we did it.
it came. it hung around and ate and ate and ate. it did a dance to bing crosby. it talked about politics and gave simple gifts.
it snowed, for crying out loud.
michael and i went on a walk this afternoon, after my dad's new england breakfast of biscuits and sour cream with maple syrup. just the two of us, since mozie and ruah could hang with my mom and levi. we were laughing and doing weird chicken struts down francis when out of nowhere, God smiled a cheesy and wonderful grin and let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
we walked through creston park, and i swear it looked like england, or cleveland.
our little ghetto neighborhood absolutely looks like cleveland when it snows (or england, depending on your mood). not that i've ever seen cleveland, but i have an intuitive nudge of what cleveland is and am positive that this intuition is based in some reality.
when i think of cleveland, i think working class roseannes, simple and pabst-infused. i think nine-to-fives and greasy, home-cooked meals with ugly kids in old houses and big trees out front, yelling and throwing brown snowballs.
and whether this is accurate or not, it feels comforting to me, for no apparent reason.
every year when it snows in portland i say to michael:
"God, this feels like cleveland. it's so amazing."
michael gave me a wrapped up library book for christmas that he picked up for me last week. the flannery o'connor short stories i put on hold a month ago. what a beautiful, simple gift.
and what a relief, because i'm about to quit on anne lamott. the prelude to "grace (eventually)" is such a trick--it's about 8 million times better than the ensuing chapters. i get to the end of her essays and think, "is that it? is that all you're going to say? and, moreover, is that really what you think? do you actually think Jesus had to learn to like the gentiles? that's not just wrong, it's demented."
and perhaps worse than demented, it feels shallow.
i'm sad. i miss her. i remember the greivous let-down i experienced when i heard patty griffin's last album. where is sweet loraine? where have all the brilliant lyrics gone? long time passing and several cds ago.
i miss travelling mercies. i thought anne might be super-human, but it turns out she's a dork like the rest of us.
michael, on the other hand, is taking it personally. i read him a chapter the other night in bed, and he said: "i'm just annoyed with her."
mozea and ruah had a sweet christmas. we delivered peanut butter balls to our neighbors yesterday, and mozie, in her giant puffy pink coat would shout out from the abyss of her hood: "merry christmas!" after giving a very puzzled look to each neighbor. i know she was thinking: "why in the world are we giving our peanut butter balls away? this makes no sense." i know this because after we'd walk down from someone's house, she'd have a meltdown on the sidewalk that sounded mostly like screaching and wincing, with a few suggestive phrases about her peanut butter balls and when could she eat one.
we give gifts to our drug-dealing neighbors every year. they are actually some of my favorite people on the block. while we waited for them to answer their door yesterday, i snooped in their kitchen window and saw a little calendar on the table with Scripture on it: "even though i fear evil, the Lord is always with me."
we are going to be absolutely shocked to the core about who's who in the heavenly realms.
i have no idea what that calendar means to them. maybe it's a joke. or something to write mean notes on or grocery lists that request items like syringes or small mirrors and razor blades. i don't know, but i will say, i'd rather spend eternity with my drug-dealing neighbors than some other heaven-bound folk i've known.
Lord have mercy.
so our family Christmas ended with a hilarious meal. we made a million really hard side dishes and topped it off with a giant slab of salmon. it was a total fiasco. mozea ran around in her undies and cowboy boots, and dodged the blazing hot oven each time she ran past. ruah zel is sick, so even though she's the light of the world, aside from Christ and mozea, she coughed and cried through most of the prep. three hours after the side dishes were done, the fish came out of the oven, a little black and bruised from the hard and tragic work of being cooked by the havens' fam.
if this fish still had its head when it came to the table, it would have rolled its eyes and called us losers.
mozea prayed for the meal, thanking God that nana could come to the birthday party, referencing the happy birthday she sang to Jesus and the candle she blew outlast night when we ate our christmas eve mexican lentil soup.
i took ruah to bed just after the smoking salmon made his/her appearance, and
mozie said: "goodnight, sissy! thanks for coming!"
yes, indeed, thank you for coming.
thank you everyone for coming--thank you Jesus for coming. thank you for coming to me, to michael, to this house, to this world. thank you, mom and levi, for coming to portland this year and being so enjoyable and fun to spend our christmas with. thank you, mozie and ruah, for coming to us, for being born and created and saying "yes" to the One who sent you, when that One asked you to be in our crazy havenator clan.
i do remember anne lamott writing something beautiful about thankyous in one of her books.
she said something about standing in the street, looking up at the sky and for all of the things everywhere that had ever been good, saying: "thank you, thank you, thank you."
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
peanut butter balls, take 2
yesterday i was pounding them by the fist-full.
it was two after another. i'd only stop to curse my housemate for making them in the first place, and then back to the grindstone: i mean, someone has to eat them.
but His mercies are new every morning the old Book says, and today, well, just after putting my girls down for a nap i saw a group of extremely formidable looking fellows sit down on my stoop. we have two stoops, one near the sidewalk and one near our porch. they were sitting on the former, waiting. i knew what they were waiting for, because since moving into this house i now know what it looks like when someone on foot or in a car is waiting for drugs. i mama-beared up and opened the door, "can i help you?"
they all looked at me with insolent eyes, "no, we're just waiting."
there was a pause, a charged silence, and they languidly got up from my steps and called me some breathy icky names to one another, and we were all on our way: them to the street and me back in my house, with the door firmly shut and locked.
a few safe moments behind my big, thick door and this annoying thought came floating by:
lame.
very lame.
the last thing i want to do is shun people who are looking for something to make life feel better.
and here i am, acting all suburban and freaky.
i need to re-do the slam-the-door-and-lock-it-fast routine i just performed.
and with the very voice used to tell Noah to build the ark, God said:
"peanut butter balls. and fast."
oh, God. the only thing more laughable than my initial interaction with them was to now walk outside and offer these guys some baked goods.
ugh. ugh. any other ideas?
enough stalling.
think fast, malchevich.
without much thought, and with all the neurosis and authority that comes with a pair of mom sweats, i grabbed a handful of these now peanut butter balls turned olive branch and waddled out onto the porch, walked down my steps, right up to them in the street and handed them a bag full of caloric wonder.
i told them we bake a lot, and that i thought they might like something sweet to eat.
they laughed and then looked away. they were too cool for me, but we all knew this already.
the only one who talked to me pointed to his fat-faced friend and said: "he'll eat 'em."
and that was that.
some more breathy icky laughing explitives as they walked down my street, and they were gone.
as were the peanut butter balls, praise God!,
and as was fear and hatefulness.
i felt a tad powerful as i walked back in my house.
extending a moment of love felt more securing and empowering than any amount of thickness in a door, or any number of turns on the old lock.
but maybe the feeling just came from my mom sweats.
i mean, i could do anything in those things.
it was two after another. i'd only stop to curse my housemate for making them in the first place, and then back to the grindstone: i mean, someone has to eat them.
but His mercies are new every morning the old Book says, and today, well, just after putting my girls down for a nap i saw a group of extremely formidable looking fellows sit down on my stoop. we have two stoops, one near the sidewalk and one near our porch. they were sitting on the former, waiting. i knew what they were waiting for, because since moving into this house i now know what it looks like when someone on foot or in a car is waiting for drugs. i mama-beared up and opened the door, "can i help you?"
they all looked at me with insolent eyes, "no, we're just waiting."
there was a pause, a charged silence, and they languidly got up from my steps and called me some breathy icky names to one another, and we were all on our way: them to the street and me back in my house, with the door firmly shut and locked.
a few safe moments behind my big, thick door and this annoying thought came floating by:
lame.
very lame.
the last thing i want to do is shun people who are looking for something to make life feel better.
and here i am, acting all suburban and freaky.
i need to re-do the slam-the-door-and-lock-it-fast routine i just performed.
and with the very voice used to tell Noah to build the ark, God said:
"peanut butter balls. and fast."
oh, God. the only thing more laughable than my initial interaction with them was to now walk outside and offer these guys some baked goods.
ugh. ugh. any other ideas?
enough stalling.
think fast, malchevich.
without much thought, and with all the neurosis and authority that comes with a pair of mom sweats, i grabbed a handful of these now peanut butter balls turned olive branch and waddled out onto the porch, walked down my steps, right up to them in the street and handed them a bag full of caloric wonder.
i told them we bake a lot, and that i thought they might like something sweet to eat.
they laughed and then looked away. they were too cool for me, but we all knew this already.
the only one who talked to me pointed to his fat-faced friend and said: "he'll eat 'em."
and that was that.
some more breathy icky laughing explitives as they walked down my street, and they were gone.
as were the peanut butter balls, praise God!,
and as was fear and hatefulness.
i felt a tad powerful as i walked back in my house.
extending a moment of love felt more securing and empowering than any amount of thickness in a door, or any number of turns on the old lock.
but maybe the feeling just came from my mom sweats.
i mean, i could do anything in those things.
mama pukes, ruah digs it
ruah and i just got done playing an amazing round of "baby puts her hand in mama's mouth and mama pukes a little" for about 45 minutes.
she's here at my side, helping me write this, making sure i get the facts straight.
llkkkkk....(ruah's side of the story)
jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiioo[ijoipjioj
she'll probably pipe up here from time to time.
she's a good writer; i'm so proud.
so we sat here on our big, puffy, purple, woman couch and giggled and drooled, both of us.
she'd put her fingers in my big mama mouth and hold my tongue while i would try to say "i love you ruah" in the most intelligible fashion:
"i uv ooooo ooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh"
(my writing, not hers)
and then she'd stealthily plunge her whole fist into my mouth and get me to gag and puke a little spinach we just ate for lunch.
she was thrilled to the point that gagging and puking had to continue or she was going to give no rest to her version of protest: cry and cry harder.
it was like i was finally understanding her, finally speaking her heart language:
gag. puke. repeat.
