Advice of the Day

Ever wonder about the difference between its and it's or what happens when a cow eats a rancid casserole?

Wonder no more.

'Bout to Make the Most Out of a Toaster

Even we serious people can be pros at amusing ourselves. This was one of my favorite songs in high school. (Yes, I know I'm a total dork.) Anyone remember it? This video is great! Why the heck didn't I think of this???

Nope. It's not profound. Don't look for hidden meanings; you won't find any. It's fun, fluffy, and oh-so-absurd. Boysenberry jam. Yum.

Blah blah blah blah. Blah.

Do you ever just feel like being quiet? Sometimes, I do. I seem to have dropped the ball on my one-beautiful-thing-per-day commitment. Well, I guess that's life. Who's perfect? Not I. I've seen quite a few beautiful things and had quite a few beautiful moments in the past few days, but haven't really wanted to share any of them. Sometimes and with some people, I think I'm more open than is expected, and it think it takes people aback, and I can't help it, and I don't really want to try to change it. Authenticity or die. But I can be as evasive as the next Jo. Right now, I don't have very much to say. I've been pouring myself out on paper and copper and people. It's been about all I can do.

'Tis the sixth day of Christmas. Six more to go. In some ways, it's been a much better Christmas for me than it usually is. I think that has a lot to do with actually talking about how Christmas makes me feel, which I've never done before. And my mom's having a better time of it than usual this year. I've been rather inside myself this past month, trying to stay afloat despite the ice in the air. I feel like this blog this month has been devoid of content. Sorry about that. The things about which I'm so passionate and I usually want so badly to talk don't have much sparkle to them right now. In fact, I'm only posting this equally-devoid-of-content entry partly out of a sense of duty and partly because, if I let myself get too far out of the habit of thinking "Hey, I have a blog now, I'd better write this down," I'll forget all about it. I'm probably not even going to proofread this. Probably.

I've been in the downward spiral of self-absorption lately. Do you know the one? It's the one where you squeeze your eyes shut and grit your teeth soooo hard against it, try to ignore the voices and the tightness in your chest, but when you peek a little, it's longer and deeper and no closer to going away, because ignoring what your soul is screaming at you to do only makes your soul more angry, more desperate, clingier and hungrier and colder. Every day I'm trudging up to the surface, inches and a few feet and then a few more inches, and then I trip and fall and slide down, down, all the way back down to the ground. Up, up, up, trip, dooooooown, up, trip, down. Argh! (Did I mention that my period should be starting tomorrow, freaking finally? Glory, hallelujah, it can't come sooner.)

The day after Christmas, Kevin's grandmother was placed in the memory ward of a nursing home because his aunt can no longer take care of her. Christmas night, we told her she was going. Oh, she'd heard about it before. But Grandma has no short-term memory. Zero. Zilch. So she thought it was the first she'd heard of it. That, friends, was not a pleasant conversation. And when we all got up in the morning, she'd completely forgotten who Kevin and I were. While the family moved her furniture, I stayed home with her and we chatted about her life, for about 4 hours. We talked about women's suffrage, her work for the Red Cross during WWII, the rationing, her husband's tours of duty overseas, the civil rights movement, integration of schools, racism, sexism, politics, the sixties, the moon landing. It was great. I love to talk to elderly people about their lives. And she told Kevin's mother that I was such a sweetheart, asked who I was, and wondered if I might come visit her sometime again soon. (I don't know why I told that story. I think I'm rambling.)

Last night was a lovely, lovely night. Kevin and I went to an at-home family birthday party (the best kind!) for a beautiful friend and spent time with her relatives from Sweden, which was a super-huge treat! I can't remember the last time I've enjoyed getting to know new people that much. Maybe I never have. They were some premiumly awesomerrific people. I think I might move to Sweden now. The cheer in the air was medicine for me, and there was so much laughter. In fact, I am laughing now, remembering. Yay.

Well, I think that's enough rambling. If you're still reading, thanks for listening. Break time's over, and it's time to get back to ... what was I reading? Uhhh [shuffling paper] ... the indigenous coinages of Persian-period Palestine as an allegory. Wish me monsters!*



*Obscure Joss Whedon reference.

No. 13

Kevin and I listened to this on our way to Ohio today. I lost count of how many times my heart quivered with the pleasure of discovering a kindred spirit and hearing at last the lyrics of so many melodies of my soul.

