Edge of Infinity

I saw the edge of the world

and it filled me with such longing and delight

that I ache, and shiver,

and would settle back into the fog's arms

if it could hold me.

"Deep river, my home is over Jordan; deep river, I want to cross over into campground."

From the path, the rocks edged an infinite grey. From their heights, waves emerged from the vast mistiness, and in a wind-sheltered corner, Angela and I watched white spray, fading and reappearing winged quiet birds, and the ocean, blending into the mist, blending into the sky - the three indistinguishable from each other except by texture.

Somewhere, beyond the mist, the horizon slept.

I've seen it before, so I knew it was there, but its grey blanket shielded its rest from my prying eyes. I watched the watered ebb and crash of its breathing, but saw it not. I heard the thunder of it, but saw it not.

Far off, the fog-horn bwoooped, a sound full of promise and desire, of question, of blindness. A small thing, I, down on the rocks, facing grey living eternity.

People are like the ocean, I told Angela, and I think that's a huge part of why I love them so much. They are inconstant constancy. The ocean always is, always there, always the same, down in the deeps, never changing. And if you only see it once, or twice, or never actually look at it, you might think it has no variety. But then if you look every day, or even just watch - actually watch it - for a little while, you'll see its life, its movement, its variety, its diversity. You'll see that this ocean is actually always something new, always different, always showing new angles, new patterns, new beauty. Just like people.

Of course, you have to choose to pay attention. You have to desire to see them as they really are, and the more you do, the more you see they are always, unchangeably, themselves, deeply and truly. But they are also always different, surprising, refreshing. There's something you haven't noticed before, something new, something growing, something healing, something reflecting the light differently today than yesterday. And it's just the most wonderful thing!

How can you not love that?

We get to watch people become more beautiful, more whole; we get to grow more aware of their beauty and wholeness, and it's simply amazing!

The more I watch the ocean, the more deeply I love it; the more deeply I realize how much love for it I already bear, unnoticed by me until probed by that endless mist and heaving water.

How much do I love you? All of you wonderful beautiful people I know - some for many years, some for less than one - how deep is it possible for this to go?

If the ocean stirs in me such depths I feel I could walk on the surface of surrounding infinity, you, who are person, in the image of God, who created the ocean - how much more deeply will I be stirred by you?

And oh, I am homesick! How I long for that sense of peace, comfort, security, belongingness, that a combination of people and place and knowing and being known somehow brings. I long for home. Yes, this is home. But there is more home-ness to be known. I feel it, somewhere in my lungs, my belly, my heart, my gut...

I am homesick for the depths that never end.

Gluten-Free Grocery Shopping

Ok, someone's got some answers to give.

Because something just happened that never happens.

I just had a conversation with complete strangers in the grocery store.

Did you catch that? I had a conversation with people I'd never seen before in my life. And I'm certain I'd never seen them, because a) I remember faces extremely well, and b) they were from New Jersey.

Yup, I found out where they live. Mind you, I didn't specifically ask that question - she just told me. Also, I know that they recently spent a month down in Guatemala. And I'm pretty sure they're Christians.

Whoa. My world is exploding. My conception of my ability to talk to people just go poked with a pin and burst into pieces.

It all started in the natural food section, in front of the shelves of gluten-free goods. I was shopping hungry - never a good idea - and was debating whether to buy pasta or not. A white-haired couple was standing there, and I heard snippets of "rice pasta" before deciding to stretch in front of them. I think I was the first to speak, too, asking if they'd tried the pasta I was holding. Thus began the conversation.

We talked about rice, soy (why it's far less than ideal to eat, despite the fads), European gluten-free food, finding extremely expensive German cereal in Guatemala (them), seeing pasta brands in Italy that are carried here (me), grain dependence, the goodness of veggies and fruit, Mary's Gone Crackers crackers and avocados, how eating gluten-free makes SUCH a difference, the process of learning how to eat well, and how it's never to late to learn and change and get better ("until we get to heaven," she said) and how that's a wonderful thing.

Now, mind you, this wasn't a terribly long conversation, but it was nonetheless a real conversation. I walked away from it with an increasing giddiness, and sense of joy, and almost a jolt.

Is this what talking to strangers is all about? The excited stirring that an elderly couple from New Jersey and a young single woman in Massachusetts have things in common... The fun of shared encouragements in the midst of a mundane task...

Seriously, though, someone's got some explaining to do. I just don't do these kinds of things. Maybe a hello, or quick comment on the weather, but since when have I been able to carry on talking with a stranger for more than a few seconds? Since never, that's what.

So here's my question: who's been praying for this to happen? Hrm?

Or is this just part of becoming more mature and self-confident and joyful?

Or is this just something inexplicable that I should simply accept and be uplifted by?

Regardless.

My world has shifted slightly and realigned... somehow.

When it rains

Rain is beautiful.

I can never understand the thoroughness and depth of people’s antipathy towards it. We complain, grumble, and generally work ourselves into bad moods when it rains.

