Humbly, I'd never heard of it before. Note that I did not capitalize it. I know about kataphatic practice. I understand the concept of negation--or at least I understand it in the way a book keeper differs in understanding the books from the way an accountant will. I understand its application. This morning I visited Maggie Ross' site again and she sent me on a tangent of research at the beginners level to try to understand. She is quite the intellectual. I began with Wikipedia!
She may help me make that leap I've never quite managed to make into a more intellectual pursuit of the mysteries that intrigue me. I had resented the introduction of psychology into explaining mysticism. Not that I resent science, but I resent tangling science and religion in such a way that the science seems to subtract from the experience of faith. Evelyn Underhill, in her famous work, Mysticism, was the first to assault my prejudices. Perhaps I am more receptive now to the idea. At least I don't mind using psychology to attempt to explain the phenomenon, but I have accosted those who tangle psychological terms and religious terms in such a way that the confusing muck that remains once they are done is sufficient to bog down any communication. I hate the misuse of the word ego as a substitute for soul. I think it is an injustice to both the science and the practice of faith.
I guess I am taking this two ways this morning. My first consideration is how to communicate concepts such as kataphatic theology. Maggie dislikes the use of the word spiritual. I recoiled because, quite honestly, I am such an ignoramus! I'd be ashamed to say to her, "I use the term, but simply because I haven't found a better term to express it."
Communication in my mind means to communicate to anybody--not just the limited few, but across boundaries, from catholic to protestant or Christian to Buddhist and maybe even educated to uneducated, although I fall into the uneducated in religion category. What good does it do to speak past each other or to mull over a theology that is so advanced in the way we have rendered it through our vocabulary that it can't touch the ground from the lofty heights of its ivory tower? If it is not going to help the masses, then it isn't worth the effort to think about it. Until we have overcome the language barrier and learn to speak to each other in a shared vocabulary we tend to speak past each other. How does a liberal speak to a conservative, or a Catholic to a Baptist? In the end she mentions using the word faith, since she likes it. I thought of all the baggage that I have found dragging along with the word faith. I have asked people to define the word faith and I get all sorts of responses. So, if I use the word faith, or spiritual for that matter, the baggage the person carries is going to define how they receive the message and it will tint their understanding. One reality, many religions!
It may occur to somebody that the current tendency to anti-intellectualism especially on the far right side of Christendom might just be a response to this phenomenon! If it can't be rendered into the common tongue, perhaps it isn't worth saying at all!
Going back to the original subject of theology, a word M.R. also claims to not like but must find necessary as she mentioned kataphatic theology. Another term that could apply is via negativa.
I like the idea of thinking in terms of what God is not. It battles the stereotypes of God that I am always battling. Let God define God. Negating is sort of like imagining infinity, a mind numbing leap into something that can't quite be quantified, qualified, so huge it can't be limiting, insistantly expanding, each barrier in turn vaporizing and vanishing; the vision begins to sweep a wide arc from peripheral to peripheral, a whole spectrum, like radar, alert to the blackness, the stillness and the void, with no expectations, dry of emotion, empty and unfilled. Open, waiting and not waiting, not even aware that the hope that a bright spot of light, a blip on the radar screen, can fill my understanding and leave without having defined itself.
Wikipedia has all those little blue lines! Each one is clickable. It is like looking up a word in the dictionary and finding five more that need to be looked up before the original word can be understood. I ended up downloading the complete works of Dionysius the Areopagite. I might as well begin at the beginning. At this rate, it will take 2,000 years for me to finally get a foothold on postmodern soil. So, now all I need to do is wrangle the theology into the practice so I can understand . . .
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Sometimes I'm still the same old 12 year old kid:
I thought I'd just journal today. I don't do that often enough these days, do I?
The weather was windy, warm and gray all day. Ike has been gone all weekend to Kentucky for the Southwind banquet. So things have been ultra quiet . . . almost.
Yesterday my husband and I managed to work on the house a little bit. We never do too much. It is simply overwhelming. Then his friend called him to ask for help choosing trees from his own property to put around his new house. My husband asked me if I'd care to go with him. Well--it was simply wonderful! The man's land has been a game/elk preserve since the 1930s and is uncultivated with the exception of some crops planted especially for the game. Pure tall grass prairie and the tall grass this year is as high as I am tall and I'm close to six feet. A beautiful creek cuts through the land, steep sided with plenty of water. We must have walked a mile north and then a mile back--at least--with some side trips to check out potential trees here and there. At one point we crossed a low water bridge and looked out at what looked to be a glassy pond, with a huge sycamore, all bright yellows and browns, overhanging the still water. And all the trees and the sky reflecting back off the mirrored surface of the water. The whole place is a piece of history--as it was established by one of our great oil barons. Maybe when we go back I'll have my camera and I can take some pictures. I hope I get the chance before leaf fall.
Then this morning the bell choir played a beautiful piece called Prayer. It haunted me all day.
I'm so embarrassed! I'm shy. Most people don't realize it, but I am. The bells play right at the start of the service. I was alone today--no family. There was nobody waiting for me in a pew or holding a spot for me. Before we began to play, I'd pegged out two potential seats that I could scurry into as soon as the service began. W-e-l-l . . . by the time the bells finished playing, neither seat was open. I walked down the side isle and back. I hate wandering around during the service. You know how people act when they know you're there, they know you are looking for a seat, they have plenty of space--but they don't want to scoot over and invite you in? You know that stubborn way they twist their heads away so they don't have to looooook at you? Yeah, well, I might do the same thing in their shoes since I choose an end seat on purpose . . . So, I gave up. The procession had a healthy start, but the tail end hadn't started down the center isle yet. That meant that Father was still in back of the pews near the narthex. I slipped around the corner and into the narthex, hoping my exit wasn't being witnessed, opened the outside door and, as I stepped out and was just preparing to pull the door gently to, a GUST of wind TORE it out of my hands and it slammed with a deep and resonant THUD! I'll bet it shook the rafters! I'm sure that people in the first row could hear it.
And so, I cowered on out to the parkinglot where I met up with a friend, also skipping, who was telling me that she was going home to take care of her sick daughter. I was pressing against the side of my car, she was so close. I kept my mouth shut. It's embarrassing. Really it is! Thank goodness she didn't get any closer, I might have confessed! "I'm skipping church because I couldn't find a seat!"
The bells returned for Evensong at 5:00. We did this really cool and simple thing called, "Church Bells in the City Square" (I think). While we were gathering, Father managed to come and stop dead center in my direct line of vision so I could not avoid looking at him. If it was an effort to make me feel guilty--he succeeded. And indeed, he did rather have that look about him.
The piece went pretty well. One large bell starts it, one set of (8)high bells plays the scale from top down repeatedly; then the random ringers (myself included) chime in from a different quarter of the church; then two players begin playing Westminster Bells in another quarter of the church; each is quieted, until finally, in the silence at the very end one HUGE E bell bongs five bells to call people to evening worship.
