Tuesday, May 27, 2008
climbing the mountain
After I graduated from college, I didn't know what I wanted to do. And I was tempted to go to grad school for that reason; it was something to do. I remember at the time that many people told me, "Expect to work hard. And don't go to grad school for something you don't care about, because you have to live and breathe what you study." Well, I didn't go to grad school right away. In fact, I waited five years before I went back. And although sometimes I now wish I would've just gone straight away, I have to say that that advice was true. It is hard. I am living and breathing the world of family systems and theology and psychology. I look ahead to the next few weeks, and they are full of papers, papers, papers. I'm doing a lot of self-talk: "You can do this." "Take it one paper at a time." "Just get 'er done." And I'm praying, "Give me massive amounts of strength and perseverance...." But, I have to say, I feel like I'm staring up at a giant mountain of papers, and I fear I'll be buried under their avalanche. I've strapped my hiking boots on, and I'm heading up to the top. My goal is to conquer the mountain ... rather than be conquered by it! To that end, I'm off to write about the significance of meals in first century Judaism. Yay....
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Steven Curtis Chapman and Grieving
Pray for Steven Curtis Chapman and his family. If you haven't already heard the tragic news about this Christian singer and his family, his 5 year-old adopted daughter from China was run over in her driveway by her older brother last Wednesday. It was an accident. He didn't see her. I read that the funeral was today.
Death is such an unimaginable part of life. For the longest time, I thought that -- for anyone who believes in Heaven -- the blow of death must somehow be softened. And I still believe that believing that the person lost is with God -- and that we'll see them again -- must somehow make continuing to live more possible. But, sometimes, I think that those of us who claim faith in Christ rush so quickly to hope that we fail to linger in the reality of loss. Like somehow feeling true despair, unanswerable despair, angry despair ... demonstrates a lack of faith. I read a very significant and perspective-shifting book recently, Lament for a Son, written by Nicholas Wolterstorff. Mr. Wolterstorff lost his 25 year-old son to a mountain-climbing accident, and he wrote the book as a personal journey of grieving. He never imagined the book would impact others, as he wrote it for himself, and he thought it too personal to be applicable. Years later, he got talked into publishing it, and he describes in the forward how blown away he was by the responses he got. Countless numbers of people thanked him for giving words to their own losses ... it seems that apart from the unique details that surround each individual being, the experience of loss is quite universal.
Anyway, in the book he describes what little comfort he received from well-meaning comments like, "Your son is in a much better place." Or "You'll see him down the road." He described the sting of death that is immediate and in your face. And although one can know they will meet up with their loved one after life, that doesn't really ease the sting of the moment. He talked about the nature of death, how it wasn't in God's original plan, how it's NOT God's best for our life. He talked about the story in which Jesus wept after Lazarus died, EVEN THOUGH he would go on to raise Lazarus from death. He offered a perspective on grief in which God mourns WITH us. To feel rage, sorrow, despair, after a loss is not only OK, but important ... because death was not in the original design of things. It is not natural. It is not really OK.
I haven't lost anyone to death recently. But I do mourn other losses, big and small. And with so much devastation recently in different parts of the world, it seems appropriate to take a second look at death and grieving.
An excerpt:
"When death is seen rather as the slicing off of what God declared to be, and what all of us feel to be, of great worth, then death is - well, not friend, but enemy. Though I shall indeed recall that death is being overcome, my grief is that death still stalks this world...How is faith to endure, Oh God, when you allow all this scraping and tearing on us? You have allowed rivers of blood to flow, mountains of suffering to pile up, sobs to become humanity's song -- all without lifting a finger that we could see. You have allowed bonds of love beyond number to be painfully snapped. If you have not abandoned us, explain yourself. We strain to hear. But instead of hearing an answer, we catch sight of God Himself, scraped and torn. Through our tears, we see the tears of God. A new and more disturbing question now arises: Why do you permit yourself to suffer, O God? If the death of the devout costs you dear, why do you permit it? Why do you not grasp joy?""
