musings

-I am very disturbed by the amount of sludge left at the bottom of my coffee cup at the end of the day. I probably should be drinking more water.
-I spend a lot of time talking about my cat. If I weren't engaged I'd be very concerned about the chances of becoming that crazy cat lady who volunteers at the school cafeteria.
-My microwave has been broken for 3 days, and I've decided it's too heavy to move. And then I realized this is why people use their old TVs as stands for their new TVs.
-I've decided wedding planning is where type-A people like me come to die. You think that it would be GREAT for people like me. But it turns out that changes like crab cake instead of salmon puffs reduce me to tears.
-I've recently discovered I'm completely unstable. (See above.)
-I miss writing, but I don't have the time. And yet somehow I managed to re-organize my tupperware cabinet. It had to be done, mind you, for fear that people would find themselves under a mountain of containers if they opened the cabinet door. But I still can't seem to justify the hour I spent purging food storage aids.

Thanks, Vera.

It's quite possible that I accidently bought a maternity shirt. It's also very possible that I am wearing aforementioned shirt. Maybe it's the pleated fabric and the tie in the front that makes me feel a little "with child." Maybe it's the piece of chocolate chip banana bread I had this morning with my coffee. All I know is that about 20 minutes ago I checked the tag to make sure I wasn't wearing "Vera Wang Expecting" and thanked the Gap gods that I wore "skinny" jeans to work today. What a weird morning...

letters

Nestled deep within my little mailbox today were three letters. All of them with my name carefully handwritten on the front in black pen. Each of them from different countries – Iraq, Japan, the United States. I sat for a minute on my couch with them in my lap, admiring the envelopes which seemed to mimic the senders’ personalities. There was a moment where I thought I might not open any of them; I could leave them unopened on my dining table until I had a day that was completely void of compassion or thoughtfulness. I could hide them away in my desk drawer until I had an empty day. Because sometimes I get so tired of being the one who speaks all the time. The one who writes the letters. Sometimes I neglect the sanctity of a moment to nourish my own spirit. And so I wanted to hold on tightly to these three letters that so advantageously turned up at the same time as a reminder that it is foolishness to think that I’ve been left alone. To make the mistake of Elijah and cry out in despair when there is a remnant. As a reminder that though the body of the woman was torn for the 12 tribes and scattered, it was still one body.

“Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure.” Henri Nouwen

From Justin

Valise-ian Fields

For Drea: Thank you for cooking for me.

I've often said that when I die, I want everything I own to fit into a suitcase. This is only because I have a really bulky toothbrush. Otherwise, I would just use a Wal-Mart bag. But then the eco-nuts would draw-and-quarter me and use me for organic compost. So, yes, Samsonite. Banville says that maybe life is all a great preparation for the leaving of it. That sounds very neatly contained, and I think that's a part of it, sure. But even more than my suitcase-stuff, I want to de-collect invisible things. I want, when I die, to smile at the thought of breathing being my last, heaviest burden. I will have forgiven and been forgiven. I will have loved and been loved. I will live and leave and live again. You can keep the suitcase.

-justin mcdevitt

smitten. smoldering.

I'm one of those people who uses three out of four stove-top burners for one meal. Pay close attention - I have a way of juggling too much, but I'll make it look like I was born to stir three pots at once.

Today someone asked me about how much I trusted God's providence. I didn't have much of an answer, so I thought it was best to stew on the question a bit. And eight hours later I'm suddenly struck sick with the thought that this might not work out the way I thought. Or hoped. And I'm not sure what to do with that. I'm not ready to just let go of this. In fact, I'm pretty adamantly refusing. And it's not the thought of not gaining something that's painful; it's losing something.

I'm not sure where I wandered off. But I found myself in a good place. So imagine my surprise only to return to find all these pots boiling over.

Farewell June.

This month has 25 days of conflict. Mostly emotional, sometimes mental, never physical (unless you count when I shoved Jett during a particularily engaging game of "Pit." I've never been one to have it all together, but I fake it well - which is good, because I'm pretty much always a mess. But I've decided that since June was the month of "No Hope" that July would be the month I get myself together. We'll call July the month of "Grace." Not that grace is necessarily the opposite of No Hope, but that's what I need. Any maybe that'll lend it's way to hope, and joy...maybe even peace? Here goes nothing. In the mean time, I'm on my way to developing a terrible journal habit and I'm applying for teaching jobs. And I'm also trying to keep myself from turning into a complete basket case. Goodbye June, you've been stressful. I hope July is more kind to my soul.

