Good Things on Mondays

My friend Catherine had an idea this morning: use Mondays as a day to remember and look forward to Good Things. As one of the many who has a normal workday Monday, I want to implement this idea. Even if I can't come up with something to write every Monday, I want to at least make a mental list.

Right after reading Catherine's post, I came up with my own mini-list:

• Dancing barefoot with the pug to hits from the '40s. She thinks the samba is foot-tag.

• Flowers and leaves EVERYWHERE! Spring has splashed itself on every single plant right now. Stunning.

• Liturgy. I'm getting some of the tunes memorized, so I can think about the words while I'm singing instead of focusing on hitting the right notes. And the words are good.

• Ideas. My head's full of them, and I like that.

          *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Idea: read at least three short stories each week.

Idea: find a book of Mary Oliver's poetry, and read a poem before sleep each night.

Idea: get kombucha going by Mother's Day.

Idea: continue editing my list of science fiction to read, making it useful for deciding both if and how I could design a Master's program I'd love.
  SubIdea: religious ideas seem rare in sci-fi. But is this a good thing? Is it merely a sign of our cultural divide between religion and science, or does it also serve to increase their opposition? 
  SubIdea: if sci-fi tends to function as a questioner of the status quo, would/should the role of religion in sci-fi be different now than it was in, say the 1950s?

Idea: form some sort of structure that will a) ask me to write, and b) hold me accountable to some form of regular sentence-making. 
  SubIdea: try to post weekly here?
  SubIdea: create a new space (wordpress?), and share it with those who will read it, and call me to task if I write nothing. 
  SubIdea: but what do I want to write? To get going, I think I need a trigger, something to trampoline the ideas out of my half-consciousness.

Idea: find a time-machine, and go back to the 1800s to listen to George Eliot and her friends converse.

Idea: dance in my room more often. To this end, put more music on my computer. And let the pug in more often.

          *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

It's Monday, and it's often hard to be with Mondays. But my Monday evenings are usually mine alone, and it's not Monday's fault it got stuck at the beginning of the work-week. I want to start out the week well, with gratitude, with rest, with fun, with a good dinner.

What will this week bring? I'm not sure. Probably some of it will be frustrating. Some of it will be beautiful. Some of it will be side-splitting laughter. Some of it will be poetry. Some of it will be music.

But Spring is here at last. And somehow that makes everything alright.

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?

May Rains Down

This is the weather for walking, solitary, through the dripping woods.

This is the weather for standing where the waves stop, searching grey mists for an elusive watery horizon.

This is the weather for pausing, imprinting the image of that bright robin amidst the brighter green in the memory.

This is the weather for waiting, eyes closed, on the porch, til the symphony of rain and dripping fills your ears, your head, your heart.

This is the weather for living.

This is the weather for sitting, curled, with hot tea and a book, reading a page, then staring out, then reading more.

This is the weather for humming, ballads and old hymns, quietly as soap and hot water clean dishes of the day's mess.

This is the weather for lying down, covered by pattering water-sounds, and praying those hopes and dreams that get buried by busyness.

This is the weather for pulling up a chair to the desk, paper lit by one lamp and one hazy window, to flow words from your heart to your mind to your pen. 

This is the weather for being.

 

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.

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...

Friendship & (Mis)Communication

I've been thinking about friendship lately. And about communication. Turns out, the two are connected. Who would've thought?

Friend. What does it mean to be a friend? Why do some friendships last, and others fizzle, or still others break? How do two people end up on opposite ends of the seesaw regarding their friendship? I'm not thinking about this because of Facebook and its phenomenon of online 'friends' that we sometimes barely know. I'm thinking about this because of the friends that I have - and do not have - here, nearby.

I have friends with whom I (almost) immediately bonded - you know the ones, the ones with whom you had one crazy enthusiastic conversation that started your friendship with a fun bang. Then there are the friends that I sort-of, almost knew for two years before ever considering considering them a friend. There are ones with whom I have almost nothing in common; others seem an extension of myself.

What does it take to make a friend? To build a friendship? To keep a friend?

I'm still thinking through these questions. I'm forming hypotheses, and watching how they play out. But of one thing I am fairly certain: lasting, deep friendships require time. Time spent in communication - time talking, playing, laughing, walking, sharing an activity, or eating together. This is not to say that knowing someone over a long period of time automatically relates to an increased level of friendship, but simply that becoming and being good friends requires time.