ruah makes the most amazing sounds. she constantly sounds in awe. she paddles over to some puzzle pieces on the floor and picks one up, crosses her eyes, oohs and ahhs in this amazing heaven-born harp like sound and then paddles off to some dirt balls on the floor, some beard droppings from michael's trim trab, some corners of crusty cheese. her oohs and ahhs are non-discriminatory; she'll marvel at anything.
i'm wondering when she'll start getting attitude and saying "no! mama! no! no!"
it was a shock to the ol' heart to hear mozea say those words for the first time, and now there's no stopping her. mozie's producing neurons and attitude in equal measure. the smarter she gets, the more insane.
i continue to pat my misshapen hip bones, my pushed-out-of-orbit-from-laboring-these-babies into-the-world hip bones, and think about our crazy life with these red-headed bobbing about wonders.
my body will never be the same.
my life, as well.
and my heart, 10 times bigger and better and more exhausted than ever.
i've never been so in love and so grumpy in my entire life.
she's here at my side, helping me write this, making sure i get the facts straight.
llkkkkk....(ruah's side of the story)
jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiioo[ijoipjioj
she'll probably pipe up here from time to time.
she's a good writer; i'm so proud.
so we sat here on our big, puffy, purple, woman couch and giggled and drooled, both of us.
she'd put her fingers in my big mama mouth and hold my tongue while i would try to say "i love you ruah" in the most intelligible fashion:
"i uv ooooo ooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh"
(my writing, not hers)
and then she'd stealthily plunge her whole fist into my mouth and get me to gag and puke a little spinach we just ate for lunch.
she was thrilled to the point that gagging and puking had to continue or she was going to give no rest to her version of protest: cry and cry harder.
it was like i was finally understanding her, finally speaking her heart language:
gag. puke. repeat.
ruah makes the most amazing sounds. she constantly sounds in awe. she paddles over to some puzzle pieces on the floor and picks one up, crosses her eyes, oohs and ahhs in this amazing heaven-born harp like sound and then paddles off to some dirt balls on the floor, some beard droppings from michael's trim trab, some corners of crusty cheese. her oohs and ahhs are non-discriminatory; she'll marvel at anything.
i'm wondering when she'll start getting attitude and saying "no! mama! no! no!"
it was a shock to the ol' heart to hear mozea say those words for the first time, and now there's no stopping her. mozie's producing neurons and attitude in equal measure. the smarter she gets, the more insane.
i continue to pat my misshapen hip bones, my pushed-out-of-orbit-from-laboring-these-babies into-the-world hip bones, and think about our crazy life with these red-headed bobbing about wonders.
my body will never be the same.
my life, as well.
and my heart, 10 times bigger and better and more exhausted than ever.
i've never been so in love and so grumpy in my entire life.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
obscurity
michael just turned to me and said that he revels in our obscurity.
no one knows who we are or what we do, and yet we're at the center of things that kings and prophets and drooling evangelicals have longed to see.
i like my husband. he just trimmed his beard and he's reading some crazy futurist book and he's all brainy and weird and funny and has been saved from so much utter shit.
in other news, i wept to some christmas carols tonight on the ol' 1908 out of tune biddle in my living room. the lyrics are absolutely radical and gripping. fall on your knees, you weepingly bad piano player on 33rd avenue, his law is love and his gospel is peace!...let your loving heart enthrone him, for this is where the battle is won and lost, in your heart, in your mind, in you...he breaks the chains...the slave is your brother...this is Christ the King whom shepherds guard, whom angels sing...this is Christ the King. wake up! wake up! arise, shine for your light has come! thick darkness covers the earth, covers the people...but joy to the world, the Lord is come. receive your King. receive your King!
no one knows who we are or what we do, and yet we're at the center of things that kings and prophets and drooling evangelicals have longed to see.
i like my husband. he just trimmed his beard and he's reading some crazy futurist book and he's all brainy and weird and funny and has been saved from so much utter shit.
in other news, i wept to some christmas carols tonight on the ol' 1908 out of tune biddle in my living room. the lyrics are absolutely radical and gripping. fall on your knees, you weepingly bad piano player on 33rd avenue, his law is love and his gospel is peace!...let your loving heart enthrone him, for this is where the battle is won and lost, in your heart, in your mind, in you...he breaks the chains...the slave is your brother...this is Christ the King whom shepherds guard, whom angels sing...this is Christ the King. wake up! wake up! arise, shine for your light has come! thick darkness covers the earth, covers the people...but joy to the world, the Lord is come. receive your King. receive your King!
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
eventually....
i finally got anne lamott's latest book tonight at the library.
thank you multnomah county for putting libraries in the world, in my neighborhood, in my life.
thank you whomever, for buying the book so the library could let me read it for free.
and thank you, God, for making anne lamott so i could sit in my living room tonight, by my small and browning christmas tree, and laugh about thighs and cellulite and stumbling around in spiritual chaos.
speaking of thighs and cellulite, i've had about 2,000 peanut butter balls today. i just had yet another one, and then felt so guilty about it i had to remedy the mental anguish with just one more. speaking of spiritual chaos....
anyhoos, i went to bi-mart yesterday with mozie around 9 am. it was amazing. it was so amazingly 1950, just like it always is. bi-mart makes me feel good. like really good. better than peanut butter ball good. everything feels so simple once you're admitted past the swinging half-door. well, even before the half-door it feels simple, because of that smell. smells like tires inside. and everyone is old, amazingly old, and has big, puffy, thinning, 1950s hair with large boney glasses on over-sized noses. mozie and i flocked to the yellow number board with all the old farts and squinted our eyes, stared up, wondered if we could be a big winner on "lucky number tuesday". it was an amazing congregation below that blazing yellow god. all eyes were up, just like church, some people even had their eyes closed, but instead of praying i think they'd accidentally fallen asleep while checking their numbers. one woman with no teeth and a head scarf told me that her friend millie always wins on tuesdays, but not her, never her. she trailed off, in voice and stature, as her body disappeared behind a large display of detergent.
beautiful, say it again and again, i wanted to say.
where else can you go in portland at 9 am on any given day and feel so small? so confined? kept away from problems and bills and spooky thoughts about relevance or the existential crisis you are trying to un-friend? where else can you go where everyone wakes up at 4am just to eat toast and rub their feet and wonder about the day, wonder about what they will do until bi-mart opens at 7am? where else is "lucky number tuesday" the beginning, middle and end?
mozea and i pushed our miniature cart (also adding to the ambiance of the place) slowly down aisles that have products picked right off the set of "the price is right."
i looked at a motorized santa, santa all cheesy and corny and perfect, climbing up and down a ladder, smiling some saccharine and cheesy, corny smile.
our feet squeaked on the shiny floors and we moved to the side for an old man and his old wife, each one hunkering over the cart, over each other, talking about spatulas.
later, around 8pm, i rode my bike down woodstock and looked in all the windows. bi-mart was closed, since it has no clientele after 3pm--they've all gone to bed.
there were no cars out, just pink and blue lights from radio shack and a few wandering cats. a floral shop had a bunch of fake christmas trees in the window. some of them had spray on snow, others had big, floppy poinsettias with fake gems glued to the petals.
everything felt simple and small. bi-mart's spirit of "lucky number tuesday" was influencing the whole street, praise God!
no thighs. no cellulite. no spiritual chaos. no anne lamott.
i'm grateful it exists...bi-mart and woodstock and "lucky number tuesday"
i'm glad those people exist and their spatulas and their vicks vapor rub.
i'm glad for that tire smell and the mini-carts and even that smiling, fat-faced santa.
but back to life, back to the existential crisis and to anne lamott and to my browning christmas tree and those psychotic peanut butter balls piled in my freezer.
thank you multnomah county for putting libraries in the world, in my neighborhood, in my life.
thank you whomever, for buying the book so the library could let me read it for free.
and thank you, God, for making anne lamott so i could sit in my living room tonight, by my small and browning christmas tree, and laugh about thighs and cellulite and stumbling around in spiritual chaos.
speaking of thighs and cellulite, i've had about 2,000 peanut butter balls today. i just had yet another one, and then felt so guilty about it i had to remedy the mental anguish with just one more. speaking of spiritual chaos....
anyhoos, i went to bi-mart yesterday with mozie around 9 am. it was amazing. it was so amazingly 1950, just like it always is. bi-mart makes me feel good. like really good. better than peanut butter ball good. everything feels so simple once you're admitted past the swinging half-door. well, even before the half-door it feels simple, because of that smell. smells like tires inside. and everyone is old, amazingly old, and has big, puffy, thinning, 1950s hair with large boney glasses on over-sized noses. mozie and i flocked to the yellow number board with all the old farts and squinted our eyes, stared up, wondered if we could be a big winner on "lucky number tuesday". it was an amazing congregation below that blazing yellow god. all eyes were up, just like church, some people even had their eyes closed, but instead of praying i think they'd accidentally fallen asleep while checking their numbers. one woman with no teeth and a head scarf told me that her friend millie always wins on tuesdays, but not her, never her. she trailed off, in voice and stature, as her body disappeared behind a large display of detergent.
beautiful, say it again and again, i wanted to say.
where else can you go in portland at 9 am on any given day and feel so small? so confined? kept away from problems and bills and spooky thoughts about relevance or the existential crisis you are trying to un-friend? where else can you go where everyone wakes up at 4am just to eat toast and rub their feet and wonder about the day, wonder about what they will do until bi-mart opens at 7am? where else is "lucky number tuesday" the beginning, middle and end?
mozea and i pushed our miniature cart (also adding to the ambiance of the place) slowly down aisles that have products picked right off the set of "the price is right."
i looked at a motorized santa, santa all cheesy and corny and perfect, climbing up and down a ladder, smiling some saccharine and cheesy, corny smile.
our feet squeaked on the shiny floors and we moved to the side for an old man and his old wife, each one hunkering over the cart, over each other, talking about spatulas.
