I can attest that God at times uses unorthodox (a subjective word in itself) means to draw me closer to Him. Just this morning, I am feeling snug within my faith, within my perceived (and actual) relationship to a living, transcended Godhead as described in the Judaic and Christian testaments. I’ve been listening to an audiobook by Karen Armstrong called “A Short History of Myth” which timelines the stories and methods people, since the beginning, have used to stretch their arms upwards in a longing for spiritual meaning. She instructs me on how the Judaic story fits into this historical picture. She instructs me that the word “myth” is used to represent a transformative, transcendent belief system that people within certain circumstances use therapeutically or socially to improve their understanding of life.

She tells me about the age of enlightenment period in which empirical rationalism becomes a lasting force and, at times, disavows the subjective stuff of the heart and emotions. How science also attaches itself to weapons of destruction in today’s world. How adulation of icons from Hollywood do not speak to the epic need for spiritual tending which our history tells us is necessary.

I’ve always been interested in how all of this pieces together. How Baal in Old Testament came to be worshiped and how the Israelites worked (and fought) within this mythological framework. Yes, from this listening, it became important for me to accommodate and sift and draw from it the reason for why I believe and hold on to those subjective (and objective) truths of faith in Jesus Christ as a resurrected reality. Although I can’t speak for the other people who were born in other parts of the world, I know that I’m grateful to have this heritage, even though I probe and pick at it for understanding on how it developed in such a pluralistic world of beliefs. I know that the relationship aspect of it is true which makes it living and viable.

The religious consciousness has always fascinated me, and I hope to learn lots more about how and in what way humanity responds to this need.

We just had a family meeting; my husband, o conciliatory one, talked while I kept quiet because I've had a disquietude about my daughter all day, worried that she'll be bad attitudinal forever, worried that she won't ever clean her room, worried that she'll spend the entire planet's money in one hour, worried that I will never ever again see her natural hair color again, worried that I'll blow up after all that fretting. The meeting went well; our ten year old son piped up that we need to start again to have those elusive weekly family fun nights, and now he's excited, planning, eagerly anticipating mom, dad, son, sister. Just tonight too our neighbor girl middle school friend came over, and she wanted my opinion on starting a cul-de-sac newsletter, of going caroling with one another, of finding out about each other's basketball and soccer games.
I guess, post Thanksgiving, that community is in the air, and I should just submit and quit hiding out listening to my ipod audiobook (another post):). Life happens all around. Kids really do rule the world. Submit.

It was like walking in a black and white photograph today on my mother-in-law’s crop farm. The dark river soil announced its somber treasury, like a king on a costly battlefield, under a gray sky, below stark branch outline. Dark birds flew away looking for color in another faraway place. We walked around hunched, cold, picking up brown pecans with black flecked shells. The black and white farm cat (Cahokia) and the black and tan dogs walked around on the dead gray grass, looking up at us for attention. I half expected to see MacBeth go galloping by on a black horse directed towards an evil deed (I only say this for my friend’s Shakespearean benefit:).

I was surrounded by my family, though (hunched though we were – hunched not unhappily I might add), and they kept me adrift from sinking into any type of gloom. One kept teasing me about my burnt pie (may I proclaim that it has been a bad pie year for me!). My mother-in-law giggled something fierce about everything which kept me silly and lighthearted. The men were throwing balls around, hitting people whenever possible. My husband kept grabbing me for a kiss. The children were herding Cahokia’s kitten as if life held nothing more than small paws and purrs.

Yes, Spring emblazons all, but late fall around Thanksgiving forces you to take stock of what you have and don’t have around you. I felt full for what I do have: family members who regularly appear out of the haze to help alleviate the loneliness (and the beauty) of the starkness.

Thank you, thank you, gracious, gracious Giver.