Love and shalom to you all, my friends.

Beannacht

by John O'Donohue

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.
And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

I Simply Had Nothing to Wear!

Is it terrible that I made a little present for myself too? It's just that we're going to the theatre to celebrate Kevin's parents' 40th wedding anniversary on Saturday, and I had no jewelry that suited my only warm dress. And so I had to, for them, so that my lack of appropriate accessorizing wouldn't dampen the evening for anyone. Um. Yeah.

Nothing Beautiful to Report Today, But

Man. I believe I am sapped of all creative energy. This is a good time to be sapped, however, because I just put the last touch on the last gift that I had to make before I leave for Ohio. For the record, Laser Gold "top-quality-made-in-Switzerland" saw blades are complete crap. I broke three in four inches of sawing 24-gauge copper, for crying out loud. Not cool. (I know, you're probably thinking "Huh?" Just humor me and make a mad face, 'kay?)

It's been a good-but-way-too-busy few days. Until today. Today was a not-so-good-and-still-way-too-busy day. Mind if I vent? Well, for privacy's sake I can't do much venting in this public forum, actually, but let's just say my day received a thorough ruining just before I left for work, the kind of ruining that leaves me moody and welling with tears all day, torturing myself with emotionally charged music and talking myself out of calling people just to talk. Sigh. And I was keeping such a stiff upper lip too. It got better when I got home, but now I'm soooo tired. And there are still a house to clean, gifts to wrap, and bags to pack. And eight more hours of work that I get paid to do.

I don't actually have much to say right now. I guess I still just need to talk to someone. Hmmmm. But to talk about what?

Um. Okay, maybe I don't want to talk. Maybe I just want some quiet company. Do you mind if I sit here for a while with you and not talk? Really? Oh, thank you.

Ahh, I needed that. You can go now. Peace.

No. 12

Behold, the most resplendent Christmas hymn of them all.

O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining,

It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.

Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!

O night divine, the night when Christ was born;

O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!

O night, O Holy Night , O night divine!

Led by the light of faith serenely beaming,

With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand.

O'er the world a star is sweetly gleaming,

Now come the wisemen from out of the Orient land.

The King of kings lay thus lowly manger;

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need, our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!

Behold your King! Before him lowly bend!

Truly He taught us to love one another,

His law is love and His gospel is peace.

Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.

And in his name all oppression shall cease.

Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,

With all our hearts we praise His holy name.

Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,

His power and glory ever more proclaim!

His power and glory ever more proclaim!

No. 11: More Presumption

Finished this afternoon. The pendant will hang from a silver snake chain.

Nos. 9–10

Um. Is it terribly presumptuous of me to post something I made as part of my Beautiful Thing of the Day series?

(It's a pin. I didn't make the scarf; that was made by some nice lady in India who was paid a fair wage for her work, courtesy of Ten Thousand Villages.) There are many more projects in the works, and several more that are finished. I'll post pictures of those sometime after Friday. ; )

And, for good measure, the snow in my front yard is pretty too. I took a walk in it today—totally out of character for me. And you know what? All those people who like to take walks in the snow are really on to something.

No. 8

"Better is poverty that gathers than wealth that scatters."

—Syriac text of The Story and Wisdom of Ahiqar

No. 7

Oops, I skipped another day yesterday. Sorry!

Well, today's beautiful thing is a beautiful thing that I notice every day. And let me tell you, this beautiful things brings so many tiny tingles of joy into my life, it's ridiculous.

It's my amazing, gorgeous, hilarious, adorable, intelligent, neat-and-tidy, affectionate, amiable, perfect kitty, Calvin Gregory. He's my baby. Here are some more pictures.

Who the heck finds a chartreux cat in a shelter? Me!!!

We did not pose him for that last one, I swear. Yay for my kitty, the cutest, nicest cat in all the universe. Cats rule and dogs drool!

(Btw, I actually have about five essays in mind to write and post when I get a spare minute to myself. But don't hold your breath before Christmas.)

No. 6

I was looking through some old pictures this morning, and I came across this, which I snapped a few months ago.

It was just lying there in my driveway, after a fall rain. It captured my attention so soundly that I ran into the house, got the camera, ran back out, and took about ten photos of it. Isn't surface tension marvelous?

