Housesitting Journals, Part the First

I burnt my waffle. Terribly.


There's no toaster here, so I turned the oven to 'broil,' put my waffle in my cast-iron skillet, and put that in the oven. Then forgot about it. When I finally opened the door, it smoked, and the top of my waffle was black. The underside, however, looked fine, so I scraped off the darkness, poured maple syrup on, and ate the light.


The second waffle I did not burn.




This week, I'm pet-sitting for a friend. The lonely-brained dog currently lies on the floor. Quiet, for a surprise. Poor thing wants me to pay more attention to her. What does it feel like to be her? 


Three rabbits dwell in a room upstairs. Their smell, mixed with hay, brings back childhood memories. I shall call it the Nostalgia Room. They are soft, smooth, and whiffly. And beautiful.


This is a wonderful little house. My friend's artwork hangs on the walls. Odds and ends she found decorate the rooms. It's cozy, homey, antique-y, and charming. My especial favourite thing is the bathroom sink. 


It is quiet here. There are lots of books. And the paintings and knick-knacks whisper stories.


I wonder if any of them will ask for ink?

I Drank Too Much Tea

Today is my first real day off since... May 4th. And that day wasn't actually free. Today is. Up until 7pm, I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. Lovely.


So the first thing I did was sleep. Both my flatmates are in France, so in the silence I slept. Then I woke up and made oatmeal French toast. Which I ate with a small cup of tea. Lover's Leap, one of my favorite blacks.


Then I put sorted dirty clothes, and started a load of laundry. Finally. Laundry's been waiting for a long, long time. And then I needed to write a letter. So, in true form, I made a pot of tea. Letter-writing goes with tea. I filled my little clay pot with bancha, a green tea, and sat down with my pen, stationery, and gaiwan. And drank that whole little pot of tea. And wrote a nice long letter to my friend.


Then got up and realized... whoops. I may have drunk too much tea. I'm a little jittery! I opened my computer to check my email, and discovered that I could barely type my password correctly. And I am typo-ing far more than usual. Sigh.


But I did put in a second load of laundry, and now both are drying. I washed a bunch more dishes. I should probably eat lunch. And I still need to wash my hair. I does feel good to do things that have been waiting to be done. It feels good to check items off my mental to-do list. It feels good to be in a quiet house. Jackhammers across the street don't undo the goodness. It feels good to know that this day is not only the day the Lord has made, but also a day for me to rest.


Isn't it strange that laundry counts as rest? Maybe this is part of growing up. Maybe having the time to sort laundry (I actually sorted warm and cold water wash! What?!), and then to write a leisurely letter, is a sign that I have time to rest. I think of Brother Lawrence, and how his work in the kitchen was prayer, was a sort of rest. Even work, when done like that, is refreshing. Even things that must be done can be rest-filled. How much is an attitude of the heart? How much is circumstance? How much is simply the refreshment of something different?


Welcome to my brain caffeinated. I end up a strange combination of jitters, let's-just-DO-things!, distraction, and ponderment. Part of me really wants to read. Part of me wants to do jumping jacks. Part of me wants to eat. Part of me... wants to DO something! Part of me wants to philosophize. And all of me is glad the day is mine.


What shall I do next?

This Finger-Painted Life

A day for finger-painting. My life is finger-painting. Messy, imprecise, a mix of colors, textures, splatters, lines. Nothing is exact - paint runs. Nothing is quite 'realistic' - fingers are tools more for ideas than details. And this paper isn't meant for the kind of image I want to create. You see, I like detail and realism - I like Durer's work, for example. That's what I want me to be like. But I'm not, and my art isn't, and my life certainly is not.

It feels, instead, that I am an awkward child, standing before an easel, only a few colours available. I imagined something beautiful, precise, detailed, but my fingers can't create that. All I can make is a mess, a simple, basic image full of mistakes and drips that doesn't look anything like my dreams.

This is what my living feels like, sometimes. Often. What my relating feels like. I'm not quite sure what I want, what my materials are capable of, how to translate what's in my head and heart onto the page.

So when I pause, wiping the paint on my pants because I've no spare rags, I am not satisfied with what I see. I want it to be better - more organized, more lovely, more balanced, more easily identified. This isn't what I wish I could do. Could be. And so I stop, critical, and questions pile in. A chunk of paint drops to the floor.

But then I look at my pots of paint - at what I do with my time, at who I'm investing myself in, at all the pieces of me - and I like those colours. I've specifically chosen them all. Looking at them, my fingers remember - I remember - what the paint feels like, and into the paint I dip my hands, and back onto the page.

Because I like this finger-painted life. It may not look pretty to anyone, I may get frustrated by my inability to make it look the way I imagined (or the way others say it should look), but I'm enjoying it, by golly!