later, around 8pm, i rode my bike down woodstock and looked in all the windows. bi-mart was closed, since it has no clientele after 3pm--they've all gone to bed.
there were no cars out, just pink and blue lights from radio shack and a few wandering cats. a floral shop had a bunch of fake christmas trees in the window. some of them had spray on snow, others had big, floppy poinsettias with fake gems glued to the petals.
everything felt simple and small. bi-mart's spirit of "lucky number tuesday" was influencing the whole street, praise God!
no thighs. no cellulite. no spiritual chaos. no anne lamott.
i'm grateful it exists...bi-mart and woodstock and "lucky number tuesday"
i'm glad those people exist and their spatulas and their vicks vapor rub.
i'm glad for that tire smell and the mini-carts and even that smiling, fat-faced santa.
but back to life, back to the existential crisis and to anne lamott and to my browning christmas tree and those psychotic peanut butter balls piled in my freezer.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
theism
a few weeks ago i sang my prayers over a friend at reed.
we happened to set up camp on a large rug in the chapel that has the reed griffin emblazoned on it. everywhere the griffin hangs out on products, there's usually these words written around it in a circle:
"communism. atheism. free love."
i loved singing to Jesus with and for and about my friend.
and i dug singing to Him on top of the insignia that usually houses the sentiment that reed does not embrace God, because there we were absolutely embracing him, weeping ourselves right up next to him.
it felt like a hefty and beautiful up yours to the whole shabang.
we happened to set up camp on a large rug in the chapel that has the reed griffin emblazoned on it. everywhere the griffin hangs out on products, there's usually these words written around it in a circle:
"communism. atheism. free love."
i loved singing to Jesus with and for and about my friend.
and i dug singing to Him on top of the insignia that usually houses the sentiment that reed does not embrace God, because there we were absolutely embracing him, weeping ourselves right up next to him.
it felt like a hefty and beautiful up yours to the whole shabang.
i'll take that
mozea crawled up on my chair tonight at dinner, per usual since she generally doesn't eat dinner, and stood behind me, playing with my hair and hugging my neck.
she said to the air:
"this is my mama. i love her."
i'll take that.
tonight is british comedy and clean the kitchen night and hopefully in bed by 10 to start all over again tomorrow night.
start the love and the craziness all over again tomorrow.
i'll take that.
she said to the air:
"this is my mama. i love her."
i'll take that.
tonight is british comedy and clean the kitchen night and hopefully in bed by 10 to start all over again tomorrow night.
start the love and the craziness all over again tomorrow.
i'll take that.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
the year my father died
the year my father died, i graduated from whitman, took a road trip up the coast of california with my mom in a bright red convertible to try to celebrate life and then moved 3,000 miles away to alaska with people i'd never met before.
(except joel. hi joel, if you ever read this.)
i was following Jesus, and i thought he might be in alaska. i can't say i regret it, but i can't say i'd do it the same again. i would say that i'd follow Jesus wherever and however, so maybe i would do it again. hard to know, because that drive to anchorage was heart breaking. the woods and the moose and bear and alaska all looked like my father so very much. he was a hunter and a woodsman. he loved the land of the midnight sun.
on january 14th of that year, i walked deep into the woods by myself and wept and rocked myself while standing cold in the snow and talked to the trees and to my dad and told him that i would miss him forever. i walked so far off of the trail that i was sure no one could hear me, not that being near the trail would mean anyone would've heard me either. alaska is alaska...there's really no one around wherever you go.
i had a big breakfast that morning with maple syrup and pancakes, my dad's favorite since he was a new hampshirite, and then wrote him a long letter. when i headed off to the woods, i brought a framed picture of us and then put both the letter and our faces on a tall noble fir tree deep in that forest, covered in thick snow. before i walked away i dropped a rose that i bought down in town and headed back for the trail.
that was the first anniversary of his death; i remember feeling that i was leaving a huge heavy boulder of grief behind in the woods as i walked back to roads and cars and my apartment and job and life.
all the way home i looked around me in the woods and imagined my father walking along next to me, framed by a landscape that would have suited him so well.
i listened to him on a nearby hill yell across the valley to me that he loved me, he loved me.
a few years later my brother, his family, and my mom and her future husband and michael and me met in the tetons to spread my dad's ashes. i was pregnant with mozea at the time, and michael and i had made a long trip in our beat-up vanagon from portland to wyoming at the end of september, when the elk bugle, to cast my father to the wind. we spread his ashes on a hill overlooking the snake river and then poured on the ground a bottle of estes park sampson stout that he saved for a special occasion along with all of our prayers and tears. i think i sang a song, i can't remember. we were all dealing with the pain of the day in our own peculiar ways...my brother took a thousand photographs and his kids ran around and played with sticks while we spread dad's remains. my mom played a tape of elk bugling and cried desperately and i held michael's hand tight. the morning air was cold and quick, the morning air my father preferred. it was a perfect temperature for maple syrup and pancakes.
i remember everyone was being incredibly delicate with the ashes. they put on special gloves and were slow and demure as they spread them towards the snake river.
as i'm sure you can imagine, i did nothing of the sort.
i rolled up my sleeves and plunged my bare hands into my dad's remains and then closed my fists tight, as tight as i could, and held him for a long time before letting him go.
my dad's remains were sticky. they weren't like normal ash or dirt. they stayed with you.
it was windy that morning and the ashes blew all over us. it seemed like people felt kind of uncomfortable with dad blowing every-which-way, getting stuck in eyelashes and under shirt collars, but i liked having dad all over me. when no one was paying much attention, i put my hands in the urn a second time and rubbed his ashes all over my face and hair and neck and arms and then closed the lid and carried his box down the hill with me that contained the things he was carrying the morning he died (a 2$ bill, his glasses, some unopened chapstick, and a silver cross that he said he'd always have in his pocket just in case it was true).
michael and i drove to jenny lake after we watched some elk rut in the middle of a thorough fare and said goodbye to my family.
the sun was setting over the grand tetons and i caught a glimpse of myself in our vanagon's spotty side mirror. i had my father's grey remains all over me, my hair was a dingy shade and my skin and painting shirt looked silty. whenever i touched my hand to my mouth i could taste the dusty salt, my dad.
i grabbed michael's hand as we drove out of yellowstone in the late autumn light.
with my husband, our baby in my belly, and my father all over me we drove back to portland.
the year my father died i turned 21.
that year began the darkest and most desperate five years of my life.
those years ended with the birth of my daughter, mozea.
she came a few months after we gave my father to the wind.
(except joel. hi joel, if you ever read this.)
i was following Jesus, and i thought he might be in alaska. i can't say i regret it, but i can't say i'd do it the same again. i would say that i'd follow Jesus wherever and however, so maybe i would do it again. hard to know, because that drive to anchorage was heart breaking. the woods and the moose and bear and alaska all looked like my father so very much. he was a hunter and a woodsman. he loved the land of the midnight sun.
on january 14th of that year, i walked deep into the woods by myself and wept and rocked myself while standing cold in the snow and talked to the trees and to my dad and told him that i would miss him forever. i walked so far off of the trail that i was sure no one could hear me, not that being near the trail would mean anyone would've heard me either. alaska is alaska...there's really no one around wherever you go.
i had a big breakfast that morning with maple syrup and pancakes, my dad's favorite since he was a new hampshirite, and then wrote him a long letter. when i headed off to the woods, i brought a framed picture of us and then put both the letter and our faces on a tall noble fir tree deep in that forest, covered in thick snow. before i walked away i dropped a rose that i bought down in town and headed back for the trail.
that was the first anniversary of his death; i remember feeling that i was leaving a huge heavy boulder of grief behind in the woods as i walked back to roads and cars and my apartment and job and life.
all the way home i looked around me in the woods and imagined my father walking along next to me, framed by a landscape that would have suited him so well.
i listened to him on a nearby hill yell across the valley to me that he loved me, he loved me.
a few years later my brother, his family, and my mom and her future husband and michael and me met in the tetons to spread my dad's ashes. i was pregnant with mozea at the time, and michael and i had made a long trip in our beat-up vanagon from portland to wyoming at the end of september, when the elk bugle, to cast my father to the wind. we spread his ashes on a hill overlooking the snake river and then poured on the ground a bottle of estes park sampson stout that he saved for a special occasion along with all of our prayers and tears. i think i sang a song, i can't remember. we were all dealing with the pain of the day in our own peculiar ways...my brother took a thousand photographs and his kids ran around and played with sticks while we spread dad's remains. my mom played a tape of elk bugling and cried desperately and i held michael's hand tight. the morning air was cold and quick, the morning air my father preferred. it was a perfect temperature for maple syrup and pancakes.
i remember everyone was being incredibly delicate with the ashes. they put on special gloves and were slow and demure as they spread them towards the snake river.
as i'm sure you can imagine, i did nothing of the sort.
i rolled up my sleeves and plunged my bare hands into my dad's remains and then closed my fists tight, as tight as i could, and held him for a long time before letting him go.
my dad's remains were sticky. they weren't like normal ash or dirt. they stayed with you.
it was windy that morning and the ashes blew all over us. it seemed like people felt kind of uncomfortable with dad blowing every-which-way, getting stuck in eyelashes and under shirt collars, but i liked having dad all over me. when no one was paying much attention, i put my hands in the urn a second time and rubbed his ashes all over my face and hair and neck and arms and then closed the lid and carried his box down the hill with me that contained the things he was carrying the morning he died (a 2$ bill, his glasses, some unopened chapstick, and a silver cross that he said he'd always have in his pocket just in case it was true).
michael and i drove to jenny lake after we watched some elk rut in the middle of a thorough fare and said goodbye to my family.
the sun was setting over the grand tetons and i caught a glimpse of myself in our vanagon's spotty side mirror. i had my father's grey remains all over me, my hair was a dingy shade and my skin and painting shirt looked silty. whenever i touched my hand to my mouth i could taste the dusty salt, my dad.