Well, Ike was gone and so I volunteered to play his HUGE E. Practice had gone swimmingly even though it is definitely a tough bell to ring--very heavy, a two handed job! This evening, the first two bongs sounded great--but the third didn't happen! The clapper didn't fall, the move was a dud. I was standing smack dab in front of the congregation and everybody saw me glance fearfully up at the quiet bell, gather my strength for another attempt and finish all five.
The Tulsa Boys Choir were our guests tonight. They put on a wonderful service--I love Anglican chant! But as I sat listening to them, my mind tried to work on the bell scenario that had just failed--Ike's perfect bonging gone so bad in my weak hands . . . and I tried to figure out if an actual church bell could miss a ring. I imagined the large rope and the ringer grasping it, pulling it down, BONG, then riding the rope up, legs dangling, touching the ground and pulling the rope, riding it up and then--horror of horrors!--the hands slipping, the ringer falling, scrambling to get back up, chasing the wild rope as the bell swings silently overhead . . . and I laughed almost silently at the thought.
The service wrapped up. The boys filed silently out of the Church. I looked them over, smiling at them as if to say I appreciated their music. And then before I'd corralled my eyes, Father, taking up the rear as usual caught me. I looked away--but sneaked a look back and he was still looking directly at me. He had that knowing smile . . .
The weather was windy, warm and gray all day. Ike has been gone all weekend to Kentucky for the Southwind banquet. So things have been ultra quiet . . . almost.
Yesterday my husband and I managed to work on the house a little bit. We never do too much. It is simply overwhelming. Then his friend called him to ask for help choosing trees from his own property to put around his new house. My husband asked me if I'd care to go with him. Well--it was simply wonderful! The man's land has been a game/elk preserve since the 1930s and is uncultivated with the exception of some crops planted especially for the game. Pure tall grass prairie and the tall grass this year is as high as I am tall and I'm close to six feet. A beautiful creek cuts through the land, steep sided with plenty of water. We must have walked a mile north and then a mile back--at least--with some side trips to check out potential trees here and there. At one point we crossed a low water bridge and looked out at what looked to be a glassy pond, with a huge sycamore, all bright yellows and browns, overhanging the still water. And all the trees and the sky reflecting back off the mirrored surface of the water. The whole place is a piece of history--as it was established by one of our great oil barons. Maybe when we go back I'll have my camera and I can take some pictures. I hope I get the chance before leaf fall.
Then this morning the bell choir played a beautiful piece called Prayer. It haunted me all day.
I'm so embarrassed! I'm shy. Most people don't realize it, but I am. The bells play right at the start of the service. I was alone today--no family. There was nobody waiting for me in a pew or holding a spot for me. Before we began to play, I'd pegged out two potential seats that I could scurry into as soon as the service began. W-e-l-l . . . by the time the bells finished playing, neither seat was open. I walked down the side isle and back. I hate wandering around during the service. You know how people act when they know you're there, they know you are looking for a seat, they have plenty of space--but they don't want to scoot over and invite you in? You know that stubborn way they twist their heads away so they don't have to looooook at you? Yeah, well, I might do the same thing in their shoes since I choose an end seat on purpose . . . So, I gave up. The procession had a healthy start, but the tail end hadn't started down the center isle yet. That meant that Father was still in back of the pews near the narthex. I slipped around the corner and into the narthex, hoping my exit wasn't being witnessed, opened the outside door and, as I stepped out and was just preparing to pull the door gently to, a GUST of wind TORE it out of my hands and it slammed with a deep and resonant THUD! I'll bet it shook the rafters! I'm sure that people in the first row could hear it.
And so, I cowered on out to the parkinglot where I met up with a friend, also skipping, who was telling me that she was going home to take care of her sick daughter. I was pressing against the side of my car, she was so close. I kept my mouth shut. It's embarrassing. Really it is! Thank goodness she didn't get any closer, I might have confessed! "I'm skipping church because I couldn't find a seat!"
The bells returned for Evensong at 5:00. We did this really cool and simple thing called, "Church Bells in the City Square" (I think). While we were gathering, Father managed to come and stop dead center in my direct line of vision so I could not avoid looking at him. If it was an effort to make me feel guilty--he succeeded. And indeed, he did rather have that look about him.
The piece went pretty well. One large bell starts it, one set of (8)high bells plays the scale from top down repeatedly; then the random ringers (myself included) chime in from a different quarter of the church; then two players begin playing Westminster Bells in another quarter of the church; each is quieted, until finally, in the silence at the very end one HUGE E bell bongs five bells to call people to evening worship.
Well, Ike was gone and so I volunteered to play his HUGE E. Practice had gone swimmingly even though it is definitely a tough bell to ring--very heavy, a two handed job! This evening, the first two bongs sounded great--but the third didn't happen! The clapper didn't fall, the move was a dud. I was standing smack dab in front of the congregation and everybody saw me glance fearfully up at the quiet bell, gather my strength for another attempt and finish all five.
The Tulsa Boys Choir were our guests tonight. They put on a wonderful service--I love Anglican chant! But as I sat listening to them, my mind tried to work on the bell scenario that had just failed--Ike's perfect bonging gone so bad in my weak hands . . . and I tried to figure out if an actual church bell could miss a ring. I imagined the large rope and the ringer grasping it, pulling it down, BONG, then riding the rope up, legs dangling, touching the ground and pulling the rope, riding it up and then--horror of horrors!--the hands slipping, the ringer falling, scrambling to get back up, chasing the wild rope as the bell swings silently overhead . . . and I laughed almost silently at the thought.
The service wrapped up. The boys filed silently out of the Church. I looked them over, smiling at them as if to say I appreciated their music. And then before I'd corralled my eyes, Father, taking up the rear as usual caught me. I looked away--but sneaked a look back and he was still looking directly at me. He had that knowing smile . . .
Friday, November 09, 2007
Maggie Ross:
A friend pointed me to Maggie Ross' blog: Voice in the Wilderness
It is the most amazing blog! She's a terrific writer. She is a Solitary and her insights into faith are extraordinary. I was visiting her blog last night and her entry mentioned a liturgy that she'd posted in January of 2006. I went back to read the referenced liturgy. Needless to say, I still haven't. I began reading the very top entry on that link. It resonates so well with what I have been feeling as pertains to prayer! There is one paragraph there that I want to frame. I just sat there and read and reread it. Then I read it for Ike, who, being a teenager and short on attention span for all things religious, surprised me by his receptiveness. So here is the link to that entry too. It is so much better to have you read what she writes about prayer than to try to write it and fudge it myself!
Top entry on prayer
I want to go tap all my blogging friends on the shoulder and suggest that if they haven't already explored her blog, they should. I've already written the title of one of her books (yes, she's been published) to begin treasuring even more "Maggie Ross". I'm tempted to print out her whole blog!
It is the most amazing blog! She's a terrific writer. She is a Solitary and her insights into faith are extraordinary. I was visiting her blog last night and her entry mentioned a liturgy that she'd posted in January of 2006. I went back to read the referenced liturgy. Needless to say, I still haven't. I began reading the very top entry on that link. It resonates so well with what I have been feeling as pertains to prayer! There is one paragraph there that I want to frame. I just sat there and read and reread it. Then I read it for Ike, who, being a teenager and short on attention span for all things religious, surprised me by his receptiveness. So here is the link to that entry too. It is so much better to have you read what she writes about prayer than to try to write it and fudge it myself!