I'd rather paint my own messy life now, you see, that give up, throw out my paints, and start over. So I'll keep going. (Say it again, me, I will keep going.) I don't know what it will look like in the end. My fingers may become stained with paint - and the floor, too. But I like these paints. I like using them. I like all these parts of my life - how they look individually, and how they mix in surprising ways. And so I remember this, and choose the remembering of the joys, and frustration fades again, and on I go - on I will go - painting my messy life.

And, somehow, it is beautiful to me.

leap day

yesterday
was the rarest day,
holding expectation and shaking
glory flakes
down
down

and i watched them as if for the first time, wonder-filled as they tipped branches and slowly transformed dead brown grass to white
white
white.

from inside i watched.
this day happens only once
every four years:
wonder.

the evening was mine.
i moved slowly.
i thought simple thoughts while stirring the pots.
my soul doth magnify.
blessed be He.
for You are with me.

dish soap bubbles collected in the sink.
my hands were clean.
hot peppermint brew warmed me.
it was my evening.

just me,
alone,
in my kitchen.

Life: Unmasked - Wonderment

It's Wednesday again, and I'm joining again with Life:Unmasked to write into the open the things inside.


There has been much silence in me lately. Or perhaps I mean quietness.

I have no adequate words for the events, for the new doing, new feelings, no words at all. And so I am quiet. I can't write down the slow, deep smile that grows on my lips whenever I remember. I can't explain the fluttering in my belly, the longing I find growing in my heart, the wonderment of hearing these words: "You are incredible."

I've been laughing so very much. It bubbles up, uncalled, unexpected, at odd times. The strangest things come to mind; why do I think of Fox in Socks? (Nose hose goes some. Crow's rose grows some.) And I've been tearing up, too. Stopping in the middle of movement to breathe slowly, rolling a memory through my mind and wondering how is it that I have been given this delight?

And I feel myself expanding. Sometimes the expansion hurts as something is torn down, broken, to make way for the new. Suddenly I'm learning quickly, changing quickly, accepting quickly what I've been struggling with for years: I am worthy. I am lovely. I am loved.

Am I beautiful? Someone says I am. Then, when I turn upwards, and ask, God, do you think I'm beautiful? He responds, ever so much, my daughter. And I can hear it now. And listen to it. And begin, more than ever before, to accept it.

Slow, fearful, cautious, rational me is wondering what is happening. Is wondering if most of life is a matter of timing; if most of good or not good is in the timing. Why would I claim dragging one's feet is the best pace through life? Especially when I could take life one full step at a time. Why would I be fearful when I've seen the steadfast love of God that graciously gives more than I can imagine? Why would I be cautious - as if I can protect myself by my own carefulness - when I could be trusting and confident in the Spirit's ability to guide my steps? Why would I be restricted by the rational when I could let my heart speak?

I feel I'm walking half-dizzy, stumbling through an unfamiliar dance. It's exhilarating, confusing, at times very frustrating, and I feel foolish one moment and incredibly happy the next. But I'm dancing! And it is good.

Life: Unmasked - Enjoy

A day late's better than never, right? Joining again with Life:Unmasked to write into the open the things inside.

Today, I'm thinking about enjoyment.

Mostly I'm thinking about how hard it is for me to accept. By which I mean I tend to feel guilty for enjoying things. Then, because I know this is ridiculous, I feel guilty for being unable to accept the enjoyment.

The thing is, if you ask me, I will say that enjoyment is good. I will tell you that's what I believe. That I believe takes pleasure in our enjoyment of His gifts. That food is good, beauty is good, relationships are good, furry animals are good, crunchy leaves are good, hugging is good, laughing is good, reading is good, and so many other things are good, too.

But I read recently that what we truly believe is more accurately revealed in our actions than in our pat statements. And hard as this is to hear, it's true. If I say I believe that enjoyment is good, but I act otherwise, do I really believe that?

Let me differentiate a little between enjoyment and rejoicing. Rejoicing I really truly deeply do believe is good. I am learning to rejoice in all circumstances, in everything and at all times. I'm learning to love the act of giving thanks, of choosing to be glad. And it's changing the colour of my life. But rejoicing is a chosen response to that which is, or appears to be. Enjoyment is not quite the same. It is much less of a choice (although the choice element remains, on some level), and more of a reaction. I enjoy a good poem not because I evaluate its words and rhythms and sounds, but on a more more instinctive, reactive level. It's a more physical response.

And I can barely let myself think, much less type this: enjoyment is very often physical. And it can be good. Physical enjoyment can be a very good thing. There. I wrote it. I wrote it.

But can I believe it?

Can I believe that this body is a thing to be enjoyed and an instrument of enjoyment? Can I believe that this body - and all that goes with it - is truly good?

This is a consistent struggle - to see the goodness and glory of the body, and not to simply see and acknowledge it, but also to live and enjoy it.

I don't know why it is so difficult for me to accept this. I do know that so many mixed messages abound in our culture that it is easy to become confused. I do know that teaching in churches often glosses over our physical beings, or somehow makes them seem bad. I do know that somehow, in all of this, comes the fact of incarnation. If God became one of us, and lived among us, in the flesh, then the flesh is holy. This mortal flesh is holy.