I know, I skipped yesterday. Maybe I'll make up for it. Maybe I won't.

Beautiful Thing No. 5

I was searching for something entirely other, and I stumbled over this, in my path. Now I need to read Out of Solitude.

When we honestly ask ourselves which people in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. —Henri Nouwen

What could be truer?

Beautiful Thing No. 4

My favorite verse is the fourth. Sorry about the static.

Beautiful Thing No. 3, and So On

I was in a tiny gallery in Goshen this morning, full of antique rugs and jewelry from Tibet and pastel paintings and Orthodox icons. Now, I'm not sure how meaningful icons might be to me, even though I know they mean a lot to a lot of people. But boy are they pretty. So here is today's beautiful thing: an icon of the Holy Trinity.

Golly. What a day. What a yesterday. Yesterday, I couldn't have been more up and down. I woke up up, feeling grateful for a moderately restful night. I started to feel a bit down before lunch, but an amazing meal with an amazing friend perked me right back up. Then, two hours after lunch ... well, I was not okay anymore. Crashing-down-through-the-floor not okay. Then Kevin came home. Up again! Up, up, up. Losing-my-bra-behind-the-couch-until-the-next- afternoon up. (My hubby? Total stud!) And then came bedtime. Ugh. Toss, turn, move the cat, turn, toss, until 12:30 am. And then, hello 3:30 am, old buddy, old pal. Lord, was I frustrated this morning.

But here's the thing. What a pain I've been lately! I mean, seriously. This morning, I was like "Alright, self. Cut it out and do it now!" I'm so fed up—with the random crying and the staring into space and the mountain of laundry and the feeling sorry for myself for no freaking reason. So this is Christmas? Yeah, Mr. Lennon. This is Christmas. So what? Christmas is no reason to feel sorry for myself. I've never had a happy Christmas, not one. But that doesn't mean that I never can. It doesn't mean that I can't have one this year. Well, maybe it won't be happy. But at least it doesn't have to make me want to crawl into a hole in the ground until January.

So here's what I did about it. I got off my butt, and I went Christmas shopping at the farmer's market and Ten Thousand Villages and a used book store and an art gallery. I bought gifts for people just because I love them and not because it's Christmas. Then, I came home and cleaned my house. Whoa, Nellie, did I clean my house. Come to my house, if you want to see a clean house. Ever wonder what peppermint castile soap smells like? Stop by and find out. I spent a few hours alone, which I haven't done in weeks, and it felt so good. I had no idea how badly I needed some space. (Hello, couldn't be more introverted, haven't been alone in weeks. Duh!)

This morning, I decided that, at least for today, I need to snap the heck out of it. Because, if nothing else, I am loved. Even though I don't always feel that I am loved, I know I am. Now, 29 years of being told in no uncertain terms how hideous I am by many significant and most insignificant people in my life does not make for a very stable self-image. Being beaten and abandoned and humiliated and despised by so many people for so long takes its toll, and I just haven't healed to the point at which those things don't affect my every relationship and every waking (and every dreaming) hour. But what makes those people's opinions more valid than the quiet insistence of the people who I know do love me? I'll tell ya: nothing. People who love me, you deserve credit for it, especially when I am the way I have been for the last couple of weeks, because even when I am (that is, think I am being) so unattractive, you just keep loving me. So, Kevin, Jeannie, Tamie, and Christine: thanks for showing love to me this week. I love you all too. Despite my recent bout of ill humor, Kevin has still had crazy sex with me (and spent gobs of time holding me every day and did the dishes and fed the cat and made dinner and so on and so on), Jeannie has welcomed me when I randomly showed up at her house in the middle of the day, Tamie has listened to me gently and fed my heart and body, and Christine has let me sob all over her nice, white sweater. Thank you guys, for being so kind and for putting up with my Eeyoreishness. I'm going to try to buck up now. Really, I am.

Am I cured of my intermittent depression? Not even. Do I still need to cry on someone's shoulder? Maybe. Do I still need long, tight hugs and open ears and open doors and a lot of patience and grace? Hell yes. But who doesn't? Oh, friends. We all need so, so much grace. God, do we need grace. Grace and forgiveness and forbearance and a humble approach to each other, and so much love. Please, please let's love each other. We all have so many issues. We are all so broken. Dudes. Hug someone today, because I guar-an-tee you, you'll come across someone who needs desperately to be hugged. Forget about all your inhibitions, and hug that person long and tight. Hold on until you're both crying. Because that one hug just might make all the difference.