Death is such an unimaginable part of life. For the longest time, I thought that -- for anyone who believes in Heaven -- the blow of death must somehow be softened. And I still believe that believing that the person lost is with God -- and that we'll see them again -- must somehow make continuing to live more possible. But, sometimes, I think that those of us who claim faith in Christ rush so quickly to hope that we fail to linger in the reality of loss. Like somehow feeling true despair, unanswerable despair, angry despair ... demonstrates a lack of faith. I read a very significant and perspective-shifting book recently, Lament for a Son, written by Nicholas Wolterstorff. Mr. Wolterstorff lost his 25 year-old son to a mountain-climbing accident, and he wrote the book as a personal journey of grieving. He never imagined the book would impact others, as he wrote it for himself, and he thought it too personal to be applicable. Years later, he got talked into publishing it, and he describes in the forward how blown away he was by the responses he got. Countless numbers of people thanked him for giving words to their own losses ... it seems that apart from the unique details that surround each individual being, the experience of loss is quite universal.
Anyway, in the book he describes what little comfort he received from well-meaning comments like, "Your son is in a much better place." Or "You'll see him down the road." He described the sting of death that is immediate and in your face. And although one can know they will meet up with their loved one after life, that doesn't really ease the sting of the moment. He talked about the nature of death, how it wasn't in God's original plan, how it's NOT God's best for our life. He talked about the story in which Jesus wept after Lazarus died, EVEN THOUGH he would go on to raise Lazarus from death. He offered a perspective on grief in which God mourns WITH us. To feel rage, sorrow, despair, after a loss is not only OK, but important ... because death was not in the original design of things. It is not natural. It is not really OK.
I haven't lost anyone to death recently. But I do mourn other losses, big and small. And with so much devastation recently in different parts of the world, it seems appropriate to take a second look at death and grieving.
An excerpt:
"When death is seen rather as the slicing off of what God declared to be, and what all of us feel to be, of great worth, then death is - well, not friend, but enemy. Though I shall indeed recall that death is being overcome, my grief is that death still stalks this world...How is faith to endure, Oh God, when you allow all this scraping and tearing on us? You have allowed rivers of blood to flow, mountains of suffering to pile up, sobs to become humanity's song -- all without lifting a finger that we could see. You have allowed bonds of love beyond number to be painfully snapped. If you have not abandoned us, explain yourself. We strain to hear. But instead of hearing an answer, we catch sight of God Himself, scraped and torn. Through our tears, we see the tears of God. A new and more disturbing question now arises: Why do you permit yourself to suffer, O God? If the death of the devout costs you dear, why do you permit it? Why do you not grasp joy?""
Friday, May 23, 2008
Singing in the Rain
Hi guys,
I'm sitting in Corner Bakery, which is a wonderful chain of cafes in Southern California with free wi-fi, delicious salads, and lots of windows ... my kind of place. And I am especially happy today because it's raining. Last weekend, I was melting slowly under 103 degree heat, and this weekend, I look at the world through rain-stained windows. It's the kind of weather that makes you sigh in a good way. Gentle thunder invites relaxation, a "sinking in" to the softness of things. Even the light is different, softer, more soothing. As you can tell, I love it.
And, another reason for happiness? It's Fridays, and Fridays are a day off. So, at the end of a long week, I'm taking time to breathe and let my thoughts catch up to my body. I hate going through the world body-first, brain behind, but that seems to happen often lately.
I have loads and loads of papers to write, and my writing engine feels a bit clogged. A LOT clogged, actually. As I try to write academically, the wheels in my brain are spinning in the mud of life. I'm tired. I'm sorry ... I know that's a repeating pattern in my blog, but perhaps that's just a part of being in grad school. I'm not even so physically tired as I am just tired of thinking ... about people's stories, about how to be a helpful and effective therapist in the midst, about theology and theodicy.