My thinking about this becomes all entangled with my feeling. I cannot organize rational, clear thoughts or arguments about all this, but I do get frustrated. (Feelings, again!) I get frustrated with the difficulty of vocabulary, with the finitude of reason, with the strength of emotions, with the irrationality of it all. But my frustration clarifies nothing, and I'm left looking at my words with a sense of deja vu. I already said this! And am just as far away from understanding it! Gah!

But this mortal flesh is holy. Somehow, for some reason, the body is good. I need to keep reminding myself of this. I need to force myself to allow my behaviour to follow. I need to let myself enjoy things. To let myself feel. To let myself go into the realm of the irrational. And perhaps to acknowledge that unless I let myself into this irrational realm, I will be incomplete. I need to trust that, as my friend Hilary puts it, the mystery of us is "souls that meet bodies and dwell together in such a way that I don't know how to know one without the other." Yes. The soul goes with the body. The mind goes with the body. And I've been trying to tell myself this, trying to accept the Truth of it surrounding me, even while I keep fighting against it.

Can you hear my struggle? Can you tell how embattled I am? And can you tell me something, even some small thing, that will help me really believe the goodness in this physical bodily work of God's art?

Killing the Trees of Isengard

Today, as I stood binding "The History and Appreciation of Wine" at work, they were taking down the trees on the bluff outside. It hurt. But I couldn't tear my eyes away.

Friday night, I watched The Fellowship of the Ring, extended edition, for the first time in years. My friends have a big screen, and good sound, and the detail blew me away. But out of all the difficult moments in the film, out of all the heart-wrenching events, one of the ones that hurt me the most was the destruction of the trees of Isengard. Each time a tree fell, the blow slammed through my belly. As they pulled the trees over, as the roots stretched and snapped out of the ground, my entire body tensed and ached. Each broken root tore at part of me. I arced my back, as if my muscles could hold the trees' life. But they fell, one by one, crashing, breaking branches as they landed. And if I hadn't had a friend to hold me, I probably would have cried out in deep pain, over and over. Oh, it hurt!

Then today, I saw real trees killed. They tied the tops to a crane, so nothing fell, nothing crashed - just the crescendo of the chainsaw, and another tree piece floated away. But it hurt nonetheless.

But there wasn't anger this time, just sorrow. They were cutting down the trees to make room for construction - a sign of the college's growth. Saruman cut down his trees to fuel furnaces to make weapons and creatures of evil and destruction. And that made me angry. How could he? How dare he?!? Even knowing the story, anger welled up. How dare he destroy life in order to bring about more destruction?

I was never this angry before. When I first saw the movies - even when I first saw The Two Towers, with Treebeard's horrified response to Saruman's behaviour - I was not this angry. I was sorrowful, to be sure. I couldn't understand how Saruman could make the decisions he made. But I was not angry.

Now, I am. Very very angry. I felt it building a pressure inside of me, and an ache and an anger, that, if given the power, would make him stop. How dare someone destroy something beautiful and good to bring about destruction? How dare they? I feel like the only proper response to this is anger. Can anger, indeed, be righteous? I often wonder this, I with the violent yet quickly cooled temper. Is it possible for anger to be good?

This brings to mind the story of Jesus in the temple, the one I've heard so many times, how Jesus overturned the tables, and drove people out of the temple with a whip. See, I'm used to hearing that Jesus was angry here. And that this justifies a "righteous" anger. But I just looked it up, and it doesn't say that Jesus was angry. Perhaps he was - perhaps he wasn't.

Do the Gospels ever specifically say that Jesus was angry?

Once. Only once. And the context surprises me.

Mark 3:3-5

"Jesus said to the man with the shriveled hand, 'Stand up in front of everyone.' Then Jesus asked them, 'Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?' But they remained silent.

He looked around at them in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts, said to the man, 'Stretch out your hand.' He stretched it out, and his hand was completely restored."

Jesus was angry because they were silent in the face of his question. They gave no answer. Which is lawful, to do good or to do evil? Which is lawful, to save life or kill? And they were silent.

This almost knocks me over.

This is huge. This is much bigger than my anger with Saruman for destroying the trees of Isengard. Jesus' anger is stirred by the silence and indifference of those who should know better. They should have known that good is better than evil. They should have known the saving life is better than killing. And yet. They wouldn't answer.

Why was Treebeard's anger stirred against Saruman? Not simply because someone had destroyed the trees, but because "A wizard should know better!"

Why was Jesus' anger stirred against the Pharisees? Because they should have known better!

I have every reason to be angry with Saruman, and to be hurt, deeply, with every effort to further evil and death.

This makes me wonder: am I angry enough?

