Pick up that mandolin!" And, I do. Since I wrote on Sunday evening, I've made an amazing discovery. I can turn to a song in my bluegrass songbook, and I can pick out the tune in about three minutes. And, I can remember it. Am I receiving my mandolin abilities from a long lost Monroe boy? Is there an old man in overalls hovering over my shoulder and upon my fingertips? It sure feels like it as I'm feeling a bit overexuberant about this entire mandola-musical affair. I've been dreaming at night about entering into Westside Auto parts and being able to play and keep up with dad and Gerald while on a new instrument. However, I'm wasting time even as I type (perhaps the internet connection should be unpaid), I should be picking! Merci le Dieu pour le mandolin!

Mandolin

Their names were Russell and Billy, guitar and bass respectively. Billy's bass was larger than him, and they were both shaped the same.
Jean, Russell, and I shared the guitar playing which has motivated me to pick up the mandolin again. Since we returned from the farm, I've been practicing the mandolin. I can see a picking pattern now. If I try to pick a song out a day from the bluegrass lyrics book, I'm sure I can see more patterns and experiment too. Perhaps next time, I'll be the lone mandolin player.
Russell says that we need to start a band. But, I live too far away.
We all played together on the back patio to the Woods' who came from far and near for the reunion. I love being a woman in the band, because I can watch the other women scurry around with food and social duties. I love singing and playing instead. When my mother said, "Okay, stop playing so that we can start serving and eating," I agreed with my dad who said that he would rather play than eat.
Singing harmony is one of my favorite activities. Even the cold that I have had to take a back seat. We stood outside within the crickets and the laughing family sounds. I could see my son running around up to mischief. The bonfire blazed outside the yard. We were wrapped in musical history as well as connections to people who shared ancestry. My husband was able to attend, and he snapped photos like a business manager. I'm not so mad at him since he was able to go and participate too. We're both making the adjustment from what's rural to what's somewhat stressful on the cul-de-sac. Yet, I can still hear the music, and my fingers buzz from reminiscing on the mandolin. Maybe I will go to a monthly city bluegrass jam afterall.
A funny quote from the weekend:
Dad: Did you see that dark, Indian man? I'm just as much Indian as he, but the Indian blood just outcropped in him. It outcropped in Karen [his sister] too. She looks just like a squaw. And, you have dark complexion to be a fair Indian maiden yourself. [Outcrop! where does he come up with things like this? He always has a funny comment here and there which he tells with high interest.]

Glimpses

I'm struggling on how to talk about this week.
First, there was the adjustment back from the musical, rural weekend. I was a bit emotional. My husband said he would learn the fiddle if it would make me happier (a concession from a nice man). No, that's not it, to change to make things momentarily right. I just wanted to respond to a longing to return, not to change who he is. I appreciated that, though, and am amazed at the man who loves me enough to be want to be something more.
Then, the rest of the week, there was both a wrestling for space and relationship. I skipped a meeting in order to be alone. And, perhaps that space helped me have some good relational times that came a bit later. But, in those spaces, I let myself long a bit. Yet, I wasn't swept away, a good sign, a progression, a difference.
This week, I had an excellent e-dialogue with a microbiologist scientist who is a woman in one of my studies. We discussed faith and evolution. The blend of these two oft-contrary things just fascinates me. I love how they are snug fits. I don't see oppositional evidence like some. It's amazing, though, how minds can be closed in the name of 1) science 2) religion 3) bias of any sort ~~ we probably will never learn as quickly as we can because of these arbitrary obstacles we throw up. Fear-based? I doubt God minds our inquisitive ways.
I learned about Shannon's theory of information and even understood the author's application of it to the emergence of diverse forms (during the Cambrian period) which necessitates an information-giver-originator. Very interesting! These types of discussions are faith-sustaining to me.
Then, yesterday, the embodied-faith took over at one of my small group meetings. How can I explain it to make sense? The text-to-life connection soared over the study, and we unloaded burdens, passed Kleenexes, and held hands in a tight circle of prayer afterwards. I felt used, my words flowed unrehearsed, the Christ of the day, ours and past, substituted within our attempts to transcend. It amazed me and made me dreamy. Wow. Tangibility of being met and comforted. Women are important enough. Women carry burdens of many. Be strong and focused.
After the meeting, I had a fun talk with a (musical) friend over a two hour lunch. Another tangibility of divinity in her shining, glowing face. In a desire of servanthood, obedience, acknowledgment of imperfection.
The week has been about glimpses: glimpses at my own waywardness, glimpses of an arranged universe, glimpses of feminine transcendence through a soft confirmation, glimpses of a giggling survivor who treads on.
I live in a contained world compared to those who suffer in Haiti from the hurricane after-effects. Yet, allow what I experience here, to be a longing that reaches those who cry in pain and suffering. Prepare me for my own pain and suffering. Prepare me to remember them and know that meaning lies within and beyond each of our circumstantial places. Help them know your strength and comfort. Amen.