A dear friend recently, in our conversation, suggested that I needed to go back to Arizona for a while ... to "my" mountains. And although I thought it sounded like a good idea at the time, I think it sounds like a GREAT idea now. I'm not sure when I'll be able to make that happen, but I will go as soon as I can. I forget, sometimes, how affected I am by my environment. And the rain has woken me up to that. Just in the last 24 hours of rainstorms and thunder, I feel SO MUCH better.
So, thank You for the rain.
And happy Friday....
I'm sitting in Corner Bakery, which is a wonderful chain of cafes in Southern California with free wi-fi, delicious salads, and lots of windows ... my kind of place. And I am especially happy today because it's raining. Last weekend, I was melting slowly under 103 degree heat, and this weekend, I look at the world through rain-stained windows. It's the kind of weather that makes you sigh in a good way. Gentle thunder invites relaxation, a "sinking in" to the softness of things. Even the light is different, softer, more soothing. As you can tell, I love it.
And, another reason for happiness? It's Fridays, and Fridays are a day off. So, at the end of a long week, I'm taking time to breathe and let my thoughts catch up to my body. I hate going through the world body-first, brain behind, but that seems to happen often lately.
I have loads and loads of papers to write, and my writing engine feels a bit clogged. A LOT clogged, actually. As I try to write academically, the wheels in my brain are spinning in the mud of life. I'm tired. I'm sorry ... I know that's a repeating pattern in my blog, but perhaps that's just a part of being in grad school. I'm not even so physically tired as I am just tired of thinking ... about people's stories, about how to be a helpful and effective therapist in the midst, about theology and theodicy.
A dear friend recently, in our conversation, suggested that I needed to go back to Arizona for a while ... to "my" mountains. And although I thought it sounded like a good idea at the time, I think it sounds like a GREAT idea now. I'm not sure when I'll be able to make that happen, but I will go as soon as I can. I forget, sometimes, how affected I am by my environment. And the rain has woken me up to that. Just in the last 24 hours of rainstorms and thunder, I feel SO MUCH better.
So, thank You for the rain.
And happy Friday....
Monday, May 12, 2008
No More Tears....
I listened to NPR today as I drove to a group meeting. The journalist reporting was in China, and she described the countless bodies of middle schoolers she witnessed being carried out of a collapsed school building in one of the areas several miles away from the epicenter of the quake that hit China hours ago. And then a report followed regarding the tornado that swept through Oklahoma and surrounding areas a few nights ago. One person interviewed said she was going to receive $22,000 as compensation for her home that was destroyed. She wept as she relayed her disbelief and fear for the future ... what home could $22,000 buy her? And then there's Burma, and the rotting bodies, and the government that won't let help come in.
And I just feel sort of heavy today ... heavy under the weight of so much suffering, too much heartache and loss. Most days I am just in love with life ... with color and taste and hope and reconciliation and so much good that exists. But today I am not. And I think that's OK.
I met with a group of women today, and we prayed. We prayed for the people of China and Burma and Oklahoma and Georgia. And we prayed for people all over the world that want to help ... we prayed for open roads and supplies and for hope to come to the darkest parts of suffering. And sometimes throughout the prayer, I felt like a fool ... who am I to think I understand anything of suffering? Who am I to think my words could make any difference? But I think those thoughts are truly what is most foolish. I believe in hope. I believe in love. I believe in God's heart of tenderness for our suffering. I believe Christ wept. I believe. And even when I don't believe, I believe that God is merciful enough for me and my broken faith.
Today, I cleave my heart to some verses from the book of Revelation in the Bible that one of the women in the group read outloud. Today, I cleave to a future where there will be no more tears:
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful. And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son."
And I just feel sort of heavy today ... heavy under the weight of so much suffering, too much heartache and loss. Most days I am just in love with life ... with color and taste and hope and reconciliation and so much good that exists. But today I am not. And I think that's OK.