Looking at the world today, at people today, at the ambivalence lurking and spreading everywhere - we live in a place where anything is acceptable. When people pursue evil, and destruction, and killing, we - I - sit back and merely say we wish they wouldn't do such things. WHAT?! "Oh, I wish that person weren't killing so many." Seriously? Is that all the response I have? Is that all the response we have? Where's the anger?

Because, honestly, I should be angry.

Yup. I just said it. And I think I mean it. Sometimes, I should be angry.

Maybe not when I'm watching a fictional movie. Maybe not when they're cutting down trees for construction. But maybe, sometimes it's good to be angry.

May God grant me the discernment to see when I should be angry, and the wisdom to know what then I should do.

coming back to home from home

I just want to write. At this moment, snot pouring inconveniently, my head still a bit achy, the smell of paint boring into me, I want to write. (And for some reason, I keep typing 'right' instead.)

Maybe it's because I've been reading posts on writing, on its necessity, its struggle, its beauty (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-hilary-love-hilary-life-unmasked.html, and http://www.billycoffey.com/2010/01/writing-naked/). Maybe it's because I received two letters yesterday, both written in script, both well formed and encouraging. Maybe it's because that one short postcard I penned last night was a match, and the fuse fizzed all night, and now the wood is catching on fire. Maybe it's because words feed me, hold me, hurt me, help me, and right now I can use all the help I can get.

Because sickness is watching me. Standing too close, draping its unpleasant arm across my shoulder, using the top of my head as a chinrest. I am homesick. I am heartsick. I am bodysick. I am soulsick. (No. Not 'I am,' but 'I am fighting not to be.') It's only been a few days since I returned to the East Coast, and I miss my family something terrible. So much. So so much. It hurts. And I haven't seen many here, yet, haven't had many hugs, haven't done much except shiver in the bitter cold outside and cook to distract myself inside. (The cooking went well. That was a blessing. And it warmed the kitchen substantially.) And my body is at odds with me. I know I deserve this, the way I treated it, the toll the traveling and sleeplessness took. But I want it to heal faster. I want it to prove to me that it's happier than it was a year ago, by recovering more quickly now. (Patience, especially with myself, has never been a strong point. Parentheticals, apparently, are.)

Ah, me. This January, there are too many moving, unfocused parts. And my heart is sore within me. Last night, as I told the chiropractor that I would have to stop getting adjustments until I can save enough to afford it, I almost burst out crying. (I didn't. And he said they'll try to work something out with me that I can afford. Which almost made me cry again...) Driving home, I just wanted to keep going, find a dark cliff by the water, curl up, and weep. Instead, I made dinner, and wrote my sister a postcard. That helped.

The most difficult part of going home is always coming back.

I don't like this sadness. I don't like the fever. I don't like the homesickness. I want to rejoice, to give thanks, to be filled with joy. So I am thankful today isn't as cold as yesterday. And I am thankful that my experimental chicken noodle soup turned out spectacularly. I am thankful my bed is warm. I have food to eat, a place to live, and friends.

And this too shall pass. The chaos will subside. January's uncertainty will give way to direction and clarity. God will guide and provide. The homesickness will never quite go away, but I can live with it. My family is a phone call away. They have a mail box. And it is such a blessing to have them. Blessing... There are many blessings. Rejoice anyway, little one. And hope.

And all shall be well, and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.

ready to go, oh, so very ready

Now that my bags are (almost) completely packed, I allow myself a few minutes to stretch, breathe.  It's finally sinking in: I really, truly am going home. My flight leaves in four hours. In 20 hours, I'll be back with my beautiful redwoods, hugging my family for the first time in too, too long.

It's been a crazy past few weeks. So busy, of course, with work. Add to that extra hours, extra gatherings with friends, this new thing called chiropractic, and a birthday party, and it's been much too busy. It's been fun, too, mostly. Stressful. My appetite is finally returning today after a week of barely being able to eat enough. I'm still in slight (happy) shock after Monday's turnout to my party. Add to that other twists and turns, and I'm finding myself clinging to this one certainty: Soon, I will be with my family.

I love the people here, and often they feel like family to me. They scold me, encourage me, laugh at me (make me laugh), and generally show me that they care about me. And it is a wonderment. A beautiful incomprehension. It amazes me how much of a life I have here. So much gift.

But they've only known me at most 6 years. Most have known me 3 or less. That's so little. And there's so much history, so many ups and downs and glories and wounds, that very few know about. And they don't know my family. They've never seen the absurdity, or the seriousness, that all blends together into the quiet laughing praying intensity that characterizes my family. And I always wonder how you can understand someone without knowing at least some of their family. I also feel like I don't know how to understand myself when I'm away so long. Maybe this is a silly expectation, but I expect to see myself more clearly as a result of this trip. 

Regardless of all this... I'm going home. I'm not super focused right now, because there's that one piece the swirling always finds. And oh, does it make my heart glad!

and I thank you all

Thank you, my friends.