Top entry on prayer
I want to go tap all my blogging friends on the shoulder and suggest that if they haven't already explored her blog, they should. I've already written the title of one of her books (yes, she's been published) to begin treasuring even more "Maggie Ross". I'm tempted to print out her whole blog!
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Warning: political fun!
Borrowed link from Lee's blog. Hope he doesn't mind!
My Liberal Identity:
You are a Peace Patroller, also known as an anti-war liberal or neo-hippie. You believe in putting an end to American imperial conquest, stopping wars that have already been lost, and supporting our troops by bringing them home.
Take the quiz at www.FightConservatives.com
Friday, November 02, 2007
Friday Cat Blogging
Not a normal feature! These are photos taken today of the feral cat and her kitten that have taken up residence in my garage. Here they have taken over the chair on the patio.
Uncertainty:
Originally posted on Beliefnet on October 23:
It was a crisp thirty-seven degrees as the sun rose this morning. I stepped outside with my dog for our morning outing. For the first time in seven months, I could see my breath steaming and rising into the early morning light. The dew frosted the tips of grass and made my shoes wet. Sun streaked across my yard and brightly lit the fronts of houses across the road. There is a brightness about the early morning sun that is barely remembered and almost mundane by midday. I have good associations with mornings like this. To be in it is to be vibrantly alive.
I haven't figured out where this is going, but from time to time I think about being present in the moment. I try to be. I try to savor what happens in everyday simple seconds. I'm prone to daydream, to be lost in my thoughts and anywhere but in the reality around me. So, to be present in the moment means calling myself back from whatever adventure I have created in my imagination.
Kahlil Gibran said something in the Prophet that has always haunted me--although I can't quote him right now because I don't have my book. It was something to this effect: That although we go forward slowly, we go not backward. So whenever I am present in the moment, that moment is tinted by this thought. We, and I think I can say this fairly, spend most of our lives going forward and backward. Or round and round. And if I go forward for a while and break the chain of my existence, I return again. Tonight will find me in the same place as I was in last night. And this is security and we like it this way. But this is also boredom and tedium and we don't like that at all!
It has been a year now since I noticed the first symptoms I had of this sickness that has unearthed my daily existence and has dislodged me from my old routines, robbed me of plans for my future I'd never identified, deprived me of most of the material baggage that has increased and clung to me through nearly an entire lifetime. Uncertainty is not something we like (again, I feel safe in saying this because most of us aren't comfortable with it). Depression has accompanied it. The effect is that when I need to be moving forward, I spend my time dwelling on what I can't do anything about, what I am probably leaving behind forever and what I wish I could have appreciated more before I lost it. And I spend an awful amount of time trying to be healthy.
So more than ever right now I am noticing how much routine pleases me. And how what tomorrow may bring can unhinge rob me of hope. I'm forced to dwell in the moment because my imagination can't find a solution for the unknown that lies ahead. A lot of things like my imagination have gained new purpose in this adventure. My imagination is a tool that could, I hope, find a solution. It would be so much better to choose which way to go than to be shoved one day at a time, unwilling, into a less-than-ideal existence. Allergies have had the same effect as they warn me away from what makes me sick.
I hate to say it, but I'm lonely. And I know that others go through this too. At a time when they most need their loved ones to share their lives, their loved ones have withdrawn, become angry at what they don't understand . . . It is very difficult to say that. Sometimes it hurts me so deeply! I feel judged, but for what? It isn't something that I did. I'd gladly dance right back from the fate that has me in its grips.
Where has God been through all of this? My faith has had its ups and downs. Because I am so slow about my duties, I don't take the time to be with him the way I used to. But for some reason, I feel that God has--shall I say "allowed"?--something to do with this--shaking up my old routine, changing me, moving me in a new direction. And is it optimism that makes me believe that in the end "all will be well"? I tread uneven ground now on the path up the mountain. At the top is the glittering city that I had seen from far away, the one that I was promised. I just have one last climb.
It was a crisp thirty-seven degrees as the sun rose this morning. I stepped outside with my dog for our morning outing. For the first time in seven months, I could see my breath steaming and rising into the early morning light. The dew frosted the tips of grass and made my shoes wet. Sun streaked across my yard and brightly lit the fronts of houses across the road. There is a brightness about the early morning sun that is barely remembered and almost mundane by midday. I have good associations with mornings like this. To be in it is to be vibrantly alive.
I haven't figured out where this is going, but from time to time I think about being present in the moment. I try to be. I try to savor what happens in everyday simple seconds. I'm prone to daydream, to be lost in my thoughts and anywhere but in the reality around me. So, to be present in the moment means calling myself back from whatever adventure I have created in my imagination.
Kahlil Gibran said something in the Prophet that has always haunted me--although I can't quote him right now because I don't have my book. It was something to this effect: That although we go forward slowly, we go not backward. So whenever I am present in the moment, that moment is tinted by this thought. We, and I think I can say this fairly, spend most of our lives going forward and backward. Or round and round. And if I go forward for a while and break the chain of my existence, I return again. Tonight will find me in the same place as I was in last night. And this is security and we like it this way. But this is also boredom and tedium and we don't like that at all!
It has been a year now since I noticed the first symptoms I had of this sickness that has unearthed my daily existence and has dislodged me from my old routines, robbed me of plans for my future I'd never identified, deprived me of most of the material baggage that has increased and clung to me through nearly an entire lifetime. Uncertainty is not something we like (again, I feel safe in saying this because most of us aren't comfortable with it). Depression has accompanied it. The effect is that when I need to be moving forward, I spend my time dwelling on what I can't do anything about, what I am probably leaving behind forever and what I wish I could have appreciated more before I lost it. And I spend an awful amount of time trying to be healthy.
So more than ever right now I am noticing how much routine pleases me. And how what tomorrow may bring can unhinge rob me of hope. I'm forced to dwell in the moment because my imagination can't find a solution for the unknown that lies ahead. A lot of things like my imagination have gained new purpose in this adventure. My imagination is a tool that could, I hope, find a solution. It would be so much better to choose which way to go than to be shoved one day at a time, unwilling, into a less-than-ideal existence. Allergies have had the same effect as they warn me away from what makes me sick.
I hate to say it, but I'm lonely. And I know that others go through this too. At a time when they most need their loved ones to share their lives, their loved ones have withdrawn, become angry at what they don't understand . . . It is very difficult to say that. Sometimes it hurts me so deeply! I feel judged, but for what? It isn't something that I did. I'd gladly dance right back from the fate that has me in its grips.
Where has God been through all of this? My faith has had its ups and downs. Because I am so slow about my duties, I don't take the time to be with him the way I used to. But for some reason, I feel that God has--shall I say "allowed"?--something to do with this--shaking up my old routine, changing me, moving me in a new direction. And is it optimism that makes me believe that in the end "all will be well"? I tread uneven ground now on the path up the mountain. At the top is the glittering city that I had seen from far away, the one that I was promised. I just have one last climb.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
"The Great Unraveling"
Today marks the beginning of the annual NaNoWriMo. It is the first time in three years that I haven't participated, if I don't. I have nothing, no idea. Ideas didn't get me anywhere for the past two years--last year less than the year before. I had a pretty decent idea last year, but the push to get words on the page derailed it and I had to force it forward very uncomfortably. My "critic" gets started and she just starts screaming! By the end of last years NaNo she was a raving lunatic.