Blackberry blossom

I knew my guitar would make me feel more at ease despite my skirt and heels.
I unloaded it from the van and went towards the door that had the words Valvoline, Bumper to Bumper on it. The building was low and green; it peered at the old run-down Wal-Mart building across the road. My dad's truck was already there from my cousin's wedding we had just attended.
The customer bell jangled when I opened the door, and Kelsey stood behind the counter grinning at me. "Well, now the real talent has showed up," he said.
Dad was in the middle of a song; his banjo rang out. A man with glasses and cigarettes played an Alvarez beside him. I noticed immediately that he was good and employed many runs in excellent timing.
I took my Alvarez out and sat on a stool at the counter, glad that I had challenged myself to enter the man's domain at Westside Auto Parts. However, I wasn't glad that I had a skirt on.
Nonetheless, the men made me feel at home. Kelsey offered me a different chair (which I declined) and coffee; Gerald gave me a compliment on my playing because we kept good rhythm together. And, when Dad and I sang, Gerald said that we sounded good and that he loved to hear purty singing like that. Dad kept smiling up at me, with his bright eyes and dimples, because he could play all day and all night. He's a bluegrass fanatic.
Harley showed up after awhile. He was an older man who wore overalls. He played the guitar like it was a steel guitar. He had strange picking meandering fits, and when I looked over at him, he would grin at me, proud of his accomplishments. Gerald and I couldn't keep time with him, though.
Gerald wanted to play "Blackberry Blossom" and "Fire on the Mountain" constantly. I learned a new Em run from him, and he noticed, and we smiled at each other and chatted like fellow musicians. Nothing like it to break the ice with a stranger.
Harley brought out a harmonica for a gospel number. We followed him and then he abruptly stopped and walked back to his chair.
Meanwhile, greasy smelling men would appear tentatively at the door. I was the first person they saw at the counter with a skirt and heels on. But, they needed a part, and, after procuring it from Kelsey, they would stand by me to pay. I could smell them, and it brought back memories of being a blue-collar man's daughter. Nice memories, one might say.
Gerald cajoled my dad to play "Blackberry Blossom" one more time, and then he put his guitar in the case. He held out his hand to shake mine; it was a cupped, greasy, hard handshake.
"It's been nice playin' with you today."
He shook out his long legs and exited, jangling through the door. I watched him climb into an old pickup truck, and then he zoomed away, down Business 60, towards Sonic.
Kelsey sidled down the counter to me and said, "That used to be my son-in-law."
"That's his Ex," said Dad with a grin.
"Yeah, I kinda wish he wasn't, though, cuz he's a good guy in his way," said Kelsey.
Dad and I packed up our instruments to go play some more at home. I smelled like smoke and grease. But, I was incredibly happy.
Now, I'm back in my own town, away from the farm and the music. I'm a bit sad about it and know there will be an adjustment period. Maybe I will just go get my guitar and play some "Blackberry Blossom" and use that new run I learned in the auto parts store.

