Of Agates and Inhibitions

On Thursday, my grandmother's final gift to me arrived in the mail. A saw frame with two dozen blades, 12 drill bits, 32 felt polishing wheels and bobs, six screw mandrels, an anvil, a precut bench pin, a bar of tripoli, a bar of rouge, a tube of beeswax, a carbide burnisher, a ball peen hammer, a chasing hammer, three square feet of sheet copper, six square inches of .925 sheet silver, and 150 feet of .925 silver wire. I went to a local gallery on Saturday and bought agates and opals and assorted jasper beads. My extraordinary husband spent his entire weekend tearing apart and rearranging our laundry room so that I can have a section of it for a workbench. Friends, I am an artist again.

Well, I never actually stopped being an artist. I have no energy but creative energy. Whether I pray a prayer or grill a cheese sandwich, a fertile patch in my soul is always laboring to bring forth something exquisite and noble. I hope this doesn't sound pretentious: when I breathe, I want to exhale beauty. Where I cannot see loveliness and grace, I simply cannot be. I close my eyes and fantasize beauty—subtle colors and jagged textures and clean forest air and weeping and lovemaking and agony and a little girl's laughter—just to get by.

Some friends of mine went on a trip recently. Before they left, I decided to make them a going-away gift: a set of mix cds for the road. I knew it would be fun, but . . . man. The entire process, from compiling and arranging and rearranging and rerearranging the playlists to building and decorating a simple paper case made me happy. Shockingly, ridiculously happy. And happy is not a feeling in which I regularly indulge. Happiness for me is the shooting star that happens by as you lie in a meadow on a warm night with your lover. It's rare, people. I do delight in many great joys in my life, but to be happy, plainly and purely, is quite a treat. And freeing something from the gravid ground of my inner world, especially when I have the courage to share it, even something as mundane as a sandwich or a set of mix cds, makes me so, so happy.

And so here I go, plunging back into a world from which I limped, bloodied and broken, six years ago. I gave up something I love because it hurt less than having something else that I loved ripped screaming from my heart. And it's time to be done with that sad, sorry mess.

I need prayers, friends. I'm scared. I'm digging garbage out of myself and I'm going to try to make treasures from it. It's what I do. But I might fail. So I don't promise anything.

Here's hoping.

A Hoagie in Hoosierville

Sometimes, the planets just align, ya know?

One of my biggest gripes with the state of Indiana is the tragic dearth of good Italian food. Yes, I know that there's an Olive Garden. Yes, I've eaten at Casa in Fort Wayne. But I mean real Italian food, made by squat, hardened old women with leathery brown skin who wear kerchiefs over their hair and wave wooden spoons around in a fury and their thin, balding, jovial, mustachioed husbands. Restaurants that make their own fresh cheeses every morning and smell of herbs and marsala, with red-and-white checked table cloths and sappy violin music. Oh, the pizza. How I yearn for that pizza. Even the sports-bar pizza. Any pizza from east of the Appalachian Mountains.

Well friends, on Thursday night, the planets aligned over Logansport, Indiana.

Kevin and I were driving through Logansport, seeking sustenance. We happened upon a diminutive, white cinderblock building labeled "U-Know Pizza." Well, I thought, it should at least be edible. So we parked.

The "dining room" of the place could have been the waiting room of a mechanic's garage. White linoleum tile, grubby red vinyl chairs, roll paper towels on the tables, a TV in the corner with Entertainment Tonight on it. Now, you may think this sounds rather unpromising, and you may be wondering why we didn't walk out an go find a nice chain restaurant. But any Philly native knows (can I get an amen?) that the best pizza often comes from the seediest of places. So things, at this point, were actually looking up.

The menu was scribbled in a rainbow of streaked ink on a white board. And on the menu were pizza, hot sandwiches, and hoagies. Hoagies. Not subs or grinders. Hoagies. (Could it be?) We approached the counter to place an order, and then I noticed the man making the pizza: skinny, with white hair, a big nose, and brass aviator glasses. Running shoes, baggy khaki pants, a grubby white tee shirt, and a worn Phillies baseball cap. Friends, this man is a dead ringer for my grandfather. No lie.

So we ordered, and we settled into the only table in the "dining room" that was not occupied by people who weren't eating or piles of odds and ends, books in hand, to wait for our food. Not two paragraphs down the page, the man comes out, sits in a chair nearby, and strikes up a conversation with us. And he has an accent. The accent. Guess where this man spent the better part of his life? South Philly! Ahhh!