It requires input - effort. You can't put nothing into your relationship with someone and expect it to be something or go anywhere. Some friendships seem to come naturally, easily, but guess what? Once you're in an environment where you don't see that person every single day, you have to make an effort to maintain connection. You have to call them, make plans, follow through on plans. Your schedules will conflict, and you'll have to make that friendship a priority. Sometimes you can see someone once a year and still have an amazing time together - I don't mean to devalue those friendships. They are wonderful miracles. But when it comes to the dirty living, you've got to make an effort. So you really like hanging out with that person? Call them. Make plans during that one time a week you see them at church.

Dang it. It's hard to do all this. At least it's hard for me. I'm not an initiator - I'd rather other people call me. But the reality is this: if I consider you my friend; if I enjoy spending time with you, talking with you; if I think you're a really awesome amazing person; if I think all this, but I never reach out to you, how is our friendship going to flourish? So I'm working on spending more time with people. And I'm working on figuring out what this friend thing looks like.

Communication. Mostly I've just been realizing - again - how extremely important communication is. This should be obvious, right? And perhaps its necessity is obvious. But how do we do it well? How do people who think completely differently communicate? And in a community, how do we help each other communicate well and honestly and lovingly?

I've been noticing a lot of miscommunications. And I've been noticing that I notice them. I'm in a group of people, and Person A makes a comment. Persons B and C don't get why they said it. There's a pause. Person C says something else. This drives me bonkers. I catch the disconnect - I can tell that some people didn't understand why or what was said. I can tell what the person meant, and also why it wasn't understood. Sometimes I can tell how it could be made understandable.

I wish we talked more about the responsibility of the speaker to try to make themselves understood. But again, it's easier to just blame the hearer - just say they just don't understand. It's crazy to me - how little we're willing to try to change what we say to help others. Maybe, though, it's just crazy to me because I've spent the last year learning - against my expectation - to be able to communicate with people who are drastically different than I. They think differently, hear and interpret differently, yet I can say what I mean in such a way that they understand me.

This surprises me - how I notice the miscommunications - how I can tell why - how I feel like I know how to reword things, get past the interpretive distortion. But what do I do? It feels an impressive thing, heavy with potential. And with responsibility.

But it's important. I know it is. I've watched friendships fail because of a lack of understanding. I've watched discontent grow, spread. I've heard of worse problems. It makes me sad. It makes me want to do something, anything, to alleviate this. I just don't know how.

And, of course, there are still so many questions. I'm pretty sure there are times I think I get it when I really don't. But I can tell I'm getting better at understanding people. I still can't see all this in my own conversations. Not yet. But. Slowly, the light rises.

Answers take some form. They aren't clear, but it's enough to continue. And more will come. Of that I'm sure: things will continue to make more sense.

Your kindness, Lord, leads us

Down at Independence Park a bit ago, dusk leaned, and a little boy ran up the path, stopping each person to announce:
"The mosquitoes are out!"

He said it with gravity, panting from the urgency of his message. We all needed to know this most important fact. "The mosquitoes are out!" I smiled the whole way home, each time his words replayed - his words, and the seriousness of their delivery.


Earlier this week, the 451 bus stopped on Cabot St, near they YMCA, and rumbled there. Cars lined up behind it. Then started honking, but the bus just sat. Then a woman, dangerously thin, unsteady, stepped out. She was turning back, to talk to the driver - she seemed confused - but the honking continued and the bus pulled away. As I passed, I felt a sadness, and the phrase we must be kind positioned itself at the front of my mind. The impatient car-horns hurt me. All I could think was what kind of difference will an act of kindness instead of frustration make?

Yesterday at the tea shop, a couple came in. One of them bought a whole pound of a tea he's never tried. The other bought good amounts of several other teas - also unknown to him. When they told us that they'd been married three years ago, there was uncertainty and challenge in the older one's voice. They were both friendly, and open, and that now how will you treat us? saddened me. After they left, my co-worker and I talked about it. We both noticed the challenge, and we both were not quite surprised by the statement, and we both felt that we hadn't started acting differently because of it. What good does it do anyone, we agreed, if we treat people unkindly when we disagree with them, or are challenged by them? Or if they look differently or act differently than we anticipated? How can we expect to be a positive influence if we will not treat people with kindness?