I met with a group of women today, and we prayed. We prayed for the people of China and Burma and Oklahoma and Georgia. And we prayed for people all over the world that want to help ... we prayed for open roads and supplies and for hope to come to the darkest parts of suffering. And sometimes throughout the prayer, I felt like a fool ... who am I to think I understand anything of suffering? Who am I to think my words could make any difference? But I think those thoughts are truly what is most foolish. I believe in hope. I believe in love. I believe in God's heart of tenderness for our suffering. I believe Christ wept. I believe. And even when I don't believe, I believe that God is merciful enough for me and my broken faith.
Today, I cleave my heart to some verses from the book of Revelation in the Bible that one of the women in the group read outloud. Today, I cleave to a future where there will be no more tears:
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful. And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life freely. He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son."
Friday, May 9, 2008
Making Pies ... Not Just A Really Awesome Patty Griffin Song
Hi all and happy Friday!
Remember that key lime pie I mentioned in a previous post? Well, I decided to merge my loves of photography and cooking. So, here you have it:
Step One: Start with a clean bowl.
Step Two: Add 3 cups of sweetened condensed milk.
Step Three: Add a small tub (about a cup) of sour cream.
Step Four: Cut and squeeze key limes until you end up with 3/4 cup of juice.
Step Five: Zest up the skin of several limes until you've got plenty of those lovely green specks to go around.
Step Six: Mix it all up.
Step Seven: Pour the mixture into a graham cracker crust.
Step Eight: Bake it for 5-8 min. at 375. Then, let chill in the fridge for several hours.
Step Nine: Be happy.
Step Ten: Serve it to a few people you love!
Signed, Serenity Now.
Remember that key lime pie I mentioned in a previous post? Well, I decided to merge my loves of photography and cooking. So, here you have it:
Step One: Start with a clean bowl.
Step Two: Add 3 cups of sweetened condensed milk.
Step Three: Add a small tub (about a cup) of sour cream.
Step Four: Cut and squeeze key limes until you end up with 3/4 cup of juice.
Step Five: Zest up the skin of several limes until you've got plenty of those lovely green specks to go around.
Step Six: Mix it all up.
Step Seven: Pour the mixture into a graham cracker crust.
Step Eight: Bake it for 5-8 min. at 375. Then, let chill in the fridge for several hours.
Step Nine: Be happy.
Step Ten: Serve it to a few people you love!
Signed, Serenity Now.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
On Caring for Orphans....
Hi all and happy Thursday!
I need to tell you a shortened version of a long story.
I have a dear, dear friend, who I've known for 16 years, named Natalie. She and her husband joined the Peace Corps several years ago and ended up living in Armenia. I could not have found Armenia on a map before they went. But now, I can tell you that it is a teeninsey (sp?) Christian Orthodox country surrounded by four predominantly Muslim countries: Georgia, Azerbajan, Iran, and Turkey in the Middle East. You can imagine that it's had an interesting history! Anyway, Natalie worked at an orphanage for disabled people during her time there. Not long before she and her hubby were to leave Armenia, she received news that the orphans she had come to know and love would be transferred to a psychiatric institute very soon because they were no longer considered children (many of them were in their twenties). In Armenia, there is no concept of group homes or rehabilitative care. There are orphanages, and there are psychiatric institutes, and there is nothing in between. What that means is that anyone with a physical disability, mental retardation, or other "disability" that has no legal guardian is a ward of the state and lives, therefore, in the state-run psychiatric institute. This wouldn't be quite as horrendous if the institutes provided adequate care. However, while visiting them, Natalie saw rooms without windows in the middle of winter (no central heating ... no heat at all, actually). She saw overly medicated patients staring at walls, with no activities to engage them. She came away with the realization that these places where holding cells for the unrepresented and uncared for ... places with hard beds, and food, enough to keep people alive. And that's about it.
So, not able to leave the orphans she loved to such circumstances, she began to write letters, apply for grants, seek advice; she tried to find a solution, another way. After months, much struggle, and much generosity, Warm Hearth was born. She bought a home in Armenia, hired a staff, went through the process of finding an NGO (non-governmental organization) in Armenia to pair with, applied for a Non-Profit Status, and began to put beds in the bedrooms. This is Warm Hearth ... the first group home for people with disabilities in Armenia. It is a lovely, lovely story, and there is so much more I wish I could share.