Above is a potential title borrowed from an online friend on a forum. It intrigued me. There could be so many different directions to take it. One of the ideas I had, and I had considered this in past years, was to write a spoof on schism in TEC. Not this schism, but a fictitious one. And perhaps where I stumble is in my desire to write it so that all Episcopalians could get a chuckle out of it. Yes, all. Sometimes it helps us to laugh at ourselves.
My big stumbling block is that I try to think of a controversy, preferably based on scriptural interpretation of the two (or many) sides. I've thought of revisiting the old slavery controversy, but I would like to have the Internet discussions be a part of the process because I think the Internet has exacerbated what might have otherwise been a ripple in the life of most congregations. I've thought of using St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, 13-15. Vegans would have a secure hold on the scriptural debates. And it could be funny because few of us care what our neighbor eats--except that it might cause a ruckus at a potluck. I had three or four more good ideas, but today is November 1st and panic has frozen my brain. I considered Womens Ordination, but it is still a hot topic in some circles. I thought about the Great Commandment because it seems to be so overlooked. Pacifism might actually be a good one! And I have some great ideas where the war mongers have found justification for their point of view. And, I thought about Balaam's Ass. I like that story. Can an ass talk?
I attempted to brainstorm this idea with my friends, but they shut me down before I even begin. They wouldn't listen long enough for me to get to the spoof concept and my dilemma. It doesn't matter if it goes nowhere. I haven't published a NaNoNovel yet!
At any rate, I thought that a great way to write it would be to divide the month of November into thirty days. Yeah, I know! That's already been done. But bear with me here. I thought I could peg out thirty days during the past four--it isn't going on five yet, is it?--years and I could write a spoof journal entry each day, a recollection of what occurred on that day. So simple! Aim for my 1667 words per day and VIOLA NaNoNovelDone!
Late edition: As I've gone through the day I have grown more and more fond of Balaams Ass. I really like it!~ And just think how many times I could use the word "ass". I've always thought there was a deficit of cuss words in my fiction.
Above is a potential title borrowed from an online friend on a forum. It intrigued me. There could be so many different directions to take it. One of the ideas I had, and I had considered this in past years, was to write a spoof on schism in TEC. Not this schism, but a fictitious one. And perhaps where I stumble is in my desire to write it so that all Episcopalians could get a chuckle out of it. Yes, all. Sometimes it helps us to laugh at ourselves.
My big stumbling block is that I try to think of a controversy, preferably based on scriptural interpretation of the two (or many) sides. I've thought of revisiting the old slavery controversy, but I would like to have the Internet discussions be a part of the process because I think the Internet has exacerbated what might have otherwise been a ripple in the life of most congregations. I've thought of using St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, 13-15. Vegans would have a secure hold on the scriptural debates. And it could be funny because few of us care what our neighbor eats--except that it might cause a ruckus at a potluck. I had three or four more good ideas, but today is November 1st and panic has frozen my brain. I considered Womens Ordination, but it is still a hot topic in some circles. I thought about the Great Commandment because it seems to be so overlooked. Pacifism might actually be a good one! And I have some great ideas where the war mongers have found justification for their point of view. And, I thought about Balaam's Ass. I like that story. Can an ass talk?
I attempted to brainstorm this idea with my friends, but they shut me down before I even begin. They wouldn't listen long enough for me to get to the spoof concept and my dilemma. It doesn't matter if it goes nowhere. I haven't published a NaNoNovel yet!
At any rate, I thought that a great way to write it would be to divide the month of November into thirty days. Yeah, I know! That's already been done. But bear with me here. I thought I could peg out thirty days during the past four--it isn't going on five yet, is it?--years and I could write a spoof journal entry each day, a recollection of what occurred on that day. So simple! Aim for my 1667 words per day and VIOLA NaNoNovelDone!
Late edition: As I've gone through the day I have grown more and more fond of Balaams Ass. I really like it!~ And just think how many times I could use the word "ass". I've always thought there was a deficit of cuss words in my fiction.
Monday, October 29, 2007
I am cursed!
I was beginning to suspect it. But now it has been confirmed by my AC/heater/washing machine/dehumidifier/refrigerator repairman!
I heard Mr. Dickens raising a ruckus by the front door early this afternoon while I was in the backyard cleaning the bird cage. When I opened the door I found Payne, my long delayed repairman who'd come to repair the washing machine he had loaned me seven months ago. Or, in other words, he came to repair his washing machine.
He dropped my dehumidifier, still dripping from its cleaning, into the sunshine on the side of the porch. "You want me to leave it here to air dry, right?"
"Sure." I responded, looking doubtfully at the water dripping from the vents and wondering if an electrical appliance should look as though it was just pulled out of a tub.
"It wasn't very dirty, you know."
"Yeah, it shouldn't have needed cleaning for a full year, but we'd found some mold behind the shower and we'd cleaned it out. You know all it takes is one spore . . ."
"Yeah . . ."
Sometimes you know the message wasn't lost on a person. Most people lose the message about mold spores, but Payne is obviously more intelligent than most.
"That's a neat little machine--you know that? Easy to clean, not much to 'em."
I could tell he was intrigued by it. "My sister has one in her basement." He launched into an explanation of how it works as he followed me through to the kitchen. I indicated the sick fridge. He took a look at it and not much of one either. "Might as well buy a new one."
"You mean you can't fix it?"
"Not worth it. It'd cost $500.00 or more. Might as well buy a new one."
He headed out in the direction of the washing machine. The refrigerator had been an unscheduled stop.
As he scanned the situation, my guilty streak kicked in and I said, "I really ought to pay you for those--they don't look like much, but they've been doing a great job." I'd hate to part with the $50.00 he wanted for them, but I really ought to. 'A month or two' is long gone!
"Yeah, good machines. They're really Maytags, you know?"
"No! I'd never even heard of that brand before."
"Sold by Sears." That began a discussion about how appliances used to be made and how differently their construction had been forty years ago, including the story of a friend's dad who has had a dryer for that long and it has only needed three small parts replaced in all those years. "Yep, 1968," he said as he bent down behind the washer.
He borrowed a flat head screwdriver and started breaking into the top of it. "You must be cursed," he said as the top plopped back revealing the strange looking works at the heart of the machine.
"Yeah, I think I am."
"You're having quite a streak of bad luck here."
"All year."
He became serious about the operation of the washer, replaced the broken part and replaced the framing. And then, as though the conversation about curses hadn't been broached before, he said, "I think you're cursed."
As soon as I had seen him out the door, I climbed into the car to go to Sears and check out the Whirlpool refrigerators he'd recommended. As though we can afford a new fridge! The old one was dated 1998, top of the line Amana. I'm not buying top of the line anymore.