This is my Jeremy. He left for the Air Force this morning. My routine of watching old Simpson's re-runs and playing hours and hours of card/board games just took a serious hit. Also, vegetables just made their way back into my diet in a strong way.

This is Kodos. My baby. He came in and out of my life quick, the little rascal. I had him for a month, where I spoiled the "stray" right outta him. But no amount of fancy kitten food or cutesy little play toys could make him better and I had to put him down. To date, that is probably in the Top Five of "Most awful moments." But we got to love on him, and he sure did make for a good snuggle mate.

I rest in this - June is almost over. I never thought I'd be so excited about the heat and mosquitoes July brings, but I'm so ready.

waiting.

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.
-Dan Albergotti



I remember all those nights I would tread water, and I wonder if this isn't better. It's certainly easier. And so while I sit and measure the walls, call out to friends in vain, make smoke signals that no one can see, I'll narrate stories in my head. Name my future children. Alphabetize my spices. Chastise myself for everything I've done wrong. Defend those choices. Refuse to move on. Play board games. Wait for you to come to your senses. Put nothing on paper. Neglect my commitments to people. Write letters I'll never send. Make excuses. Let my heart be hardened. Still the last fainting beat. Wait for it to be revived. And if it doesn't, I'll rest in this - being in the belly of this fish is more peaceful than treading water. It's not where I'm supposed to be, maybe. But I'd rather not escape. Much less tiring.

no reason.

I just liked this. It seems to fit here.

Don't ask questions.

Just accept it. As wonderful.

I promise I'll write something significant soon.

But right now I'm too busy reflecting.

lunch.

My feet are dusty, but if I slip off my sandals I can barely see patches of clean skin shining like little stars hidden under the straps. I’m sitting on the backs of my legs, my heels pressed hard on the stained tiles under my weight. There’s a bag of water above my head in the hallway with a penny floating in it. It catches the light and looks like a little copper sun. It doesn’t seem to be doing its job though. A housefly has made it past the bag and lands on my hand. I stare at it for a second before blowing in its direction, sending it away from my sandwich. It’s too hot to move. Blowing on that fly to save my sandwich was almost too much effort. I’m not even hungry.

So I lean back a little and watch the kids make their lunches. They shuffle beside the tables lined with food. Starting with paper plates, adding white bread, jelly, peanut butter. Forgetting napkins. They skip right over the carrots and apples. They take two bags of chips. They’re chastised. They put one back. There’s a holdup at the end of the assembly line, where a picky junior high kid is determined to find the last chocolate chip granola bar.

A bit of sweat rolls into my eye and I get a whiff of my own peanut butter and jelly creation as I wipe my face. I want a shower. Or a nap. I don’t have time for both, and I’m sure shower would win out. But it’s still too hot to move. So I watch the girls pick at their nails and watch the boys throw bottle caps at each other. I watch dirt on my legs become a muddy smudge. I listen to bits of conversations and relish the few minutes that I have to myself. The fly has made it back into the hallway and found its place on my sandwich. I watch its wings spread and close. It rubs its little legs together, preparing to feast. I ignore it. Leaving my lunch on the floor I slip on my sandals again and open the blue gate leading back out to the dust. What does God require of me? To walk humbly, love mercy and do justice. I wonder if feeding that fly counts. I wonder if that is enough.

3 o'clock

There’s a quote that’s often attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald, whom I admire for continually producing such profound literature in the midst of self-destructing.

“In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.”

It’s like I’m on the edge of daybreak all the time. It’s that stillness that is like another person, lurking, when you awake in the middle of the night. And you lay there, in bed, waiting for it to finish you off, too terrifed to move.

And it’s hard to express this sort of thing. How do you do it without sounding melodramatic? Without trivializing things? Without being the one who cries "Wolf?" So I sit and write it all out. I’ve neglected my journal for so long I’m almost embarrassed to admit not being able to find it. But instead of process, I’d rather just sit and be in this place.

Not quite dawn all the time.

Of course, there’s always the noted difference between “happiness” and “joy.” And I wonder when it was that I lost both. And for how long I’ll continue to analyze my steps and watch myself move through the day with not much grace.