i grabbed michael's hand as we drove out of yellowstone in the late autumn light.
with my husband, our baby in my belly, and my father all over me we drove back to portland.
the year my father died i turned 21.
that year began the darkest and most desperate five years of my life.
those years ended with the birth of my daughter, mozea.
she came a few months after we gave my father to the wind.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
mean mama
i was mean to my girls this morning.
and the show went down for all to see at the woodstock library.
it made me sick and feel like a low-life, but i was so angry and hormonal and freaky.
i couldn't stop, despite the audible pleading with the One who can clear these things up: "God, please help me be good to them. I need your help right now. Right now. Hurry up or it's gonna get bad."
it doesn't happen very often, thank God, because i am married to an amazing man who is a full partner with me in loving our girls. i would be a tragic single mom.
but today i was the twin one of those women you see at grocery stores or banks or other bad mom spots, where bad moms hang out and yell at their kids. bad moms who are exhausted but have to buy something to feed the noise. bad moms whose gut and thighs are bigger than their husband's and who can't do anything but have fried, split-ends and brown-coffee teeth. those people you shake your head at and want to deprive of the very air they are stealing from all of the good people in the room, like yourself.
even the librarian lowered her voice and asked me if i needed help with anything, and i could tell she meant "help" in more than a "can i help you find barney's best pals go to the bouncy castle?" kind of a way.
she packed my back pack for me upon checking out mozea's books and wished me well before she sent me out the door.
then things really got nuts.
i couldn't find the key to the van. ruah was screaming and pulling my hair. mozie was screaming and pulling ruah's hair. both of them were falling out of my arms and mozea's baby doll stroller was about to get thrown across the street and into the library parking lot if it didn't cooperate and stop falling out of my pinkie finger grasp.
we were a tumult. a writhing psycho circus with a giant bad mom clown fueling the craziness for the entire show, curtains and all.
i broke into our van and put the girls in their seats and then proceeded to bawl while i yelled at mozea that i was crying because i couldn't find the keys and what were we going to do now?! we have no other key! this is a volkswagen--you get your spare key from a shop in europe for $100 dollars! one-hundred-dollars!
while i went on with my bawling soliloquy, i got on all fours and started climbing under the van, looking under the tires, desperately hoping that God would show up and do something for this insane woman who didn't deserve anything but to be put in a very long time-out.
and then it came.
"mama, the keys in da napkim."
"mama, the napkim. the napkim."
mozea's little voice tried to bellow over my tragic hormonal state.
i felt a nudge to be quiet and listen, and so i listened to the only thing i could hear--mozea.
she had put the key in the wipes container and shut the lid to make a shaker, and then threw it to the outer reaches of the van's interior.
she was telling me she put the keys in with the napkins, and
there is no way i would have ever found it.
never.
we would have gotten second jobs to pay for the new key before that van would've moved from woodstock library.
i climbed up next to mozea, hugged her, sobbing, and asked her to forgive me.
i loved her, i loved her, i loved her.
"ok. it's ok. mama? upset?"
i just sobbed and mozea and ruah laughed and laughed, thinking it was just a funny face i was making to end the show, to draw the curtain on the circus from hell that had been our morning.
when i got into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition i asked mozie to pray for me, because, as she could see, mama was having a very hard day.
"yeah. ok....pray God for mama...for van key...not upset. van key in da napkim."
what grace.
who deserves this immediate forgiveness and re-admittance into the good mom seats?
who deserves this from their child? their baby?
not me.
and the show went down for all to see at the woodstock library.
it made me sick and feel like a low-life, but i was so angry and hormonal and freaky.
i couldn't stop, despite the audible pleading with the One who can clear these things up: "God, please help me be good to them. I need your help right now. Right now. Hurry up or it's gonna get bad."
it doesn't happen very often, thank God, because i am married to an amazing man who is a full partner with me in loving our girls. i would be a tragic single mom.
but today i was the twin one of those women you see at grocery stores or banks or other bad mom spots, where bad moms hang out and yell at their kids. bad moms who are exhausted but have to buy something to feed the noise. bad moms whose gut and thighs are bigger than their husband's and who can't do anything but have fried, split-ends and brown-coffee teeth. those people you shake your head at and want to deprive of the very air they are stealing from all of the good people in the room, like yourself.
even the librarian lowered her voice and asked me if i needed help with anything, and i could tell she meant "help" in more than a "can i help you find barney's best pals go to the bouncy castle?" kind of a way.
she packed my back pack for me upon checking out mozea's books and wished me well before she sent me out the door.
then things really got nuts.
i couldn't find the key to the van. ruah was screaming and pulling my hair. mozie was screaming and pulling ruah's hair. both of them were falling out of my arms and mozea's baby doll stroller was about to get thrown across the street and into the library parking lot if it didn't cooperate and stop falling out of my pinkie finger grasp.
we were a tumult. a writhing psycho circus with a giant bad mom clown fueling the craziness for the entire show, curtains and all.
i broke into our van and put the girls in their seats and then proceeded to bawl while i yelled at mozea that i was crying because i couldn't find the keys and what were we going to do now?! we have no other key! this is a volkswagen--you get your spare key from a shop in europe for $100 dollars! one-hundred-dollars!
while i went on with my bawling soliloquy, i got on all fours and started climbing under the van, looking under the tires, desperately hoping that God would show up and do something for this insane woman who didn't deserve anything but to be put in a very long time-out.
and then it came.
"mama, the keys in da napkim."
"mama, the napkim. the napkim."
mozea's little voice tried to bellow over my tragic hormonal state.
i felt a nudge to be quiet and listen, and so i listened to the only thing i could hear--mozea.
she had put the key in the wipes container and shut the lid to make a shaker, and then threw it to the outer reaches of the van's interior.
she was telling me she put the keys in with the napkins, and
there is no way i would have ever found it.
never.
we would have gotten second jobs to pay for the new key before that van would've moved from woodstock library.
i climbed up next to mozea, hugged her, sobbing, and asked her to forgive me.
i loved her, i loved her, i loved her.
"ok. it's ok. mama? upset?"
i just sobbed and mozea and ruah laughed and laughed, thinking it was just a funny face i was making to end the show, to draw the curtain on the circus from hell that had been our morning.
when i got into the driver's seat and put the key in the ignition i asked mozie to pray for me, because, as she could see, mama was having a very hard day.
"yeah. ok....pray God for mama...for van key...not upset. van key in da napkim."
what grace.
who deserves this immediate forgiveness and re-admittance into the good mom seats?
who deserves this from their child? their baby?
not me.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
mozea in the morning
mozie woke up yesterday morning reading her bi-mart coupon book in bed at full voice.
michael was reading it to her before she went to bed: "99 cents, cascade liquid detergent. buy one get one free glade plug-ins. mr. coffee coffee filters, 3.99...."
i just laid in bed at the ripe ol' hour of 7:30 am and waited for her to read herself back to sleep.
around 7:40, she started 'crowing' at me: "mama! mama! cah cah! cah cah!"
her ears are all stinky in the morning. i love it. it's this little mozie stink cradled right between her fat cheeks and her ear lobe. it's the nights' drool, i'm sure. i tell her she has stinky ears and she says "i have stinky ears, mama!" in this awesome two-year old tiny voice.
this morning, after coming downstairs, she sat on the heater and nursed oscar the grouch. i could see his little silver garbage can sticking out from under her shirt.
ruah is all over me with love and affection. i'm not sure what to do with it, but receive it, which is a very hard thing to do when you're someone like me.
i love these girls. they've pushed out my hipbones to the point of no return, and they've radically jolted my life so i wake up at 6 am and then 7 am and sometimes 1 and 2 and 3 am and they crow at me and have stinky ears and they cry for me and want me. this love, this unspeakable love.
it's a little hard to take, but i'll keep praying my way....
michael was reading it to her before she went to bed: "99 cents, cascade liquid detergent. buy one get one free glade plug-ins. mr. coffee coffee filters, 3.99...."
i just laid in bed at the ripe ol' hour of 7:30 am and waited for her to read herself back to sleep.
around 7:40, she started 'crowing' at me: "mama! mama! cah cah! cah cah!"
her ears are all stinky in the morning. i love it. it's this little mozie stink cradled right between her fat cheeks and her ear lobe. it's the nights' drool, i'm sure. i tell her she has stinky ears and she says "i have stinky ears, mama!" in this awesome two-year old tiny voice.
this morning, after coming downstairs, she sat on the heater and nursed oscar the grouch. i could see his little silver garbage can sticking out from under her shirt.
ruah is all over me with love and affection. i'm not sure what to do with it, but receive it, which is a very hard thing to do when you're someone like me.
i love these girls. they've pushed out my hipbones to the point of no return, and they've radically jolted my life so i wake up at 6 am and then 7 am and sometimes 1 and 2 and 3 am and they crow at me and have stinky ears and they cry for me and want me. this love, this unspeakable love.
it's a little hard to take, but i'll keep praying my way....