But, out of respect for your time, I'm simply gonna give you the web link ... in case you want to read more: http://www.friendsofwarmhearth.org/.
Why do I write about this today? Well, Natalie and her husband live in Arizona now ... but she returns to Armenia about twice a year to work on things she simply can't work on via phone and internet. And she's there now. She'll be working on establishing Warm Hearth's very own NGO. And she'll be conducting staff trainings. Those are some of the administrative things ... the things that don't wring out her heart. But, then, she'll also be trying to figure out what do to help two of the residents of the home that seem to need specialized care ... care that is not yet available with the very few psychiatric resources that exist in the country. Both residents have been staying temporarily in psychiatric institutes, as they endangered the lives of the other residents. And Natalie and her staff will need to make some difficult decisions surrounding their care and their futures. Because they have no parents; Warm Hearth is their family.
I think about my beautiful friend and all that her hands and the hands she's reached out to have accomplished. I am in awe of the lives that have been changed. And I ask any of you who want to to send lots of prayers and love and hope her way ... their way over these next few days.
I need to tell you a shortened version of a long story.
I have a dear, dear friend, who I've known for 16 years, named Natalie. She and her husband joined the Peace Corps several years ago and ended up living in Armenia. I could not have found Armenia on a map before they went. But now, I can tell you that it is a teeninsey (sp?) Christian Orthodox country surrounded by four predominantly Muslim countries: Georgia, Azerbajan, Iran, and Turkey in the Middle East. You can imagine that it's had an interesting history! Anyway, Natalie worked at an orphanage for disabled people during her time there. Not long before she and her hubby were to leave Armenia, she received news that the orphans she had come to know and love would be transferred to a psychiatric institute very soon because they were no longer considered children (many of them were in their twenties). In Armenia, there is no concept of group homes or rehabilitative care. There are orphanages, and there are psychiatric institutes, and there is nothing in between. What that means is that anyone with a physical disability, mental retardation, or other "disability" that has no legal guardian is a ward of the state and lives, therefore, in the state-run psychiatric institute. This wouldn't be quite as horrendous if the institutes provided adequate care. However, while visiting them, Natalie saw rooms without windows in the middle of winter (no central heating ... no heat at all, actually). She saw overly medicated patients staring at walls, with no activities to engage them. She came away with the realization that these places where holding cells for the unrepresented and uncared for ... places with hard beds, and food, enough to keep people alive. And that's about it.
So, not able to leave the orphans she loved to such circumstances, she began to write letters, apply for grants, seek advice; she tried to find a solution, another way. After months, much struggle, and much generosity, Warm Hearth was born. She bought a home in Armenia, hired a staff, went through the process of finding an NGO (non-governmental organization) in Armenia to pair with, applied for a Non-Profit Status, and began to put beds in the bedrooms. This is Warm Hearth ... the first group home for people with disabilities in Armenia. It is a lovely, lovely story, and there is so much more I wish I could share.
But, out of respect for your time, I'm simply gonna give you the web link ... in case you want to read more: http://www.friendsofwarmhearth.org/.
Why do I write about this today? Well, Natalie and her husband live in Arizona now ... but she returns to Armenia about twice a year to work on things she simply can't work on via phone and internet. And she's there now. She'll be working on establishing Warm Hearth's very own NGO. And she'll be conducting staff trainings. Those are some of the administrative things ... the things that don't wring out her heart. But, then, she'll also be trying to figure out what do to help two of the residents of the home that seem to need specialized care ... care that is not yet available with the very few psychiatric resources that exist in the country. Both residents have been staying temporarily in psychiatric institutes, as they endangered the lives of the other residents. And Natalie and her staff will need to make some difficult decisions surrounding their care and their futures. Because they have no parents; Warm Hearth is their family.