How refreshing it was to shoot the breeze with someone who can complain about the traffic on 95 and who has a preference between Pat's and Geno's, who understands how neat it is that my sister went to CAPA on Broad Street and has been to the Fells Planetarium and has laughed at the dorks who barrel up the Art Museum stairs, waving their fists around at the top and belting out the Rocky theme.

So we chatted merrily with this man (Mike is his name) for an hour, about the economy and food and life, and I was sad to leave. We ordered an Italian hoagie to go and ate it for supper on Friday. It was the real deal (and so was the pizza, by the way).

This totally random encounter lifted my drooping spirits so much. I miss my city. Life is just so funny sometimes.

Sunflowers to the Rescue

Maybe I can do this blog thing. Because how the heck else would I be able to tell anyone about the sunflowers I saw on the way to work?

First of all, thanks to everyone who's ever shoved me, kicking and wailing, in the direction of learning to ride a bike. Because, had I not been on my bike, I would have completely missed them.

I ride past a smelting plant on my way to work. At least, I think that's what it is. It's hideous and rusty, it pollutes the air, and it employs lots of easily exploitable people. Whatever it is, it's evil. There are train tracks coming and going from the plant, and there are rocks and rubble all along the tracks. And growing among those rocks is a small, healthy community of gorgeous sunflowers. They're orange and yellow and red and brown, thriving and smiling and relishing each other's company, even though they live in the most lifeless, broken, soul-killing of places. I think it's probably because they stick together, looking into each other's faces and feeding each other's brilliance. They probably drink wine and dance and sing together and hug and love and cry together (when no one is looking). And, lo and behold, their simple presence graces all the ugliness around them with life and beauty and whimsy and sunshine. And I think the ugliness around them makes them even more beautiful. Like candles. Or Amélie. Or the red balloon.

And maybe they'll drop seed and spread, and next year there will be more, and then more, and then maybe some day the whole hill will be so overgrown with sunflowers that the smelting plant will be overcome with life and will be forced to shut down and go into business as a nursery, selling and giving sunflowers to all the neighbors. (Is this metaphor too tired and trite? Sorry.)

There might be hope for this dreary little town after all.

What the Heck Am I Doing Here?

So the thing is, I don't know if I can do this. This blog thing. I don't know, maybe I'm just being melodramatic.

I read about a hundred blogs a day. (Now I am being melodramatic. It's really about five.) And they're so beautiful and simple and full of life. Someone ate homemade yoghurt for breakfast, someone is infertile, someone washes her kid's hair last so she won't get cold (which I will remember), someone is so broken that she can't go on, someone picked beans from her garden, someone read a great book, someone enjoyed her daily commute. I love every syllable of it. I love every person who writes it. It makes me feel like I'm not quite so alone.

And then it makes me feel so completely alone that my heart might just stop, and I can't stand even to know they exist. And I don't want to write about the specific reason why, because that's the problem. I can't fathom that the mundane details of my life are of interest in the slightest to anyone (even though I relish the mundane details of the lives of other women), but the not-mundane details of my life are just too much. Too much for me. Too much for anyone. So much that I have to apologize for them, and I feel guilty and ashamed every time I let any slip. Like that dream where you show up at school and realize that you're naked. Or the dream where you're making love and then you realize that someone is watching. (And you never get to finish! Oops, am I the only one who's ever had that dream?) But I digress.

Here's what my day looked like. I woke early to a deliciously quiet house, a purring cat, and a cup of PG Tips with raw milk and local honey. I can't remember what was on my mind, but I remember it being peaceful. I spent a half hour praying and a half hour talking with a friend, a sort of shocking and very pleasant new blessing in my life (the friend and the praying). I rode all the way to work fretting about how much I hope to be a blessing in return. (And fearing desperately that I am not, because that's what I do. And beating myself up for fearing and fretting, because they make me feel so unattractive.) All day I sat at my desk, reading about New Testament textual criticism (ugh, don't ask) and alternately thinking hopefully about my weekend and anxiously about my ovaries and worrying about my sister and my mother and my boss (who is in some jungle in Chad right now) and my friend's teetering marriage and my other friend's unborn baby and my other friend's insomnia and my other friend's lost faith and experiencing elation and searing pain and boredom and exhaustion, because these are the places where my mind goes to escape New Testament textual criticism. I walked up the hill today because I was too tired to ride. I came home whining a bit about being tired, and my husband got me a drink (McCallan 12, two fingers, broken just a little) and made most of dinner (chicken cacciatore). Then I filled two internet shopping carts with metal smithing supplies, my grandmother's final gift to me, and they're minimized right now because I can't convince myself that I deserve to pursue my passions. Then I read a few blog entries, pining all along for not knowing the women who wrote them and paralyzed by my inability to write anything as valid and sweet and authentic and free. And here we are.