Monday, October 29, 2007
some things, some people, some occurences from sunday
we'll see where this ramble takes me....
on the way home from church i saw a large white truck belly up to the curb on MLK and pick up a few day-laborers looking for work. they were latino, i would guess mexican from the little i know about the men who usually stand there. the man in the cab was large and white. the men ran to the door, all clamoring for a chance to work and only two were picked up and the rest cast back to the curb. i just finished reading "the tortilla curtain" saturday night. candido was always running to white trucks and looking for work from large, white men. meanwhile his bride sat in a canyon, pregnant and starving. it was so eerie to see it all go down just past my windshield yesterday. what do we do? pray for mexico. pray for something. michael said we could throw a big feast for them and host it on the sidewalk, ask them what they need, what their families need. would this seem patronizing? only if it was patronizing, i guess.
i know i need to remember that God is already at work, i just need to join God in whatever that work is.
i made this scarf at knitting night a few years ago. in julia's room at reed. it took me a semester of friday nights with these amazing women, talking about all kinds of all kinds, to finish it. it's cream-colored with a blue thread on the side; i ran out of cream yarn and needed to tie it off. it is crooked and catywompus in all the ways of a beginner. and a beginner who wasn't really paying attention to the knitting, but more just doing something with her hands while she hung out with her ladies and talked and listened and played with naomi's rat.
in short: the scarf is totally ugly.
jordan was at my house thursday night for a prayer gathering. he wore the sexiest outfit i've seen at a church "function"--tight leather pants and high heeled leather boots with a black leather shirt and a huge fur collar. jordan and jordan's fashion are two of my favorite things about The Well, my beautiful church. he saw my scarf lying on the floor and wanted it. and then he wore it to church on sunday.
it has never looked so good. my collection of friday nights and conversations and times with those beautiful women all wrapped around jordan's neck. it was a perfect coming together of the places, the people i love.
last night we went to powell park, the havenator tribe. there were some somalian children playing on the teeter-totters and mozea and i talked to asha, the eldest girl, for a little while. she wore a deep purple head scarf and rocked herself on the bright red plank of wood. her sisters wore yellow and red and blue and each one walked and played on the different pieces of wood, also yellow and red and blue. they were so beautiful. asha was noticeably surprised that we wanted to talk to her. i know the somalian refugees in the neighborhood are not always greeted with welcome and affection. i know this because i talk to my neighbors. my white, home-owning, non-refugee neighbors. i turned around and saw michael and ruah on a distant swing. they, too, wore bright colors against the evening light. michael ran back and forth in front of the swing and ruah zel laughed with completeness. it was whole laughter. nothing distracted or divided or shamed. just complete focus on the joy of her papi and the swinging motion and the cool night air. here we all are, i thought. somalians and anglos and latinos all wearing the colors of the world on our clothes and our skin. here we are, under the sun, beneath God's gaze. here we are, some of us with so much money and some of us with so little. some of us with means for shelter and food, others so little. not that any of us deserve it, the much or the little.
what do we do? we pray and we pray. we believe God is already at work and we join God in it, if we are attentive and mature enough to find out where God is and what work God is doing.
i know for sure that God is loving us. each one:
there is mozea and ruah and michael, my beautiful people, and me.
there is jordan.
there is The Well.
there is reed and the women of knitting night.
there is asha and her family and the hundreds of somalian families who live in the section 8 housing just off powell.
there is candido and his bride, albeit fictional, but live narratives of his life portrayed on MLK.
there is the large, white man in his truck.
there are the people who built the truck.
the people who pumped the oil for the truck.
the people who paved the road and built the sidewalk and the church and the teeter-totters.
the people who protested the paving of the road and the building of the sidewalk because it was their land first and someone took it away from them.
here we all are.
under the sun.
a mess. and yet so beautiful.
here we are.
and what is the work God is doing among us? how is God loving me and asha? where is Jesus in the section 8 housing development? is he on the swings? the teeter-totters? does he wear purple, too?
what is the work of God's love on the sidewalk of MLK? how can i join? where can i sign up?
there is so much pain, so much.
just inside of me alone.
and then, there is so much love.
for all of us.
there's more than enough for all of us under the sun.
there's more than enough love.
can i believe that for me, today? can i be so loved to give it all away?
i'll pray.
we'll see.
there's more than enough. more than enough. more than enough....
on the way home from church i saw a large white truck belly up to the curb on MLK and pick up a few day-laborers looking for work. they were latino, i would guess mexican from the little i know about the men who usually stand there. the man in the cab was large and white. the men ran to the door, all clamoring for a chance to work and only two were picked up and the rest cast back to the curb. i just finished reading "the tortilla curtain" saturday night. candido was always running to white trucks and looking for work from large, white men. meanwhile his bride sat in a canyon, pregnant and starving. it was so eerie to see it all go down just past my windshield yesterday. what do we do? pray for mexico. pray for something. michael said we could throw a big feast for them and host it on the sidewalk, ask them what they need, what their families need. would this seem patronizing? only if it was patronizing, i guess.
i know i need to remember that God is already at work, i just need to join God in whatever that work is.
i made this scarf at knitting night a few years ago. in julia's room at reed. it took me a semester of friday nights with these amazing women, talking about all kinds of all kinds, to finish it. it's cream-colored with a blue thread on the side; i ran out of cream yarn and needed to tie it off. it is crooked and catywompus in all the ways of a beginner. and a beginner who wasn't really paying attention to the knitting, but more just doing something with her hands while she hung out with her ladies and talked and listened and played with naomi's rat.
in short: the scarf is totally ugly.
jordan was at my house thursday night for a prayer gathering. he wore the sexiest outfit i've seen at a church "function"--tight leather pants and high heeled leather boots with a black leather shirt and a huge fur collar. jordan and jordan's fashion are two of my favorite things about The Well, my beautiful church. he saw my scarf lying on the floor and wanted it. and then he wore it to church on sunday.
it has never looked so good. my collection of friday nights and conversations and times with those beautiful women all wrapped around jordan's neck. it was a perfect coming together of the places, the people i love.
last night we went to powell park, the havenator tribe. there were some somalian children playing on the teeter-totters and mozea and i talked to asha, the eldest girl, for a little while. she wore a deep purple head scarf and rocked herself on the bright red plank of wood. her sisters wore yellow and red and blue and each one walked and played on the different pieces of wood, also yellow and red and blue. they were so beautiful. asha was noticeably surprised that we wanted to talk to her. i know the somalian refugees in the neighborhood are not always greeted with welcome and affection. i know this because i talk to my neighbors. my white, home-owning, non-refugee neighbors. i turned around and saw michael and ruah on a distant swing. they, too, wore bright colors against the evening light. michael ran back and forth in front of the swing and ruah zel laughed with completeness. it was whole laughter. nothing distracted or divided or shamed. just complete focus on the joy of her papi and the swinging motion and the cool night air. here we all are, i thought. somalians and anglos and latinos all wearing the colors of the world on our clothes and our skin. here we are, under the sun, beneath God's gaze. here we are, some of us with so much money and some of us with so little. some of us with means for shelter and food, others so little. not that any of us deserve it, the much or the little.
what do we do? we pray and we pray. we believe God is already at work and we join God in it, if we are attentive and mature enough to find out where God is and what work God is doing.
i know for sure that God is loving us. each one:
there is mozea and ruah and michael, my beautiful people, and me.
there is jordan.
there is The Well.
there is reed and the women of knitting night.
there is asha and her family and the hundreds of somalian families who live in the section 8 housing just off powell.
there is candido and his bride, albeit fictional, but live narratives of his life portrayed on MLK.
there is the large, white man in his truck.
there are the people who built the truck.
the people who pumped the oil for the truck.
the people who paved the road and built the sidewalk and the church and the teeter-totters.
the people who protested the paving of the road and the building of the sidewalk because it was their land first and someone took it away from them.
here we all are.
under the sun.
a mess. and yet so beautiful.
here we are.
and what is the work God is doing among us? how is God loving me and asha? where is Jesus in the section 8 housing development? is he on the swings? the teeter-totters? does he wear purple, too?
what is the work of God's love on the sidewalk of MLK? how can i join? where can i sign up?
there is so much pain, so much.
just inside of me alone.
and then, there is so much love.
for all of us.
there's more than enough for all of us under the sun.
there's more than enough love.
can i believe that for me, today? can i be so loved to give it all away?
i'll pray.
we'll see.
there's more than enough. more than enough. more than enough....
Monday, October 22, 2007
friends
tonight i prayed with the Quakers.
they pray in silence so they can listen to God.
and they call themselves "friends"
if they really are listening to God
and if they really are friends, as in deep love betwist and unity amongst
and absolute delight in one another,
then i think we'll hear some revolutionary stories now and on the other side of the sky
about these friends who gather and what sorts of wonders come from their communities.
they pray in silence so they can listen to God.
and they call themselves "friends"
if they really are listening to God
and if they really are friends, as in deep love betwist and unity amongst
and absolute delight in one another,
then i think we'll hear some revolutionary stories now and on the other side of the sky
about these friends who gather and what sorts of wonders come from their communities.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
my slimy and other thoughts
we played with a big kid puzzle on the floor yesterday afternoon.
mozea shoved the pieces together, pretending they would fit however she pleased, ruah stuffed them in her mouth, and i tried to convince myself that the puzzle was not too hard for me.
at one point mozie got a little p.o.ed at ruah and said: "sissy! NO! don't eat the puzzle!"
i told her that this was our family puzzle and that if ruah wanted to chew on some of the pieces, it was ok, and then i asked her to repeat to me "our family" to help her articulate the idea.
she kept saying "our slimy. our slimy", totally proud of herself that she was repeating successfully the words i asked her to say.
so there we were, my slimy, my beautiful slimy, pretending to put a puzzle together on the kitchen floor so we could be near michael, the slimy's papi and official mascot, while he made soup and rarebit. it rained a hard and cold rain and the dogwood beat against our front window as we listened to blue grass and were warm. it was our saturday afternoon and the lights in our house shed the perfect yellow.
as i'm writing this i'm thinking of lee, the homeless vet to whom i have a knack for bringing completely inedible food. he has no teeth and i seem to forget that he can't do apples. it can be a brutal time of year to live outside. no that i know this, but i can imagine. he lives up in the woods beyond barbur blvd. he "camps", he says. i'm never sure what to do with all of that except pray and offer a little of what i have. once i offered a lot of what i had, my home, to a homeless man in our park, and it didn't turn out so well. mostly because i ended up being mean to him and hating him, really. after 3 weeks, i just wanted him out of my house. i was sick of the cigarette smoke and the lethargy. i completely failed at doing the "good deed" i had set out to do. those sorts of things tend to fall apart--those "good deed" sorts of things. they're bullshit, really, because good deeds are always about my good deed and not so much about anyone else. as soon as a "good deed" gets complicated and people actually become people, not projects, the good deed bit flies right out the window pretty fast.