Day after day.

adaptations.

This is Just to Say
(William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten
the plums
that were
in the icebox

and which
you were
probably saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

-
Adaptations (Mystic Orthodoxy)

I said all the things
you wanted to hear
about being proud,

But mostly they were lies
that I felt compelled
to tell you instead of the truth.

It's not that I don't want
for you to be happy,
but I hate that you'll
leave me here.

-

You'll understand
if I tell you that
I don't feel much anymore.

It's not so much the distance
as it is the emptiness
of the whole routine.

I'd ask for forgiveness
but I'm not sure I'm worth
mercy or grace.

for cody.

who are you, little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window; at the gold of November sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

'who are you, little i' by ee cummings.

it's fun to watch the colors change. to smell the leaves burning somewhere off behind me. to pretend that i can leave open the windows as long as i want. when i was younger, i would spend the extra daylight running barefooted up and down the hills behind my house. i dug my toes into the coolness of the sand pits and then let the wet grass clean them off. i would swing my feet off the edge of the bridge until my little legs were fully devoured by mosquitoes. then i would peddle home, through the woods and over the mounds and pull my bike into my garage and get back to everything else. i want those days back.

remember?

When I stepped outside I could see only a bit of the moon. The season is such that only a sliver of it reflects the light. I saw the orange thumb-nail peaking out, contrasted among the rest of the sky. And I looked for the stars but could find any.

It was like that night when my world seemed to be slipping away and you made me look at the stars. Standing on the sidewalk in my pajamas, my socks wet from the pavement, struggling to lift my head enough. And you shook me straight and took my face in your hands and tilted my eyes up.

Above me, I could see the stars burn. I stood transfixed, my head still grounded, refusing to let myself drift from that painful place. And so you led me upstairs and sat me down. And there in your living room we faced each other, cross-legged on the carpet, our knees hardly touching. And you sang me songs. Quietly at first, humming along with chords only to sing a chorus every now and then, softly, forcing me into a place of peace.

And I thought of those stars. Cast up into the heavens with so much care. Held there with so much intention. And I couldn’t help but feel lost among them. I wanted so much to be caught up in them. There was so much hope in that thought, that the stars were suspended above me with so much beauty and grace.

But tonight I couldn’t find any stars. It was too cloudy. There was too much polluting the sky. The only light was that little bit of moon, struggling to make its presence known.

hosanna.

Salvation is a curious thing. In my recent backlash against what I would consider “American pop-Christianity” it seems that I’ve found it hard to come down hard on much of anything, theologically speaking. I want to say that I’m “working out my faith in fear and trembling,” but really I feel like I’m desperately drifting through things trying to find something that will stir up something in my soul.

Anything.

As I was sitting in church today I had a moment where I was fully aware of my depravity. Not in a way that would rend my heart and cause me to seek repentance, but in a way that made me realize how much I was completely complacent and utterly unresponsive.

Being Easter, the Sunday morning service was full of anthems of the “Hosanna” variety. (Which leads me to the subject of salvation.) Hosanna means to save, to rescue. Salvation means quite literally to heal, to intervene in order to rescue. It’s redemptive. It’s healing. It’s completing.

And I think back to every church camp and every Sunday morning altar call and I think about those televangelists who talk so much about “salvation” and imply it means simply to keep us from hell. But really, it’s so much more. To the Jews on that Passion Sunday their cry was that their king would come and rescue them, intervene and be just and make all things right.

And then I look at my life and wonder if it is I’ve been redeemed. If I’ve been restored.

I certainly don’t feel complete. I don’t feel like a person who’s been healed.

And some of this is my complacency, I’m sure. And some of it is my tendency to be guarded and to over-think and feel undeserving of any good thing. To be so humble as to deny myself a gift of mercy is not a virtue; rather it is only keeping me from experiencing what I can only think to describe as a tender heart.

And like it was with the Jews, salvation does not come to me the way I think it should. Or when. Or look like how I think it should look. And sometimes I miss it entirely. Continually.

So I’ve sat here and emphatically rejected it. All of it. And I’ve let things go so far that I don’t even feel that emptiness anymore. I don’t even feel the guilt. I don’t feel the rejection. I don’t wonder. Instead I’ve been unfaithful. I’ve tried to maintain something on the outside that looks like it’s pristine and pure, when in fact what I’ve done is allowed the garden of my inner life to become so over-run with weeds that I’ve forgotten what precious things the soil could produce.