I am reminded of the fruits of the Spirit so often recited from Galatians: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

Do we remember all of them? I forget the middle few. I remember love, joy, peace, and patience. And I remember self-control, because I spent my teen years forming rigid boundaries for myself. But what about kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and gentleness?

These four deeply concern our relations with others, with strangers and friends. And I forget them. I try to learn how to love people, but then get lost in the details of how to love. But isn't kindness a display of love? Doesn't true gentleness come from a heart that is dwelling in peace? How about faithfulness - is perhaps our ability to be faithful a corollary to our patience? Then I must ask: is goodness connected to joy? Whether it is or not, if I treat people with kindness and gentleness, they will feel loved. If in all my dealings, I exhibit goodness and faithfulness, people will see something rare.

As Irene blows towards us, much more peaceful than predicted, I can't help but think that there's more to a diminished storm than God's mercy. We've been praying for that - for mercy - and there will be much less damage than we originally thought. But God knows better than we do what is good for us - mercy could have included a hurricane. Instead, mercy is gentleness. He gives the East Coast less than we expect, less than we arguably deserve. Maybe we need to pick up on this.

Maybe we, as the people of God, need to focus more on kindness and gentleness than on argument or annoyance. Maybe we need to learn to cultivate goodness instead of loudly decrying evil. Maybe we need to be faithful in the relationships we have, and in how we live our lives, instead of shifting our stance or availability when the weather changes.

How kind am I?

How gentle, how good, how faithful?

Not nearly enough. I want to be better - I desire more kindness, goodness, faithfulness, and gentleness. No incident is too small to be significant - am I kind, or rude? Did I act in accordance to the way I speak, or is there discrepancy between who I say I am, and who I seem to be?

Father God, in Your kindness and faithfulness to me, help me to become more kind and faithful. Out of Your goodness, teach me to be good. With Your gentleness, lead me into a more gentle life. Give me a kind life, a good mind, a faithful heart, and a gentle spirit.

Northfield's Promise

I ask again: how is it I know such amazing people?

Today was our annual Wisdom Way family meeting - and family they all are. From a few months to many decades old, they are such beautiful, encouraging, light-filled people. Who also have tremendous sense of humour...

I arrived early, and strolled barefoot through diamond-damp grass up to the hilltop behind Hibbard Hall. Its lovely familiarity refreshed me. I prayed a bit, sang quietly, and concentrated on the grass between my toes. I breathed in the coolness, and remembered promises, dreams, hopes ignited in the place two years ago.

The beginning was here, I thought.

Northfield showed me the glory of a community of praying people. It introduced me to a more active, charismatic, joyful expression of worship than I'd seen before. These people spoke wisdom. They encouraged my spiritual discernment, they helped me see truth, they loved me. And I dreamed of returning. Every time I revisit the place, it feels like home. It stirs up a longing, too - a longing for great, glorious, beautiful things.

Longing for heaven and home...

I long to see wholeness, to see joy, and life. I long to watch people become real. I long to be not only involved in the development of minds, but in the development of the whole being. In many ways, this summer has been a time of pieces starting to fall into place. More than ever before, things are making sense. Much remains to be seen - many pieces are unknown, unclear. But it's so much more clear now.

Standing by a marble bench, looking out over the campus, I remembered all I heard then, and all that has been spoken at 10 Days of Prayer since. Dreams...

Dreams of teaching, in some capacity. Dreams of watching people discover the joy of learning, of books, of finding expression of reality and truth and goodness in all things. Dreams of music, of singing, of playing many instruments, of writing my own songs, and singing my own words. Dreams of food, of cooking creatively, healthfully, and eating with people, drinking in the friendship that naturally builds around the table. Dreams of knowing others, and being known by them, and complete, genuine love for each other. Dreams of the body of Christ actually being a body, united in love and purpose. Dreams of prayer... of praying becoming a natural thing for any group of believers to do. What would it be like if we automatically prayed together any time we saw each other? And dreams of God - of knowing Him more and more deeply every day.