Beautiful Thing No. 2

I wish I had been able to take photos of today's beautiful things. The first the wax pooling around a lit candle on the table where I had lunch with my friend. The second was the warm, toasty homemade tortillas that she made for me. Homemade tortillas! No one has ever made homemade tortillas for me before. They were so good. And beautiful. And so was the candlelight. And so were the conversation and the company.

So far, so good.

Today

Sometimes I don't feel very much like taking care of myself. You know what helps in those times? Knowing that there are people rooting for me to take care of myself. Because I often can't do for my own sake what I can do because someone I love wants me to. Does that make sense? Lately, I'm just not feeling very well, psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, or physically, and I'm not taking very good care of myself. But a few people are rooting for me.

So today, I did a few things to take care of myself. I

made my early (read: 2:30 am) wake time productive by doing some grading and going to work at 6:30 instead of lying in bed and torturing myself all night. Now I don't have to work until 7 tomorrow!

ate breakfast and lunch.

sat at a friend's kitchen table for half an hour, drinking tea and listening to her talk and watching her make bread with her daughter.

went to yoga class (which I've skipped for a week).

And in addition to that, I got a postcard from my amazing baby sister, who is currently meandering around Switzerland, eating chocolate and visiting museums and churches. And in addition to that, I'm having lunch with another friend tomorrow, to which I'm really looking forward. And I've decided that, for the remainder of December, I'm going to make a point of noticing one beautiful thing each day and, in so doing, make it through this most "wonderful" time of the year. Because if there's anything that lifts my drooping heart, it's beautiful things. And today's beautiful thing is this song. I've been listening to it over and over all week. This song positively floors me. It made me cry the first, like, ten times I heard it.

Go here, and click the blue button next to the first item in the queue. (I think you can only listen to it once before it will try to get you to sign up for an account on the site. Sorry. There are no good videos of it on YouTube.)

It's called "It's Never Too Late," and it's by Michael Franti and Spearhead. I don't know why, but it just makes my heart ache (in a good way). Enjoy.

Man, did I need this today.

A co-worker sent this forward to me this morning. In my line of work, it's funny enough to make you pee your pants. And, for the sake of irony, I left all the typos and bad formatting. Enjoy!

Who did the Proofreading?

(Proofreading is a dying art, would you say?)
Man Kills Self Before Shooting Wife and Daughter
This one I caught in the SGV Tribune the other day and called the Editorial Room and asked who wrote this. It took two or three readings before the editor realized that what he was reading was impossible!!! They put in a correction the next day.

_____

Something Went Wrong in Jet Crash, Expert Says
No, really? Ya think?
---------------------------------------------

Police Begin Campaign to Run Down Jaywalkers
Now that's taking things a bit far!
-----------------------------------------------------------
Panda Mating Fails; Veterinarian Takes Over
What a guy!
---------------------------------------------------------------
Miners Refuse to Work after Death
'good-for-nothing' lazy so-and-so's!
------------------------------------------------------

Juvenile Court to Try Shooting Defendant
See if that works any better than a fair trial!
----------------------------------------------------------

War Dims Hope for Peace
I can see where it might have that effect!
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If Strike Isn't Settled Quickly, It May Last Awhile
Ya think?!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Cold Wave Linked to Temperatures
Who would have thought!
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Enfield ( London ) Couple Slain; Police Suspect Homicide e
They may be on to something!
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Red Tape Holds Up New Bridges
You mean there's something stronger than duct tape?
Oklahoma's new construction program!
----------------------------------------------------------

Man Struck By Lightning: Faces Battery Charge
He probably IS the battery charge!
----------------------------------------------

New Study of Obesity Looks for Larger Test Group
Weren't they fat enough?!
-----------------------------------------------

Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Spacecraft
That's what he gets for eating those beans!
-------------------------------------------------

Kids Make Nutritious Snacks
Do they taste like chicken?
---------------------------- ---------------------------------------
Local High School Dropouts Cut in Half
Chainsaw Massacre all over again!
***************************************************

Hospitals are Sued by 7 Foot Doctors
Boy, are they tall!
*******************************************
And the winner is ....
Typhoon Rips Through Cemetery; Hundreds Dead

Did I read that right?
***************************************************

Tonight my heart is full. Full. It's the feeling for which English does not have a word—both profound contentment and intense sorrow, a love heightened by venom, the sated waiting that invades my rest and drapes a lull over my waking.