I think about my beautiful friend and all that her hands and the hands she's reached out to have accomplished. I am in awe of the lives that have been changed. And I ask any of you who want to to send lots of prayers and love and hope her way ... their way over these next few days.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Empty-handed
OK. I love "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy."
And one of them goes something like this: "I think it's a good idea to carry around two sacks, one in each hand. Because that way, if anyone ever asks you for help, you can just say, 'Sorry, I can't; I've got these sacks.'"
Full hands. Sometimes it's really lovely to have your hands full (I'm back to being serious, BTW). Like when you are holding a sleeping baby, or when you've got one hand wrapped around a fork and the other, around a knife, and you are digging in to something yummy. It's lovely to have your hands full of love ... too many friends to call back, or too many people to thank, or too many kisses to give. It's wonderful to have hands full of groceries or flowers or other hands.
But sometimes, it's important to leave our hands empty. Sometimes it's important to put whatever we're holding down and to just open up our hands ... and leave them open. It's hard to do ... it can be sort of scary and lonely to wait ... for whatever will fill that space. But sometimes, it's important.
I'm feeling a bit empty-handed these days ... laying things down, leaving my hands open. It is sort of scary and lonely. But I wait with anticipation at the fullness to come.
And one of them goes something like this: "I think it's a good idea to carry around two sacks, one in each hand. Because that way, if anyone ever asks you for help, you can just say, 'Sorry, I can't; I've got these sacks.'"
Full hands. Sometimes it's really lovely to have your hands full (I'm back to being serious, BTW). Like when you are holding a sleeping baby, or when you've got one hand wrapped around a fork and the other, around a knife, and you are digging in to something yummy. It's lovely to have your hands full of love ... too many friends to call back, or too many people to thank, or too many kisses to give. It's wonderful to have hands full of groceries or flowers or other hands.
But sometimes, it's important to leave our hands empty. Sometimes it's important to put whatever we're holding down and to just open up our hands ... and leave them open. It's hard to do ... it can be sort of scary and lonely to wait ... for whatever will fill that space. But sometimes, it's important.
I'm feeling a bit empty-handed these days ... laying things down, leaving my hands open. It is sort of scary and lonely. But I wait with anticipation at the fullness to come.
Monday, May 5, 2008
It is early Monday morning, or late Sunday night ... however you want to look at it. And I am shortly off to bed. But I had to write and share this moment with you.
The house is quiet; roomies are both asleep. Charlie lays next to me, his head -- eyes closed -- is draped over my ankle. He sleeps. I made a key lime pie tonight, as I'm having my small group over to the house for a Cinco de Mayo dinner. And I'm marinating chicken ... in lime juice, cilantro, tequila, and red pepper. It's in the fridge. The dishwasher's going. And the counter is antibacterialized. The world is quiet.
I crave quiet, which is perhaps why I love late evenings and early mornings so much. I feel sort of ridiculous saying that my favorite time of day is when it's NOT day, but that's the truth. It feels so right in my spirit to wind down with the setting sun, and start again with its rising. It feels like a reminder of our humanity. I think it's kinda easy to lose touch with our humanity in this fast world in which we live. Phone lines, internet lines, jet engines, instant message ... these all enable us to live beyond our own capacities. We can get half-way around the world in a matter of hours; we can speak to someone in a different hemisphere by simply picking up the phone; we can take photos of our morning, and our loved ones will see them on our blog that afternoon ... even when they live states away. It's a wonderful blessing in so many ways ... all this technology ... but I think it often disconnects us from ourselves. We no longer feel the lengths our legs can carry us; we don't live by the speed of our hands. All of that to say, I feel more connected to myself in these quiet moments. The noise goes; I hear me. And not just me. I hear life. I hear the cadence of passing time, sense the rotation of our axis as we whiz through space (not literally:), I feel the feelings that had been tucked away; I realize who I forgot to call.
And it's a lovely gift ... this quiet. This chance to look the day over and wrap it up.