“I have measured out my life with coffee spoons,” says the memorable Prufrock whose voice resides in my consciousness and squeaks out at various moments when I am most parceled out and undecided and flotatious. Crazy how fine literature becomes embedded.
Or, perhaps I’m just tired and fear that my forthcoming bed is the most solid position available to me at the moment.
My spiritual life is where? Could it be defined as mature without need of corresponding emotion? Could it be defined as cold and waning? Could it be seen as core comfort? Like many relationships, I’ve always felt the definition of it to be a bit changeable. At one moment, it could be described as thick, uncrackable, ice-skatable. The next, a splintering sound denies any projection of weight, of claim.
“In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.”
I’ve entertained the same activity for several months now. Talking of something for the pleasure of the talk, the mouth, eyes, hair, friend behind the words. Bargaining with boredom for bits of diversion. Allowing the hour to hurry past within which I wander.
Like talking over coffee about Jesus and eyewitness differences.
How faith is not science.
How the afterlife is imaginative.
My preferred company of late is skeptical, material, satisfactorily diverting me to teaspoon talking on such subjects, Gentile to Jew who will refuse to ever believe in subjective signs of a spiritual nature. I’m paddling with our relational current, thinking I know my banks, solid ground, oak. One day, I could possibly be far out, though, left alone, and I will wonder how to get back home to solidity. And will it be worth it to linger in the chambers of the sea as Prufrock ultimately asks? To drown?

The swirl of the stirring by the teaspoon in the porcelain cup may break it. This I know which calls to consciousness his voice once more which says,
“And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.”
T.S. Eliot => quite the genius to spread it all out like that, like a patient needing to be examined.

While my son was entertaining one of our middle school neighbors, I sat in my room practicing my guitar and singing some songs from the big three ring binder which holds ALL songs which must be preserved. One year, I found an internet site that had lots and lots of bluegrass lyrics, and since my Dad was a master of “na, na, na, na”, I decided to make compiling a project. I printed off the site’s song title list, and he checked off the tunes that he “remembered” knowing at some point or time.I copied and enlarged and enumerated and alphabetized all of these into a songbook, which I had copied into about 15 sets. Now when I go to his house, we pull out the binder and work our way through from A (A Beautiful Life) to U (The Unclouded Day) which wipes me out completely but not him. :)

Since then, I’ve put in some other folk, alternative, rock classics which I use to practice chords (like “American Pie” for one) which aren’t too bluegrassy (E7m, Dm, A7, etc).
Anyway, because I started taking guitar lessons this week to learn how to read guitar music (I play by ear), I decided to practice up.

Soon I heard the middle school girl neighbor in the hallway listening, and she said, “Wow, that sounds really good.” We love this girl who is always welcomed in our home (she’s down in the basement now playing video games – Been here for about three hours!), and I would adopt her if I could. She’s great fun and is about the only person who is able to play with Cody for any prolonged amount of time. She’s the daughter of one of the two black families on our cul-de-sac (I’m glad our cul-de-sac is at least diverse – we have an Asian family two doors down as well.)

Anyway, I invited her to come in and sing with me, and we leafed through my songbook looking for a song that she knew. Hardly anyone under the age of 40 knows traditional bluegrass, so I flipped through these songs very quickly! Then slowly I flipped through the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkle, Lucinda Williams, Hank Williams, Pure Prairie League, John Lennon, Chuck Berry …. She thought she had heard of the Beatles, but she didn’t know for sure. Finally, we came to one we both knew, one we thought we could perform at a cul-de-sac celebration. Happily we sat on the bed together singing the only song we had in common: I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.

Oooooh we were awesome together! We’re going to start a band together now and everything. :)

I know that one should have an opinion on something when one writes a blog. My friend over at In a Strange Land (see side bar) is so excellent at opinions. I could see her with a radio talk show or something, leading her kind of tribe. Opinions have never been one of my fortes. I mean I possess a few, but they are typically subtle and feeling-full. Until they spill over in the form of an affective-style observation or critique or a connection that I have the means to articulate in some form or stutter. Perhaps it’s the musician or poet in me (I compliment my own self! Or insult!), it just comes along differently than my friend – and we’ve talked about how this relates to our individual Myers-Briggs scores (I’m an ENFP).