the terrible and wonderful thing about Jesus is that it's all about your heart.
that sucks if you have a heart that sucks at being all about itself in a way that's good for anybody else. which is me and maybe you.
i'm selfish and don't want to share my yellow-lit kitchen. and even if i did, would it do anything? i can't set anyone free from the things that cause homelessness, whatever those things might be. no way.
but praying. praying. praying to the One who can do something. and then praying that i'd want to also be an answer to some of those prayers. hoping that i would want it to cost me something, not so i could feel self-congratulatory and write about it on my blog, but so i could see beautiful things happen in my time. to people who need to be free, like lee and like me.
just some thoughts....
mozea shoved the pieces together, pretending they would fit however she pleased, ruah stuffed them in her mouth, and i tried to convince myself that the puzzle was not too hard for me.
at one point mozie got a little p.o.ed at ruah and said: "sissy! NO! don't eat the puzzle!"
i told her that this was our family puzzle and that if ruah wanted to chew on some of the pieces, it was ok, and then i asked her to repeat to me "our family" to help her articulate the idea.
she kept saying "our slimy. our slimy", totally proud of herself that she was repeating successfully the words i asked her to say.
so there we were, my slimy, my beautiful slimy, pretending to put a puzzle together on the kitchen floor so we could be near michael, the slimy's papi and official mascot, while he made soup and rarebit. it rained a hard and cold rain and the dogwood beat against our front window as we listened to blue grass and were warm. it was our saturday afternoon and the lights in our house shed the perfect yellow.
as i'm writing this i'm thinking of lee, the homeless vet to whom i have a knack for bringing completely inedible food. he has no teeth and i seem to forget that he can't do apples. it can be a brutal time of year to live outside. no that i know this, but i can imagine. he lives up in the woods beyond barbur blvd. he "camps", he says. i'm never sure what to do with all of that except pray and offer a little of what i have. once i offered a lot of what i had, my home, to a homeless man in our park, and it didn't turn out so well. mostly because i ended up being mean to him and hating him, really. after 3 weeks, i just wanted him out of my house. i was sick of the cigarette smoke and the lethargy. i completely failed at doing the "good deed" i had set out to do. those sorts of things tend to fall apart--those "good deed" sorts of things. they're bullshit, really, because good deeds are always about my good deed and not so much about anyone else. as soon as a "good deed" gets complicated and people actually become people, not projects, the good deed bit flies right out the window pretty fast.
the terrible and wonderful thing about Jesus is that it's all about your heart.
that sucks if you have a heart that sucks at being all about itself in a way that's good for anybody else. which is me and maybe you.
i'm selfish and don't want to share my yellow-lit kitchen. and even if i did, would it do anything? i can't set anyone free from the things that cause homelessness, whatever those things might be. no way.
but praying. praying. praying to the One who can do something. and then praying that i'd want to also be an answer to some of those prayers. hoping that i would want it to cost me something, not so i could feel self-congratulatory and write about it on my blog, but so i could see beautiful things happen in my time. to people who need to be free, like lee and like me.
just some thoughts....
Thursday, October 18, 2007
walking on lakum dukum
i took myself out for coffee this afternoon. well, me and jc.
we had a fine time of it.
took the same route that mozie and i took on sunday.
same tree-leaf-clomping-stomping-shuffling route. i was just as taken with the leaves as i was with mozea on sunday. i darted back and forth across the street to whichever part of the sidewalk had the most yellow and red piled up on it. i was full-on into my clomping and sloshing and yahooing about when i noticed that some primly dressed folks getting off the bus with pointy umbrellas were trying desperately not to look at me. if you've ever died your hair a color that you've seen on old women in grocery stores, you know that look.
i guess it was only ok to enjoy the leaves so dizzily when i had my 2 year old at my side.
(as an aside: good job for taking the bus to work and all, but how can you get all dressed up and get hired for very important jobs that provide you with the social wherewithal to even know how to carry one of those umbrellas and then completely miss the point?)
anyhoos--
once i reached gladstone coffee, i threw open the door, feeling just as blustery as the wind that carried me there and proceeded to order a hot chocolate with whip cream and sprinkles.
this was a mistake.
another grand social foible in the span of 10 minutes.
the extremely cool barista kind of jerked his head back into his neck a bit and said, "ok....do you want it lukewarm?" and it immediately became clear that i'd just ordered a kiddie drink.
i don't know how to go out without mozea, apparently.
i've completely forgotten how to pretend to be cool. i don't even know how to do my hair anymore. (although, i'm not sure i ever knew how to pull off a successful coiffure.)
after the "nice try, sweet heart" of a moment with the coffee king, i trundled off with my whip cream and sprinkles and mom sweats to the back yard so i could feel the wind and hang with God. i bumped a few tables on my way out with my ever-rising mom hips and then spilled a little cocoa on some extremely cool person's table. "oh, i got it" i said, and wiped it up with my sleeve.
about 8 years ago i stood at the edge of lakum dukum at whitman college in the land of two wallas for several hours in the very late evening of some winter night. i stood right at the very edge, convinced that i was going to try to walk on water. not like Christ. like peter. big difference. i stood and watched the duck crap float around the surface of the water, bumping into other duck crap, forming large continents and then just as quickly as the alliance was made a wind would come up and the masses would drift apart again.
duck poop pangeas.
for hours, i tell you, i watched this.
my dear friend jess called to me at one point with a small and pitying voice from behind some distant bushes: "good luck, sl! i love you!" she was on her way to the library and knew exactly what i was up to; i'd called her earlier in the day and spoke very quickly, breathy even:
"hey, i'm going to try to walk on lakum dukum. think of me."
(jess and i later ran naked across the platform in front of memorial building at midnight the night before graduation. i had a terrible case of incontinence back then and hysterically peed all over the long ramp where our classmates would stand the next day and get little papers that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars from a tall and believable president that said we were smart enough to feel ok now in the world.)
jess passed and the winds died down and the crickets went to sleep and it was then, after staring at this black cold mess of an opponent for hours and hours, that i just did it.
i stepped right on in--took the plunge, as they say.
duck poop and slimey silty cold water collected around the cowl of my sweater. other competing duck poops went up my nose. my bandanna dripped cold, stickying water down my face after i'd come up for air, just to punctuate the failed experience.
and i stood there for a bit, in the middle of it all.
pangeas splitting and forming around my giant head, gathering at my neck.
some sleeping ducks woke up and swam over to see if i was a loaf of bread.
"nice try, sweet heart" of a moment it was, indeed.
thus are my times with Jesus some afternoons and some very late winter evenings. trundling and whip creaming and sprinkling and dorking and leaf-shuffling and failed water-walking.
i must believe that it's all worth the try and that they really are "nice try"s, good tries. admirable tries, from a certain perspective. a very, very peculiar perspective ;)
the yahooing about and the mom sweats, the duck crap and the breathy calls included.
i must or it's to the land of pointy umbrellas i ought to go.
we had a fine time of it.
took the same route that mozie and i took on sunday.
same tree-leaf-clomping-stomping-shuffling route. i was just as taken with the leaves as i was with mozea on sunday. i darted back and forth across the street to whichever part of the sidewalk had the most yellow and red piled up on it. i was full-on into my clomping and sloshing and yahooing about when i noticed that some primly dressed folks getting off the bus with pointy umbrellas were trying desperately not to look at me. if you've ever died your hair a color that you've seen on old women in grocery stores, you know that look.
i guess it was only ok to enjoy the leaves so dizzily when i had my 2 year old at my side.
(as an aside: good job for taking the bus to work and all, but how can you get all dressed up and get hired for very important jobs that provide you with the social wherewithal to even know how to carry one of those umbrellas and then completely miss the point?)
anyhoos--
once i reached gladstone coffee, i threw open the door, feeling just as blustery as the wind that carried me there and proceeded to order a hot chocolate with whip cream and sprinkles.
this was a mistake.
another grand social foible in the span of 10 minutes.
the extremely cool barista kind of jerked his head back into his neck a bit and said, "ok....do you want it lukewarm?" and it immediately became clear that i'd just ordered a kiddie drink.
i don't know how to go out without mozea, apparently.
i've completely forgotten how to pretend to be cool. i don't even know how to do my hair anymore. (although, i'm not sure i ever knew how to pull off a successful coiffure.)
after the "nice try, sweet heart" of a moment with the coffee king, i trundled off with my whip cream and sprinkles and mom sweats to the back yard so i could feel the wind and hang with God. i bumped a few tables on my way out with my ever-rising mom hips and then spilled a little cocoa on some extremely cool person's table. "oh, i got it" i said, and wiped it up with my sleeve.
about 8 years ago i stood at the edge of lakum dukum at whitman college in the land of two wallas for several hours in the very late evening of some winter night. i stood right at the very edge, convinced that i was going to try to walk on water. not like Christ. like peter. big difference. i stood and watched the duck crap float around the surface of the water, bumping into other duck crap, forming large continents and then just as quickly as the alliance was made a wind would come up and the masses would drift apart again.
duck poop pangeas.
for hours, i tell you, i watched this.
my dear friend jess called to me at one point with a small and pitying voice from behind some distant bushes: "good luck, sl! i love you!" she was on her way to the library and knew exactly what i was up to; i'd called her earlier in the day and spoke very quickly, breathy even:
"hey, i'm going to try to walk on lakum dukum. think of me."
(jess and i later ran naked across the platform in front of memorial building at midnight the night before graduation. i had a terrible case of incontinence back then and hysterically peed all over the long ramp where our classmates would stand the next day and get little papers that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars from a tall and believable president that said we were smart enough to feel ok now in the world.)
jess passed and the winds died down and the crickets went to sleep and it was then, after staring at this black cold mess of an opponent for hours and hours, that i just did it.
i stepped right on in--took the plunge, as they say.
duck poop and slimey silty cold water collected around the cowl of my sweater. other competing duck poops went up my nose. my bandanna dripped cold, stickying water down my face after i'd come up for air, just to punctuate the failed experience.
and i stood there for a bit, in the middle of it all.
pangeas splitting and forming around my giant head, gathering at my neck.
some sleeping ducks woke up and swam over to see if i was a loaf of bread.
