I love it when the tree shadows play tag with the sunlight through my windows, on my counters, kitchen table, carpet. My house becomes illumined with life and movement and goodness. The pets find it to swat, nap, jump aboard interactively. One of the granted pleasures from above.

Tomorrow, we go up toward the sun on the big plane. We'll cross the ocean with its untold depths, with its Titanic wreckage, with its huge whales, with its swarms of tiny microbe life, and land in England. Right now, I can't even imagine the whole, long journey, and the ability to say, "Tomorrow I'll be in a different part of the world." I am an admitted simpleton!

Two weeks might (still nervous about the flight) pass, and I'll be admitted back into my kitchen of dappled light and trapsing kitten and meal responsibility. Okay, forget I mentioned that last one. Kind-of ruined the mood.:) I'm sure I'll be happy to see it all, yet I'm so happy to leave it behind for a while. Admitted escapist too!

So, au revoir!, for a while. I'm sure I'll have stories for later!

I held off publishing my last piece until tonight -- too raw, I thought. I wasn't in a good place. And, this morning, I woke up disturbed and fretful, but my husband insisted that we go on a healthy bike ride along the river; we packed a lunch; I packed my videocamera. It was hot and buggy, but we sat on a memorial bench away from the house and talked. It was good. It was recorded.

I did pray and did release myself to him-above who then helped release me to resignation of where I am, and acceptance, and a new run at the comfort of "things will work out." They will. Why do I become so gripped with fear that they won't?

Tonight, we watched the movie "Luther" ~~ it affected me much more than last night's sermon that lost to my skirt. Here truth diverged more plainly: wow, such the movement that was born from this man's defiance and integrity. Funny that the old monk married the runaway nun. Romance in everything ....!

I'm reading "Wuthering Heights" now. Heathcliffe is a-mutterin; Catherine is a-schemin; the wind is a howlin'. Lots of wayward movement in this book which matched my mood when I began it this morning! It's quite a dark little book.

Must sleep now!

It's late, and I should be in bed. It's simply that I don't want to face tomorrow. Today, I had an excuse of being born forty-one years, but tomorrow, I will still need to face the pantry and figure out what's there for everyone to eat. Even at 11 p.m., right now, my daughter fries something in a skillet for her supper; she decries the absence of good food made up for her. I decry her demands. My husband took care of himself, I had popcorn and cake, did anyone take care of Cody? I doubt it; if I don't do it, then he forgets to eat too, just grabs at pretzels. Perhaps I've caused his Asperger Syndrome to flare due to nutrition. I'm sure lots of people would nod at me if they knew that I'm not doing what I should do there. I'm not altogether bad, only half good at this duty. I need to become my mother who just did her service to others without complaint. Sigh. Mundanity is hard. Familyhood isn't woods walking.

Okay. The day hasn't been that bad at all. I received a command to open presents early today, which I did, and now own an item I've wanted for years. We went out to eat lunch at a restaurant, which fills me up and then I don't think of another meal, like the restaurant meal should be enough to hold us all throughout the entire day. It's enough for me, but not for others. Why not?

Church was alright, but I didn't feel any conviction, nothing, except that I was happy for my pretty skirt. I felt like I needed to consult with a minister to make certain I am living faith fully. Yet, pretty new skirt idolatry for now would definitely overrule the appointment. C'mon I'm not Luther at this point in time, just a female in 2005. Surely God understands that at times.

During the service, I was happy to be with my daughter; we laugh and enjoy each other's company so much. What will it be like without her in several years? I shudder to think of that. She's now a sulky teen, yes, but she has always been my light of side joy.

Cody had issues in the children's church and came out with high anxiety about not having friends and looking eight for his age. It's a common perseveration. I worry inwardly for him almost constantly.

And, so the day, the birthday, ends. Tomorrow, I must begin with God holding me still and brushing my hair and hushing these family and self and right-living concerns and letting me know that if there are 41 more years to come, He will be with me. G'd night all.

It seems to be in vogue within the modern Christianity discussion circle to choose a role within biblical stories. It may be an old practice (divino lecturio? -- okay, go ahead and laugh at my elementary Latin!) which helps us imagistically enter into the setting of the day when Christ, for instance, walks the earth. I've tried it and found it to be an excellent way to actively read the Scriptures.
A story which keeps coming up in my reading and attention is the one about Jesus' ministry and the crowds who attended to hear, listen, possibly believe, refute. It's interesting that with this story many of us moderns attest to being more like the Pharisee than the crowd that flocks. I keep reading that claim over and over again in various books. Perhaps it makes us feel more relevant, empathetic, true to our skepticism which we claim with pride. I can claim some of these feelings for sure.
However, as I read again about Jesus' ministry in Mark this morning, I think, "Why couldn't I've been part of the flock that was willing, fed, taught, ministered to?" I know that this is probably basic for some of you, and you'd think that I would have this concept tucked deep into my faith at this point in time. But, if I have, it quickly becomes dispersed from my heart into a head reaction in which I objectively put off the thought of me being led like a sheep into total hope and belief like some of these old time foks were. It seems scary and presumptious almost to claim, "Yes, Jesus would have spoken to even me, and I would have followed instead of opposed."
But, it's okay to agree to this image, because of the other side of identification. I can identify with those who need a healing touch, who have been desperately put out of sorts, who have sought for something more meaningful in their lives. Yes, a flesh and blood now representation would be amazing and curious, but, having seen, having heard, why wouldn't I have said, "Yes, I will eat your bread!" as I do attempt to now.
Hmmm.... to imagistically enter into the flock time and time again perhaps will make me less resistant even now as I subconsciously strive to be pharisaaical and separate.
Thanks, Lord, for standing before us.