Anyhow, this has been a crazily social week. My panting extrovert side has conquered any meditative muse within. The Nickel Creek concert was excellent; however, being with thirteen of my friends made me happier. The Creek’s music was disappointingly soft also – I’m used to being encircled by the sound of these instruments – kitchen surround sound, I call it, when the Ozarkian bluegrassers besiege the dining set and use the chairs (for sittin’) and linoleum floor (for tappin’). The contained sounds always swirled so robustly in this musical wind tunnel that filtered out onto the dark yard where the kids played tag, or the living room where the women chatted. So, with Nickel Creek, I didn’t experience that immersion of sound as such that reminds me of bluegrass (although they’re more bluegrass pop). Although when Lucinda Williams played at this club, she immersed me in style, stories, songs. However, I was standing far back at the Nickel Creek concert, with lots of heads, shoulders, swaying bodies instead to see. They are an excellent band, though; we said hello to Sarah afterwards as she made her way to her bus.

Tonight, my book club meets at a friend’s house who has a reputation for making a meal that assaults any lack of appetite and forces one to surrender to a form of hedonistic saturation. I’ll be a willing captive. Mmmmm….. We’ll be discussing “The Secret Life of Bees”, a lovely life, healing affirming story (I can just hear definitive theological opinions, though, being given, about it; thankfully, this isn’t a one believer type group, so we should have a variety of opinions which is something we pride ourselves on.) These meetings have meant much to me over the last six years … and it’s tonight, yeah! I have a couple of apple pies to whip up in a couple of hours still.

If you don’t have a circle of women friends, or a book club, it’s my opinion that you should start one. It’s easy (that's relative, I realize); you pick a few people with whom you want to stay in touch with; they can pick a few people, and so it grows. We women desire such connection, and it’s marvelous when it becomes a haven from the world.

Only four more hours to go until I will be at the table, plunging with the fork and the tongue (or the forked tongue for the night if that's the protocol:) into the feast. Must go peel my apples and do my part!

My son has been practicing his husbandry skills lately. He boiled hot dogs, he set the table, he stirred up some Strawberry Kookaid, he washed himself with water and soap, and he paid the pizza man one night. (Oh, this last sentence is quite telling about our eating habits around here….)

Perhaps this coincides with the square dancing at school which has been making him into victorian gentleman. He’s noticed a change in himself as well because when he returned from P.E. (and square dancing) last week, he said, “Well, at least I haven’t pushed my girl partner down like I did in first grade.”

Some fine woman will be mighty fortunate to wed my well-mannered man some day. :)

Today’s a busy day. I’m running with a friend this morning, Cody has drum lessons at noon, and then we have our coop school in the afternoon. I have two more weeks of teaching creative writing to these awesome kids. We like to have fun. We like to play as we write. I love them! Next semester, I’ll be assisting a friend in her class.

Tomorrow, I coordinated a concert outing to see Nickel Creek. After purchasing their album, I discovered they’re coming to town tomorrow. Ten of my book club friends are going with me. How exciting!

There is a love like a small lamp, which goes out when the oil is consumed; or like a stream, which dries up when it doesn’t rain. But there is a love that is like a mighty spring gushing up out of the earth; it keeps flowing forever, and is inexhaustible.
Isaac of Nineveh (6th century)

It’s amazing – Friday, and the entire weekend, I’ve been ruminating on “What was I thinking?” when I came to the conclusion to homeschool my hyper, special needs kid. These past three days, I’ve just wanted a solitary tunnel (preferably in France) (did you hear about subterranean explorers in Carthage, MO?) to hide out in without sound. Ah……. However, today, the rebound happened, and we’ve been happily working well together, learning about light, transparency, opaqueness, translucence. Then, we found Geographica, the complete illustrated atlas of the world, and flipped through, looking at life expectancy – the lowest at 33 in a country in Africa – and I showed him Syria and we talked about the happenings there, which always leads into talks of government types. Cool. We have several hours yet to go, after our break, and my switch has, fortuitously, been flipped on again, which always seems to happen, in the nick of time.
It’s all good, and, strangely, so enjoyable once more. Imagine!