This week, I observed a life coming into the world and a life leaving it, a life subjected to judgment and a life torn asunder. And Advent has begun, when a cold pallor settles into my surroundings and a chill into my limbs and a sickness into my soul, and my appeal for deliverance from this body of death draws nearer to its zenith with each tinkle of each silver bell.

Be still, my soul; the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love's purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul; when change and tears are past,
All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.

Random, Muddled Musings about Relationships

Last night, Kevin and I spent several very pleasant hours with four of our friends, and we went to bed with smiles on our faces. This morning, we woke up and went to church, and I spend the Sunday school hour chatting with another friend, a great treat because we attend two separate services and never see each other.

Then we came home, ate lunch, and retired for a nap. And we woke up, and Kevin got to work on some important things. And the house is so quiet.

Now, hear me: I love quiet. But this quiet—it's not a comfortable quiet. It's the quiet left behind by the absence of something good, something intangible, a you-can't-quite-put-your-finger-on-it sort of something, a void that Must Be Filled, but because you don't know what is missing, you don't know what will fit. It's the quiet that makes you want to turn on every light in the house.

And so I wanted to call someone, to talk about nothing, just for a hand to hold. But I didn't. I thought "Hey, I'll call ________. That'd be great. I'd feel much better then." And then I thought "Oh, no you don't." And then I thought "Now wait. Why not?" And my dumb reply was "Because. Shut up. Just don't." And that's as far as I got with myself. I'm so stubborn.

And I started to think about why I refuse to satisfy my urge for relationship so often. It seems that when I am at my most vulnerable and most need to reach out to the people in my life who support me is when I am least likely to go to them, because I feel that I am at my least attractive and don't want to be burdensome or to be mistaken for a Needy Person. In fact, I almost deleted everything I just wrote because I'm deathly afraid to reveal that I sometimes feel this way, because I don't want to be burdensome or be mistaken for a Needy Person. (Have you ever heard The Cranberries' "Ode to My Family"? When Dolores O'Riordan whimpers the line "Do you like me? Do you like me standing there?" Damn. That song kills me.)

Why is it so taboo in our culture to need each other? (Is it? Or should I shut up now before tip my weirdo hand any farther?) Why does it feel so ... dirty? Is it common to feel wholly unworthy of the friends in our lives and to feel like "I should just leave so-and-so alone today, so I don't make a pest of myself"? Is it common to grit one's teeth against the sting of loneliness and bear it solo because the thought of being seen, even by trusted companions, in weak and unattractive moments is just plain terrifying? Is this just garden-variety fear of rejection? Are we really unattractive to the people who love us when we are weak?

I mean, I think the people I love are positively stunning when their weaknesses are on display to me. And I can think of no greater honor than "Hi, Amy. I really need some company right now. Do you have a few minutes?" I also fancy myself to be far more unique than I really am.

And another thing.

I hate that most of my friends don't know each other and live in such diverse places that they probably never can know each other. There's really no cure for this, and I'm just venting. But wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone you loved loved everyone else you loved?

And another thing.

What the heck is wrong with dtr talks??? I had a boyfriend once. He was actually a secret boyfriend, for reasons that are for another post. Before we were a secret couple, we were secret friends. He flirted a lot, and pushed me away just as much. I was so confused! But when I hinted that maybe we ought to talk about what we were doing openly, he mocked me, asking if I needed a dtr talk, like dtr talks are for kids and stupid people (dtr stands for defining the relationship). Little did I know, he was just scared. But I still have a complex from that interaction. What's wrong with sitting down with people and saying, "________, this is what you mean to me. I think you're great, and here's why"?

Here's what I think. I think we should say wildly nice things to each other, and give little random gifts to each other, and say "I love you" when we mean it, to everyone we love and not just our sexual partners and immediate families. I think we should tell people how beautiful they are. I think we should tell people when we're thinking of them, write affectionate notes to people and leave them in mail boxes, let them know when we feel their absence and that their presence in our lives is important to us, tell them when we miss them, even if we saw them last week and it seems totally silly. (Am I the only one who misses people I just saw?)