I heard Mr. Dickens raising a ruckus by the front door early this afternoon while I was in the backyard cleaning the bird cage. When I opened the door I found Payne, my long delayed repairman who'd come to repair the washing machine he had loaned me seven months ago. Or, in other words, he came to repair his washing machine.
He dropped my dehumidifier, still dripping from its cleaning, into the sunshine on the side of the porch. "You want me to leave it here to air dry, right?"
"Sure." I responded, looking doubtfully at the water dripping from the vents and wondering if an electrical appliance should look as though it was just pulled out of a tub.
"It wasn't very dirty, you know."
"Yeah, it shouldn't have needed cleaning for a full year, but we'd found some mold behind the shower and we'd cleaned it out. You know all it takes is one spore . . ."
"Yeah . . ."
Sometimes you know the message wasn't lost on a person. Most people lose the message about mold spores, but Payne is obviously more intelligent than most.
"That's a neat little machine--you know that? Easy to clean, not much to 'em."
I could tell he was intrigued by it. "My sister has one in her basement." He launched into an explanation of how it works as he followed me through to the kitchen. I indicated the sick fridge. He took a look at it and not much of one either. "Might as well buy a new one."
"You mean you can't fix it?"
"Not worth it. It'd cost $500.00 or more. Might as well buy a new one."
He headed out in the direction of the washing machine. The refrigerator had been an unscheduled stop.
As he scanned the situation, my guilty streak kicked in and I said, "I really ought to pay you for those--they don't look like much, but they've been doing a great job." I'd hate to part with the $50.00 he wanted for them, but I really ought to. 'A month or two' is long gone!
"Yeah, good machines. They're really Maytags, you know?"
"No! I'd never even heard of that brand before."
"Sold by Sears." That began a discussion about how appliances used to be made and how differently their construction had been forty years ago, including the story of a friend's dad who has had a dryer for that long and it has only needed three small parts replaced in all those years. "Yep, 1968," he said as he bent down behind the washer.
He borrowed a flat head screwdriver and started breaking into the top of it. "You must be cursed," he said as the top plopped back revealing the strange looking works at the heart of the machine.
"Yeah, I think I am."
"You're having quite a streak of bad luck here."
"All year."
He became serious about the operation of the washer, replaced the broken part and replaced the framing. And then, as though the conversation about curses hadn't been broached before, he said, "I think you're cursed."
As soon as I had seen him out the door, I climbed into the car to go to Sears and check out the Whirlpool refrigerators he'd recommended. As though we can afford a new fridge! The old one was dated 1998, top of the line Amana. I'm not buying top of the line anymore.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Ike and his guitar:
I know this is dark. It is darker online than on my computer. If he will re-record Autumn Leaves I will upload that one too. He's good at jazz. He loves Autumn Leaves so much and plays Joe Pass' (?) rendition of it so often that it has become the theme for my life now. Maybe I can encourage him to shine a little bit more light on the subject.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
"Anglican Chant"
Here is a link to a . . . ahem . . . beautiful example of Anglican Chant.
Highway
and here is another one (I had to clear my history before I could load the second one):
Weather Report
Highway
and here is another one (I had to clear my history before I could load the second one):
Weather Report
Friday, October 19, 2007
Uhmmm . . . ?
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| You scored as Orthodox You are Orthodox, worshiping the mystery of the Holy Trinity in the great liturgy whereby Jesus is present through the Spirit in a real yet mysterious way, a meal that is also a sacrifice.
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five word game:
I am playing around in a Christian poetry and writing group online. They have a little game where five words are presented, a poster writes a poem with them and then assigns the next person five different words. Initially, I played with the first two challenges and then wrote a third to post as a participant.
Here they are:
wispy, wool, tangled, frenzy, ancient
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
In ancient days the simple wool cossack and wispy white hair surrounding balding pate showed wisdom and inspired confidence
and so in worldly wisdom the youthful thought it worth the frenzy, in tangled frame of mind, to present their wisdom in shaving a balding pate!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
yellow, pincher, pole, particle, hour
The first one I wrote:
moderate, solution, widespread, complete
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A way of life centered in habits that moderate between extremes.
The youthful rarely care, but increasing age and mortality looming
creates widespread concerns to maintain health, avoid excess and complete our allotted span of years.
(I didn't say they were good!)
The second:
satisfied, foamy, scatter, truths, wither
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Foamy edged waves race over sand as smoothly as water over marble,
tiny bubbles pop and crackle as toes wriggle into the sand and peek and hide.
Wind will scatter leaves and blows chill down snugged collars,
it presses with pride to drive all ahead to end in hidden hollows.
Satisfied with little memories held dear, our truths more like sand than wind that will wither the last flower driving in the bitter cold.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Stunted growth:
This past spring a number of maples came up in the shady garden on the north side of the house. I chose the healthiest and largest and had my husband dig it up and transplant it to a large bare grassy area of the yard. As the summer wore on, I watered it and watched it, but it never grew. In the meantime, the ones we had left in the unweeded garden tripled in size. The other day, I puzzled over it and realized he must have cut off the tap root. I'm surprised because he knows trees and has worked with them for the past thirty years.
I think that a lot of us are this way about our faith, too. We cut off our tap roots. One of the lessons learned in my spiritual journey was the profound realization of how little I do know. I heard others say that too. It seems the inverse happens, the more I know, the more certain I am of the deficit in my knowledge base. It is in a state of uncertainty that I am most certain! It is in openess that I am ready to receive the message. My own measure of myself was to realize that I don't have the mind of God even though I make the mistake of feeling as though I do. And, so I test what I believe. I allow myself to be challenged by what I read or hear or see. It reminds me of Jesus telling the Jewish people who were in the crowd to "open their ears and hear." Their certainties were keeping their ears closed to his message. And so, in obedience to Christ, I listen with my whole self.
What inspired me in the idea of the tap root today was a discussion with some "mystics" who hate religion. They seem to be hoping to bring an end to the established religions and to teach people that they can be spiritual outside of the traditions and baggage of religion. I copied the definition of religion out of the dictionary and posted it for them to read. I attempted to tell them that even if they shun religion, they are practicing a religion. And given wings, it will develop all the ills of traditional religion. It will have its instruction, its taboos, its praxis and even its tradition. But more importantly to me is that our taproot is the tried and true! It is the centuries of knowledge and experience, success and failure, sharing and loving and hating together that makes our religion a rich resource for us to follow. I'm sorry to say that as I watched the conversation develop, I think their religion is hating religion.
My argument was and is that there is a body of knowledge about the way of the mystics in all the ancient religions. I felt surprised that I even had to point out that I believe religion springs from mystical experience and we gain by the preservation and repetition of it. The contemplative/mystical aspect of traditional praxis in the Christian tradition is often glossed over or misunderstood, rituals practiced without comprehending the full benefits--but of course, I finally came to see the spiritual value in them--so it awaits discovery by each participant one precious gift at a time. Once this is revealed, we look forward to it, joyfully sharing it with the other members of our community, generously encouraging others to come to our table to share it with us. Several times, I have met somebody who said that it was during the Eucharist that they first encountered the risen Lord.