Nickel Creek’s last album “Why Should the Fire Die?” fits the ending of this day as it conveys a wide emotional range (with the mandolin going at it in blows or trilling pleasurably). I already dove into some old vinyls that I received when a friend cleaned out her basement. Music is the best thing to help this day go down. So, now it’s Nickel Creek on my nano; earlier it was the Doobie Brothers, the Bel Airs, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Jackson Browne, Sea Train, Don McLean, the Beach Boys. Old record covers are fun to look at – such an attempt at philosophical portrayal or a non-attempt at philosophical portrayal!

My day was a disaster, beginning with the upper molar and sitting in the dentist office with Cody for an hour and a half, awaiting the magical attachment touch (thrust) upon the tooth (raw gum), which the dentist did hurriedly before running out for a golf game. I forgive him; I’m the moron who ate Airheads once more for an emergency visit. Or, the airhead who ate the Airhead …

We missed Cody's music and p.e. class. I missed my coffee hour. The homeschoolers, whom we need to know better, had a special rocket presentation which we missed. I ended up cleaning all day and wished to kick a puppy (thanks, Cindy, at Quotidian Light, for that unforgettable idea). Cody wasn’t home schooled. My tooth throbbed. My teenager wanted money. My husband was late. I missed a birthday dinner with friends.

Yet, I stayed home with him after a three or four day absence (he’s bonding with the boy right now). And, in my gloominess, I found reprieve in family and music.

Always a ray to be found in this sweet ole world (Lucinda)…….

This is the second year in a row …….

that I’ve pulled out a crown with Halloween candy. The dentist, who laughed at me last year, will have to be called tomorrow.

Rove. Libby. Cheney. Nonexistent promised retirement funds.

Claims of weapons of mass destruction. Ralph Reed, former Christian Coalition director. 2000 dead now.

American politics can interfere with a sunny gorgeous day. I should be focusing on recipe books or walking on a leaf-tattered trail, but I became a bit down when reading about the above list of disturbing news flashes. I feel like it’s my obligation to know current events as a Christian and my privilege as an American. And, I long to know the truth of situations, not just ideas in my head of how it should be. Nor, do I think “the truth” of these situations is simply relativistic – it’s just not the New York Times’ truth, which I get every morning; it’s not just Time magazines rendition of how many corporations have renigged on their retirement guarantees, with the help of Congress law rewrites – but journalistic stories can have merits on their own and need to be brought, with proof, to the surface.

Yes, we can claim political stance from every news medium; however, I do not want that excuse in my life to clog the actual event that happens or all reported things run the risk of being brushed off due to a preconceived political stance, an abstraction, or a selfish reason. Sigh. I believe in the American press’ participation in the democracy of our country. Yes, one must be critically minded, but one shouldn’t be dismissive of the issue, because it could be, and most likely, is based on reality.

Therefore, it would be nice to just go along the tattered-leaf trail, I think. However, some things signal you out of tranquility. The Rove, Libby, Cheney matter did to me today as I gained a clearer understanding of it. 2000. God help our country.

I brought all of my emotional, reactive concerns regarding my church’s new building program and emphasis to a level-headed, discerning friend. She’s been involved with church plants, and
Traditional churches,
And people who want to squander the gospel for themselves when others don’t
“get it” the way that it should be gotten. A comfortable pre-defined way. A way
modeled in the antiquities, only.
And, I squeaked and rationalized deeply and grabbed onto
A current that ran swiftly and surely in a certain direction.
“But, what about this?” I asked emitting thoughts.

And, instead of having an attitude that church should be this and only
This, my older female friend said,
“Look at what has happened. People who have always been on the outside of
church have entered into the doors,
and I’ve seen unbelievable transformations
because they’ve accepted Christ as their Savior.”