Two pieces of cake

I've just eaten two pieces of white cake to add to the excesses of my day. Now, I really feel contrite.
In an earlier blog entry, I related how I made two promises to women inside the Blue Note's darkened room due to the warmth of wine and friendship. One promise involved touching base each Friday regarding the exercise we did for the week. That happened. The other promise involved shopping in a nearby town with my husband's boss' wife. It happened today, and, therefore, I'm feeling a bit sick. She was nice and all, but I was the problem.
You see, I found some great prices on baking/pottery pieces that match my collection (something my mom-in-law started ~~ country looking Polish blue and white pottery). Typically, they are expensive. The ones I found today matched and were inexpensive (although inauthentic). The store also had great prices on other items: a black courdoroy jacket (I like jackets), a couple of bras (much cheaper than the $25 usual price!), a new pie plate (do I need another one??), and a basket for my daughter. At the checkout aisle, the total was quite high, and I feel horrible still. I'm supposed to care for third world people, and I'm being the typical American woman. Yes, I boiled corn and all and am fairly frugal in other ways, but sometimes, it hits me, and I spend uselessly. Ugh.
What I spend is a choice between me, in some ways, and between making a difference in someone else's life. I know that this sounds corny, but isn't it true? I still hear Momma Teresa saying that if America wasn't so materialistic that we could be a deciding factor against the forces of poverty, sickness, crime, etc. And, I'm part of that matrix. I hate it too because it goes against my identity, how I was brought up on the farm, how I learned to swallow pride and focus on inner strength instead of the masks of the outer.
Alright, I know that this sounds midwestern-hyperpuritannical, yet, honestly, it is a question of how to be. Constant self-gratification, as a principle, is not right because it leads to focus on the insubstantial which can't satisfy. Jesus teaches this a lot too.
Okay, okay, remember these aftereffects of glow and wine and lack of discipline for the future.
Help me to sacrifice, and to be okay with the inside. I am going to challenge myself not to purchase anything for myself for the next two weeks. I will report back to track the progress. Perhaps then I can go another week. Even though I sound frantic with guilt, my buyer's remorse will not kill me ... it's just an awareness of something I don't like and want to change.
Bon soir!

Eyeball revenge

George W. arrived gracefully in our mailbox; he had a presidential, determined gaze appropriate to calm the masses who glanced at the cover of Time magazine. Rushed to work? = one glance at a newstand's copy could reduce your anxiety. Diagnosed with cancer? = a waiting room's copy could dissipate your dread.
My son welcomed this calming force into our home with love. With love that became almost an unhealthy attachment. Therefore, when his sister, a known staunch Democrat, outlined George W.'s face with black marker and gave him horns, hell dwelt within an otherwise peaceful place.
We didn't know until later when a blood curdling scream issued forth from the teenage sister's red room.
"Moooooooooooommmmmmmm!!!! Look what Cody did!!!!! I hate him! I hate him!!!!!"
I walked in, adjusting my eyes again to the sexy, thin boy images plastered on her walls where she pointed.
"Just look!!! Just look!!! Ooooohh! I hate him!!!! Why did he do this?!" Her anguished face reminded me of the murderous periods in history ... the bourgeouise attacking Marie Antoinette for economic injustices and snobbery ... the Belgium in the Congo demanding rubber quota from the Africans ... Stalin being dismantled piece by piece.
Raw passion. Threatening overrule.
I looked up and saw Orlando Bloom with blackened circles for eyeballs. On his shirt, in fourth grade print, were the words, "I'm a bad boy."
In my daughter's hands were photographs of her blackened-eyeballed, cheerleader friend, Hannah, and a horned picture of herself that she liked and had set beside her bed. On the shade of her bedside touch light, were the words "I'm dumb" to remind her of her perpetual mental condition.
That's how we found out that Cody was protecting the honor of the calm demeanor-gone-black of George W. Bush. He admitted it and accepted his sentence of no Playstation for the night.
Political turmoil abounds during election year pitting family member against family member. The morning of November 5th will unleash the demons of hell again in our home. All wars are not connected to religion! Orlando Bloom, Chad Michael Murray, and Colin Ferrell, run and take cover! The black marker may cometh again!