"nice try, sweet heart" of a moment it was, indeed.
thus are my times with Jesus some afternoons and some very late winter evenings. trundling and whip creaming and sprinkling and dorking and leaf-shuffling and failed water-walking.
i must believe that it's all worth the try and that they really are "nice try"s, good tries. admirable tries, from a certain perspective. a very, very peculiar perspective ;)
the yahooing about and the mom sweats, the duck crap and the breathy calls included.
i must or it's to the land of pointy umbrellas i ought to go.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
dying, living
sunday.
i took mozea out for hot chocolate this morning.
this was our church service--loving each other.
we walked to gladstone coffee and sang about the wheels on the bus, and mozie picked her nose and waved at dogs and passersby.
when we got there she stood in front of a table of interneting people and stared at them, picking her nose once again, staring, staring and picking.
she was not phased by their apparent discomfort and she perservered with her simple tactic of observation and extraction :)
they finally smiled, and their tattoos of skeletons and nails and razor blades melted and ran right off their shoulders.
everybody was just people for a few minutes.
thank you, mozea.
on our walk home we stomped through bright red and orange maple leaves and i told her about the Fall and how it is mama's favorite season. there's so much life in this season--portland never looks more vibrant and alive to me as it is does when the leaves are dying.
death bringing life,
made me think of giving birth to my girls.
no drugs and so much pain, i was sure i was going to die both times. as i dug my fingernails into her soft forearm, my midwife kept telling me about how i was not only giving birth to mozea but to all of the potential children inside of her. women are born with all of their eggs, and with each insane contraction, i was birthing my family tree. generations and generations.
just as i thought death was certainly going to follow the next contraction, mozea came.
and then ruah came.
two years later and just as hard.
so church this morning for mozea and me was had with the trees in our nook of south east portland, the leaves dying this time of year, thinking about death and life in birth as i walked in the crumbly red leaf paper with mozie, thinking about death and life in the cross and the beauty of seeing that expressed in women giving birth, in me giving birth,
and in the trees showing their true color and then letting it go.
i took mozea out for hot chocolate this morning.
this was our church service--loving each other.
we walked to gladstone coffee and sang about the wheels on the bus, and mozie picked her nose and waved at dogs and passersby.
when we got there she stood in front of a table of interneting people and stared at them, picking her nose once again, staring, staring and picking.
she was not phased by their apparent discomfort and she perservered with her simple tactic of observation and extraction :)
they finally smiled, and their tattoos of skeletons and nails and razor blades melted and ran right off their shoulders.
everybody was just people for a few minutes.
thank you, mozea.
on our walk home we stomped through bright red and orange maple leaves and i told her about the Fall and how it is mama's favorite season. there's so much life in this season--portland never looks more vibrant and alive to me as it is does when the leaves are dying.
death bringing life,
made me think of giving birth to my girls.
no drugs and so much pain, i was sure i was going to die both times. as i dug my fingernails into her soft forearm, my midwife kept telling me about how i was not only giving birth to mozea but to all of the potential children inside of her. women are born with all of their eggs, and with each insane contraction, i was birthing my family tree. generations and generations.
just as i thought death was certainly going to follow the next contraction, mozea came.
and then ruah came.
two years later and just as hard.
so church this morning for mozea and me was had with the trees in our nook of south east portland, the leaves dying this time of year, thinking about death and life in birth as i walked in the crumbly red leaf paper with mozie, thinking about death and life in the cross and the beauty of seeing that expressed in women giving birth, in me giving birth,
and in the trees showing their true color and then letting it go.
the last thing the world needs
there's a presbyterian church a block from me that has limped along for several years now. the church bell only rings at midnight when local youth climb the belfry and pull the rope with what i imagine from my bed to be intense hormonal gusto. the sign sits askew on a brick wall near the sidewalk, and the worship times are etched in and then crossed out and etched in again with pen and pencil. church starts at 9am, no 10am, no 9:30am....
we met jack hodges, the current pastor, at the neighborhood association meeting. i wonder if he's evangelical; he doesn't have that nervousness that most evangelicals have about them. he's not in a hurry to buy us lunch.
(don't get me wrong, i think talking about Jesus is beautiful, when it comes from a place of peace, not panicky compulsion.)
i've seen him outside lately laying bricks and washing the windows of his church. a few days ago he was tending his bloody finger he sliced on the venetian blinds he was washing. other days he's scrubbing the sidewalk in front of the church and blithely, heartily laughing with what i assume to be his congregates as he works alongside them in the beautification process.
this is so striking to me.
so striking to see a pastor doing the unseen servant work.
we are in an age of celebrityism. (maybe we always have been.) everyone wants to be an american idol. (admittedly, i watched this last season because i was on bed rest from my labor with ruah for 6 weeks. i did, tragically, get tired of books. i know it's hard to imagine and even harder to admit.)
at least half of the contestants on american idol were christians. one of them was a worship leader at his church. i can't say what's in the heart of those people, but i can say that the last thing the world needs is another person, especially another christian, who wants to be famous.
i think of all the hoopla around recent christian authors and writers and speakers and whatnots.
it makes me ill. for good reasons and bad. i think a good chunk of the bile rises in my throat when i'm feeling insecure and unsure of God and how beautiful God is, not believing that to be at the center of what Christ is doing is such a place of honor, so i want that adoration for myself.
it's quicker and easier. doesn't cost much.
i was talking with a prominent artist 5 years ago or so and asked him about the poor. he said that it wasn't his calling to care for the poor, he was called to be a writer.
precisely. of course it's not our calling to do the shit of the world that no one wants to do. of course it's not our calling to care for people who have bad breath and bad attitudes and who will never say thank you. of course it's not our calling to scrub the sidewalk. it's our calling to be upfront and have all the eyes and attention on us. of course.
and yet Christ did not seek the equality of God, but laid it down and took up the cross (phillipians). i mean, isn't that the deal with fame? wanting equality with God? wanting that power and that control over people and that love from them?
and then there's jack, not out promoting himself or creating listserves so people will know when his next performance will be. he's out there in the rain, scrubbing and doing things that no one will really see--i mean, who notices the dirt on venetian blinds? he's doing the menial servant work.
i have no idea what his sermons are like or if i would even agree with them, but he preaches the Gospel to me every time i walk past.
every time i think of him it saves me a little bit. it clears the air.
there are people doing beautiful things in the world whom we will never hear about. there will never be any books written by them or about them. they are quiet laborers. servants. they are sidewalk scrubbers and free-clinic openers and feeders of the homeless and defenders of the poor. they are lovers of the Navajo rez and slum-dwellers in Cairo. they wash feet and pray for the ungrateful. they love Kurdish refugees. they live in red-light districts so they can have a place right in the heart of prostitution in Bangkok to invite people into safety. they live in the bush in Alaska where it is dark 7 months of the year and every child has been abused, every child has fetal-alcohol syndrome. they give up prestige and fancy college degrees to move to Yakima and care about the people there who have no education, no hope beyond wal-mart. they invite people out of gangs and give them a place to live in their own home. they buy houses for homeless street kids in pdx and live with them, putting all thoughts of personal safety on hold. they adopt five children who were abandoned in a hotel in Denver, even though they are in their 50s and have already raised 4 children of their own. they are everywhere. and we will never know them. we will never hear about them.
they are jack.
they are the Gospel.
we met jack hodges, the current pastor, at the neighborhood association meeting. i wonder if he's evangelical; he doesn't have that nervousness that most evangelicals have about them. he's not in a hurry to buy us lunch.
(don't get me wrong, i think talking about Jesus is beautiful, when it comes from a place of peace, not panicky compulsion.)
i've seen him outside lately laying bricks and washing the windows of his church. a few days ago he was tending his bloody finger he sliced on the venetian blinds he was washing. other days he's scrubbing the sidewalk in front of the church and blithely, heartily laughing with what i assume to be his congregates as he works alongside them in the beautification process.
this is so striking to me.
so striking to see a pastor doing the unseen servant work.
we are in an age of celebrityism. (maybe we always have been.) everyone wants to be an american idol. (admittedly, i watched this last season because i was on bed rest from my labor with ruah for 6 weeks. i did, tragically, get tired of books. i know it's hard to imagine and even harder to admit.)
at least half of the contestants on american idol were christians. one of them was a worship leader at his church. i can't say what's in the heart of those people, but i can say that the last thing the world needs is another person, especially another christian, who wants to be famous.
i think of all the hoopla around recent christian authors and writers and speakers and whatnots.
it makes me ill. for good reasons and bad. i think a good chunk of the bile rises in my throat when i'm feeling insecure and unsure of God and how beautiful God is, not believing that to be at the center of what Christ is doing is such a place of honor, so i want that adoration for myself.
it's quicker and easier. doesn't cost much.
i was talking with a prominent artist 5 years ago or so and asked him about the poor. he said that it wasn't his calling to care for the poor, he was called to be a writer.
precisely. of course it's not our calling to do the shit of the world that no one wants to do. of course it's not our calling to care for people who have bad breath and bad attitudes and who will never say thank you. of course it's not our calling to scrub the sidewalk. it's our calling to be upfront and have all the eyes and attention on us. of course.
and yet Christ did not seek the equality of God, but laid it down and took up the cross (phillipians). i mean, isn't that the deal with fame? wanting equality with God? wanting that power and that control over people and that love from them?
and then there's jack, not out promoting himself or creating listserves so people will know when his next performance will be. he's out there in the rain, scrubbing and doing things that no one will really see--i mean, who notices the dirt on venetian blinds? he's doing the menial servant work.