I wish you sweet dreams wherever you are, and pray we can meet again in the new morning.
The house is quiet; roomies are both asleep. Charlie lays next to me, his head -- eyes closed -- is draped over my ankle. He sleeps. I made a key lime pie tonight, as I'm having my small group over to the house for a Cinco de Mayo dinner. And I'm marinating chicken ... in lime juice, cilantro, tequila, and red pepper. It's in the fridge. The dishwasher's going. And the counter is antibacterialized. The world is quiet.
I crave quiet, which is perhaps why I love late evenings and early mornings so much. I feel sort of ridiculous saying that my favorite time of day is when it's NOT day, but that's the truth. It feels so right in my spirit to wind down with the setting sun, and start again with its rising. It feels like a reminder of our humanity. I think it's kinda easy to lose touch with our humanity in this fast world in which we live. Phone lines, internet lines, jet engines, instant message ... these all enable us to live beyond our own capacities. We can get half-way around the world in a matter of hours; we can speak to someone in a different hemisphere by simply picking up the phone; we can take photos of our morning, and our loved ones will see them on our blog that afternoon ... even when they live states away. It's a wonderful blessing in so many ways ... all this technology ... but I think it often disconnects us from ourselves. We no longer feel the lengths our legs can carry us; we don't live by the speed of our hands. All of that to say, I feel more connected to myself in these quiet moments. The noise goes; I hear me. And not just me. I hear life. I hear the cadence of passing time, sense the rotation of our axis as we whiz through space (not literally:), I feel the feelings that had been tucked away; I realize who I forgot to call.
And it's a lovely gift ... this quiet. This chance to look the day over and wrap it up.
I wish you sweet dreams wherever you are, and pray we can meet again in the new morning.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
weekend snapshots
Sometimes, a picture really does speak 1,000 words.
So, without further ado, here are a few from the quickly departing weekend:
This is right by the dogpark where I take Charlie. We walked there yesterday ... ahhh ... that's much better.
OK, seriously, whether in color....
OR in black or white, this breakfast pretty much rocks my socks. So, it probably has too much sugar and what not. But, really, life is too short NOT to eat cookies and coffee for breakfast occasionally.
Two awesome gals came over Saturday evening. 'Ritas+Guac+homemade tortilla soup+friends+Saturday=Happy Saturday!
Thanks to my roomie's sister (who runs a small-dog rescue), we babysat a couple of itty-bitties this weekend. Oh itty-bitties, how we love you! (This is my roomie, Julie, with the itty-bitties.)
This one we named Savvy....
So, there you have it. Happy weekend, friends. Happy weekend!
So, without further ado, here are a few from the quickly departing weekend:
This is right by the dogpark where I take Charlie. We walked there yesterday ... ahhh ... that's much better.
OK, seriously, whether in color....
OR in black or white, this breakfast pretty much rocks my socks. So, it probably has too much sugar and what not. But, really, life is too short NOT to eat cookies and coffee for breakfast occasionally.
Two awesome gals came over Saturday evening. 'Ritas+Guac+homemade tortilla soup+friends+Saturday=Happy Saturday!
Thanks to my roomie's sister (who runs a small-dog rescue), we babysat a couple of itty-bitties this weekend. Oh itty-bitties, how we love you! (This is my roomie, Julie, with the itty-bitties.)
This one we named Savvy....
So, there you have it. Happy weekend, friends. Happy weekend!
Saturday, May 3, 2008
magic mail
Mom and Dad,
Remember when I used to love getting mail? I'd run out to the mailbox just as the mailman drove away. And I'd grab the haphazard stack and bring it in, fingers excitedly sifting through envelopes ... searching for anything addressed to me. Usually, it'd end up being mostly bills, a few generic mailings and occasionally, a personal item (or two) addressed to you all. Dad, you'd try to cheer me up, "Be glad you didn't get any mail, Susan. Bills aren't fun." But occasionally, on a red letter day, I'd get something -- a letter from Lisa, telling me tales of her family vacation in California, or a thank you note for a gift given at a birthday party. One day, I even got an autographed postcard from Mr. Rogers ... a kind answer to my request sent several weeks prior.