Really, what you’re mad at isn’t the rain, it’s the interruption of your plans. What we object to is our lack of control. We get upset because we made plans that the rain renders difficult or impossible. It forces us to change, demands that we re-adjust our activity, location, relaxation. Our prideful selves want things to go according to our wishes, and rain… well, the rain doesn’t obey us.

We’ve all had times when the rain spoiled our plans, and thus our day. So now, even if we don’t have any amazing outdoor adventure in the works, when the rain shows up, we remember our past disappointment and frustration, and we get annoyed again.

But I ask this: is rain really such a bad thing? Is it really ugly? Does its presence deserve such a negative reaction from us?

Apart from its obvious necessity in bringing about growth, does rain have any good qualities?

Um.

Yes.

Have you ever watched the rain? Noticed the leaves dance under its touch? Stood outside and taken a deep breath of cool clean air? Heard its rhythm patter over your roof, on your head? Seen the myriads of ripples spreading, intersecting, shape-shifting across puddles and ponds? Stared at the colours – the green intense, supersaturate, deep, pure, backed by soft grey clouds, highlighted with rich browns and tans? Everything is brighter, cleaner, deeper when it rains. The earth quiets under its touch. Rests, breathes slowly, and you can hear the earth accepting the rain’s love.

As the atmosphere continues to wash Earth’s face, I challenge you with this: try to see, hear, and feel the rain on its own terms. Set aside your annoyance that it changed your plans, and rejoice in it. Will it be possible for you to miss its beauty? I doubt it. Truly, the rain is a wonder. Allow yourself to be amazed.

Maybe then you’ll understand why I love it so much.

May the Fourth, Lynch Park, Beverly, MA

This park, empty,
in the pause.

My town, clouds smoking off
tree tops and spires,
blue, distant,
distantly puzzled.
Evening light,
living sea,
new bright leaves.

Oh, God! I ask:
how can You bear
the beauty
and the pain?

Did You know
that there would be so much
for Your heart
to hold?

Can You keep Yourself
from bursting?
Is the ache too much
for You?

It's too much for me.
If I keep looking,
if my eyes and heart
stay open,
there will be too much.
It will be too heavy.
I cannot bear it.
The pressure is so much
pain
and joy.

I tear a small shred
of red bark
for remembrance.

In this pause,
all is silent
still
waiting
shifting
preparing...

My steps hurry
just enough
to reach shelter
during the deep breath
before downpour.

Beaches, solitary,
welcome the slow waves,
and their thirsty sands
drain
the dropping waters.

What will be shown
different
when the rain is done?

Sing we merrily along...

I discovered something new this weekend.

Or, rather, I observed something new that I am now trying to understand.

Saturday night, my church's training school had our 2nd annual fundraiser: Anchor Rising, a coffeehouse and auction. It was a night of silent and live auctions, desserts and drinks, and live musical performances. Yours truly was one of said performances. One of the 20 minutes blocks was mine to fill.

Now here's the thing: I've never done anything quite like this before. I've played and sung in numerous musical group situations, and I've filled a 7 minute slot with reading poetry. But I've never filled 5 minutes, much less 20, with just my voice and fingers. So I was nervous. Excited for a new opportunity, but nervous, very nervous. When it was my turn, I took a deep breath, smoothed my skirts, and sang my five songs.

And here's where things get odd: I liked it. I almost didn't want to stop, wished I had more songs, more time, more...

I enjoyed it!

Where on earth did that come from? Now, maybe it helped that people were talking and eating and walking around, not paying full attention. Maybe it helped that I've been playing - albeit in a full band - in front of much larger crowds for the past nine months. Maybe it helped that I truly very much liked all the songs I was singing, and when singing them, poured myself into the music, caught up with it, just the same there as at home. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's that the music was such a part and expression of me that my heart is in it regardless of space or situation - the people just happen to be there, but don't really matter. Maybe it's tied to my growing enjoyment of reading poetry in front of people. Maybe...

Am I a performer? I've always, always, lived with and/or had good friends who were drama people. And have always, always, considered myself not one of them. But when you put music and I together, the combination produces unexpected results. I've always found music to be freeing somehow.

The thing is, for a while, I had no music. For three years (at least), in fact, I did not play or sing except rarely, never with others or near others. Music was taken away, removed, no longer a part of me. I had to find myself apart from it, no longer define myself according to it. Of course, the recognition of my response to it, how it affects me, remained and grew. But I did not make it.

Then I got it back. I was given permission to play again, then to sing, and then encouraged, and encouraged more. I find that I'm enjoying singing again! And my range is back - I'm a soprano again. I sing in the car, I sing in the kitchen, I hum under my breath even when I'm supposed to be quiet. And the music's been building in me this past year. I love it, and it loves me back.

But it's different than it was. I can't quite put my finger on the details, but it is to me a gift, not a right. It is something I take pleasure in, not something that I do because of course that's what I do (am)! It's different now - I'm not in choir, or steel band, or jazz band. But there's a sense in which what I have now is bigger than what I had before, and has more possibilities.

Who'd a-thunk that I'd like performing solo?

Who'd have guessed I ever would try it? And would ever want to do it again?

Not me.

Just goes to show how truly short-sighted I am.

I wonder what will happen next...