The Orville within

My head is full of 18th century English manners and customs as I'm reading "Evelina" by Fanney Burney again. I love this book. Although Lord Orville is the phantom of masculine godheadedness, he beckons to all of us female folk, calling us to be his dance partner for the evening, rescuing us from ill-mannered barbarity, choosing us for our pure rustic beauty despite our station in life. I think I've had a detrimental phantom Lord Orville in my head for most of my existence (which I had to kill eventually to exchange for reality:), but, how wonderful those illusory thoughts were to a romantic young farmgirl skipping around the manure piles in the barn lot saying/feeling/imagining, "Oh Lord Orville! you do exist and how wonderful to see you again at this magnificent hall, although I'm too painfully shy and stunningly beautiful to respond to your eloquent high-brededness. Yes, you may grasp my hand in order to kiss it! etc etc"

Oh boy. I'm glad those days are over. I can see Lord Orville for what he's worth: a model of behavior that suits a silly ideal of aristocracy (fanciful and intriguing, though, for certain!). Surely I knew this when I was young? I did always like the fairy tale as opposed to the horror story, though. It seemed more acceptable to believe, yet the extraction from it is well ... another blog posting! :)

On less romantic topics: I went to a downtown festival tonight and had my heart broken. A young man who once came into my university office for a job was wandering around completely stoned, disheveled, alone, in bad shape. I last saw him working at Wal-Mart; he had been married with a kid, I think, during that time. Whatever he once possessed, it appeared to be lost. God, please be with him and help him find a good way out.

That's life in my lane.

“Who cares?!!!” read the blank wall clock with the numbers in a heap pile at the bottom by where the six should be.

Below, the men and I sit at the counter, perched on auto company endorsed bar stools, not caring about the time either. In some amount of time, we’ll be playing our instruments in the back garage for a while. But, at an indefinite moment, we are enjoying the bantering and life/wife assessments going on.

“Yep, did ya notice that it’s the city-wide yard sale out there?”

“No wonder my wife wanted to come to town. She loves finding a bargain and saying, ‘See these beautiful lime shoes I got for just .25?’” My dad makes his wife-voice high and nasal sounding to make his buddies laugh.

“My wife hit ‘em early this morning too. No tellin’ what’s waitin’ for me at home!” said a man who lost his hand in a tractor baler.

“My wife never has gone to one; she’s more the type to pay $50 for a pair of shoes and sell ‘em for .50!” says K. who is the quintessential time care-less store clerk. He’s always smiling and fills our coffee cups whenever enough gaps in the moments transpire.

I then say something, and they relate it to me living in the city (really a medium sized university town). One old man who's here to listen to the music, whenever it decides to begin, relates that comment to his life: “I remember between 1978-1984 we bought a house in Cabool [a small town of about 1,200]. I almost went insane. Nothing but sidewalks and concrete!” Thus, the conversation went to the joys of country living for a while and the perils of the city, or, er, town.

When some time passes, Dad and I walk back to the rear garage where J. sits waiting for us. Although his garage is shut on Saturdays (primarily because he doesn’t want his playing to be interrupted; I’ve seen him ignore customers before when he was deep in a tune), J explains that he doesn’t sit much in the front of the store because “once the air condition blows on you, you always want it to blow on you. I’ve even got a good one in that truck of mine that I’ve never turned on.”

So, we sit back in the hot garage (does have a good wind crosscurrent, J defends) and open our cases. G., the tall guitarist, comes in with a tank top on and banters immediately. We’ve heard he’s been up all night with a lady. No matter, it’s time to play, which we do.

Old men appear at different times to be our audience. Dad and I sing, play, pick, grin for probably three hours. K. fills our coffee cups. J says that he likes each song we play. G’s lady friend surprises him with a visit, and he appears embarrassed. We’d tease him, but maybe he’d sulk and get mad. It’s just funny enough that she showed. I’m in blissful TVLand, or Mitford, or Pleasantville.

It begins again to seep into me there: a desire to stay. We could form a real group. I could take care of my parents as they age. I could become my frugal mother who loves simple lovely things. I could vegetable garden and can. I could live on a farm away from sidewalks. I could learn how to fiddle since we don’t have one. I could have batches of kittens. My husband could be happy giving up the corporate life and trading it in for overalls. Or, okay, a franchise of some sort. My son could be better in a smaller school. My girl could meet some good country boy.

Ah, how long will it last now that I’m home? I’ll play with the vision for a while and then let it go where it’s supposed to. Who cares about the timing of it anyway? What will be, will be. For now, I think I'll practice some bluegrass.