i have no idea what his sermons are like or if i would even agree with them, but he preaches the Gospel to me every time i walk past.
every time i think of him it saves me a little bit. it clears the air.
there are people doing beautiful things in the world whom we will never hear about. there will never be any books written by them or about them. they are quiet laborers. servants. they are sidewalk scrubbers and free-clinic openers and feeders of the homeless and defenders of the poor. they are lovers of the Navajo rez and slum-dwellers in Cairo. they wash feet and pray for the ungrateful. they love Kurdish refugees. they live in red-light districts so they can have a place right in the heart of prostitution in Bangkok to invite people into safety. they live in the bush in Alaska where it is dark 7 months of the year and every child has been abused, every child has fetal-alcohol syndrome. they give up prestige and fancy college degrees to move to Yakima and care about the people there who have no education, no hope beyond wal-mart. they invite people out of gangs and give them a place to live in their own home. they buy houses for homeless street kids in pdx and live with them, putting all thoughts of personal safety on hold. they adopt five children who were abandoned in a hotel in Denver, even though they are in their 50s and have already raised 4 children of their own. they are everywhere. and we will never know them. we will never hear about them.
they are jack.
they are the Gospel.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
trees, again
the trees are saying many things.
it's so good to just sit with them.
i miss that tree, that giant, on 33rd.
rest in peace, old tree.
it's so good to just sit with them.
i miss that tree, that giant, on 33rd.
rest in peace, old tree.
blue soup
mozea is amazing. she is so smart. i can brag about this here because no one is reading this blog anyway, so it's not annoying.
she is so, so smart.
this, of course, is way too important to me, and i know i'll need deep inner healing sometime soon so that i don't need her to be smart, like my dad needed me to be smart, and thereby mess her up in the ways that i am messed up.
just let her be smart. or not smart. Lord have mercy.
either way, i know i'll love her beyond the sky.
she's my mozea river.
and she loves blue soup. and blue sandwiches. and blue dogs.
"mozie, what kind of soup are you making mama for breakfast?"
"blue soup, mama!"
sometime later in the day, "mozie, what do you want for lunch, sweetness?"
"ummmm....blue sanweech"
and sometime even later, "what color is that dog, mozie?"
"blue dog. i carry you, mama (translation: "carry me, mama")."
recently we made pine cone soup at the park and ate it under a big tree we call our "tent".
mozea came home later and pooped a very admirable poop in the toilet, and we all examined it.
the whole family was called in to give it a good look.
mozie said: "hooray! pine cone soup!"
yes, indeed.
making people is so beautiful. making mozea and ruah has been one of the best things i've ever done with my life. making them and then loving them. often i think about the success of my life, whatever that is anyway, and the only thing i really feel sure about is that my girls are the best gift to the world i could give. i don't mean that they are perfect or that obnoxiously they are"god's greatest gift to such-and-such", but i mean that there's nothing more precious or beautiful inside of me that i could offer than these beautiful girls, my babies, to the service of God in this world. i can think of nothing, absolutely nothing, better.
(sometime i shall write about giving birth to mozea at home.
it rocked.)
she is so, so smart.
this, of course, is way too important to me, and i know i'll need deep inner healing sometime soon so that i don't need her to be smart, like my dad needed me to be smart, and thereby mess her up in the ways that i am messed up.
just let her be smart. or not smart. Lord have mercy.
either way, i know i'll love her beyond the sky.
she's my mozea river.
and she loves blue soup. and blue sandwiches. and blue dogs.
"mozie, what kind of soup are you making mama for breakfast?"
"blue soup, mama!"
sometime later in the day, "mozie, what do you want for lunch, sweetness?"
"ummmm....blue sanweech"
and sometime even later, "what color is that dog, mozie?"
"blue dog. i carry you, mama (translation: "carry me, mama")."
recently we made pine cone soup at the park and ate it under a big tree we call our "tent".
mozea came home later and pooped a very admirable poop in the toilet, and we all examined it.
the whole family was called in to give it a good look.
mozie said: "hooray! pine cone soup!"
yes, indeed.
making people is so beautiful. making mozea and ruah has been one of the best things i've ever done with my life. making them and then loving them. often i think about the success of my life, whatever that is anyway, and the only thing i really feel sure about is that my girls are the best gift to the world i could give. i don't mean that they are perfect or that obnoxiously they are"god's greatest gift to such-and-such", but i mean that there's nothing more precious or beautiful inside of me that i could offer than these beautiful girls, my babies, to the service of God in this world. i can think of nothing, absolutely nothing, better.
(sometime i shall write about giving birth to mozea at home.
it rocked.)
meditating for G-Dubs
i was at afifa's birthday shabang in sellwood 2 years ago, and her friend said something that i didn't really take notice of until a few months ago when my subconscience conjured it for the sake of the universe.
she said something like this: "i was meditating this morning and thinking about all of the negative energy george bush is getting these days...how can he make any good decisions with so much hatred being sent his way? so i decided to send him some love as i meditated, hoping he'll do something good with it."
i've never prayed for a president before. i've never prayed that he would make good decisions or care about the welfare of the country, the globe. i've never thought much of government, (unless it's local, and even then i'm pretty lame about doing much more than voting). but then all this crap of the last 8 years. so much needless death, on all fronts: literally, environmentally, spiritually, diplomatically, etc.
now, to be honest, i would not have the faintest idea how to run a country. i would do a very bad job of not cussing on t.v. and i would never shower. it would be terrible p.r.
along with reflecting on my own hypothetically tragic presidency, i thought about my sometimes incredibly angry "what is he doing?!?!" vibes i caste about the stratosphere and wondered if that is really accomplishing anything but raising my blood pressure.
bush needs help, just like me and every other non-showering, t.v. cussing, sort of red-headed person and everyone else.
so i started praying for him a little bit, just to try it out and see how it went.
i'd pray while listening to NPR, hearing about where he was in the world and what he was doing. it was like my personal little prayer calendar for George W. (delivered to me via stern, british woman voice)....and depending on what he was doing that day, i'd pray some specifics and then always that love would win in his heart and wherever he takes his heart. i'd pray that wisdom would come down as he meets with dignitaries and prime ministers. that humility and truth and Truth would be victorious.
sadly, i fear i've come around a bit late as he's about to exit the stage...but perhaps afifa's friend has some wisdom that will carry over to the next president, and i'll pray for him or her with compassion and perserverance, knowing that under the shower and the good p.r., he or she is just a person who needs a lot of help, too.
she said something like this: "i was meditating this morning and thinking about all of the negative energy george bush is getting these days...how can he make any good decisions with so much hatred being sent his way? so i decided to send him some love as i meditated, hoping he'll do something good with it."
i've never prayed for a president before. i've never prayed that he would make good decisions or care about the welfare of the country, the globe. i've never thought much of government, (unless it's local, and even then i'm pretty lame about doing much more than voting). but then all this crap of the last 8 years. so much needless death, on all fronts: literally, environmentally, spiritually, diplomatically, etc.
now, to be honest, i would not have the faintest idea how to run a country. i would do a very bad job of not cussing on t.v. and i would never shower. it would be terrible p.r.
along with reflecting on my own hypothetically tragic presidency, i thought about my sometimes incredibly angry "what is he doing?!?!" vibes i caste about the stratosphere and wondered if that is really accomplishing anything but raising my blood pressure.
bush needs help, just like me and every other non-showering, t.v. cussing, sort of red-headed person and everyone else.
so i started praying for him a little bit, just to try it out and see how it went.
i'd pray while listening to NPR, hearing about where he was in the world and what he was doing. it was like my personal little prayer calendar for George W. (delivered to me via stern, british woman voice)....and depending on what he was doing that day, i'd pray some specifics and then always that love would win in his heart and wherever he takes his heart. i'd pray that wisdom would come down as he meets with dignitaries and prime ministers. that humility and truth and Truth would be victorious.
sadly, i fear i've come around a bit late as he's about to exit the stage...but perhaps afifa's friend has some wisdom that will carry over to the next president, and i'll pray for him or her with compassion and perserverance, knowing that under the shower and the good p.r., he or she is just a person who needs a lot of help, too.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
trees, part 2....
my favorite tree in portland was cut down a few weeks ago. it was dismantled respectfully, i'm sure, but its sad pile of constituent parts--the bones and arms and feet and legs and fingers and red, fire leaf hair--were strewn about the ground like a defeated giant. i stopped my car and took a moment of silence...thought about stealing some of the wood for sentimental cabinetry or something, but there was a big orange dog guarding the yard.
there's something about the american elms on ladd. those big, knobby, gentle and terrifying american elms. they sing and sigh...i've heard them.
there's something about the american elms on ladd. those big, knobby, gentle and terrifying american elms. they sing and sigh...i've heard them.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
serenading christian troll
i've been singing my prayers under the blue bridge lately at reed. last night our little band of Jesus reedies sang together to our Jesus, clandestine and ablaze with candles and full moons and an honest desire for Love. Paul talked about his visions lately of "la restoracion", and i remembered riding my bike on the esplanade a few days ago...gave an apple to a homeless vet who didn't have any teeth. neither did he have a sharp implement with which to cut an apple, but he was glad i stopped nonetheless. "la restoracion"--it feels completely ridiculous to talk to God on the esplanade and not offer something to eat to someone who's hungry, even if the attempt completely misses the mark. even if the attempt is also completely ridiculous.
the other morning tracy and i sang under the blue bridge while reedies traversed to class above. i thought about my neighbor who got drunk a few years ago and mowed over our vegetable garden. i thought about how we were just getting ready for harvesting our kale and chard and carrots, onions, snow peas. and then they were gone and the ground was empty for a long while.
the other morning tracy and i sang under the blue bridge while reedies traversed to class above. i thought about my neighbor who got drunk a few years ago and mowed over our vegetable garden. i thought about how we were just getting ready for harvesting our kale and chard and carrots, onions, snow peas. and then they were gone and the ground was empty for a long while.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)