You made last night spectacularly fun. You make my life spectacular. I feel blessed daily to know you all. My life truly is richer with you all in it.

Thank you for dressing up just because I suggested it. Your ninja costumes were amazing. Thank you for coming up with crazy skits to entertain me, just because I asked you to. Thank you for making me laugh, over and over again. I can't begin to tell you how much I love laughing.

Thank you for bringing me lovely cards and gifts. They were an unexpected bonus. Your generosity continues to astound and inspire me.

Thank you, all, for being yourselves. I love you, and am so thankful and honoured to know you and to count you as friends.

briefly, I walk through Orvieto

Italy came to me last night.

Hands in pockets, head tilted down against the cold, my rush for home stumbled as I passed Trattoria Bellamia. White lights garlanded the leafless trees, and the air suddenly sang out: 'Italia!'

All in a rush came our laughing walks back to the monastery through the quiet night streets of Orvieto. Came the puffs our breath made in the lamplight. Came the breathed-in hush of the town. Came the uneven cobbles beneath our feet. Came the wide-open expanse of starred sky. Came the sense of rightness, of expectancy, of surprise, of something I never could quite pin a word to, and still can't.

My heart ached within me as a car spun down Cabot. The streets are too wide here, too open to be Orvieto. And the cars too big. And the buildings too spaced apart. This isn't Italy. It never can be. But for a moment - for a long stretched moment that I breathed in and held as long as I could - I felt Italy. Orvieto crowded around, gently, beautifully, surely.

It has been almost one year - eleven months - since I was there. And still, when I see pictures of Rome (the Spanish steps! my heart stopped; I remember climbing those, slowly, savoring each step, trying to pour and pull it all in so that I would have them with me always...), when a flavor reminds me of that glorious food, when a smell, the humidity of the air, a word... when these things appear or flash by, I feel them. A blow in my belly, a catch in my lungs, a wild synapse bursting in my mind and down my body... I remember. I remember. I still remember.

Odd, to think how deeply Italy is in me, how below, beyond words the experience; odd, how permanently it seems those ten days are a part of me. Ten days. Much can happen, even more can linger, and happen much later from the seeds sown then. I can't help be convinced that me, as I am now, is because of Italia.

I've tried to figure what I learned in Italy, what, exactly, happened to me. I still can't pin it down. But it just came to me: it had something to do with dreams, and beauty, and longing, and glory and wonder. I saw, heard, touched, smelled, tasted things of beauty, places with long pasts. I laid my hands flat against a marble pillar, and felt years and years and years. And I could not comprehend the stretch of time or the depth and breadth of feeling. Italy has seen so much! Italy has hurt so much, has loved so much, has suffered, has hoped, has despaired, has created. The land is full - so full.

And you know what it stirs in me? I want to be full.

I want to live, and be filled, and not ever ever fall asleep to wanting more fullness. I want to live each day in the hope of being filled.

This involves dreaming; developing the hopes of things to come, things to seek, things to be desired. The idea of being willing to dream has come up over and over this past year. It is very difficult for me. How can I justify deciding I want something, especially something outrageous or beautiful, when it's just for me? But then, I wandered around Italy, and thought, how can you not dream in a place like this? And how could a place like this come to be if people weren't dreamers?

So now I've been learning to dream. It comes slowly, and sometimes I have to fight to even accept my dreams. I have to let go, to let myself want things. But it's beautiful. And it's hopeful.

Then last night, when Italia flashed across my path, and the air thickened and my steps and breathing slowed, and my hands tingled, and my mind exhaled and my heart opened wide, last night glory and wonder filled that moment.

And yes, I miss Italia. I miss it ever so much, especially in the quiet cold. But memory is a glory - Italy is still with me. My dreams are growing and flourishing in its soil.

In one of those dreams, I return to Italy.

no, humbug!

But it doesn't feel like Christmas-time yet!

All of my usual markers are missing this year. There was no Thanksgiving break and travel to indicate the end of November and the fall. I have no pending exams. We're not prepping feverishly for winter concerts, or Madrigal dinners. I'm not singing Christmas music, or playing it. And it's not cold. We aren't in the midst of the several-weeks-pre-Christmas deluge; and it isn't even close to snowing. I haven't been wearing gloves! The sun is still shining warmly.

Bah, humbug!

Why is Scrooge in my head? Why am I chafing at the cheerful Christmas songs - about snow, gifts, and love - playing in the lobby? (But enjoy the music from the Nutcracker?) Why do stories of shopping rushes and stresses make me sick? Why do I find some part deep in me rejecting all these things?

But maybe that's ok. Not ok that I become Scrooge, or live in some disgruntled land, but ok that I'm bothered by a consumer-focused attitude. Maybe what I need is some other thing to think about, to make Christmas about. Maybe what I need is some other reason to celebrate December besides that one day.

A friend of mine has been writing about Advent here (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/), and it's gotten me thinking: why don't I spend the next few weeks pondering the mystery of Incarnation? Why not prepare myself for celebrating God with us?