I'm sorry. I know people don't like to hear shoulds. I don't like to hear shoulds. Anyway. That's what's on my mind tonight.

After Giving Thanks

On Thanksgiving Thursday, we Americans reflect on all that we have and try to be grateful for it. We offer our prayers of gratitude to our gods and we issue a collective sigh of contentment through a haze of tryptophan and wine and refined carbohydrates. We love our loved ones and we momentarily forgive our enemies.

And then the very next day, we rise at 4, 3, 2 in the morning, rush out in hoards and droves, and purchase ourselves into glutted, indebted, consumerist oblivion, wanting and needing and not thinking of everything we already have that fails to sate our relentless craving to have stuff. We trample the weak and slow in order to snatch our material prizes, because this is what the television networks and toy manufactures and conservative economists say is our sacred right and solemn duty as middle-class Americans.

Does anyone else feel manipulated? My response to this state of affairs is to stay home and read.

Last night, as we sat down to our cold turkey sandwiches and leftover pie, I had just finished talking to my mother, and I felt the most overwhelming sense of satisfaction and gratitude. She usually spends Thanksgiving by herself, and I usually spend Thanksgiving thinking about how she's by herself. I don't dare go to her, but I can't enjoy the day when she is alone. But yesterday, she spent the day with friends. She has friends right now. I can't begin to describe how relieved and happy this makes me.

And as I released my guilt and grief over my mother's loneliness, here are the things that flooded that space in my heart.

I'm thankful for my life.

I'm thankful for a husband who is as wonderful as husbands get, who listens to me and respects me and will make any sacrifice for my well-being. Who married me even though I think for myself and who wouldn't dream of having it any other way. Who eats the vegetables I feed him and turns off the TV when it's been long enough because he appreciates my efforts to do what is best for us and wants to take part. Who wants to know me and who is gentle with my very fragile heart. Who makes me tea every morning, pays the bills, cuts the grass, goes to buy our drinking water, changes the oil, brings in the mail, fixes the house when it breaks, and does whatever housework I ask him to do. (You are my world, honey. I love you.)

I'm thankful for my intelligent, responsible, passionate, loving, kind, talented baby sister, who thinks far more highly of me than I deserve. I really need that. (Don't we all?)

I'm thankful for my friends. I often feel so very alone, but I never am. Friends, your presence in my life keeps me afloat, keeps me humble and my heart open and full. I love each of you so much, and each of you is ineffably precious to me, whether I've known you for a few months or for twenty years and whether I saw you last week or haven't seen you in a long time and whether I know you intimately or have only just penetrated the shell of your public persona. I want to honor each of you by name, but that may be for a different post. If you're thinking "I wonder if that applies to me," it does.

I'm thankful for all the women who have been mothers to me in some capacity, including my own. I'm thankful that together they have taught me how to love my children.

I'm thankful for my education. I'm thankful for every museum I've visited and every library and every lecture and every book. I'm thankful for my teachers and fellow students and for all the people in my life who challenge me to keep learning.

I'm thankful for humor and whimsy and beauty and the ability to experience the emotional and psychological complexities of human existence through them. Humor and whimsy and beauty keep me sane.

I'm thankful for Ben and Rachel, who masterfully coax the vegetables I eat out of the ground, without intervention from Monsanto.

I'm thankful for my little white house on a hill. I'm thankful for my bed and my books and my kitty and my computer and my car. I'm thankful for my kitchen and my table, where I cook meals and share them with beautiful people. I'm thankful for my job and for my health insurance. I'm thankful that I can take yoga lessons now. I'm thankful that I have clean water to drink and enough food to eat, food that is good for my body.

I'm thankful for the amazing world in which we live. I'm thankful for trees and oceans and rabbits and daisies and rocks and apples and onions and tea and wine and warmth and sex and birth and the way sand feels beneath my feet.

And I'm thankful to the God I worship, whose name is Jesus, because I believe he is the source of all things and that he loves us, all of us, and wants us to love and care for each other.

I hope each of you has a blessed, full, contented, peaceful Black Friday. Shalom. Namaste.

Smile!

Seriously, I cannot stop watching this. (I know you've all already seen it, but, dude, watch it again. You know you want to.)