My tap root is the means of being open to the leading of the Holy Spirit as a tap root brings up the living water to nourish the growing tree, so does the Holy Spirit bring me the living water to nourish my growing faith. It is trusting that if in anything I am remiss or I am mistaken, through the Grace of God, I will be set to rights.
I thirst . . .
I think that a lot of us are this way about our faith, too. We cut off our tap roots. One of the lessons learned in my spiritual journey was the profound realization of how little I do know. I heard others say that too. It seems the inverse happens, the more I know, the more certain I am of the deficit in my knowledge base. It is in a state of uncertainty that I am most certain! It is in openess that I am ready to receive the message. My own measure of myself was to realize that I don't have the mind of God even though I make the mistake of feeling as though I do. And, so I test what I believe. I allow myself to be challenged by what I read or hear or see. It reminds me of Jesus telling the Jewish people who were in the crowd to "open their ears and hear." Their certainties were keeping their ears closed to his message. And so, in obedience to Christ, I listen with my whole self.
What inspired me in the idea of the tap root today was a discussion with some "mystics" who hate religion. They seem to be hoping to bring an end to the established religions and to teach people that they can be spiritual outside of the traditions and baggage of religion. I copied the definition of religion out of the dictionary and posted it for them to read. I attempted to tell them that even if they shun religion, they are practicing a religion. And given wings, it will develop all the ills of traditional religion. It will have its instruction, its taboos, its praxis and even its tradition. But more importantly to me is that our taproot is the tried and true! It is the centuries of knowledge and experience, success and failure, sharing and loving and hating together that makes our religion a rich resource for us to follow. I'm sorry to say that as I watched the conversation develop, I think their religion is hating religion.
My argument was and is that there is a body of knowledge about the way of the mystics in all the ancient religions. I felt surprised that I even had to point out that I believe religion springs from mystical experience and we gain by the preservation and repetition of it. The contemplative/mystical aspect of traditional praxis in the Christian tradition is often glossed over or misunderstood, rituals practiced without comprehending the full benefits--but of course, I finally came to see the spiritual value in them--so it awaits discovery by each participant one precious gift at a time. Once this is revealed, we look forward to it, joyfully sharing it with the other members of our community, generously encouraging others to come to our table to share it with us. Several times, I have met somebody who said that it was during the Eucharist that they first encountered the risen Lord.
My tap root is the means of being open to the leading of the Holy Spirit as a tap root brings up the living water to nourish the growing tree, so does the Holy Spirit bring me the living water to nourish my growing faith. It is trusting that if in anything I am remiss or I am mistaken, through the Grace of God, I will be set to rights.
I thirst . . .
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I thought this would be a happier looking photograph:
It was a slightly blurry image of an angel that is carved into the pulpit of my church. I'd taken it without flash, so it was very soft light in a dark corner. I enjoy playing with photographs in Adobe. I'm afraid I'm not very good at it, but this was an accidental success, in my opinion.
Speaking of angels, I think I had a dream of what might have been my own guardian angel . . . did I write about that one? It was so strange. I've never been very much of a believer in angels, truth be told. But I really wasn't sure how much that was dreaming!
I heard what I thought was my son in the bathroom. I thought I heard his voice. I heard water splashing. But then I became aware that there was someone very close to me. I was aware that I was in bed. I did become frightened and I closed my eyes tight as though I could wish them away and I reached out and grabbed what felt like a person's forearm--physical sensations!--I could feel my fingers grasping the soft flesh, my nails sinking into it. And a woman that I know as well as a sister entered the room. I don't know how I knew who it was, but I did. I told her, "I'm holding somebody's arm and I'm scared to open my eyes and look. Is it safe?" She told me I could let go and I did. And I don't remember any delay or anything. I opened my eyes and I got up and I checked out the house. My son was in his bed sound asleep.
Gives me chills! ;) Weird dream.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
The orb!
In speaking of the paranormal this morning, I remembered a photograph that I took about six months ago here in this house of refuge, of an orb. The orb is just below the mirror right next to the closet door. I used Adobe 7 to blow up the image and it does not look like light. It has form. The photo posted above is the original and has not been enhanced or changed in any way. Also, you may see that behind the main door there is a plastic disk to protect the wall--think nothing of it.
Not only did I manage to photograph this orb, but I've seen it with my bare eyes. I've been followed by this orb from the other house. Or, I've seen two different orbs in the past year! I first saw it one night when I was alone when the boys were traveling and I was shoving my dining table up to the French doors because I thought somebody was trying to break in. All of the sudden I saw this orb, maybe eight inches across, clear like a closeup of a drop of water falling into a pool, zip across from my right side to the other end of the table and then vanish.
Another thing in this photograph that mystifies me is the reflection in the mirror. This may have perfectly normal explanation such as the way the light is cast from the beside lamp shade. But there is a clear dark line reflected in the background just above the dresser--however, the room was recently painted a light gray color and is not darkened there in any way.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Dread:
Predawn, up before the sun. Summer's end is heralded with the briskness of early fall. Summer's heat was freedom and health. I could spend all day outside. I could throw open a window and air out the toxins that make me sick--I can't tolerate any at all now, I think. I could open a window for the night or spend comfortable hours outside doing tasks normally done inside. My neighbors think I'm weird and I wish the yard was more private. I find any excuse to go out that door.
As I take in the still total darkness near 6:00 AM, I feel the dread of the coming winter and I'm afraid that fall will be altogether too short. My bare arms feel the chill and I think it is time to get my jackets and sweatshirts out and wash them. I rub my arms briskly to warm them as I look up at the dark sky and try to discern how cloudy it will be today.
I used to anticipate winter with the same joy and excitement that I anticipated every other season. But not anymore. The thought that my anticipation of winter will ruin my beautiful fall is almost as bad. Will that dread fill me every time I get a goosebump from a chill wind between now and December? Besides, I have a longer list of things to do before the weather becomes too cold.
Time does pass quickly. I drive Ike to school just as the first glimmer of sunshine breaks through the striated clouds on the horizon, tinting them a soft promising pink. As I drop him off and watch him carrying his horn to the football field, I think, 'One hour down! One hour passed so quickly. So much to do, so little time--before the cold comes in.'
As I take in the still total darkness near 6:00 AM, I feel the dread of the coming winter and I'm afraid that fall will be altogether too short. My bare arms feel the chill and I think it is time to get my jackets and sweatshirts out and wash them. I rub my arms briskly to warm them as I look up at the dark sky and try to discern how cloudy it will be today.
I used to anticipate winter with the same joy and excitement that I anticipated every other season. But not anymore. The thought that my anticipation of winter will ruin my beautiful fall is almost as bad. Will that dread fill me every time I get a goosebump from a chill wind between now and December? Besides, I have a longer list of things to do before the weather becomes too cold.
Time does pass quickly. I drive Ike to school just as the first glimmer of sunshine breaks through the striated clouds on the horizon, tinting them a soft promising pink. As I drop him off and watch him carrying his horn to the football field, I think, 'One hour down! One hour passed so quickly. So much to do, so little time--before the cold comes in.'