Is there mercy for one like this?
Oh, to breathe again the freshness of peace,
to drink deeply of grace.

Is there hope for a dissonant daughter?
Lord, come quickly to save me.

my heart keeps me broke

Today I got up and it didn't feel like my life.

I wonder if I'm in a re-make of Body Snatchers.

No? I know you don't think it's possible, and even if I WAS a Pod Person, how would I know, right? Look. I know that's what you're thinking, but if you knew me like I knew me, you could tell. Because I can tell. My words aren't as soft. My attention isn't focused. My heart is wandering. I guess this is one of those times people in the Church like to call a "valley." And I guess they're normal. But for someone like me, you know - a "feeler," it's hard to go all day and just feel like I'm on auto-pilot. Or to feel so uninspired. Or remind myself of those emo kids in high school. That can't be good.

I need something to shake things up. Not necessarily reckless, as I've tried that and it's not had the expected outcome. But something that makes me feel like myself again. Because Lord knows I would HATE to get home and find myself making dinner, although finding a Pod Person in my kitchen would be quickly over-shadowed by the fact that I don't have to worry about dinner tonight... But I'm not entirely convinced it isn't possible. (The Pod Person, not worrying about dinner.)

The Poppies

If you feel sorry for yourself
this Valentine's Day, think of
the dozens of little paper poppies
left in the box when the last
of the candy is gone, how they
must feel, dried out and brown
in their sad old heart-shaped box,
without so much as a single finger
to scrabble around in their
crinkled petals, not even
one pimpled nose to root and snort
through their delicate pot pourri.
So before you make too much
of being neglected, I want you
to think how they feel.

(Ted Kosser, If You Feel Sorry)



It's true, that maybe this should have been posted yesterday morning - the crux of people's romantic sentiment. But it seemd more appropriate to me that it be this morning - the day after. I'm a fan of telling people you love them when you end a phone conversation. When you haven't seen them in weeks. When they're having a bad day. Or a good day. I'd rather send cards on a cloudy Saturday morning. My day is made by every-day gifts for no reason. Can't we share laughs over dinner more often? Do we need an occasion for a movie in? For poetry and cards? At the end of every day it should be about how well you loved others simply. Hallmark should look into designing more "Just Because" cards and stop making us feel like we need a day sanctioned for us. Then maybe come this time next year we won't feel neglected. Like we've been cheated or wronged. Maybe next year we'll get it.


In a light late-winter wind
the oak trees are scattering valentines
over the snow—dark red
like the deep-running, veinous blood
of the married, returning
again and again to the steady heart.

This leaf is yours, friend,
picked from the heart-shaped hoofprint
of a deer. She stood here
under the apple tree during the night,
kicking up sweetness, her great eyes
watching the sleeping house.
(Ted Kosser, In a Light Late-Winter Wind)

perfect unity

"Live in each season as it passes—breath
the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit,
& resign yourself to the influences of
each. Let them be your only diet
drink & botanical medicines. In August
live on berries, not dried meats as if
you were on shipboard making your
way through a waste ocean, or in
a northern desert. Be blown on by
all the winds. Open all your pores
& bathe in all the tides of nature
in all her streams & oceans at all
seasons."

Henry D. Thoreau



So to be faithful to St. John of the Cross, I’ve been sitting here for about an hour in the dark and listened to the rain through an open window in an attempt to focus myself long enough to be in a place that would even closely resemble contemplative prayer, though poorly. And I realize that this must be what it is to be taking in each season. This is what it means to breathe the air and resign myself to things and recognize they are what they are. To listen to the sounds of creation and feel the breeze and smell the rain only to be jarred out thought by a few of the loudest dogs I’ve ever heard.

But I’ve always been a “by the book” type of gal. I’ve planned my days to the minute. I’ve got things mapped out for weeks to come. My soul longs to throw it all to the wind and to make my way through this season feasting on what’s available. To allow myself to be directed by the wind and the streams. Not to neglect structure, for I’m sure I would breakdown and collapse in on myself, but to bask in all of the goodness that is this season – right now. To allow myself to be spiritually, emotionally and physically adrift. Not in a way that is flighty, but intentional, as not to fly through my day like so many calculated minutes, so much ignoring of moments.