Because I don't know how, whispers a voice.

But I don't need to know how, I reply. I just need to do it. I need to remember, every day, about the wonderful mystery of the Word made flesh. I need to remember that Christmas is about receiving the greatest gift.

Celebration is not dependent on weather, songs, exams, or location. It is dependent on the attitude of my heart. If this Christmas is truly to be a time of glory and rejoicing, I must set my heart down, let it be vulnerable, and choose to dance away the heaviness. "If anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think on these things!"

Celebrate... my car is all fixed up, new battery and all.
Celebrate... the weather is warm and lovely.
Celebrate... there are many amazing and gracious here with whom I get to share life.
Celebrate... for connections with people from past places and seasons.
Celebrate... there is a baby grand piano I may play.
Celebrate... I am going home for Christmas.

It is hard to explain how much this last point means to me. It's such a great big wonderful thing that I can't spend much time thinking about it, lest I burst with impatience and joy and expectation and .... all kinds of other things. I am going home. If for no other reason, I should be able to rejoice every day because of this one simple fact: I am going home.

That is enough.

No more grumbling about shallow lyrics, or crazy shoppers. No more finding reasons to say it isn't Christmas-time yet. Because it is always Christmas; it is always Immanuel, God with us. This is just the time of the year when we make a great celebration about it.

It is always Christmas, and I am going home.

Now I don't mind the Christmas music so much.

when inaction just won't do

I was a master of inaction.

I dedicated years of my life to learning invisibility. I watched from the edge, the corner, watched closely, but did not interfere. I didn't volunteer my opinions, advices, or beliefs. I let people assume what they would, but did not solicit their concern. If self-effacement is an art, I was an artist. Or thought I was, and pretended to be satisfied.

But now, ten years later, I regret those habits I so painstakingly formed and built, fortress-like, around my self. Because now, when I want to be known, want to be involved, want to speak, want to act, I battle not only unformed habits but also formed anti-habits. It's not just that I don't know very well how to relate with, live with, and love on people - I know very well how to cut them out, avoid them, and hold them at a cautious distance or in casual disdain.

Doing nothing is easy.

But doing nothing is neither acceptable nor desirable.

"It is given to man to lift up the fallen and to free the imprisoned. Not merely to wait, not merely to look on! Man is able to work for the redemption of the world. The work is not yours to finish, but neither are you free to take no part in it."

I always knew this. Deep inside, under all the layers of self protection, isolation and indifference felt wrong. Dissatisfaction curled in my gut, but all those noises outside were unfamiliar and frightening and potentially dangerous and it was simpler to stay alone behind closed doors and shuttered windows with a half-empty mug of cold tea, staring into a pathetic smoky fire.

At some point, dissatisfaction grew so big, and my curiosity got so strong, and all my little dreams begged so loudly to be let out of the stifling room, that I started opening the windows. And sometimes the doors. Then stepping outside to breathe, to play, to explore.

Now I've gotten so far away from that little smoky hut that I'd have trouble finding it again. Yet I still habitually look for shelter. I flee loud noises. I hide from people. I sit, knees pulled up, back against a wall or tree, wondering if life ever feels stable or secure. And always, always, there's a running discussion in my head over whether I want to explore alone or with someone else, and whether I can trust people or not, and whether anyone will want to go to the places I want to go, or find interesting the things I find interesting (which is almost everything), and how in the world will I manage finding my friends in this great wide life if we step away from each other for a moment.

The habits of fear, of doubt, of second-guessing, are strong. Retreating is still easier than pressing through.

But it just won't do anymore.

I've seen enough love, heard enough answers, enjoyed enough spontaneity, received enough encouragement, and felt enough life, that I can not - will not - back away. I know what it's like to get this far - how could I stop now?

I have felt myself grow, deepen, strengthen; I feel more alive, more complex, more full than I've ever been. I have tasted freedom, joy, trust, abundant laughter, and fun. And I want more.

I want to become a master of action. This doesn't mean some uncontrollable, undirected wildness - doing things for the sake of staying busy. Rather, the one who is a master of action knows when - and how - to be still as well as to be in motion. It is the comprehensive attainment of balance.

I want to be one of whom it can be truly said "she is never shaken or dismayed." I want to be one who persistently explores the depths and potentials of goodness and strength, in myself, in others, in communities, in this world. I desire consistency among my thoughts, words, and actions. I desire truth in the inmost parts. I desire peace, and joy, and health, and strength. I desire challenge, stretching, development. I want to be a different person yet again next year than I am this year. I want my actions to be thoroughly directed by the conviction that there is always hope, always growth, always a future.

Let there be life; and let that life be abundant and free.

rainy day

And so it rains.

Today, my day for walking errands: post office, bank, grocery store. And it's raining. And will be dark soon. And I still need to take my car up to the shop, take the train back down, walk home from the train...