So I'm just not sure that I can do this blog thing. Or maybe I can. I don't know. It doesn't feel real out here in cyberspace to me. There are no hugs or kisses, no tilts of the head or laughing or cups of tea or tears. No real people; just words written by people I wish I could love who will never know who I am. At least, I can't imagine them caring about who I am. (Yes, part of me is still an angsty teenager. I try to keep her locked away, but she so damn clever. Shimmies through the bars every time I trap her.) And I'm so, so very very tired of . . . something. I don't know. I'm just tired.

Calvin

Each day when I come home from work, my cat trots over to the door to greet me. He's been alone for a few hours and is hungry for some company. I love how he tells me how he feels. He flops down at my feet, flips over onto his back, reaches his front paws up to touch my ankles, and shows me his fluffy belly. "Welcome to my house! You make me so happy! Here is my belly—I know you won't hurt me. Touch me! Love me! Prrrrr!"

How can you not feel so loved you're given that much trust? I wish more people were like my cat.

I mentioned on Facebook that I'm plotting a personal protest against corporate America and the consumerist cyanide that it feeds to the church and that the church slurps up happily. A friend asked me what it is. This is what I told her.

* * *

Okay. My act of rebellion.

First of all, please please don't think me a horrible, snobbish elitist for this. I really don't mean to be or want to be. I just have to work out my convictions in an active way, or I can't live with myself.

So here it is. Hope you like to read.

Point 1: I'm very uncomfortable with the consumerism that runs rampant in American Evangelical Christianity. We have constructed a "Christianized" version of secular society, with our bad pop music and tee shirts and movies and romance novels and kitschy nick-nacks and so on that, to me, is nothing more than a cheesy plastic rendition of the culture we claim to hate. Evangelical Christians as a whole have sat back and allowed corporate America to dictate to us what our subculture should look like—what we should wear, listen to, read, hang on our walls, whatever.

Point 2: One of the things we've allowed corporate America to take over is our Bible. Our sacred text has been processed, packaged, and sold to us as a "meaning-added" product (similar to how our "food" is now a processed, packaged, value-added product!). There are Bibles for women (usually pink), for men, for teens, for the elderly, for children, for infants (!), for conservatives, for liberals, for soldiers, for skaters, for farmers, for intellectuals, for anti-intellectuals, for science lovers, for science haters, for the super literate, for the anti-literate, for wannabe archaeologists, for teachers, for lovers, for friends, and on, and on, and on. And along the way we've believed the lie that buying these "enhanced" Bible-products will add meaning and depth to our devotion to and life before God. So we buy them. And buy them. And fill our houses with them. And we're still empty.

Point 3: Many, many of these Bible-products, which say things like "Do justice and righteousness, and deliver the one who has been robbed from the power of his oppressor. Also do not mistreat or do violence to the stranger, the orphan, or the widow; and do not shed innocent blood" and "The righteous is concerned for the rights of the poor; the wicked does not understand such concern" and "Woe to those who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees, to deprive the poor of their rights and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people, making widows their prey and robbing the fatherless" are printed and bound in second- and third-world sweatshops by destitute people working for pennies. This makes me ill.

Point 4: For several reasons, the translation I prefer is the NRSV. However, conservative Evangelical Christians are the target demographic for nicely bound Bibles, and conservative Evangelical Christians hate the NRSV (because it uses inclusive language and good, literary-quality English and was prepared by an ecumenical translation committee—two reasons I like it so much).

So.

I bought a used, 20-year-old NRSV pew Bible for $15. It was printed and bound in the USA by Oxford University Press. It is entirely uninterpretive (in that it has no paragraph headings—you know, "Jesus Heals a Paralytic" or "Paul Teaches about Love.") The text is divided by chapter and verse numbers only. It also has no cross references. It has an elegant, classy typeface and its high-quality paper has taken on a creamy, aged tint. And it smells like old book.

I'm taking it to a local artist who does custom book binding, really beautiful work, and I'm having it bound in a cruelty-free leather.

Then, I'm donating every other Bible I have to some organization that gives English Bibles to poor or oppressed people.

And here it is. My act of rebellion.