It silenced me, because I entered the doors, needing assurance that
A plank was not hoisted to whop me one. Needing assurance
That the Religious Right, led by self-righteous deceivers,
Like Falwell, Baker, Swaggart – the Religious Right caricatured
In Time magazine as the violent zealots of society – weren’t
Waiting to seize me, shake me, and demand Holy Ghost infiltration.

I entered scared to death of churches and smug people. When I heard
Music I knew and reference to film and language that invited
Me to think about issues, I was okay with moving forward.

Which led me to finding God in small groups, within the arms and hearts of
Wonderful loving women. There have been so many who have carried me through, even if
They weren’t aware of it.

My friend Jackie reminded me of the mission, that it is what it is: seeker friendly, inclusive, okay with stages of development.

Relevant to lives.

I can sometimes be restless, and I definitely will still be a natural non-conformist and an independent thinker, and, I perhaps might seek a different type of church for myself in the future, but the reminder made me appreciate my church’s role in my life. I think they should carry on with their good work.

Ah, the merriest songs still fill the air, in their crinkly, raspy, needle to vinyl sort of way.

When we were young, my dad went somewhere for work, and when he returned, he gave us one of the only non-holiday gifts that I can remember: a Walt Disney’s Merriest Songs record. And thereafter, we three children would listen and listen and listen to happy songs (except for Chim Chim Cheree – kind-of eerie and gloomy, like the London it describes), and we would also act them out.

Yesterday, the acting part came back to me without reserve. When the song “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” played, I automatically tip-toed hopped to the words “They’re bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, bouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun!” Cody stomp-bounced beside me, because he was unaware of the possibility of the needle skidding scratchily across the precious record. The toes have memory!

Of course, I had to initiate him also into dramatizing “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf” which has the gymnast voices of the pigs squeaking, “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!”

And, then, I later played one of the other best albums from childhood: Johnny Horton’s Greatest Hits. “North to Alaska”, “When It’s Springtime in Alaska”, “The Battle of New Orleans”, and “Sink the Bismarck” => we acted out those excellent ballads too. Who sings them like Johnny Horton these day? What happened to telling the musical story?

Oh but life was so good when a record was spinning in our small house!

And, so after hauling the old record player back from my parents, I am able to slip back into time, with my kids, or alone (yes, acting out Horton's “I’m Ready, if You’re Willing”, especially fun – ha, ha, joking ..).

Even though my toes remember, I had almost forgotten how wonderful the music used to be presented.

Jeremy said, “I’m listening to the ‘Drive By Truck Drivers’ right now.”
And, he demonstrated a Led Zeppelin pose that they strike in deference.
And, he got all animated about seeing them in the local bar scene.
And, he forgot about the coffee urns on the counter where the parishioners were busy pouring. And, then he mentioned Kate Rusby, an English singer, “Oh, she’s beautiful. When I bought her at Streetside Records, they looked at me like ‘what’? [With his self-consciousness, I wonder if he ever reads his Bible in public, but then again, as a computer techie to the max, he’s got a Blackberry, an Ipod, and probably avoids the big leather volume lookJ]”
So I walked away from him smiling. He’s like this hidden resource that hardly anyone knows about but me; he’s like Lucas in “Threshold”, a bit nerdy, but he’s dynamite with his specific knowledge base: music, specifically, alternative country, folksy, bands no one else would give homage to. When he found out five years ago that I did, we had that cool connection gaze, that one where you nod your head at each other in appreciation that you’re similar.
And, every Saturday night, he’s coffee servant at our church and monitors the pour levels in each cup which means I can find him when I need him. Like tonight. I do love people in my church.
So now (with my marshmallows and chocolate bar nearby), I’m listening to music (indie, alternative country, alternative rock, perhaps christian), and trying to figure out what’s going on (I’m admittedly way behind like lots of people my age), and what I can download and enjoy.
Like Jeremy, I’m feeling animated about this right now. Send favorite artists if you agree that I need to become more enlightened!