Tao te Ching pie

In dwelling, live close to the ground.
In thinking, keep to the simple.
In conflict, be fair and generous.
In governing, don't try to control.
In work, do what you enjoy.
In family life, be completely present.

When you are content to be simply yourself
and don't compare or compete,
everybody will respect you.

Tao te Ching, Stephen Mitchell translation


Meei Fenq, my Taiwanese friend, just left my house where we talked as we drank our customary tea and made apple and blueberry pie. I meant to ask her the Taiwanese views of Taoism, but I forgot. I just enjoy being with her very much. Our submissive, soft mannerisms are similar which she received from her culture, and I received from my mother. (Her husband says I'm different than other American women which was a compliment? Although, for myself, I know I need to be more assertive at times!) Meei Fenq and I talk about our life's purpose with career and family. We exchange cultural information, and we eat a lot of seaweed. She just left some Korean, seasoned, flaky seaweed for me. Yum! I brought a huge container to my class last year during our unit on China, and only six students liked it. The rest of them made a show of gagging and spitting it into the trash can. I told the six that somehow we were the same type of people. Strangely, most of those six were my favorite students!
There's been an Asian theme in the air recently. We rented "The Last Samarai" this weekend, and the noble calling, the return to equilibrium in nature, and the emphasis on looking within for strength were the highlights. It caused me to want to find my Tao Te Ching book and read some of the inspiring verses (such as the above). What is it about eastern spiritualism that I like?
I think that it's because it resonates with the cycles of nature, it uses beautiful imagery, and it makes good, helpful living sense.
Some of my Christian friends would probably find this to be counterproductive and, in some ways, dangerous. However, I am not a disciple of anything that doesn't have the Personal (the Thou as Martin Buber says) within it. I am entirely devoted to the Christ story because it speaks both to my head and heart in an irreplaceable way. A valid relational way that I never, ever want to end again. I am, though, impressed by the spiritual focus and benefits that other belief systems, such as Taoism offers, because I believe that they tap into the same root that grounds me. Native American spiritualism does this as well. The root of Creator. The root of Other than myself. The root of love. Materialism pales in comparison to any of these honest attempts at finding truth. Many of my Christian friends are partnered more with materialism than with Taoism. It's a focus, not a label. It's an interest, not a belief system.
Anyway, I too believe that as humans upon this earth that we must look/investigate/mine/understand other belief systems in order to understand our own choices better. I want to know how we all experience the spiritual strains that are part of this earth. I want to sift and know which ones correspond more with my views (in this case, Taoism, Buddhism) and the ones that I see more as politically manipulative and oppressive (Hinduism, Muslim-Islam). I must be informed instead of arrogant and narrow, and this information helps me discern and know what pathway is for me. And, choosing a spiritual pathway is an important part of human existence. And, it helps me know what others experience in their choice. I feel obligated to know, like it's an expectation of some sort.
So, therefore, I can look at the Tao te Ching, and appreciate and respect some of its wisdom. Yet, even while looking at it, it appears partial to me because my experience seems fuller somehow, embodies more, and I can minister towards that.
Recently, I read an excellent book called "A New Kind of Christian" which speaks to the subsequent question of heaven/hell and who goes? It suggests that it is no one's business at all who goes to heaven and hell, and the focus should be on the here and now. The question should be nothing except the head/heart knowledge which you know that can be explained if asked. Nothing more. Too much has been shoved. Too much has been lost at the expense of self-importance, oppression. I liked that book and its postmodern views very well.
That's all for now on this theme....I must clean the sublime pastry crumbs which splatter my counter. Au revoir!