I should have gotten going earlier. This is my day off. I could have scheduled it much better. I could have actually scheduled. But I didn't. And now the rain falls.

But these things must be done. I must drop my car off. I could - and probably will - stop by the post office and grocery store on my way home from the train station. The bank will wait. The food can't.

And then? I will still have several hours of day. All to myself.

I will have to choose to do what I wanted to do. I hate the pre-choice moments, but I know I'll be glad I made them - afterwards. When I get home from the store, I will make dinner. And render lard - a new process that I hope I won't screw up.

Then, in my Wednesday evening apartment all to myself time, what shall I do?

What should I do?

What do I want to do?

Does what I want match what I should?


I wish it weren't raining, murmurs below my breath. Or that it gets dark so early now. I'd go watch the sunset. And be refreshed.

Because refreshment is what I truly want. Refreshment and rejuvenation. How will I find those, alone in my apartment, on a dark, rainy Wednesday night?

But my angle is all wrong again. So I deliberately pick up my viewpoint, turn it around, and resettle my head, my heart.

I'm going to have an evening alone! (For introvert me, alone time is a blessed thing. Remember that, self.) And the rain will patter its feet outside! (I'm the one always telling people how beautiful the rain is! Why would it bother me?) And I will be able to do whatever I choose! (Again, such a glorious thought! I can do something I love, and nobody can stop me or mock me.) This is good. I have so many choices. Opportunity will join me with a slow, encouraging smile.

Again, I ask myself: what will I do tonight?

But this time, I ask with expectation.

(So, it turned out well. Unexpected, but well. I didn't leave my car at the shop, so I drove to the grocery store - in the rain - and drove home. I rendered a batch of lard, and exercised, too! The lard turned out well, and it felt so good to work out!

Blessings followed me.)

Looking for the Celebration

As we approach the "holiday season," most people think about the food. And by think, I really mean worry. They're plotting all those extras - extra helpings, extra desserts, extra everythings - and also plotting how they will go on a strict diet at the end of the "season" to make up for what they ate.

I, too, am thinking about the food. But my reasons are different. You see, so much of what fills standard table for Thanksgiving and Christmas is food that I can't eat. This isn't in some I-know-it's-better-for-me-if-I-don't-way - this is serious. No gluten, no dairy. And, in addition to those strict restrictions, I know from experience that I feel and operate much better if I don't consume very many grains or much sugar at all. So, without gluten, dairy, or sugar, what does one eat when groups gather to celebrate?

That is why I'm thinking about food. I don't want to be thinking about it. I'd like to be able to go to parties and eat whatever was offered, but I can't. If I do, I'll get really sick. Seriously. And be unable to function. And be miserable, and go crazy, and, in short, be SICK. So I HAVE to think about food.

Next week is Thanksgiving, the first of the upcoming celebrations, and the one that, due to my upbringing, is the biggest deal of them all. Thanksgiving is the time to be with people, and be thankful, and enjoy good things. But I won't be with my family this year. I am undecided regarding where I will be - thankfully, I have options - but in making a decision I am plagued with this question: will I be able to eat what I am offered? Who but family would readjust their entire menu so that I wouldn't have to double-check the ingredient list for each dish?

Thankfully, there is one option at a gluten-free household. I wouldn't have to worry there. I can trust their sources of meat and eggs, and all my concern over the details of food would evaporate. I trust them. Most of what I know about food I learned from them.

Then I have another option, one with more concern, but with a group of people that I see less often. Right now, I'd prefer to be with them. But is it worth the potential hassle? I know if I ask, they'll be willing to try to accommodate, but I hate asking so much, and it's hard for me to not be wondering the whole time what is in my food.

And later, there's Christmas. This year - finally! - I'm going home. Gluten-free is even more necessary for my sister than for me, so that won't be an issue. But there are other questions... Other things I have ideas for... I'd rather have more veggies and less grain... and so I'll probably be bringing my own recipes, looking for ingredients, and trying to find ways of baking good things without dairy (for me) and without coconut (for my sister). Tricky. Very tricky.
And since my dietary habits have changed a LOT in the past two years, I don't know how much I'll have to buy and prepare my own food while I'm home to avoid falling back into relying on grains to fill my stomach and sugar to give me energy.

The other tricky part of going home will be seeing friends I haven't seen in... a long time. Going out to eat may not be possible. Hanging out at someone's house, snacking and talking, may not be possible. And since food is such an integral part of the social experience, how do I show my care for my friends when I won't eat with them? They won't deliberately be offended, but unconsciously, we are bothered when people won't accept what we offer them.

But here's the thing: I don't want to be thinking about food, and seeing people, and celebration, from the point of view of concern over whether something will make me sick. I don't want to be worrying constantly. I don't want to have to explain, over and over and over again, why I'm not eating their food. I don't want to be sitting on the negative side.

I want to celebrate.

