The Big Move. Sort of.

I was supposed to move to New Jersey last Monday.  HA. My car got had a little case of the sniffles and it turned into pneumonia.  In the hospital, out of the hospital, back to the hospital.  Good grief.  So I've been off work and at my house and in limbo for a week, which hasn't been terrible because I repacked and bought some food and read three books and gave my dog a bath and drank like a gallon of hot beverages.  But now I'm finally almost to this Monday, when I move, and I'm kind of excited but more just sort of out of it after living out of a box in my own house.

I haven't been posting because 1.) my life has been uneventful and then 2.) a million thoughts at once that I have trouble processing.  But here we go, new adventure, probably God has some surprises, and I'm pumped to live with girls again.  Wow, that will be different.

So, hopefully, in a few months, I'll be doing something extraordinary or at least lucrative but for now, NJ is a complete unknown.  As in, never been.  Whee...

Sowing Love

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

 

 This prayer is popularly called the Prayer of St. Francis (who lived in the 13th century), but the farthest back it can be traced (according to Wikipedia) is 1912, when it was published as an anonymous prayer in a small french spiritual magazine called La Clochette (The Bell.)  I took the time to really read it carefully, and to consider what it would mean to live this out.  And my conclusion is:  my love is too small.  I'm so aware of this every day as I see my secret thoughts.  I can be jealous of a friend, selfish with my time, unconcerned for lost people who need kindness, unfocused in my pursuit of Christ.  I don't know how to grow my love exactly but I know some part of it is connected to being filled with the Spirit of God and being changed into the image of Jesus.  If I could understand how much God loved me, and live in that knowledge, it would compel me to love as naturally as I breath.  I don't want to go through the motions of love, I want to truly have this quality so that no matter what the situation I can be what is needed.  Love is the essence of life, what makes it worthwhile.  And my heart can be so hard, out of fear mostly, but I want to be soft again, and compassionate, and whole, because of Love.

Oh the Possibilities

It's the wee hours of the morning and I haven't slept yet.  I'm working on a letter of intent and a resume that I will submit by someone's fax tomorrow morning.  A position has come up at the same ministry my brother works for that I am just right for.  The day after I found out about this opening a friend I lived with in college called from the same city looking for a housemate.  (Is that you, God?)  If I get this job I would 1.)have a full-time income, small as it might be, 2.)work with my brother who is also my friend, 3.) I would not have to wear a uniform or a hat to work, 4.)I could pierce my nose, 5.)I could be near two of my doctors while we figure out how much my body is going to destroy my thyroid. (Yes, I haven't mentioned that because it seemed weird to post a whole post about my thyroid.  But we may have discovered the cause of some health issues from early teens until now, and I'm on a bit o' medication.) I could save and then move to New Jersey with some other friends whom I love and who read this blog. :-)

I'm scared.  Of leaving my house and my family, of never moving out, of never growing up, of having to grow up, of money, of aging, of being alone, of romantic relationships, of lack of romantic relationships, of losing my friends, of being terrible at a new job, of being unattractive, of my past.  Blah blah blah.

But I'm excited.  Because besides all the fear which is both normal and irrational, I choose to believe that God is holding me, that my friends and family love me, that my past is not a total disaster, and that I can take life by the horns (you know, so they don't stab you) and go have an adventure.  I'm never going to be a wild risk taker.  But today, I worked out even though I felt stupid doing it, and I'm applying for a big-girl job.  Then I'm going to sleep and drink tea and wait for you, my loves, to send your love.  Or even show up on my doorstep because I miss you all so much.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

--William Butler Yeats

Children's Church Act 1

The church I attend has a few children who have reached Sunday School age, so I volunteered to teach a children's church once a month.  I find that small children are easier to teach than high school age (except for the lack of attention span) because 1.) they like songs 2.) they like crafts 3.) they like you, generally, and think you are exciting even if you are just drawing stick figures 4.) they are easily bribed with treats 5.) they are funny 6.) sometimes they ask really good questions 7.) they are not thinking about dating 8.) they believe in God.  Our first lesson was on Creation, and when I was talking about how God created people, one little boy shared his deep thoughts: "I have thought about this, and I just keep thinking how could my mother's mother have a mother?  But she does!  Grandma Sue has a mother!"  His sister said, "Everyone has a mother.  Well, except Adam and Eve."  And of course, one bright girl asked "But where did the other people come from, that Cain married."  I just told her I don't know and I don't know why the Bible doesn't tell us.  (I didn't want to say share the speculation that the gene pool was broad enough that brothers and sisters could marry, and I didn't want them to think it up on their own.)  So we ate Peeps and memorized Genesis 1:1, although one little girl just says John 3:16 instead.  Which is fine.  She just thinks that it's the only memory verse.  Next session:  Noah's Ark, with playdough.