Versus in the air

A volleyball tournament changed my sister's plans. So, just the three of us went to the stadium. We sat on the hill because it's best for hyperactive sons. He and I snuggled, cheered, he yelled MIZ to me, and I yelled ZOU back. I defied dress and wore an old t-shirt. He put his head on my lap and looked up and smiled. He loves me very much. I love him too. Guaranteed, I would've pushed a bigger kid down the hill who stepped on him. My husband studied the program to know all the facts. We stayed until the half, and then I walked barefoot back to the faraway parking garage. Blisters.

What is it about roaring crowds that transcend this life? One time at a Chiefs game, I sank back into my seat to listen and absorb the motion and movement of a life's vehement fling. We're red! We're victorious! We're off to kill! It announced the curtain again, that veil that thinly hides other similar moods and events and the significance of the thing. Surely behind the yelling, cursing, drinking, flinging there lies what matters: that blood throbs, and we find ourselves at odds with something in the air, the Seahawks, the dictator, the famine. Roar. Why?
I find myself sitting and thinking about these things more than roaring. I care about who wins, for sure, yet I care as an observer of the tumult, and it makes me thoughtful, and then I don't pay much attention to the mechanics. I still don't understand the person who gets overwhelmed by the stats as if the stats themselves are wholly viable. Pieces splattering ~~ I'm not running to collect them. That's just me ... I say the big picture matters. The season is insignificant.

Something speaks, though, within it all. It often conveys something sensory and ill-conceived which is why it's often ignored. But, please, I pray that I can hear the words clearer as I live longer. I want to know the undercurrents, that spiritual static, the Truth that is, a significance to the game. The Tao says it arrives. The Bible says to knock. I wait on a hill. The crowd roars the team to victory.

Why? Is the conquering the thing? I can accept what is discovered. Let me see more to understand what's beyond the field, above a hill, within a smile, outside the score. I desire this very much. Merci, merci. And, also, help those who mourn in Russia. Comfort beyond the grief. Amen.

Ella by the curtain

The Tigers will undoubtedly slaughter Arkansas State tomorrow.
My pretty, tall sister is going with me to the game. I'm imagining the looks that she'll get tomorrow. We look nothing alike. I'm shorter, stockier, and she's built like a model. She forgets to eat. I love sweets. She's had some face work; my face is good as is. She's a cowgirl, and I'm academic. She has a sharp, quick, silly wit, and I'm usually the listener-laugher. She's an independent single mother of two teen girls. I make meals and pies. I've always sought life's meaning. She's always sought survival in the moment.
We share a few similarities. We're both forgetful. We both were athletic. We both are prone to loneliness. We both know how to play "Soldier's Joy" on the mandolin. We both played the secondhand (thirdhand) trumpet in band. We went to state in the two mile relay together. We both drove the half-painted VW bug in high school. It will be fun to be with her. She likes excitement like a stadium full of screaming people.
I'm listening to Ella Fitzgerald as I type. She sounds positively brimming, bubbling ... the piano moves lightly .... I'm falling in love, with you. You flew too high but now you've got a feeling you're falling, yes, falling in love with, nobody else but you, bu da da da da dadada da!
This world is so bizarre, n'est ce pas? I mean in Russia right now, there are mothers and fathers doubled over with pain for their senselessly murdered child. An innocent day gone explosive. Bodies stacked in the hallways. Bloody images of young faces. And, here in the contained world, sings Ella. Sigh, yet, it makes sense that someone sings while someone cries. Otherwise, wouldn't life be altogether unbearable? It's a bizarre juxtaposition, though, which is difficult to get used to.
Do you do this as well? I'm always splicing my life with others and wondering about the thin curtain that separates. I'm off for fun and victory when on the other side of the world ...
Well, I'm just sorry that it happened. I can at least tuck them into my consciousness and send regret out into the air. Not much when all is said and done. Yes, it must suck to be God at times. Things are messed up in many ways.
Okay, tomorrow will be enjoyable for me. I should sleep on all things that swirl in my head.
Good night to all in the world who need it.