(I also can't figure out how to get it to embed without cutting off about an inch of the little window, so you'll have to go to YouTube to see it. Sorry. If anyone can help me with this problem, suggestions are welcome.)

I Have No Gift to Bring

Here we go again.

Every November, I begin to fold myself up. It's an annual ritual of self-preservation, during which I hibernate, emotionally, against the impending onslaught of guilt and hostility and aloneness that rides to me on the backs of these holidays that everyone seems to love so much. I don't love the holidays. They aren't special for me. The traditions in which I take part are not my own, and the memories aren't warm or full of love. Most "Christmas" music makes cry. I don't have any drive to deck the halls with or bake anything.

Please don't think I'm a Scrooge. I just can't love something that brings me so much grief. I think about the lonely people. I think about the people with no homes. I think about the wonderful parents who cope with so much devastation because they can't afford to give their kids a mountain of stuff (and for what?). I think about the people I love whom I can't see. I think about the people who are alone because I won't let them see me. I think about all the different Christmases, in all the different places, with all the different families to which I never really belonged, who are all currently preparing to carry out all those family rituals in which I took part while I was there, and who are not thinking of me at all.

I put on the show every year, go along with whatever is expected, and I smile, and I pretend to be having a good time. And in some ways, it is a good time, and maybe some day I'll grow to love the things that seem to bring so many people joy. But for now, every November, I begin to long for January, when it all goes away.

December does have one thing going for it. "The Little Drummer Boy." It's one of my favorite songs. I sing it to myself all year. It captures Christmas for me in a way none of the other carols can, and it helps me to see a little place for myself in this swirling typhoon of tinsel. "'Come,' they told me; 'a newborn king to see'": a humble, timid little boy, being dragged along by the exuberant, confident people around him, expecting him to be excited about expressions in which he is too poor to have any business participating. "I have no gift to bring that's fit to give a king." But he goes along with it, because he has to. When they shove him into the spotlight before the king, he offers, his head bowed and a blush on his face and tears in his eyes (in my version of the story), the only lowly scrap that he has—himself. "Shall I play for you?" And Mary nodded.

The last lines of the song are a searing hot dagger of of everything unbearable right through my heart, every time they pass through my mind. I love them. I love them so much. "I played my drum for him. I played my best for him. And he smiled at me. Me and my drum."

At Christmas, I feel so terribly poor in the midst of wise men and kings, offering their frankincense and myrrh, their lights and trees and traditions and songs about chestnuts and reindeer. But when it comes down to just him and me, and all I have is this little drum, I think he probably still smiles. Because what I have is enough for him, if for no one else.

Untitled

Well, I took my first yoga lesson today. It was good. Yes, I know that's a very weak adjective. I won't be able to hone in on how I really feel and so describe it better for a while. But I do know that it was and is good.

I don't know what kind of yoga it was, and I don't think I'll try to find out just yet. In my reading, I sensed some elitism among practitioners of one type or another, and I don't want to feel discouraged because what I'm doing is somehow inferior to what someone else does. So if I describe it at some point and you can figure it out, don't tell me unless I ask. Yes, I know that yoga should not lead one to compare oneself to others. But comparing myself to others is what I do, and in my mind I always come up short, and I need to avoid going there. I really want to let myself have this.

I feel calm and energetic and focused enough to be writing this at 6:30 at night, so that's something. The instructor seemed kind and gentle and welcoming, and I'm going to try super hard not to be intimidated or feel attacked by her (Lord, help me). I didn't freak out internally and slug myself in the psychological gut when she offered me advice, so that's something else. There was one other woman there, a marketing specialist for a local bank named Vanessa. Vanessa really knew her way around a mat, and it didn't bother me. So that's something else. I felt warm and awake and alive, and that's something too.

Raw data like these will help me decide how I feel about taking yoga lessons. After my next premenstrual emotional meltdown, when every negative thing I can possibly feel about it surfaces, I'll be able to categorize it. (Is it weird that I view premenstrual angst as a kind of emotional enlightenment? Maybe I'll write about it sometime. When it's happening. Whoa, Nellie.) In the meantime, hmmm.

A Saturday in My Life

This morning I went grocery shopping. I love to go grocery shopping.

I woke up at 7:05. I languished in bed until 7:45, staring at the darkness and listening to the silence. It was grand. I got up, made my tea, and talked to my husband for a few hours.