Sonnets 04: Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The color and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

Caution to the Wind

He had planned to buy a mouth guard, but didn't see one he wanted.  So he just strapped on a helmet.  This text, an hour after they left the house:  "Ha ha, I just broke my teeth."  I thought "ha ha" meant it was a minor chip.  I didn't realize he meant he broke them out of his mouth.  So I didn't do anything.  Then he walked in the house with a bloody face.

This can all be traced back to me.  I introduced my Jared to the other Jared, two hurricanes joining forces.  And they went to ride trick bikes, so confident in their sinewy muscles and the invincibility of youth.  But there's a fine line between courage and foolhardiness, and if you tilt your weight over the handlebars too far your face will learn it.  Modern dentistry had just enough tooth left to attach temporary crowns after two root canals.  The final teeth will be attached in two weeks.

The night after the accident he clicked "purchase" on the bike he'd chosen before his first ride.  "It's like a bronco; you have to get right back on."  Meanwhile, Jared 2 is reconsidering the wisdom in this phrase "If I'm not scaring myself, it's not a good ride."

God's Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

    And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. 

--Gerard Manly Hopkins

Let Them Eat Cake

My family always celebrates birthdays.   Mom, of course, gets a little less birthday than everyone else, because she handles the rest of them and my Dad and I aren't as amazing as she is.   Still, there is always cake and ice cream and a few little gifts.  We sing two versions of the birthday song, we photograph the blowing out of candles, we admire new clothes and snacks.  Our birthdays are all bunched together in the fall and winter so we end up having a lot of dessert October through February.  Normally this isn't a problem,  as there are a lot of us.  But as of recently, NO ONE EATS CAKE.  My brothers are on specific healthy athletes' diets, and so the cake is just sitting there getting stale.

 Compounding the problem, my Mom and I took a cake decorating class, so we made a cake or cupcakes every week for four weeks.  And no one will eat them!  We keep inviting people over so we can give them cake and send some home for their families.  Baking is pointless now, because no one will eat the results.  What will I do to feel domestic and productive?  Who will indulge in the deliciousness of baked temptation?  To those chiseled bodies earned by hours at the gym, I say congratulations.  But I also say, life is short...eat my cake!

if you like my poems let them

if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."

-e.e. cummings 

No Small Thing

I haven't posted for two weeks because I've been discouraged and unsettled and didn't want to post complaints and fears.  My goal this year is to live beyond fears, remember.  Although lately I felt less enthusiastic about 2012, I knew to give up would be premature and wimpy.  The only thing to do was read a good book with lots of resounding wisdom and epic journeys and heroic little people fighting against evil.  Lord of the Rings, specifically, as I have been wanting to revisit these gems for years. I was first introduced to Tolkien's work at the tender age of 11 by my seventh grade science teacher.  I blazed through those fat little paperbacks by nightlight and was seriously upset when Gandalf fell in the mines of Moria.  Thank goodness he resurrected or whatever that was. My grandma bought me the books even though she thought they were weird (an opinion based on pictures from the movie, particularly of the orcs). My younger brothers were led by my excellent example to read them, although they were more easily addicted to the movies and had them practically on a loop for years.  I resisted the films at first because I didn't want them to ruin the books, but they too are excellent. (I will say that occasionally hearing people deliver grand speeches about a ring does strike me as silly.  This is where the books come in.)

Anyway, I'm rereading the books and discovered my younger self prudently underlined all the excellent lines in The Fellowship of the Ring.  This reading I noticed many are spoken by Gandalf, and I will, in a few moments, share a few here.  But first I would like to say of Tolkien that he was a wise man and I am deeply appreciative of the years and years of work he put into these volumes. 

And now, some great lines from The Fellowship of the Ring (book), for your edification:

"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." -Gandalf

"It is perilous to study too deeply the arts of the Enemy, for good or for ill." -Elrond

"[D]espair is only for those who see the end beyond all doubt.  We do not." -Gandalf

"Books ought to have good endings." -Bilbo

"[W]e put the thought of all that we love into all that we make." -the leader of the Elves in Lothlorien

"Memory is not what the heart desires." -Gimli

And from the film:

" And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost. History became legend; legend became myth." -Prologue

" Even the smallest person can change the course of the future." -Galadriel

Of course there are longer passages that are equally insightful.  To myself in this quiet phase of my existence, I say as Bilbo said:  "It is not a bad thing to celebrate a simple life."

In the Hush of Winter

Today being a cold, wintry day, I feel it appropriate to share Robert Frost's "Reluctance."