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
I'm all alone out here:
I've been all alone for the longest time. It is dark and cold and lonely. I want to talk to somebody, but they have all gone away. They closed their doors and their windows to keep me out. They turned off their lights to pretend they weren't at home. They turned off the phones or they won't answer.
I sit here and talk to myself sometimes. I try to figure out what it is that they are avoiding. It isn't happening to them. It is happening to me. I once believed the fiction that they loved me. We had a good happy life. We had things and we did things. We laughed and we played, we worked and we talked. But now it is all different. They only want to think about themselves. If I keep trying to talk to them perhaps they will pick up a shovel and dig a hole to bury me in so they won't have to hear me.
Sure, they have had hard times. And I did listen. I listened for hours as they told me all the awful things that happened to them. I loved them. I tried to soothe them, to brush away the hurts, to soften the blows. But now I wonder what good it did because when I needed them they all ran away.
I know what it is. They don't want to believe me. They don't want to believe this could happen. And so they put their fingers in their ears and they shout, "La,la,la, I can't hear you!" and they turn and look away or they look right past me as though I am already gone, a figment of their imagination.
I'm a voiceless voice, a bodyless body. I don't exist. I'm turning black and melting away. My life was nothing. My days were spent on nothing. There was no love. There was no me.
I sit here and talk to myself sometimes. I try to figure out what it is that they are avoiding. It isn't happening to them. It is happening to me. I once believed the fiction that they loved me. We had a good happy life. We had things and we did things. We laughed and we played, we worked and we talked. But now it is all different. They only want to think about themselves. If I keep trying to talk to them perhaps they will pick up a shovel and dig a hole to bury me in so they won't have to hear me.
Sure, they have had hard times. And I did listen. I listened for hours as they told me all the awful things that happened to them. I loved them. I tried to soothe them, to brush away the hurts, to soften the blows. But now I wonder what good it did because when I needed them they all ran away.
I know what it is. They don't want to believe me. They don't want to believe this could happen. And so they put their fingers in their ears and they shout, "La,la,la, I can't hear you!" and they turn and look away or they look right past me as though I am already gone, a figment of their imagination.
I'm a voiceless voice, a bodyless body. I don't exist. I'm turning black and melting away. My life was nothing. My days were spent on nothing. There was no love. There was no me.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Long Dark Night
(I haven't forgotten my Southwind project, but my Gremlin has absconded with my journal.)
This is just an effort to put words on the page.
The discussion of late has been on Mother Teresa. It seems that many can't comprehend her long Darkness.
I checked out the book from the library. It is lovely. Mother Teresa's words echo out of the past in a way that is very similar the more ancient mystics. She followed the classic faith and her sentiments were those of the classically trained Catholic. It was easy to read, interesting and moved right along.
I can relate well to her "Dark Night of the Soul." It is the controversial aspect of Mother Teresa's life that for forty years she lived in relative spiritual darkness, even claiming to not see Christ in the Holy Sacraments. I have a great deal of compassion for her in her extended Dark Night. I've been sitting still for a year and a half now and it takes a lot of patience. I feel sorry for her, but I also feel that she will be well rewarded for her persistence.
As I read the book I wondered what could have caused it. I realize that to wonder at the cause of a Dark Night is a strange occupation--how could I have the temerity to question God's will? My own Dark Night could have so many different causes that I can't choose one. What weakness is God weeding out? There are so many that I can think of. God might just leave me eternally in the Dark now. (Yes, I am chuckling!) So it is far more interesting to contemplate M.T.'s Dark Night since she was such a shining example of how best to follow Christ.
As for Mother Teresa, I noted that the editor commented on the fact that M.T. tried to hide her suffering from Christ. I can't help it--I keep thinking that there is no hiding anything and when we try to hide something, we end up hiding completely. I did that in the 70s out of fear of the spiritual world.
Another thought I've had is that her mind was so full of what she had to do that she couldn't listen very well and Christ was there with her all along. The reason I suggest that is that her success all those years, her tireless devotion and her inner strength had to come from somewhere. It was superhuman. And then there are all her beautiful quotes. Her insights are inspired. Her love of all people shimmers and reflects the love of God. And so despite her inner darkness, she was receiving the light somewhere all along.
Silly of me, isn't it? Well, Dark Nights can cause a lot of deep dark reflections that can be hard to admit to. That's my way of confessing that in the quiet that I've been sitting in, quiet is my all. Every now and then I still come up with some profound thoughts--gifts--that give me a little hope. But then I end up sitting quietly again. I gather that Mother Teresa had those same small flickers, too. She was better at admitting her pain to her confessor.
More seriously, (since the conversation got away from being serious somehow) Mother Teresa continues to be one of my favorite people. She led an exemplary life. I'm amazed at how brave she must have been when she launched her institute. The power of her faith and her determination to save those souls for Christ during those first few weeks. Such a small young woman seeking out the poor in their dark holes and taking Christ to them, all alone, in the meanest, darkest, most miserable places people live. And to her, at the time, the need must have seemed overwhelming.
This is just an effort to put words on the page.
The discussion of late has been on Mother Teresa. It seems that many can't comprehend her long Darkness.
I checked out the book from the library. It is lovely. Mother Teresa's words echo out of the past in a way that is very similar the more ancient mystics. She followed the classic faith and her sentiments were those of the classically trained Catholic. It was easy to read, interesting and moved right along.
I can relate well to her "Dark Night of the Soul." It is the controversial aspect of Mother Teresa's life that for forty years she lived in relative spiritual darkness, even claiming to not see Christ in the Holy Sacraments. I have a great deal of compassion for her in her extended Dark Night. I've been sitting still for a year and a half now and it takes a lot of patience. I feel sorry for her, but I also feel that she will be well rewarded for her persistence.
As I read the book I wondered what could have caused it. I realize that to wonder at the cause of a Dark Night is a strange occupation--how could I have the temerity to question God's will? My own Dark Night could have so many different causes that I can't choose one. What weakness is God weeding out? There are so many that I can think of. God might just leave me eternally in the Dark now. (Yes, I am chuckling!) So it is far more interesting to contemplate M.T.'s Dark Night since she was such a shining example of how best to follow Christ.
As for Mother Teresa, I noted that the editor commented on the fact that M.T. tried to hide her suffering from Christ. I can't help it--I keep thinking that there is no hiding anything and when we try to hide something, we end up hiding completely. I did that in the 70s out of fear of the spiritual world.
Another thought I've had is that her mind was so full of what she had to do that she couldn't listen very well and Christ was there with her all along. The reason I suggest that is that her success all those years, her tireless devotion and her inner strength had to come from somewhere. It was superhuman. And then there are all her beautiful quotes. Her insights are inspired. Her love of all people shimmers and reflects the love of God. And so despite her inner darkness, she was receiving the light somewhere all along.
Silly of me, isn't it? Well, Dark Nights can cause a lot of deep dark reflections that can be hard to admit to. That's my way of confessing that in the quiet that I've been sitting in, quiet is my all. Every now and then I still come up with some profound thoughts--gifts--that give me a little hope. But then I end up sitting quietly again. I gather that Mother Teresa had those same small flickers, too. She was better at admitting her pain to her confessor.