I want to rejoice, to laugh, to smile, to relish the flavour of a tasty dish, to sing, and to be filled to overflowing with joy. I want my Thanksgiving day to be overflowing with gratitudes, with thanks, with praises, with an awareness of all those good things, however small, that add up to make this such a wonderful world. I want my Christmastime to be a time of celebration, of love, of catching up, of walking by the Pacific, of fun, of challenges, of being with my family in a real and powerful way.

And, yes, I want to eat. I want to eat food that tastes good, looks good, and is good. I want to feel nourished, strengthened, and rejuvenated by my meals. I want to eat large portions. I want to eat blackberry pie again. I want to enjoy the food that is such a marker of our holidays.

And I want to eat without worry or fear.

This is what I want this holiday season: free and jubilant celebration.

afire

"Man is made so that when anything fires his soul the impossibilities vanish."

'But if I say, "I will not mention him or speak any more in his name,"
his word is in my heart like a fire,
a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
indeed, I cannot.'

Fire.

I've always loved fire. Not the smoke, but the flame. Now, as the trees in New England burn and fly off their branches, and a bright round moon holds sway in the night sky, I feel a fire inside. This fire is yet a few sparks, some smoldering wood - enough tinder and matches but not enough air. Not yet a full, roaring bonfire.

But it wants to be. Yes, this fire has its own desires. It wants to be a big one, a flying all-consuming one, the kind that burns but does not consume: a glory fire.

A few of the giant logs waiting to burst into flame I can identify. I see their shapes, and know what they are, where they came from, how seasoned they are for the burning, but I do not know when their glowing ends will breathe into full fire.

Other pieces of wood, some twigs, some giant quarter-sections, I don't recognize. But they're waiting, too. And I hear the footsteps of the wood-gatherer in the forest, and know that as this gets blazing, more fuel will be added - much more.

I don't want to ride on somebody else's passion.
I don't want to find I'm just dry bones.
I want to burn with unquenchable fire.
Deep down inside, see it coming alive.

I long to burn. If I don't, I shall explode instead, or go stark mad. I've got wood ready, and my matches, too. Now I simply wait the wind to set me afire.

Soon...

Bibliophilia

Signs that you may be a bibliophile:

Number 2n+1 = a book is one of the ONLY things that can keep you sitting still and fully occupied for more than 2 hours.

Not even most movies can do this. I get antsy watching movies. I tend to pause them somewhere in the middle to get up and go do something, get something, say hi to someone, or at least make snarky comments.

Books, on the other hand... Granted, it depends on the book. BUT, books DO have the ability to keep me in one place for four hours straight (barring the necessity of a bathroom break... which I sometimes put off a painfully long time because I DON'T WANT TO STOP READING).

Ah, books. I don't always understand them, and sometimes a voice in my head mutters that I could be better spending my time, but when I find one that snatches and grabs and won't let go, and I spend a good portion of my day reading it ALL THE WAY THROUGH... 'tis one of the joys in life.

I am truly grateful for books.

it begins

FIRST SNOW!

Lovely. Driving down 128, we exclaimed when it started, and our driver was so excited he honked the horn. We almost stopped by the side of the road, too. Snow falling through headlights - glorious.

Winter has opened its eyes. Still groggy, it will close them again before it is ready to be wild. But its gaze cooled the air just enough, and its yawn breathed just enough moisture that its first awakening dropped snow.

Autumn's dancing has tired her. We've watched her losing bits of her cloak, leaving them plastered to the pavement by her rain. The warmth of Summer is gone, and Autumn hasn't much of her own heat left to keep her going. I wonder: which comes first, the sleep of Autumn, or the waking of Winter?

Either way, the snow whispers of stillness, and silence, and rightness. And so I smile.

eclectic being

I be an odd one, methinks: my Amazon order arrived today, and it consisted of The Count of Monte Cristo (complete and unabridged, Penguin Classic edition), Tramp For the Lord (Corrie ten Boom), and two albums by the band RED (a rather loud, intense band). And I was so excited for all of it.

Now, my dress needs to be finished, so in all likelihood, I will be handstitching a Renaissance dress while listening to symphonic screamo. While drinking white tea. And wearing my Dr. Horrible tee-shirt.

And I like this scenario, very much.

I'm definitely not a proper young lady. What would Jane Austen think of me? I have yet to find a fictional character with such varied interests who somehow remained a convincingly sane person. Shall I judge myself insane according to fiction's lack, or count myself sane regardless? Rather than decide, I will sew. Tiny, evenly-spaced stitches, until the zipper is firmly in place. The dress WILL be done by Saturday, I declare.

A New Goal to Work Towards...

My goal for this year:

Memorize Ephesians. ALL of it.

I'm operating based on the school year, so I'm giving myself through next June. Starting now. So by the end of October, I will have Chapter One memorized. 

My goal for this week: verses 1-6:

"Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God,

To the saints in Ephesus, the faithful in Christ Jesus:

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the spiritual realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will - to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves."

Think I can do it?