I picked up my beloved friend Jeannie at the studio where she teaches pilates. I watched her work for a little while. She was so gentle and encouraging with her student, and the music was peaceful, and the room has century-old brick walls and gorgeous wood floors and mood lighting. I think I'm going to start taking yoga lessons there. Like, this week. This is something I've wanted for a long time, and I think it's time to stop dreaming about it and start doing it. Which, of course, is common sense for most people. But I live most of my life in my head, and it often doesn't occur to me to translate my fantasies into action. I know, silly, right? But it's just ... me.

We traveled to Goshen, which is 30 minutes away. 30 minutes for groceries? Yes, 30 minutes for groceries. 30 minutes, because Goshen is where I meet the woman who grows my carrots and woman who gathers my eggs and the woman who presses my apple cider. I hand them my money, and they hand me the food that they've driven not ten miles to the market, an unpretentious wood-and-cinderblock building, where I buy it. Nothing there has a label on it. There are no advertisements or grating announcements or logos or chemical additives or politicians who work for Monsanto. Everything comes from the sun and the rain and the soil and the sweat of a person's brow. I love to hand my money to the beautiful people who produce my food. I love to take part in a healthy, sustainable system that does as little harm as possible to God's earth and his creatures and his children. And I love to share it with a dear, dear friend who really gets me and supports and shares my deep convictions about these things. Who says grocery shopping can't be holy?

I bought vegetables and fruit and eggs and cider and yogurt and butter and a few odds and ends. Then we visited the Clay Artists' Guild's fall exhibition, where I strained desperately not to buy anything. I think I will probably join the guild and start taking lessons from its master potters in the fall. [Picture me jumping up and down and clapping as I tell you this. Another case of stop-dreaming-and-start-doing. Yay for me!]

This afternoon, Kevin and I are going to visit the trees (which is how I think about a walk in the woods. It's like visiting friends.) Dinner will involved squash and baked apples. Yum. I'm so glad to be home and back to my routine and my kitty and (some of) my friends and my work and my kitchen and my bed and my life.

Shalom to you all.

Inhale

A girl passed a day gamboling about a numinous wood. She dug her fingers into its flesh, put on its perfume, bathed in its mist, and learned its song. She asked its name; "I am old," said he, and kissed her face. And her spirit sighed.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day.

This is Aunt Emily. She is possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. Look into her eyes.

No, harder. Do you see it?

It's like she's seen everything that ever there was and so knows everything that ever will be. No one on earth has laughed so much as she, or wept or worried or scowled or smiled or loved or hated or longed or worked or sat in silent reverie. This woman is both entirely full and entirely spent and, wise, at her end, knows dark is right.

The artist's name is Paul Murray. I hope he doesn't mind that I posted his pictures here. If he wants me to, I'll take them down. I just had to share them. I've studied a lot of art history. I understand the work of Pablo Picasso and Jackson Pollock enough to like it more than most people do and the work of Michelangelo and Rodin enough to like it less than most people do. And let me tell you, I don't think I've ever had my breath stolen so fiercely by the work of any artist as I did by Paul Murray's portraits.

His subjects are the mountain dwellers of the Appalachians. They live well past 100, drawing water from streams and trapping food and sewing clothes and making babies and telling stories and looking after each other. They are nearly indistinguishable from the earth under their callused, battered feet. Their hands are gnarled and their fingernails black for their toil. Their children are being drawn out from the land, lured by microwave ovens and Corelle dishes and Big Macs and high-fructose corn syrup. They are nearly extinct. And Paul Murray rages against the dying of this light with his sharpest weapons: pastel and graphite and oil and ink. Godspeed to him.

Don't you just want to hold this little girl and run your fingers through her hair and tell her how beautiful she is? You can't see it in so small an image, but there is so, so much pain and wisdom on Pippi's young face. Will her frail deeds dance in a green bay? I hope so.

This is the definition of precious. Zoe is her name. If anyone will catch and sing the sun in flight, and not grieve it on it's way, she will.

Joseph. His expression stops my heart: a grave man, near death, who sees with blinding sight that blind eyes can blaze like meteors and be gay.

Oh, earthy mountain people, curse, bless us with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night.

If you want to see more, go to www.paulmurray.com. Go. See more.