Out through the fields and the woods

And over the walls I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

'Twas My Birthday Week

And a celebratory week it was.  First, my dear friend (and first ever college roommate) Jill of the flowing auburn locks came to spend a few days with me.  These days involved much movie watching, game playing, and cocoa drinking.  Our movie selections included the visually delightful Alice in Wonderland (2010), and a few lines have gotten me thinking.  The Hatter says to Alice, "You're not the same as you were before.  You were much more...muchier.  You've lost your muchness."Alice queries, "My muchess?"  He points to her heart. "In there." Alice ponders this as she (re)discovers her courage and finally fights the Jabberwocky.  "Lost my muchness, have I?"  She mutters to herself.  "How's this for muchness?"  Like Alice, I have at times "lost my muchness."  Lost my enthusiasm, my good sense, my compassion.  Lost trust, lost faith, lost purpose.  And I don't like it.  I miss the good things about the girl I was.  Of course, I've gained things too, and am regaining others.   Again, like Alice, I have the spunk to believe impossible things before breakfast and to fight scary monsters.  The little saying I tell myself is "Live beyond fear.  Beyond regret."

I say live beyond because I've tried not having fears and regrets and failed.  Those are just two weaknesses I fight.  I get anxious about situations before, while, and after they happen.  I beat myself up over mistakes.  I regress to being about 15 years old and do and say weird things I can't explain and stay embarrassed about them for years.  It's very complicated in my head sometimes!  Fortunately, I am loved by a merciful God and by gracious friends (including some with similar DNA) who extend grace to me even when I am wearying.  I have a sense of anticipation for this year of being 24.  It's gonna be a good year.  Wrongs made right, burdens thrown overboard, adventures galore.

Right, so back to the birthday week.  For my actual birthday, I was with another dear friend (and third college roommate) Clara.  Her mom pampered me with homecooked meals:  waffles for breakfast, omlet for lunch, and a from-scratch chocolate cake for dinner, complete with candles.  I felt very special.  Clara also took me to an art gallery, whose special exhibition was "Extreme Materials."  I was amazed, I was slightly repulsed, I thoroughly enjoyed sharing the experience.  Clara kept pointing out the shadows things made, which I wouldn't have noticed on my own. My family celebration was on Sunday, and a birthday doesn't feel complete until the family party.  I had already picked out a few things like a warm fleece to replace the one I've had since high school.  But my parents surprised me with a subscription to Country Living (hurrah!) and a set of small cake decorating tips.  I think they are hoping to benefit from those! 

The celebrations just keep going too:  a few friends here in Jamestown are having a little dinner for me and I once again feel very special.  My curmudgeonly little heart is letting go of some of its prickles :-)

Whence the Name

Tuesday, June 4, 1991   by Billy Collins

By the time I get myself out of bed, my wife has left
the house to take her botany final and the painter
has arrived in his van and is already painting
the columns of the front porch white and decking gray.

It is early June, a breezy and sun-riddled Tuesday
that would quickly be forgotten were it not for my
writing these few things down as I sit here empty-headed
at the typewriter with a cup of coffee, light and sweet.

I feel like the secretary to the morning whose only
responsibility is to take down its bright, airy dictation
until it's time to go to lunch with the other girls,
all of us ordering the cottage cheese with half a pear.

This is what stenographers do in courtrooms, too,
alert at their miniature machines taking down every word.
When there is a silence they sit still as I do, waiting
and listening, fingers resting lightly on the keys.

This is also what Samuel Pepys did, jotting down in
private ciphers minor events that would have otherwise
slipped into the dark amnesiac waters of the Thames.
His vigilance finally paid off when London caught fire

as mine does when the painter comes in for coffee
and says how much he likes this slow vocal rendition
of "You Don't Know What Love Is" and I figure I will
make him a tape when he goes back to his brushes and pails.

Under the music I can hear the rush of cars and trucks
on the highway and every so often the new kitten, Felix,
hops into my lap and watches my fingers drumming out
a running record of this particular June Tuesday

as it unrolls before my eyes, a long intricate carpet
that I am walking on slowly with my head bowed
knowing that it is leading me to the quiet shrine
of the afternoon and the melancholy candles of evening.

If I look up, I see out the window the white stars
of clematis climbing a ladder of strings, a woodpile,
a stack of faded bricks, a small green garden of herbs,
things you would expect to find outside a window,

all written down now and placed in the setting
of a stanza as unalterably as they are seated
in their chairs in the ontological rooms of the world.
Yes, this is the kind of job I could succeed in,

an unpaid but contented amanuensis whose hands
are two birds fluttering on the lettered keys,
whose eyes see sunlight splashing thought the leaves,
and the bright pink asterisks of honeysuckle

and the piano at the other end of this room with
its small vase of faded flowers and its empty bench.
So convinced am I that I have found my vocation,
tomorrow I will begin my chronicling earlier, at dawn,

a time when hangmen and farmers are up and doing,
when men holding pistols stand in a field back to back.
It is the time the ancients imagined in robes, as Eos
or Aurora, who would leave her sleeping husband in bed,

not to take her botany final, but to pull the sun,
her brother, over the horizon's brilliant rim,
her four-house chariot aimed at the zenith of the sky.
But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,

barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window
in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.
She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,
offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.