Although difficult to admit, I anxiously pulled my Quest (for skeptics) Bible out of my red canvas bag today during my usual coffee shop hour. I even found it necessary to challenge myself to bring it to the public place where there were eyes evaluating whether I was a cool reader or a thumper reader. But, I knew that I needed to continue my morning reading which I hadn’t made time for a couple of days. I knew that to miss it would be to invite further distraction. So, I read my allotted chapter in Corinthians, and, although not much soaked in admittedly, there we were: the Intent and me at the table, communing, barring regard from anyone, sipping hot relaxants. Fortunately, no police struck me from behind to drag me into prison (as in China and other oppressed countries) for choosing such an inciting book. Paul was allowed. And, we hung out tentatively together. All was good; awkwardness is allowed for the sake of its attempt. Grace is granting. Its taken me forever to learn this.
Then, I spent the rest of the time writing an outline regarding ethics and their origin. I need a mental project for this winter as the gloom told me yesterday. Altogether, it was a delightful hour, even though the sky compresses again with her color scheme this morning. There will be lots more delightful hours in the mornings/seasons to come, I’m sure of it.

So gray out today. Thankfully, there are bright trees to signal you out of a stupor. There are moments of huge son smiles after doing well in many social situations of the day. Yet, I don’t mean to be bleak, but the grayness of the winter approaches; it has a way of closing over which I’m beginning to sense and dread.
Tonight at a church event, a planned celebratory one, I felt quite isolated, lost in the fog somewhere. Fortunately, there were people who knew and greeted me, sat beside me on a city bus tour (to reflect on our community mission), and with whom I could sit by afterwards at a service. If it weren’t for them, invisibility would be most palpable. I felt a few hands which were warm and real.
The grayness of the day has permeated, for certain. I hope that the yellow flashing leaves hold out for at least a little while longer. I hope that people still continue to see my outline in the dusk.

Off to sleep to restore ………

Since we have these promises, dear friends, let us purify ourselves from everything that contaminates body and spirit, perfecting holiness out of reverence for God.
2 Corinthians 7:1

Conviction creaks. Conviction speaks. When I read this verse this morning, I knew exactly what it is that contaminates my body and spirit. Something I long for, something that concretely grips, snags, calls my name, and causes me to walk on the edge without focusing on the fuller life Christ offers. We all have something.

Being aware of the crutch means learning to contentedly keep myself company. And, learning to keep even closer pace with God, who can help me pass doors from which wonderful scents pour forth, inviting me in, for just a little while which can stretch into a much longer, drier, laborious road than God intended.

It will be difficult. The verse is posted where it needs to be. Father, help me become unencumbered so that you flower within my spirit and carry me into areas which provide clean water.

We're both laughing at the passing mule, it seems. Bo and I. Here's the famous Bo who jumps bales with abandonment for the sake of the jumping itself. He's a white lab who showed up as a puppy at my parent's farm about four years ago. Recently, a grumpy neighbor man asked, "Where'd you find that dog; I got one just like him."
No one spoke. Bo has become beloved. As you can see just by looking at him, he owns us.

I just finished running with the full moon and the “ghastly-ha” blown up pumpkins and Scooby Dooby Dos in the yards. At first, I was afraid to go out, by myself in the dark, an old fear of wayward others, but then I haven’t been running for three days, and when you start and continue, your body becomes desperate after awhile for motion.
So I ran at a fast clip, panting, fleeing from the shadows; however, it was quite beautiful out there. The moon, friendly; the smells of meals, sickening (while running), but domestic in a comforting way. Although I long for acreage, space, the old farm, I wonder if I’ll miss the ability to share the squares (of lots) (of homes that fit into said spots) of town life. The sidewalk shares itself in quite the neighborly fashion to me, allowing me to safely meander from my home, promising me a known return.
Regardless, I was glad to be under the full moon’s soft glow, breathing in rhythm, feeling my feet move, move, move deeper into a nocturnal type of song.