So many dreams. I stood in the shade by D. L. Moody's headstone. He, like so many others, lived always in those hopes, those dreams. Every bit of grace, every answer to prayer, just leads to desire for more. If we can have this little bit of glory and truth, why not more? God is not stingy. But we tend to dream and ask so small. I tend to dream to small.

My small voice is timid, "God, may I please, maybe, someday, help people learn? And, if You're ok with it, I would like - though do I deserve to ask? - I would like to not be alone. I mean, I want friends. I want sisters and brothers... But I would like something deeper, more together, more permanent. For instance, maybe a husband?"

And I can almost see Him shake His head. Why so small? Why so doubtful? If I am a Father who is good, and if I know your depths, and if your dreams and desires are from me and good, will not I answer? Will I not fulfill what I have begun? And are not my hopes for you even greater than what you could imagine? Ask BIG. Dream BIG. Expect much from Me, and I will delight in giving you much.

Already, He has given me much. But He wants to give more. Today, several people spoke this during our prayer time: we're thinking and asking too small - He wants us to ask for more.

I touch birch-bark, look into the sky. I hear stories of God's faithfulness, and how He's weaving pieces together for so many. I hear the thankful expectation in their voices, the passion for their land, their friends.

I eat fresh peaches, watch the nine children laughing and playing train on the low rock wall. I hear more about the new college being planned for this campus. I learn that there are so many more than I realized gathering those around them to pray, and to seek unity. So much is happening across New England, in so many little, powerful ways.

More is going to happen. Simple devotion and obedience are required - how could we deny that? So many promises have been given, and much seed sown. That which is sown will bear fruit.

Driving home, a rainbow's edge touched the North Shore.

On this last Bout of the River Syndrome*

(Warning: this is rather a long post. *the River Syndrome: my name for the kind of craziness exemplified by the character River Tam in 'Firefly' and 'Serenity'.)

I’ve had a lot whirling around my head recently. Trying to make sense of it is like… well, it’s like something really difficult. I can’t find a tidy simile at the moment.

It all started almost two weeks ago… actually, this isn’t where it started, but I’m only able to go back that far right now. I got gluten. I’m not sure which exact circumstances (out of two possibilities) provided the poison, but there it was. I crashed late Friday morning, and Saturday, Sunday, and Monday were miserable. By Tuesday, the worst was over, and the rest of last week saw slow improvement. But that crash, and those days, triggered a LOT of introspection and frustration, on several different levels.

Firstly, it wrecked me physically. I’ve been exercising regularly since the beginning of June, and it’s been making a HUGE difference. I’ve been getting stronger, more energetic, more flexible… but after just four days, I felt like I’d lost at least two weeks of work. While my body’s glutenized, I’m fatigued. My muscles are just plain weak and tired and achey. I have trouble sleeping, so I’m exhausted too. But once the gluten wore off, my muscles still felt weak. They’re still not back to where they were before, and it is such a fight to push myself through exercises that were easier before. It also didn’t help that during those days I wasn’t able to think clearly, and my eating suffered. All that added up? I lost muscle. At least, it felt like I did. And that is incredibly frustrating, when my body has finally been gaining strength and mobility.

Secondly, mentally it’s a struggle to re-calibrate. Gluten always affects me mentally – if that’s all it did, I would avoid it. It wrecks my ability to concentrate, to follow any train of thought (or even any complete thought), and it deadens my memory. Short-term memory – gone. The result is that I live in a mental fog. I can’t think, I can’t remember, and coming out of it, I still can’t remember.

The interesting thing about this bout is that I was somewhat prepared. Funny. I had just been re-reading old blog postings, and my attention was caught by the difference in tone before and after I stopped eating gluten. Especially that last year before I stopped, I was increasingly unstable, manic, confused. So I was thinking about what it tends to do, and how it shifts my emotional-mental state into such extremes. When it hit, I was able to think: I don’t want that. I don’t want to be crazy. I don’t want to feel destructive or depressed. I don’t want to be lost in those extremes. So I put all of the little energy and ability I had into trying to keep myself mentally stable. That meant forcing myself to be thankful – to verbalize blessings – when I felt my thoughts turning down. It meant running song lyrics, or short phrases of Scripture, or something else I could focus on through my mind whenever I started going crazy. It meant shutting all the whirlwind of thoughts down, pinpointing one little thing to get stuck on so that I didn’t super-ball bounce in my head. And this was hard. I forced myself, on occasion, to join my flatmates in the living room, even though I had nothing to contribute, simply because trying to follow the conversation pulled me out of myself enough to keep me from curling up into a corner and rocking back and forth. I refused to let myself make decisions based on my emotional-mental state, about me, about others, about potentials. And I was less crazy than I’ve ever been with gluten.