More seriously, (since the conversation got away from being serious somehow) Mother Teresa continues to be one of my favorite people. She led an exemplary life. I'm amazed at how brave she must have been when she launched her institute. The power of her faith and her determination to save those souls for Christ during those first few weeks. Such a small young woman seeking out the poor in their dark holes and taking Christ to them, all alone, in the meanest, darkest, most miserable places people live. And to her, at the time, the need must have seemed overwhelming.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The First Day of School:
There is something about this picture that says so much about the children, what they anticipate and how they feel. I told my daughter that it is photojournalist-esque. I didn't know what other way I could describe the moment that she has captured.
One of the writing challenges Carolyn of Skateboard (link on right) provided yesterday was:
1. Spend some time remembering how your family "tells time"--such as
'before the move', or 'after the accident' or 'when the baby was born.' Make
a list.
Yesterday I was completely stumped by this one. The only thing I could think of was that we so often date our lives according to losses, when somebody died. It seems that it is usually, "Before Grandma died . . . " or "When we still had Lindy . . .". Every now and then we might date things to where we lived when they occurred: "When we lived on South Avenue . . ." or "Before we moved here . . .". Because I am in exile, living in my old house where I never thought I would live again, this is a sore spot for me. I'm afraid it will become a part of our measurement of time and the thought makes me unhappy. I think the fear is that it may be a long measurement of time for my life, that it may be more permanent than I want it to be.
I hate to say it, but right now both subjects seemed depressing. But still, school has begun, I do have some time for writing, I do want to get back with the group and participate if possible and I think it would be very good for me. So it was important to me to try to do these challenges.
And that's it! That's the answer! School has begun. I always dated things that happened when I was child by what grade I was in. And when I relate stories about my older children, I remember when it happened the same way, by the grade they had been in when it happened.
In the picture above, I see my grandchildren beginning another eventful year of their lives. Hannah (not her real name) is obviously excited. She likes school, she is eager to get back to her friends and she is still at that age where enthusiasm for it can make her giggle. I can see her wriggling in this picture. She almost can't sit still for the photograph. While her brother isn't quite so excited. He is at that age where he has concerns and maybe some anxiety about what the day may bring. Maybe he is wondering if the class bully that bothered him last year will be in his class again. I don't know. At that age, I had begun to worry about everything. I would worry about the clothes I was wearing, who my homeroom teacher would be, if my lunch would look sufficiently similar to my friends. So, although I am sure he is excited, he isn't eager, either. And, so begins another year of their lives--a memorable one, an eventful one--one that they will remember and, like me, assign and date to it a cache of memories.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Day 1 continued: The Bounder
So, at approximately 9:30, I dragged my duffle to the Southwind caravan. We located the Bounder, the camper that I was told serves as the official home of cook staff, even though it became apparent that I was the only cook staff on it. I'd found my way by talking to strangers here and there, then faceless, busy but kind.
I stowed my suitcase against the back wall of the back room where six bunks had been installed. I noted that for the most part the bunks were empty and unmade, that no other gear cluttered any corner. I had to worry about everything. I'm a very insecure person and I clue in to what I am to do by what others do and this wasn't working that way. It was obvious that although there were six bunks, there were no other bags--nobody's luggage. Evidence suggested that I might be alone. Not only then, but even at other times later in the trip, I wondered if anybody else would be getting on the Bounder and even if the Bounder would be going on.
Then, because the Bounder was excessively hot, I went back out into the fresh air. Around the buses that were parked behind it the activity was frenetic. The quiet alongside the Bounder was disconcerting in comparison. I was feeling like a fish out of my fishbowl and as though the water had gone somewhere else. And wouldn't a fish bowl full of water have been nice at that moment? I wanted a bath so bad!
I meandered through the hyperactivity outside the buses and located Ike. I was the only person meandering. I seemed to be the only person without an agenda, without a task and with empty hands and slow feet. In the brief exchange we had before he ran off to do something, I wondered when we could shower. It was just a question! Disgusted, Ike looked down his nose and, in a nasal tone to add weight to his disgust, "Don't be high maintenance, Mom!"
I backpeddled. "I won't be high maintenance," my voice whined even in my own ears, "I'm just wondering . . ." I was left wondering for quite some time because he never gave me an answer.
We parted company and I returned to the dark, empty side of the Bounder to wait for its occupants. All the other vehicles were loaded, the members installed in their seats--but the Bounder remained dark and empty. Not a soul walked along its side, not a person sat on its couches, not a driver made an appearance. The engines of the buses and trucks hummed and the Bounder sat silent.
I sneaked the opportunity to brush my teeth, using my drinking water to rinse my mouth. Embarrassed, even in the darkness, I squatted low to spit into the underbrush at the edge of the parking lot. A few minutes later, I saw a woman next to the camper ahead of the Bounder brushing her own teeth and I realized for the first time that I had discovered a secret of grabbing the few minutes here or there for care of self.
Suddenly, people converged on the Bounder. I hadn't even see them come! And then it was crowded, every seat filled. I entered and plopped, or fell, into the nearest seat--which turned out to be in the middle of things to my embarrassment. I recognized Mike, the director, and Vento, officially in charge of brass and--maybe officially in charge of a great deal more that I am unaware of, but the rest were all strangers. I think there were eight people and there was only one woman besides myself.
It was just that quick and the lights were on and we were beginning to try to get off but blocked by a camper belonging to Pioneer (another corps). I don't know how they do it, but nothing blocks them for long! There I was, sitting between Mike and Vento and worrying that I had gotten into the wrong vehicle. Surely some mom-volunteer shouldn't be sitting between the big brass! I even suggested that, "Am I in the right place?" Mike assured me that I was, but I remained doubtful. And then the Pioneer camper rolled out of our way as if by psychic transmission of some sort and we were on our way.
Taking in my surroundings should have made me feel right at home! I'm a child of the 60's. I even thought of myself as a hippie at one point. The inside of the Bounder looked lived in. It seemed a bit shabby, cluttered and the couches were covered with bed pillows and sleeping bags. I realized to my horror that I was sitting on somebody's pillow. I tried to minimize the effort it took to wrangle it from beneath me and push it up out of the way. Even the crowdedness, the shortage of seating as Mike sat on an ice chest, added to the effect. The atmosphere, to say the least, was casual. I knew automatically that the Bounder gets little attention--there is so much more to do.
Every moment is an adventure with the corps. And, it seems, as I watched Mike, that every moment is a potential disaster and takes major effort. Not that Mike seems the least bit stressed--but it would for me and it would make me freak, scream, cuss, pull out my hair, and exhibit and suffer every stress related illness from ulcers to heart-attacks. And so I admire Mike and the staff tremendously and I observe them with the kind of wonder that comes from being mystified rather than with any hope that I could emulate them.
It was a narrow little parking lot for those buses. Beyond the Pioneer caravan, the drive narrowed to car lane width and then plunged down a steep driveway. It was too short for the Bounder. We scraped going through. But the buses! Even I could understand that the buses are long and low. So that was our first hurdle--getting out of the parking lot . . . and a bumper crunched behind us.
*I know that I am windy! And I hope I manage to get it written now that I have started this way.*