And so I’ll listen to the rain. I’ll wait in the dark until that moment where I feel like my soul is in perfect union and rest there.

Ashes to ashes

Last night marked the beginning of Lent. I marked my Lenten Journey quite literally with ash. There's something about the Imposition of Ashes that's humbling and reflective. We're called to live a life of penitence, regretting our trangressions and recognizing our fatality. And yet Christ calls us out of ashes and invites us to live in freedom and grace. Do not walk around mourning and rending your garments, he says. Instead, rend your hearts to the Lord. cover yourself in oils and let your spirit be lifted up. I'm anticipating this Lenten season moreso than previous ones. I hope that this journey would be a time for reflection and preparation, that I may come to understand more fully the death and ressurection of Christ. From dust I was made, and to dust I will return.

Holy Father, you are near.
We tremble at your swift coming.
The day comes when you cause the sky to darken,
when you make the Earth empty and barren,
you dull the stars.
Our spirits tremble, like the Heavens.
We offer our hearts to you, torn.
We cry out for your mercy,
to find us without fault.
Lord, be slow to anger.
Relent!
We do not know whether this cup will pass;
we only hope that blessing is left,
and not curses.
And so we lift up our hearts to the Lord,
our weeping,
our transgressions,
our attempts at holiness.
We offer up these things to you,
our filthy rags.
Spare us, O God.
Have pity.
When the nations say,
"Where is their God?"
may we respond with joy,
He is among us.
He has restored us with the oil of gladness.
We are satisfied in him.
Amen.


(Litany based on Joel 2:1-2,12-18)

mornings with him.

It’s not yet light outside. The room is quiet, save the occasional sound the trees as they brush up against the window and the soft, rhythmic breathing of someone fast asleep. I need this moment, before the day starts. I’m still. I pretend not to be awake. I don’t want to rush anything along. On cue, I hear his voice. Usually he wakes me with the weather. “It’s going to be warm today,” “You’ll need a jacket this afternoon, it’ll be cold,” “Don’t forget your umbrella…” There’s something comforting in that familiar voice. I stay in bed for a few minutes, taking it all in. “It’s Tuesday. Ready for the New Hampshire primaries?” I groan a little. I can’t handle political discussion until I’ve had coffee. You should know this by now. He changes the subject. Something about a refrigerator that doubles as an iPod dock. I’m barely listening. I roll over and try to go back to sleep. “It’s 7:15.” I know. I need to get up. I’ll never make it to work on time if I stay here, but I’d rather stay in this moment. I know he’ll be there when I get out of the shower, but I don’t want to miss anything. I hang on his every word. But the promise of coffee finally pulls me from the bed. As I make my way to the kitchen I hear him call after me, “I’m Steve Inskeep, and you’re listening to NPR…” What I wouldn’t give for just five more minutes with him…

endings.

It keeps me up at night. My mind is always wandering. At any given moment I’m composing my thoughts into chapters or categories. I have scraps of paper and napkins and journal pages where I’ve written down book ideas, characters, titles and outlines. There are about a half a dozen half-written essays on flash drives or yellow legal pads. But I don’t know how to finish them. I have a mess of half-developed creativity. I’m not sure what to do with it. Sometimes I think I should just put them all together, like that would somehow give closure to the whole thing. Sometimes I wonder if I just write everything out that’s in my head it would clear the way to endings. Like all those beginnings are somehow keeping me from the rest. Irving wrote that writers “love endings.” Could it be that I’m just afraid to let things end? Maybe it’s that things don’t always so neatly tie themselves up. Either way, it seems to me that if I’m ever to properly publish anything I’ve got to conclude things. Maybe I’m destined to have a trove of half-finished essays and reflections written on the backs of envelopes and on constant loop inside my head. At night, when everything is still I close my eyes and go over everything, just as if I were writing it down. I move paragraphs; I interject sentences or subtract commas. The whole process done right there while I drift off to sleep. Sometimes, if I think I may lose it, I’ll roll over and scratch it all out on the inside of a book flap or a discarded clothing tag I find under the bed. But mostly I watch the words as they float above me. I watch them move and fall into place. I just wish I could do that on paper. I just wish I could get some sleep.