I hate to say it ... but I no longer enjoy getting mail. Funny, huh? These arbitrary markers of adulthood. In fact, I breathe a sigh of relief when there is nothing for me ... no bills to pay, no confusing offers to decipher, no sales to entice. As in many parts of adulthood, I've traded magical for practical.
But yesterday, as I was unexcitedly sifting through envelopes, I found one addressed to me in mom's familiar cursive. A card. Just because. And a note that said, "Remember how we were talking about that movie and you asked me if it was worth the money? Dad and I want to treat you to a couple of movies. Enjoy!" And $20 fell out. And for a moment, I was back again to those school lunches, where I'd find a note from you on the napkin in my lunch.
So, thank you. For adding a little magic back into the practical. For writing those notes. For sending that card. For making my lunch. You continue to teach me that magic is a choice, and that love makes life worth living.
Remember when I used to love getting mail? I'd run out to the mailbox just as the mailman drove away. And I'd grab the haphazard stack and bring it in, fingers excitedly sifting through envelopes ... searching for anything addressed to me. Usually, it'd end up being mostly bills, a few generic mailings and occasionally, a personal item (or two) addressed to you all. Dad, you'd try to cheer me up, "Be glad you didn't get any mail, Susan. Bills aren't fun." But occasionally, on a red letter day, I'd get something -- a letter from Lisa, telling me tales of her family vacation in California, or a thank you note for a gift given at a birthday party. One day, I even got an autographed postcard from Mr. Rogers ... a kind answer to my request sent several weeks prior.
I hate to say it ... but I no longer enjoy getting mail. Funny, huh? These arbitrary markers of adulthood. In fact, I breathe a sigh of relief when there is nothing for me ... no bills to pay, no confusing offers to decipher, no sales to entice. As in many parts of adulthood, I've traded magical for practical.
But yesterday, as I was unexcitedly sifting through envelopes, I found one addressed to me in mom's familiar cursive. A card. Just because. And a note that said, "Remember how we were talking about that movie and you asked me if it was worth the money? Dad and I want to treat you to a couple of movies. Enjoy!" And $20 fell out. And for a moment, I was back again to those school lunches, where I'd find a note from you on the napkin in my lunch.
So, thank you. For adding a little magic back into the practical. For writing those notes. For sending that card. For making my lunch. You continue to teach me that magic is a choice, and that love makes life worth living.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Longing
Well, it's been a longer hiatus than I expected ... this break I've taken from blogging. But I think it was necessary. I've been too much in my head to write anything of substance, and I am still somewhat in my head, but I think I might be ready to venture out again. I've been missing you, my lovely blogging friends. So, though I can't promise daily blogs (I'll try), I'm back. I don't want to wait until I've got life all together ... because that's 1) unrealistic and 2) not much fun at all. So, welcome back into the home of my head. It isn't spotless, organized, with everything in it's place. There are many piles of "things to be filed....;" there's a little dirty laundry, there are doors to rooms I'm not ready to reveal. But there are also vases of daisies sitting out on the table. There are beds with teddy bears on them that have been loved to the point of unraveling. There are photos of loved ones on the walls and recipes out on the counter that represent dreams and savoring. There are half-sewn scarves, and finished paintings. And, if you don't mind, I may just keep on straightening and organizing while you're here. But I'll offer you chocolate and tea.
And, without further ado, I'll offer you my favorite quote of the day, sent to me by my thoughtful, roomie, Julie:
"It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from." - C.S. Lewis
Ahhh ... life is good.
And, without further ado, I'll offer you my favorite quote of the day, sent to me by my thoughtful, roomie, Julie:
"It was when I was happiest that I longed most...The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing...to find the place where all the beauty came from." - C.S. Lewis
Ahhh ... life is good.
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