But I was still exhausted. I’m still reeling from the effort of it all. I had a FULL week of work last week, so I had no time off, no significant time to rest, or get away, or anything. And I was still living in mud and fog. I tell people that I lost several days of my life, and I still feel that way. Nothing happened. I was elsewhere, I didn’t exist, nothing made sense, nothing made anything. I lost almost 5 days of my life, and coming back after that is not easy. Trying to get out of the mud and fog is not easy. The sun slow burns through the haze. I tell myself not be blame myself, not to be frustrated with myself – that will only make it worse. I tell myself to think about food – make sure I’m eating enough, and eating well and very very carefully. I tell myself to let go, to forgive myself, to not cling to what it was like. I tell myself that yes, it is good to process this – it’s been awhile, so yes, think about what happened, and how you dealt with it well, and how you dealt with it poorly – but it is not good to accuse. I remind myself: you didn’t sit in a corner, knees to chin, rocking back and forth; you didn’t go around punching walls; you didn’t talk nonsense for three hours straight; you didn’t cry yourself to sleep; you didn’t skip work; you didn’t… This was SO MUCH better than before! Maybe I’m learning how to live around the madness. In spite of it. Maybe next time I’ll be even better able to deal. Maybe I’ll tell my flatmates sooner, have some kind of support in place with people helping me remember to eat, helping me relax, keeping me more stable. But enough of the maybes.

The other tricky thing about dropping again into the craziness is that my mind still remembers what it was like. In some ways, it’s like a drug, and when it’s recalled to strongly, there’s a temptation to give in to it, to twist my mind into that shape again, to act manic just because. There’s a fine line for me between simply thinking about the craziness, and thinking like the craziness. Because I can. The neural pathways are still there – are reawakened by my recent bout. But I won’t. I don’t want to. I hate it. I’d rather be sane, even though insanity is fascinating. I’d rather not have mud sucking at my feet. I’d rather not feel like someone with a creepy cackle is using my heart as a juggling ball. I’d rather not my mind bounce crazily, uncontrollably. I’d just rather not.

And there are so many random pieces that I may have noticed before but don’t understand: why do some people’s mere presence stabilize and calm me? Why does loud heavy music reduce my emotional extremes? Why does it tend to make me cry, and afterwards feel better? Why is it so hard to read? Why do I find myself walking and walking, far past hunger and tiredness, until I’m ready to drop from exhaustion? Why do I feel like if I’m alone, I have to keep moving, almost running, keeping one step away from… something? Why do people make such a difference? Why does rain make it better? Why is it so hard for me to prepare food – why do I just want to grab and eat, sweet and salty things, mostly? Why do I prefer liquids? Why chocolate? Why does touch make such a difference?

I don’t know yet.

And I’m still fatigued. I’m tired of being exhausted. My strength is returning, though. My body is demanding even more food than normal, trying to regain what it lost, I suppose. The fog is lifting. I’m relaxing more. I’m family-sick, though. Having my brother around would help me. (Hah. One reason I can’t go through my entire life alone: people are necessary for full recovery from glutenization. More specifically, guys are necessary, but only certain ones help. There are those few, of which my brother is one, whose very presence is a stabilizer for me. And I need them when I’m coming off gluten! Another unexplained oddity. Hrrmph.)

Things will get better. They already are, and they will continue to. I need to be extra careful. I need to keep practicing and choosing trust. Keep breathing, Suzanne. You have much to be thankful for, and much to look forward to. You are still discovering how all those seemingly disparate passions and desires and skills actually fit together. Be patient with yourself. Be patient with the picture – it will not always be incomplete, and it is already so much more complete than it ever has been. Rejoice in what has been. Rejoice in what is. Rejoice in what will be. For that is trust – that is hope – to rejoice before.

Good-bye again, crazy self. Over destruction and senselessness, I choose life.